E • F B E NSON
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 GIFT OF 
 FREDERIC THOMAS BLANCHARD

 
 AKl'NDEL 
 
 I. P. BEN SON
 
 ARUNDEL 
 
 BY 
 
 E. F. BENSON 
 
 AUTIIOIt OK " DODO," " Mlttt. AMES," ETC. 
 
 " \tnl fur thoM wliu follow tin' pit-am khflN 
 Ls always light hufli< i< at to show tin in Unir 
 way. . . ." 
 
 cx\ ami Ccntfemned 
 c-th Naval District 
 
 NEW YORK 
 GEORGE II. DORAN COMPANY
 
 Copyright, 1915 
 By George H. Doran Company
 
 
 CONTEXTS 
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 
 
 
 
 CIIAFTKB l'AOE 
 
 I. 'I'm: 1 'ai.i. From Without .... 7 
 
 
 
 
 
 3 ! 
 
 III. COMIOBTABLB BfB& \\ \\> OCX 
 
 
 
 
 51 
 
 1\'. CoMfOBTABLI l'l.v 
 
 
 
 
 - 1 
 
 \ . Comioh cabli B 
 
 
 
 
 lul 
 
 
 
 
 
 131 
 
 VII. Tin-: 1nti.kmi.ZZO 
 
 
 
 
 158 
 
 VI 11. Tin: IfODNTAIK-TOP . 
 
 
 
 
 188 
 
 
 
 
 
 207 
 
 
 
 
 
 229 
 
 XI. Thk T1.1.K..ICAM . 
 
 
 
 
 253 
 
 XII. Al'KIL KVKMN'G .... 
 
 
 
 
 279 
 
 
 
 
 
 , 307 
 
 
 
 
 
 , 330 
 
 •
 
 ARUNDEL 
 
 PROLOGUE 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE CALL FROM WITHOUT 
 
 Colonel Fanshawe was riding slowly back to his 
 bungalow about an hour before the sunset of a hot 
 and brilliant day in the middle of March. He had 
 spent a long day in the saddle, for the Commander- 
 in-Chief of the Indian Forces was at Peshawar on a 
 visit of inspection, and he had reviewed and in- 
 spected and inspected and reviewed and given 
 medals and colours and compliments and criticism 
 till the whole garrison, who had been under arms on 
 the parade ground since an early hour that morning, 
 was ready to drop with a well-earned fatigue. That 
 evening there was to be a great dinner-party fol- 
 lowed by a dance at the house of the Resident. To- 
 morrow the Commander-in-Chief was to go up the 
 Khyber pass, returning just in time to catch the 
 night train to Lahore, arriving there at daybreak, 
 and prepared to spend another day similar to this. 
 And yet, so reflected Colonel Fanshawe, he was 
 made, to all appearance, of flesh and blood, exactly 
 like anybody else : indeed, he was endowed with flesh 
 to a somewhat phenomenal extent; for, though not 
 of unusual height, he swung a full eighteen stone 
 into his saddle, ate and drank in perfectly amazing 
 quantities, and, without doubt, would to-night 
 
 7
 
 8 ARUNDEL 
 
 prance genially and colossally from beginning to end 
 of every dance with a succession of the prettiest girls 
 in Peshawar. It was equally certain that at the con- 
 clusion he would go in person to the bandmaster and 
 beg as a personal favour for an extra or two. . . . 
 And Colonel Fanshawe, lean and slight and in ex- 
 cellent condition, felt himself a pigmy and an in- 
 valid in contrast with this indefatigable elephant 
 who all day had seemed only to wax in energy and 
 boisterousness and monumental briskness. It was 
 as if some huge Government building had burst into 
 active life: John Bull himself, as in the pages of 
 some patriotic print, had become incarnate, com- 
 manding and guffawing and perspiring. 
 
 But the day, though fatiguing to everybody else 
 except the Commander-in-Chief, had been highly 
 satisfactory. Twice had he complimented Colonel 
 Fanshawe on the smartness of his Pathan regiment, 
 and since the regiment was one of the two institu- 
 tions for which the Colonel lived and loved, it fol- 
 lowed that in retrospect his habitual content, which 
 at all times was of a very sterling quality, had been 
 lifted to the levels of the sublime. And anticipa- 
 tion was up to the level of retrospect, for the second 
 of these institutions which engaged all his energies 
 and affection was the home towards which he was 
 now ambling along the dusty roads. In the imper- 
 turbable fashion of a man who was not gifted with 
 much imagination, he enjoyed what he had to the 
 almost complete exclusion of desiring that which he 
 had not; and though, if a genuine wishing-cap had 
 been put ready to his hand, he would certainly have 
 had a request or two to make, he never, in the ab- 
 sence of that apocryphal piece of headgear, let his 
 mind dwell on what it might have brought him. His 
 wife, the second of that name, and Elizabeth, the 
 daughter of the first, almost completely exiled from
 
 THE CALL FROM WITHOUT 9 
 
 his mind all desires connected with his home, and 
 were sufficient to satisfy the emotional needs of a 
 love which was not the less luminous because it 
 lacked the iridescence of romance. It burned with a 
 steady and unwinking flame, without rockets and 
 multi-coloured stars, and was eminently suited to 
 light a man's way, so that he should go without 
 stumbling through the dusk of a hazardous world. 
 For the sake of his wife or of Elizabeth lie would 
 have given his life unquestioningly and with cheer- 
 fulness, regretting the necessity should such arise, 
 but he would have done so without any of the ecstasy 
 of self-sacrifice that inspired the hymns and the 
 beatitudes mi the lips of martyrs. In this sunny af- 
 ternoon of middle age which had cmue to him there 
 were none of the surprising flames that glorify the 
 hour of dawn. 
 
 The road from the parade ground through canton- 
 ments lay level and dusty: carob-trees, dense and 
 varnished of foliage, with the long scimitar-shaped 
 seed-pods of last year still clinging to them, met and 
 mingled their blanches together overhead, giving a 
 vault of shadow from a midday sun, but now, as the 
 day drew mar to its close, the level rays poured daz- 
 zling between the tree-trunks, turning the dust-rid- 
 den air into a mist of dusky gold. In front, seen 
 through the arching trees, the huddled native town 
 rose dim and amorphous through the haze, and the 
 acres of flowering fruit-trees were a flush of pink 
 and white petals. Southwards, level and infinite as 
 the sea, the Indian plain stretched to the farthest 
 horizons, to the north rose the hills shoulder over 
 shoulder till they culminated in fleecy clouds, among 
 which, scarcely distinguishable, there glistened the 
 immemorial whiteness of the eternal snows. Here, 
 down in the plain, the very existence of those frozen 
 cliffs seemed incredible, for, though there were still
 
 10 ARUNDEL 
 
 a dozen days of March to run, it seemed as if the 
 powers of the air, in whose control is the great oven 
 of India, had drawn the damper, so to speak, out of 
 that cosmetic furnace during the last week, to see if 
 the heating apparatus was all in order for the ap- 
 proaching hot season, and Colonel Fanshawe's de- 
 cision, against which there had been the growlings 
 of domestic mutiny, that Elizabeth should start for 
 England the next week, crystallized itself into the 
 inexorable. He had gone so far in the fresh- 
 ness of the morning hours to-day as to promise 
 her to reconsider his decision, but he determined 
 now to telegraph for her passage as soon as he got 
 home. 
 
 He quickened his pace a little as he approached 
 his gate, at the lure of the refreshing hours that he 
 had promised himself in his garden before it was 
 necessary to dress for the dinner and the ball. The 
 hot weather had already scorched to a cinder the 
 herbs and grasses of unwatered places, but no such 
 tragedy had yet overtaken this acre of green cool- 
 ness, with its ditches and channels of unlimited irri- 
 gation, where the unusual heat had but caused the 
 expansion, in a burst of premature luxuriance, of all 
 the flowers that should have decorated April. So 
 brilliant was this galaxy, that Colonel Fanshawe 
 could hardly regret it, though it meant that even 
 now the days of the garden were numbered, and that 
 through April it would sleep unblossoming, till the 
 rains of May stirred it into that brief and delirious 
 frenzy of flowering again that lasts but for a day or 
 two, in some sultry intermission of the streaming 
 skies that so soon open their flood-gates again, and 
 cover the steaming earth with disjected petals. But 
 at present, though April would pay the price in bar- 
 renness and withered leaf, summer and spring were 
 in flower together, and tulips and petunias, mari-
 
 THE CALL FROM WITHOUT 11 
 
 golds and flame-flower, morning-glory and bougain- 
 villaea made a jubilance of many-coloured carpetj 
 while, more precious than all to the Colonel's soul, 
 his rose hedges of crimson ramblers, Gloire de Dijon, 
 and the briars of Peshawar flared with innumerable 
 fragrance. A few days before, reluctantly, and with 
 some inkling of the sentiments of a murderer who 
 plans a crime, he had abandoned, marooned, so to 
 speak, his tennis-court to die of drought, but the 
 motive of his deed really gave a verdict of nothing 
 more bloodthirsty than justifiable grassicide, for the 
 well had given unmistakable signs that it was not 
 capable of keeping the whole garden alive. Besides 
 — and here for a moment his content was clouded 
 again — Elizabeth was starting for England next 
 week, and the tennis-court became an investment 
 that paid no dividends in pleasure. His wife never 
 played; she would as soon have thought of coming 
 downstairs to breakfast, and certainly she never did 
 that. She preferred dancing all night. 
 
 He gave his horse into the charge of his orderly at 
 the gate, and, a little stiff and bow-legged from so 
 many hours in the saddle, walked up the short drive 
 that lay between the abandoned tennis-court and 
 the rose-garden which was in full effervescence of 
 flower and fragrance. Between him and his garden 
 there was a relation as intimate almost and as com- 
 prehending as that between two personalities, and 
 had some one with the gift of vivid yet easily in- 
 telligible eloquence presented his feeling towards it, 
 as towards some beautiful dumb creature with a liv- 
 ing identity of its own, the Colonel, though it had 
 never struck him in that light before, would have 
 acknowledged the truth of the imagery. Just now 
 this silent sweet-smelling creature had begun to 
 make a stir again after the hot windlessness of the 
 day, for the breeze of sunset, invigorating as wine,
 
 12 ARUNDEL 
 
 had just sprung up, and wafted the evidence of its 
 fragrant life in sheets and webs of perfume through 
 the sibilant air, while as evidence of Elizabeth there 
 came through the open windows of the drawing- 
 room as complicated a melee of sound from the grand 
 piano. Devoted and affectionate as father and 
 daughter were to each other, Colonel Fanshawe felt 
 slightly shy of Elizabeth when she was at the piano, 
 for Elizabeth playing was Elizabeth transformed. 
 A sort of fury of passion and intentness possessed 
 her; she evoked from the strings a personality as 
 real to herself as was his garden to the Colonel, and 
 all this intensity, as her bewildered father occasion- 
 ally said to himself, was born from the compositions 
 of "some German Johnny." In that rapt adoration 
 of melody Elizabeth's mother lived again, just as she 
 seemed to glow again from within Elizabeth's flushed 
 face and sparkling eyes as she played. So, refraining 
 from interrupting his daughter in her ecstatic com- 
 munings with the particular German Johnny who 
 engaged her attention at the moment, the Colonel 
 stepped softly round the corner, and ordered himself 
 a cup of tea in his bedroom, with which he re- 
 freshed himself as he adopted a garden-garb for his 
 hot and close-fitting uniform. His wife, as he well 
 knew, would be resting in her sitting-room in antici- 
 pation of the fatigue of the dinner and dance which 
 were to close the day. Had there been no dance or 
 dinner in prospect, she would be doing the same 
 thing in repair of previous fatigue. She was one of 
 those women who are capable of exertion as long as 
 that over which they exert themselves furnishes 
 them with amusement ; an hour's uncongenial occu- 
 pation tired her completely out. But she was able 
 to do anything she wanted to, and such a perform- 
 ance under such circumstances seemed but to in- 
 vigorate her. Her husband rejoiced in her strength,
 
 THE CALL FROM WITHOUT 13 
 
 and sympathized with her weakness with equal sin- 
 cerity. 
 
 He was no lily-handed gardener, no finger-tip 
 lover, who, with an ivory-handled secateur, snips 
 off minute dead twins, and selects a rosebud for his 
 buttonhole, but went about his business with the 
 tender ruthlessness that true gardening demands. 
 I'p one of the pillars of the veranda there climbed 
 together a great ramping mass of blue convolvulus 
 and an An Is pillar; and the constricting plant was 
 quietly intent on strangling the rose. Now, the con- 
 volvulus was an interloping adventuress, invading 
 territories that were not her own, and regretfully 
 but inexorably Colonel Fanshawe committed mur- 
 der, snipping off the sappy stem at its root, and 
 gently disentangling its voluted tendrils. As he 
 stripped it down the new bull-pup came with senti- 
 mental Bighs out of the house, and then, becoming 
 aware, no doubt by some subtle brain-wave, that 
 the murdered morning-glory was an enemy, flung 
 himself on the bestrewn tendrils, and got tightly in- 
 volved therein, and rolled away in a state of wild- 
 eyed and bewildered entanglement, barking hoarsely. 
 Upon which an observant pigeon on the roof re- 
 marked quite clearly, "Look at the fool! Look at 
 the fool!" Simultaneously, with a loud false chord, 
 the wild torrents of notes within ceased. There came 
 a sound quite exactly as if somebody had banged 
 down the lid of a piano, and Elizabeth came out on 
 to the veranda. She was very tall, as tall almost as 
 her father, and the long lines of her figure showed 
 slim and boylike through the thin blouse and blue 
 linen skirt against which the evening breeze pressed, 
 moulding them to the limbs within. Her hair lay 
 thick and low above her small face, and her mouth, 
 in spite of the heightened colour of her cheeks and 
 the vividness of her eyes, drooped a little as if fa-
 
 14 ARUNDEL 
 
 tigued. She had clasped her long-fingered hands be- 
 hind her head, and she stood there a moment with- 
 out seeing her father, with amusement gathering in 
 her eyes as she observed the comedy of the con- 
 stricted puppy. Then, turning her head, she saw 
 him. 
 
 "Oh, daddy!" she cried. "Are you back? And, if 
 so, why didn't you tell me? The fact is that you 
 love your garden better than your only daughter." 
 
 Colonel Fanshawe had two nails and a piece of 
 bass string in his mouth destined for the support of 
 the disentangled rose, and could give no assurance 
 beyond an incoherent mumbling. 
 
 "It is true," said Elizabeth. "And what makes 
 me feel it more keenly is that I haven't had any tea. 
 Daddy, do leave your silly plants and talk to me. I 
 haven't spoken to a soul all day. Mamma had lunch 
 in her room. She is saving up for this evening, and 
 I haven't seen anybody. In fact, it has all been 
 rather dismal. I've been playing the piano, and I 
 have come to the conclusion that I shall never be 
 able to play at all. So I banged down the lid, and I 
 shall never open it again. Do get down from that 
 silly ladder and talk to me." 
 
 Colonel Fanshawe was methodical. He put the 
 two nails in a box and looped up the spray of the 
 rose in a manner which, though temporary, would 
 last till he could get to work again. 
 
 "That sounds rather a dismal little chronicle, 
 Lizzy," he said. "So if you feel that we can't talk 
 while I go on gardening " 
 
 "It has nothing to do with my feelings," remarked 
 Elizabeth; "it is a mere question of external im- 
 possibilities. Have you had tea?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Then come and see me have mine. I shall eat 
 quantities and quantities of tea, and not have any
 
 THE CALL FROM WITHOUT 15 
 
 dinner, I think. One can't dine alone, and you and 
 mamma are dining out at the Residency and going 
 to the dance. Daddy, I do think mamma might have 
 let me go to the ball; I'm eighteen, and if one isn't 
 old enough to go to a dance at eighteen, I don't 
 know when one is." 
 
 Elizabeth paused a moment, and put her nose in 
 the air. 
 
 "I don't believe mamma will want me to come out 
 till it is time for me to go in again," she remarked. 
 
 ( \ ilonel Fanshawe had an admirable gift of silence. 
 When he concluded that there was in. advantage to 
 be gained by speech he could refrain from it, instead 
 of, like the most pari of mankind, making a series of 
 injudicious observations. At the bottom of Eliza- 
 beth's remark, as he well knew, there lay stewing a 
 herb of rather bitter infusion, which he had no de- 
 sire to stir up. But Elizabeth, so it seemed, hit dis- 
 posed to do the stirring herself. 
 
 "Mamma will have the next eight months all to 
 herself," she said, "and she can dance all the time. 
 I wish to state quite explicitly that I think she might 
 have let me go to this dance. I have told her so, 
 and so for fear she should tell you, I do it myself." 
 
 Elizabeth's eye wandered on to the path, and she 
 broke off suddenly. 
 
 "Oh, my beloved Shah Jehan," she said, "you 
 will certainly strangle yourself." 
 
 This appeared highly probable, for Shah Jehan, 
 the young and imperial bull-pup, had managed to 
 entangle himself so strictly in the yards of strong 
 convolvulus which the Colonel had cut down that his 
 eyes were starting out of his head, and only the most 
 remote sort of growl could escape from his enveloped 
 throat. With the cake-knife, which she snatched up 
 from the tea-table, Elizabeth ran to his rescue. 
 
 "It's such a blessing, daddy," she said as she re-
 
 16 ARUNDEL 
 
 turned to him, "that you and I are so very much one 
 person, because we can say anything we like to each 
 other, and it is certain that the other one — how tire- 
 some language is — the one I mean, who listens only 
 really listens to his own thoughts." 
 
 "Ah, my dear Elizabeth!" said he suddenly, lay- 
 ing his hand on her arm. If Elizabeth's mother 
 lived again when Elizabeth played, masked behind 
 her daughter's face, she appeared with no guard of 
 flesh in between when Elizabeth said that. 
 
 She drew his hand through her arm and strolled 
 with him up the path. 
 
 "It is so, daddy," she repeated; "and when I grum- 
 ble to you it is only as if I grumbled \o myself. 
 Mamma might have let me go to this one dance, and 
 she doesn't, because she wants all the dancing she 
 can get herself, and naturally doesn't want to sit in 
 a row instead. But she'll have to let me come out 
 next autumn. Oh, by the way, I had forgotten the 
 most important thing of all. Have you settled when 
 I am to go to England?" 
 
 "Yes, dear; next week. I have telegraphed for 
 your passage." 
 
 "What a loathsome and disgusting daddy," re- 
 marked Elizabeth. 
 
 "Possibly! But the loathsome daddy isn't going 
 to have a tired and white-faced daughter, if he can 
 avoid it. I shall miss you more than you can possi- 
 bly guess, Lizzie." 
 
 Elizabeth gave a great sigh. 
 
 "I'm so glad!" she said. "I hope you will be 
 thoroughly unhappy. I shan't like it, either. But 
 mamma won't mind ; that's a comfort." 
 
 "Elizabeth, I wish " 
 
 "Yes, I know, dear; so do I. You needn't explain. 
 I wish to begin to eat my enormous tea also, so let 
 us sit down. I don't want to go to England; and,
 
 THE CALL FROM WITHOUT 17 
 
 besides, staying with Aunt Julia is exactly like lying 
 on a feather-bed, with all the luxuries of the season 
 on a table close to you, and the windows tightly 
 shut. And Edith is like the clean lace-border to the 
 pillow. I shall be so comfortable." 
 
 "Well, that's something, Lizzie." 
 
 "It isn't; it's nothing and worse than nothing. I 
 don't want to be comfortable. Nothing that is really 
 alive is ever comfortable. Aunt Julia and Edith and 
 all Heathmoor generally are dead and buried. I am 
 not sure they do not stink " 
 
 "My dear " 
 
 "As it says in the Bible," said Elizabeth, "nobody 
 there is ever hungry or thirsty, nobody is unhappy 
 or happy, nobody wants. They are all like fishes in 
 an aquarium; you can't get at them because there 
 is a sheet of strong glass in between. And there 
 aren't any tigers or burning ghats or cobras or 
 cholera." 
 
 "I shouldn't be particularly sorry if there were 
 fewer of those blessings here," remarked her father. 
 
 "Perhaps; but they help to make things real. It 
 is so easy to lose all sense of being alive if you are 
 too comfortable." 
 
 Elizabeth pointed to the molten west. 
 
 "There," she said, "that's a sunset. But in Eng- 
 land for the most part they wrap it up in nice soft 
 thick clouds, so that it isn't a real sunset. And dear 
 Aunt Julia wraps up her own life and the life of 
 every one about her in the same way. She mops 
 up every one's vitality as with a sponge by thinking 
 exclusively about not getting wet or tired. Oh, how 
 I love this naked, tired, wicked, mysterious land, 
 with all its deadliness and its dust and its sunsets 
 and its secrets, which I shall never fathom any more 
 than I can fathom Schumann! I'm a savage, you 
 know. I love wild, unhappy things "
 
 18 ARUNDEL 
 
 Elizabeth broke off suddenly. 
 
 "I don't believe even you understand what I mean, 
 daddy," she said. 
 
 "Yes, my dear, I do," said he. "I could tell you 
 exactly what you mean. But have your say first; 
 you have not nearly done yet. I will tell you what 
 you mean when you have finished." 
 
 Elizabeth laughed. 
 
 "That will be a good thing," she said, "because, 
 though I know that I mean something, I often have 
 not the least idea what it is. Daddy, I wish I was a 
 boy so terribly sometimes, and I know you do too. 
 If I was a boy I would get up now and kiss you, and 
 walk straight off into the direction of where the 
 moon is just going to rise. I would have adventures 
 — oh, such adventures!" 
 
 "My dear, you would get malaria, and come home 
 next morning with a violent headache and ask me 
 for some quinine." 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "You are wrong," she said. "I wouldn't come back 
 even to you for years, not until I had learned what 
 it all means. I would be afraid of nothing ; I would 
 shrink from nothing. Perhaps I should see Malaria 
 herself in the jungle down there by the Indus — a tall, 
 white-faced woman, with golden irises to her eyes, 
 and I would talk to her and learn about her. I 
 would go into the temple of the Brahmins at Benares 
 and listen to them preaching sedition. I would sit by 
 the corpse as it burned by the river bank, watching 
 it, oh, so quietly, and loving it. I would go into the 
 opium dens and learn how to dream. . . . Learn how 
 to dream! I wonder if that is what I want to do? 
 I think it must be that. Sometimes when I am play- 
 ing I begin to dream, and just as I am getting deep 
 I strike a false chord and wake myself up, or mamma
 
 THE CALL FROM WITHOUT 19 
 
 comes in and says it is time for me to go driving 
 with her." 
 
 Elizabeth had forgotten about the enormous tea 
 she had intended to eat, and still sat upright on the 
 edge of her chair, looking out over the gathering 
 night. Already in the swiftly darkening dusk the 
 colours were withdrawn from the flower-beds, and 
 only the heavy odours gave token of their blossom- 
 ing. A streak of dwindling orange lingered in the 
 west; above, in the fathomless blue, stars that five 
 minutes before had been but minute pinpricks of 
 luminance were grown to yellow lamps and globes 
 of light. Somewhere in the lines a bugle suddenly 
 blared out its message to the stillness and was silent 
 again. A little farther off a tom-tom beat with end- 
 less iteration. 
 
 Then she spoke again, more rapidly. 
 
 "It is only by dreaming that you can get close to 
 the world," she said, "and hope to get at its mean- 
 ing. People who are completely awake spend all 
 their time in doing things that don't matter. You, 
 for instance, daddy — you and your inspections and 
 reviews. What does it all come to? Would this 
 world be one whit the worse if you didn't do any 
 of it? Yet perhaps I am wronging you, for, anyhow, 
 you can go mooning about your garden for hours to- 
 gether. Let me see — where had I got to?" 
 
 Colonel Fanshawe was watching Elizabeth a little 
 uneasily. This strange mood of hers was not new 
 to him. Half a dozen times before he had known her 
 go off into these dim rhapsodies, and they somewhat 
 disconcerted him. He made an effort to bring her 
 back into realms less shadowy. 
 
 "Where had you got to?" he asked. "Upon my 
 word, my dear, I don't think you had got anywhere 
 particular. Wouldn't it be well to begin that enor- 
 mous tea of which you spoke?"
 
 20 ARUNDEL 
 
 But the girl was fathoms deep in this queer reverie 
 of speculation. She shook her head at him. 
 
 "No; you don't understand yet," she said. "One 
 has to dream first before one can do any good while 
 one is awake. Unless you call baking bread and 
 milking cows doing good. You have to penetrate, 
 penetrate. It is a kingdom with high walls round it, 
 and I expect there are many gates. Perhaps we all 
 have our own gates; perhaps mine is a gate made of 
 music and yours is a garden-gate. Don't misunder- 
 stand me, daddy, or think I am talking nonsense, or 
 think, again, that what I mean is religion, though I 
 dare say there is a religion-gate as well. All I know 
 is that you have to pass dreaming through one of the 
 gates in order to get inside the kingdom. And when 
 you do get inside you find that it isn't so much that 
 you have got inside the kingdom as that the king- 
 dom has got inside you. I know it must be so. Each 
 of us, I expect, has to find himself, and when he has 
 found himself. . . . Oh, God knows!" 
 
 She broke off, and instantly poured herself out a 
 cup of tea. 
 
 "I am so hungry," she said, "and I had quite for- 
 gotten. While I eat and drink, daddy, you shall keep 
 your promise and tell me what I mean. You said 
 you knew. Or have I been talking the most dread- 
 ful rubbish? But, if so, I am rubbish myself, for 
 what I have said is Me." 
 
 Colonel Fanshawe lit a cigarette. 
 
 "No, my dear, you haven't been talking rubbish," 
 he said. "But if I had said exactly the same it would 
 have been rubbish." He meditated a moment or 
 two, for, though he felt what he wanted to say, it 
 was rather difficult for him to find the words for 
 it. At the same time also there was that in what 
 Elizabeth had said which strangely moved him; it 
 recalled to him in this sunny afternoon of fife some-
 
 
 THE CALL FROM WITHOUT 21 
 
 thinp; of what he had felt when he brought home, 
 worshipping and loving, Elizabeth's mother. 
 
 "You have talked admirable sense, dear," he said, 
 "for the very simple reason that you are eighteen. 
 But it would be rubbish in my mouth at forty-eight. 
 You feel that you are surrounded by delicious mys- 
 teries, into the heart of which you mean to penet rate. 
 You can do it too, and I so earnestly hope you will. 
 While you are yet young you can fall in love." 
 
 Elizabeth looked at him in disappointed amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 "Is that all?" she asked. 
 
 "I assure you it is enough. You will not believe 
 it now " 
 
 "But fall in love?" said the girl again. "With a 
 man? Just with a common man'.'" 
 
 "Yes, just with a common man," said he. "At 
 least, it is quite certain that the immense majority of 
 mankind will call him a common man. You will find 
 that he makes everything beautiful." 
 
 "But I know how beautiful it all is already," said 
 she. 
 
 "Yes, and it all puzzles you. You don't know what 
 it means. Well, it means what I have told you — 
 love." 
 
 "Oh, daddy, is that all?" said the girl again. 
 
 "In a way, it is. I mean that you can't go beyond 
 that. But " 
 
 Again he paused, feeling a sudden shyness, even 
 with his own daughter, in speaking of anything that 
 concerned him so intimately. 
 
 "But though you can't go beyond iove," he said, 
 "you can go into it — penetrate, penetrate, as you 
 said just now T , yourself. And the more you penetrate 
 into it the more you will see that there is no end to 
 it, and no beginning either. And then you will call 
 it by another name."
 
 22 ARUNDEL 
 
 He paused for a moment, and got up as he heard 
 himself somewhat shrilly summoned from within the 
 house. 
 
 "It seems to you all rather dull, I am afraid, my 
 dear," he said, "but it isn't." 
 
 Elizabeth rose also. 
 
 "But why would it be nonsense for you to speak 
 of it as I did?" she asked. "And why is it excellent 
 sense for me to do so?" 
 
 "Because when you are forty-eight, my dear, you 
 will have had to learn a certain sort of patience and 
 indulgence, which is quite out of place when you are 
 eighteen. You will have seen that the people who 
 bake bread and milk cows and review troops, as I do, 
 may conceivably be doing — well, doing quite nicely. 
 But you are quite right to think them useless old 
 fogies at present ! " 
 
 Elizabeth gave him a quick little kiss. 
 
 "You are a darling!" she said. "And now I bid 
 going to vanish swiftly round the corner of the 
 veranda. Mamma has called you three times and 
 you hayen't answered. You will get into trouble, 
 and so 1 desert you." 
 
 Elizabeth's amiable scheme was executed a little 
 too late. She had barely got half-way down the 
 veranda when her stepmother rustled out of the 
 drawing-room, already dressed for her party. Her 
 light, slight figure was still like a girl's — like a girl's, 
 too, was her evening dress, with its simple, straight 
 cut. Nor did her face — smooth, delicate, and soft — 
 belie the impression ; but her forehead and the outer 
 corners of her eyes were a little lined, as if a sleep- 
 less night had momentarily devitalized her youth. 
 And her voice, when she spoke, was old — old and 
 querulous. 
 
 "Bob, I have been calling and calling you!" she 
 said. "And are you not dressed yet? What have
 
 THE CALL FROM WITHOUT 23 
 
 you been doing? Elizabeth, why did you not send 
 your father to dress? We shall be late, as usual, and 
 if husband and wife are late every one always thinks 
 it is the wife's fault. Do go and dress, my dear; and 
 Elizabeth, my darling, will you come and talk to me 
 while I wait for him? I am so dreadfully tired! I 
 am sure I do not know how I shall get through the 
 evening. What a pity you are not a year older, and 
 then you could go instead of me and let me pass 
 a quiet evening at home! Or why are not you 
 and I going to have a dear little evening alone 
 together?" 
 
 Elizabeth retraced her Bteps. 
 
 "I am quite willing to go instead of you, mamma!" 
 she said. 
 
 "Dearest, I know how unselfish you are. But you 
 must keep your sweet girlish freshness another year, 
 and not tire yourself with Bitting up and dancing all 
 night. I know you think 1 ought to have let you go 
 to-night, but you must allow me to judge of that. 
 Indeed, my dear, I feel sure you do." 
 
 This little speech was admirably characteristic of 
 Mrs. Fanshawe. At one moment she would be find- 
 ing fault with everybody, at the next she would 
 shower tenderness on them. It mattered nothing to 
 her that only a few hours ago she and Elizabeth had 
 exchanged peculiarly clear-cut and opposed views on 
 the subject of this dance; she was quite capable, a 
 few hours later, of assuming that they were quite in 
 accord about it. She never had the smallest qualms 
 on the subject of her own sincerity, as is the habit 
 of thoroughly insincere people. She was merely 
 quite determined to get her own way over any point 
 in which she had a preference, and, having got it, 
 always proceeded to make herself charming in a 
 rather helpless and clinging kind of manner. 
 Whether her husband had ever gone so far as to ad-
 
 24 ARUNDEL 
 
 mit even to himself the fact of her insincerity is 
 doubtful. Where his affection was engaged he lost 
 all power of criticism ; where he loved he swallowed 
 >vhole. 
 
 Mrs. Fanshawe gave a delicate little sigh — a very 
 perfect and appealing little sigh. It might have been 
 supposed, so finished was it, so perfectly phrased, 
 that she had practised it for years in private. Such 
 was not the case; it was quite natural to her artificial 
 self, and came to her lips as spontaneously as song 
 to a thrush. 
 
 "We must see a great deal of each other these next 
 days, Elizabeth," she said, "before you go off to all 
 the gaiety and delights of England. How I long to 
 come with you, for I am sure the hot weather will 
 utterly knock me up; but of course my duty is with 
 your father. I should not dream of leaving him 
 while I went home to enjoy myself." 
 
 "But you will go up to the hills next month, 
 mamma, will you not?'' said the girl. "And stop 
 there till the autumn? And you will like that, won't 
 you?" 
 
 Mrs. Fanshawe gave the famous little sigh again. 
 
 "Like it? My dear, it is the emptiest, emptiest 
 life," she said; "nothing but gossip and parties all 
 day and dancing in the evening. I would far sooner 
 stop down here with your father, and only go away 
 with him when he can get off. But of course he 
 would not hear of that, for he knows very well that 
 to spend the summer here would kill me. I should 
 not dream of distressing him by suggesting it." 
 
 Occasionally Elizabeth's patience gave way before 
 the accumulation of such insincerities. In general 
 she put up with them unrebelliously, adapting her- 
 self to the experience of daily life. But now and 
 then she rose in flagrant and unsuspected mutiny.
 
 THE CALL FROM WITHOUT 25 
 
 She did so on this occasion, as her father appeared 
 again dressed for this evening's functions. 
 
 "Daddy," she said, "mamma has been telling me 
 how much she would like to Btop here with you in- 
 stead of going up to the hills. Wouldn't that be 
 nice for you? It sounds a charming plan, mamma." 
 
 Mrs. Fanshawe did not Buffer a moment's discom- 
 posure. She took Elizabeth's chin daintily in her 
 fingers and gave her a little butterfly kiss, which 
 could Dot disarrange anybody's complexion. 
 
 "Darling, what an idea!" she said. "What can I 
 have been Baying to make you think I meant that! 
 Good-night, my little sweet one. <n> to bed early, 
 and I shall come to my room like a mouse, bo as not 
 
 to disturb you. And. in turn, dear, would VOU mind 
 not beginning to practise till, shall we saw eleven to- 
 morrow morning. Begin then and wake me up with 
 some delicious thing like what you were playing so 
 very early this morning. Good-night, sweet Cin- 
 derella!" 
 
 Elizabeth's rebellion vanished in a sense of amuse- 
 ment. She knew that she might as well expect to 
 cause a blush of embarrassment on the face of the 
 serene moon, by repeating to a mere mortal some 
 unconsidered remark of hers, as to cause her step- 
 mother a moment's loss of self-composure, and she 
 smiled at the butterfly lips. Even when Mrs. Fan- 
 shawe caused her the greatest irritation she could 
 not banish altogether the instinct of protection and 
 tenderness towards that remarkably well-equipped 
 little lady. She was really about as capable of 
 taking care of herself as an iron-clad battleship 
 anchored in a calm sea, with guns agape and tor- 
 pedo-nets spread, but she conveyed so subtle an 
 impression of dependence and timidity that even 
 the victims of her most trying insincerities relented 
 towards her as towards a pretty child eager for en-
 
 26 ARUNDEL 
 
 joyment. It was so easy to strike the smile off her 
 face. 
 
 "Good-night, little mamma!" said Elizabeth. 
 "Have a nice time and dance every dance. And I 
 shan't disturb you to-morrow by my practising, as 
 I am going with daddy up the Khyber." 
 
 "My darling, won't that be rather a long day for 
 you? I hoped, perhaps, we should spend to-morrow 
 quietly together, you and I." 
 
 "Oh no, not a bit long!" said Elizabeth, again 
 with a little spark of irritation. "I shan't have spent 
 all night dancing like you. Good-night, dear daddy ! 
 I shall be ready to start at eight." 
 
 Elizabeth made a renewed but absent-minded at- 
 tack on her tea when the others had gone, counter- 
 manded dinner, and, in spite of her lately registered 
 vow never to touch a piano again, went back into 
 the drawing-room and opened it. A modern mu- 
 sician, a modern and ordinary concert-frequenter, 
 indeed, would have pitied the rusticity of her old- 
 fashioned taste, for not only were the works but 
 even the names of later authors unknown to her, 
 and at the present moment she was finding Schu- 
 mann's Noveletten a source of rapture and mystery 
 to her. But, however old-fashioned in taste, she had 
 the root of the matter in her profound love of mel- 
 ody and her secret, unswerving sense that in music 
 was contained the riddle and the answer of the 
 world. She, even as all others who have felt the 
 incommunicable spell that lies in beauty of sound, 
 knew that to put her feeling into words, or even 
 into the cramping outlines of definite thought, was 
 to distort and parody it, for the essence of the whole 
 matter was that its spell was wordless. Images, of 
 course, thronged in spate through her mind as she 
 played or listened to music ; sometimes it was a fig- 
 ure with veiled face that sang; sometimes it was a
 
 THE CALL FROM WITHOUT 27 
 
 band of militant spirits who marched; sometimes 
 through many-coloured mists, that grew thinner and 
 more opalescent as a climax approached, there shone 
 an ineffable light. But whatever image there came 
 to her, she felt its inadequacy; it was at the most 
 what a photograph is compared to the landscape 
 which it records. Music was music; to those who 
 understood, that would be a more satisfactory state- 
 ment than any array of images which it suggested. 
 
 To-night as she played she found running, like a 
 strong undertow beneath sunlit and placid surfaces, 
 certain words of her father. Was it, indeed, love 
 that inspired this beauty? If so, how was it that 
 she who so ceaselessly worshipped its manifestation 
 had never a glimpse of the spirit that inspired it? 
 . . . He had said more than that. He had said — 
 here the ripple of the triplets enthralled and en- 
 chained her for a moment — he had said that for 
 her the love of a common man would interpret 
 things for her. 
 
 Elizabeth was playing with divided mind. Her 
 fingers, that is to say, already schooled to the notes, 
 rendered bar after bar to her inner, her contem- 
 plative self, while her thoughts, that swarm of active 
 honey-bees that bring the crude treasure to the hive, 
 w T ere busy on their quests. Love, he had said, would 
 teach her. Had love taught Schumann this moon- 
 melody, this star-sown heaven of song? . . . Had 
 the thought of Madame Schumann made vocal to 
 him the magic spell? . . . This was a thing to smile 
 at. Daddy did not understand, of course, what mu- 
 sic was. He did not know how far it transcended 
 in reality all else that can be felt or thought. 
 
 But, to do him justice, that was not the sum, the 
 conclusion of his words. The love of a man, he had 
 said, would teach her love, and the dwelling in that
 
 28 ARUNDEL 
 
 would teach her that love had neither end nor be- 
 ginning, and she would call it by another name. 
 
 Instantly and ludicrously an image presented it- 
 self, the image of the regimental church, with its 
 pitch-pine pews, its crude windows, its encaustic 
 tiles, its braying harmonium. Yet all these unlovely 
 objects somehow symbolized to her father all and 
 more than all that music symbolized to her. And he 
 was not imaginative ; he was not poetical; he was not 
 artistic. But to him, here was the one eternally 
 satisfying answer to all questions that could ever 
 be asked. 
 
 Elizabeth's fingers had come to the end of the first 
 Novelette, but her unconscious mind, even as her 
 thinking mind, heeded them no longer. The whole 
 of her mind, conscious and unconscious alike, peered 
 eagerly into this, asking itself what it saw there. 
 And it saw nothing except the coloured glass and 
 the pitch-pine; heard nothing but the wheeze of the 
 harmonium, and the somewhat bucolic merriment of 
 a chant in C major. 
 
 She rose from the piano and strolled out into the 
 yellow, honey-coloured moonlight — a moonlight not 
 pale and cold, but partaking of the ardour and the 
 weariness of the Indian day. She recalled all that 
 religion, direct religious worship, that is to say, and 
 adoration of a personal and inner principle, had 
 meant to her life, and, fully honest with herself, 
 she saw how •intensely little, how infinitesimally 
 small that had been. There were her childish 
 prayers, first of all, sentences which she could never 
 remember having learned, for they came out of her 
 earliest mists of childhood, and she could no more 
 recollect being taught either them or their meaning 
 than she could recollect being taught to wash her 
 face. They were both on exactly the same plane; 
 they belonged to the ritual of getting up and going
 
 THE CALL FROM WITHOUT 29 
 
 to bed. There was washing to be done; there were 
 buttons to be negotiated; there were prayers to be 
 said. She had taken it on trust that these perform- 
 ances had to be gone through ; the reason for them 
 had never interested her. Then a further piece of 
 observance had been introduced into the routine of 
 life, and with her best frock and hat she had stood 
 and sat and knelt, sometimes with tedium, some- 
 times in absorbed attention to interesting members 
 of the congregation, while words were recited, and 
 hymns sung. It was rather pleasant to recognize 
 among the formulas of public worship her own bed- 
 side ejaculations, just as it is pleasant to recognize 
 familiar faces in a crowd. It was pleasant also to be 
 encouraged to join her small voice in the more cheer- 
 ful intervals of singing. Church, in fact, was a not 
 unattractive way of spending an hour on Sunday 
 morning, and was part of Sunday in precisely the 
 same degree and with exactly the same meaningless- 
 ness as her prayers were part of the ritual of dressing 
 and undressing. Much of what was recited there 
 was connected with the Jews who had astounding 
 adventures in Egypt and in the wilderness. 
 
 She had heard, she had listened, she had been 
 taught, prepared for confirmation, and taken to com- 
 munion. She supposed that she believed that she 
 was a Christian, but she believed, for that matter, 
 in Australia, and, for that matter, she knew she was 
 English. But neither her belief in Australia nor in 
 the truth of Christianity was coloured with emotion 
 or directed her actions. She would not, as far as 
 she was aware, behave any differently if Australia 
 was suddenly swallowed up in the ocean, or if the 
 historical facts on which Christianity was based were 
 proved to be fallacious. In no way did either fact 
 enter into her life. She was not, for instance, kind
 
 30 ARUNDEL 
 
 and honest and truthful because she was a Chris- 
 tian. 
 
 But she knew that in beauty she sought a mean- 
 ing that she had never yet found, that at times she 
 agonized to discover, and catch hold of, something 
 on which to rest, from which to derive . . . 
 
 She had wandered down the length of the dusky 
 garden alleys between the roses and yellow mimosas 
 until she had come to the low stone wall at the 
 bottom of her father's garden. Here the canton- 
 ments ended, and half a mile of dry dusty land lav 
 between her and the native city, which rose a black 
 blot against the blue of the night sky. A few low 
 huts of cattle-tenders were scattered about,- and the 
 feather-like plumes of tamarisk, and clear-cut aloes 
 broke the level monotony. One such aloe close at 
 hand flowered a few days before, and now the great 
 stalk, fifteen feet high, with its cluster of blossoms 
 at the end of the horizontal twigs, stood like a tele- 
 graph pole across the face of the moon, and Eliza- 
 beth wondered at this prodigious force that from 
 the empty air and barren soil raised in so few days 
 this triumphant engine and distributor of life. For 
 years this plant had silently and slowly grown, a 
 barren growth in a barren land; then suddenly it 
 had been caught in the whirlpool of production, of 
 fruition, and with a stupendous output, which should 
 cause its own exhausted death, had erected that bea- 
 con flame with that torch of transmitted life. Had 
 it felt a death-bed revelation, as it were? Was it 
 satisfied to bear witness to life and to die? What 
 did it mean? What did it all mean? 
 
 A small trodden track lay just below the three- 
 foot wall on which she leaned, and at the moment 
 she heard something stir there close to her. Looking 
 over, she saw that an old man was squatting there. 
 He had a long white beard that fell nearly to his
 
 THE CALL FROM WITHOUT 31 
 
 waist; he was naked but for the loin-cloth about 
 his middle, and by his side lay a tall crutch and an 
 empty begging-bowl of wood. But round his shoul- 
 ders, which glistened in the moonlight, she saw that 
 there was bound the three-fold cord that marks a 
 Brahmin. 
 
 Apparently he heard her movement as she leaned 
 over, and turned his head towards her. Deadly 
 weakness and exhaustion were printed there, but 
 more clearly than that there shone from it a quiet 
 indwelling joy, an expression of rapture, of ecstasy. 
 
 Elizabeth spoke to him in the vernacular. 
 
 "You want food?" she said. 
 
 "I want nothing, lady," said he. 
 
 Elizabeth suddenly felt that there was something 
 here for her; that this aged, quiet face, so full of joy, 
 so shadowed by weakness, had a message. The feel- 
 ing was instinctive and unaccountable. 
 
 "I will get you food in a moment," she said. 
 
 "I do not want food." said he. 
 
 Elizabeth put her hand on the top of the low wall 
 and easily vaulted over. 
 
 "But you are tired and hungry," she said, "and 
 you must have travelled far from your native place 
 to come up here. Where are you from?" 
 
 "From Benares. I have searched all my life, but 
 to-day my search is over." 
 
 A sudden wave of uncontrollable emotion seized 
 the girl. 
 
 "Oh, tell me what you have searched for?" she 
 said. "Whatsit?" 
 
 "It is the Life itself," he said. "And I have 
 found." 
 
 He fell back, and lay quite still, with open eyes 
 and smiling mouth. Even as he said he had found.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THE RIDDLE GROWS 
 
 In these days of the diffusion of the products of 
 trade and the benefits doubtful and otherwise of 
 civilization, when the Amir of Afghanistan has a 
 piano, and the Grand Llama of Thibet a- bicycle, it 
 must not shock the reader to know that Elizabeth 
 travelled up the Khyber Pass in the company of her 
 father and the Commander-in-Chief in a motor-car. 
 That military hero who had danced three-quarters 
 of the night with the young ladies of Peshawar, not 
 singling out any one for his favours, but cutting up 
 his heart into a large number of small pieces, and 
 giving one to each, was delighted to find there was 
 yet another charming maiden whom he had not yet 
 seen, and, rolling his jolly sides with laughter, sup- 
 posed that there had been a conspiracy among the 
 beauties of Peshawar to keep the fairest of them all 
 out of the ballroom. Gallantry and excessive ani- 
 mal spirits are apt to be rather disgusting in elderly 
 and obese persons, but the vitality of this amiable 
 old warrior was so genuine in its boyishness that the 
 primmest of the sex that he so indiscriminately 
 adored were disarmed by his monstrous flatteries. 
 But when our party had passed the fort of Jamrud 
 that guards the Indian end of the historic road, and 
 entered on the defile which from immemorial days 
 has been the coveted key that has locked and un- 
 locked the treasure of India, each yard of which has 
 
 32
 
 THE RIDDLE GROWS 33 
 
 been bought and paid for in blood, Sir Henry's gal- 
 lant loquacity was abated, and the magic of the 
 most historic highway in the world cast its spell on 
 him. 
 
 Elizabeth had hardly slept last night, but that 
 which had kept her still and wakeful during the dark 
 hours had been so strong a stimulus to her mind, 
 that morning saw no haggard cheeks and drooping 
 eyelids, but an alert and fresh-coloured face. That 
 strange sudden death of the white-haired traveller 
 had not in the least shocked or terrified her, for her 
 whole soul was full of the discovery of how wonder- 
 ful and beautiful a thing is death to one who has 
 lived, and who, like this aged Brahmin, had looked 
 upon it not as a cold hand that locks the gates of 
 the sepulchre, but as a friend who opens a door into 
 a fuller life, an ampler perception. Hitherto she 
 had never looked on death, and in so far as she 
 thought of it at all, viewed it as a remote and cruel 
 contingency, horrible to contemplate and best for- 
 gotten. She had no idea that it could be like that, 
 that calm moment of healing that had not distorted 
 the peace and the joy on the old man's face, but had 
 merely wiped off, as if it had been some travel-stain, 
 some superficial blur, the weariness and the age that 
 had a moment before overlaid it. She found, too, 
 that she had no horror at the touch of the lifeless 
 shell, and had helped the servants to move the body. 
 But before she had called for assistance she had sat 
 a minute or two alone with the body, the face of 
 which was calmer and more serene than the flooding 
 moonlight that illuminated it, and had kissed, in a 
 sort of inexplicable reverence and tenderness, the 
 lined forehead. 
 
 And all night long that face had remained with 
 her. If she shut her eyes it hovered before her in 
 the darkness of her closed lids, answering the ques-
 
 34 ARUNDEL 
 
 tion she did not know how to frame. Triumph, con- 
 viction, certainty, attainment was the response. She 
 could not doubt that this death by the wayside of 
 but one of the teeming millions, and that one so 
 aged, so stricken, was a royal entry from an ante- 
 chamber into a throne-room. She had seen a soul 
 attain; the dead smiling face no less than the last 
 words which the triumphant lips had spoken assured 
 her of it. All his life he had sought, knowing what 
 he sought; as yet she but felt the conviction that 
 there was something to seek. 
 
 For a while, however, all this sank out of sight 
 in her mind, as if she had dropped treasure into a 
 well. It was there safe, and when she dredged for 
 it she would find it again, but for the present, as 
 they wound upwards on the narrow road, the magic 
 of the way enchained her. Barer and more precipi- 
 tous rose the barren hill-sides of neutral native ter- 
 ritory, between which wound the narrow riband of 
 the English road. All the way along it, within com- 
 municable distance from each other, the sentries of 
 the Khyber Rifles guarded the pass, to give safe 
 conduct to the caravan that came with carpets and 
 dried fruits and incense from the unknown country 
 beyond, and to that which, with the products of 
 civilization, oil and sheet iron and calico, passed 
 from the plain into the mountains of Afghanistan. 
 They overtook and passed the caravan that had 
 rested last night at the entrance to the pass, going 
 westwards; six hundred camels, bearded and with 
 soft, padding steps, carried the amorphous mass of 
 merchandise. Some were gentle beasts, mild-eyed 
 and depressed, others were muzzled with rope and 
 foamed at the mouth. Myriad were the types of 
 those who drove them; there were pale-faced boys 
 with flaxen hair; there were hawk-nosed eager 
 Pathans of the type so familiar to Elizabeth in the
 
 THE RIDDLE GROWS 35 
 
 parades of her father's regiment, snub-nosed Mon- 
 golians, Thibetans, with their high cheek-bones and 
 wide-lipped mouths, and of them all there was not 
 one in whose face this morning Elizabeth did not see 
 signs of some secret quest, some unconjecturable 
 search. One perhaps desired money, one an end to 
 this mounting road; one was hungry, another 
 thirsty, but behind all these superficial needs she 
 read into each face a desire, a quest. Often, as if in 
 answer to her eager glance, she received a question- 
 ing stare, as if the gazer sought from her some sig- 
 nal that he was waiting for. All nature that morn- 
 ing had a question on its lips for Elizabeth, and an 
 answer if she could but interpret it. The grey 
 climbing hill-sides already aquiver in the hot sun 
 seemed ready to tell her why they stood there broad- 
 flanked and menacing. The brook that came cool 
 and bubbling from below a rock by the wayside, 
 fringing its course with cresses and feathery grass, 
 had learned in the darkness of the earth, in the sub- 
 terrestrial caves from which it sprang, the reason of 
 its going. Scattered by the roadside here and there 
 were Afghan villages, and at the mouths of exca- 
 vated dwellings in the hill-side stood the wild-eyed 
 native folk who were born and lived and loved and 
 fought and murdered, maybe, all in obedience to 
 some law of being that caused the aloe to shoot up 
 in erect strong stem and blossom, and that lit the 
 fires of victory in the eyes of the dying Brahmin. 
 All seemed ready to tell her the answer could she 
 but frame her question. 
 
 Like an obsession this sense of revelation ready 
 to show itself to her, could she but put herself on 
 the plane of thought where it lay, besieged her all 
 day, and as they returned to the caravanserai at the 
 foot of the pass as the sun, declining behind the 
 western hills, turned them for a moment into glow-
 
 36 ARUNDEL 
 
 ing amber, it seemed to elude her but by a hair's- 
 breadth. There all was ready for the reception of 
 the caravan that had marched through the pass into 
 India that day ; the sellers of bread were pulling out 
 of their circular ovens excavated in the ground the 
 flat cakes of unleavened bread, the brass samovars 
 hissed at the booths of the tea-sellers, and cauldrons 
 of hot soup boiled and bubbled. Already the van of 
 the wayfarers was entering the guarded gates that 
 were pierced in the mud walls, and the camels, weary 
 with the long stage, bent their unwieldy joints and 
 lay down for their drivers to strip off their load. 
 Some were too tired to eat, and. resting their queer, 
 prehistoric heads on their bended forelegs, closed 
 their long-lashed eyes and slept. Others, hungry 
 and restless, foamed and lathered and snapped 
 greedily at the mounds of dried fodder that their 
 drivers placed before them. Tired men got their 
 bowls of soup or tea from the stalls, and, leaning 
 against the sides of their beasts, ate their supper, 
 and wrapping their heads in their dusty gay-col- 
 oured shawls, slept by their sleeping animals. 
 Others, inclined for a chat, collected round the shops 
 of the provision-sellers against the wall of the serai, 
 and smoked and talked when their supper was done; 
 others, three or four clubbing together, lit fires of 
 the brushwood they had gathered during the day, 
 and cooked their own food at cheaper rate than ob- 
 tained in the stores. Ponies nickered and twitched 
 at their heel-ropes, the sharp, pungent smell of the 
 wood fires and the wreaths of aromatic smoke drifted 
 slowly along the sluggish currents of the almost 
 windless air, and gradually the empty space of the 
 serai became a mosaic of sleeping men and beasts. 
 The hills that the sunset had turned into molten 
 tawny gold grew dark again with the gathering
 
 THE RIDDLE GROWS 37 
 
 night, and in the depth of the velvet vault above the 
 wheeling stars grew large. 
 
 And behind all the various forms of life, behind 
 the molten hills, behind the sky, behind the limbs of 
 the bearded camels, behind the chatter and smoke 
 of the provision booths, there lurked, so it seemed 
 to Elizabeth, one impulse, one energy common to all. 
 In her head lay some remembered melody of Schu- 
 mann, that seemed to beat to the same indwelling 
 rhythms to which the stars pulsated. 
 
 Her father was standing alone beside her; a little 
 way off the genial Commander-in-Chief was tasting 
 the soup that bubbled in the tin-plated cauldrons, 
 pronouncing it excellent, and bidding his aide-de- 
 camp, a slim young, weary Englishman, translate 
 his verdict of it to the gratified booth-keeper. Some 
 word of the identity of this great boisterous hedonist 
 had been passed about the serai, but the tired 
 drovers of the caravan paid little heed. And yet, 
 here incarnate, was the figure-head of the English 
 power that guaranteed their safe journey through 
 the turbulent lands of the frontier, and that would 
 avenge with wicked little spitting guns and a troop 
 of khaki-clad soldiers any raid that the ungoverned 
 tribe might make. But Sir Henry, in spite of this, 
 roused but little attention; the tired drovers slept; 
 those who were more alert were but employed with 
 jokes and snatches of song round the samovars and 
 soup-cauldrons. The hills and the stars attended as 
 little; everything and everybody was intent on his 
 own inward calls, just as last night the Brahmin 
 who lay by the wayside had no need of food, and 
 but thought of the finding of that for which all his 
 years had searched. 
 
 And then Elizabeth's questing soul suddenly gave 
 up the pursuit of a hidden cause, and felt content
 
 38 ARUOTEL 
 
 with the obvious explanation. She took her father's 
 arm. 
 
 "Oh, daddy, I've had such a lovely day!" she said. 
 "What heaps of different things there are in the 
 world, and what heaps of different businesses. And 
 it all makes such a jumbled incoherent whole! In 
 half an hour we shall be back home again, and it 
 will be time to dress, and mamma will tell us all she 
 has done to-day. After dinner 1 will play the piano 
 to you till you snore, and as bood as you snore I 
 shall wake you up again and make you write to Aunt 
 Julie to say when I shall arrive at Ilcathmoor." 
 
 He pressed her hand as it lay in the crook of his 
 arm. 
 
 "It is a less tragic view than that of last night," 
 he said. 
 
 "I know. At this moment I don't mind the least 
 about going to England. I'm — I'm going to take 
 things as they come." 
 
 Elizabeth paused a moment, as with the vividness 
 of ocular hallucination the Brahmin's face once more 
 swam before her eyes. 
 
 "But that doesn't mean I am not going to be 
 serious," she said. "I want 'richly to enjoy.' Doesn't 
 that come in the Bible somewhere? I expect there 
 are many routes that arrive at the same place." 
 
 To anybody unacquainted with the sum of Eliza- 
 beth's musings that day, this was necessarily a 
 cryptic speech. It grew more cryptic yet. 
 
 "Perhaps drink leads the drunkard there," she 
 said, "and music the musician. Doesn't one de- 
 velop, daddy, through one's passions, and not 
 through one's renunciations? I can't see how starv- 
 ing your desires can possibly help one." 
 
 "My dear, there are desires and desires," he said. 
 
 "And where do they all come from? Surely from 
 the search."
 
 THE RIDDLE GROWS 39 
 
 He was silent a moment, and at that moment any- 
 thing short of enthusiastic acceptance of her illumi- 
 nation was a coldness, a hand of ice to Elizabeth. 
 
 "Daddy, you don't understand," she said. "As 
 long as we want, it doesn't much matter what we 
 want, Isn't it half the battle to be eager?'' 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "Again I should talk nonsense if I agreed with 
 you," he said. "Eagerness is a sword, my dear; but 
 it is not armour." 
 
 "I don't want armour," she said quickly. "I am 
 not afraid of being hurt." 
 
 "Ah, don't get hurt, my darling!" he said. 
 
 "Not I. And if I do get hurt, daddy, I shall 
 come crying to you, and you will have to comfort 
 me. Oh, oh — look at all those tired men, with no 
 beds to lie on, and no pillows and do tooth powder 
 or sponges! Don't you envy them? They will wake 
 up in the morning, ami find th< mselves there, and, 
 after all, nothing else can matter. I don't want to 
 
 be bothered with possessions. I want to be " 
 
 Elizabeth suddenly broke off, interrupting her 
 speech and thought alike. 
 
 "Daddy, that darling Sir Henry has had soup, 
 and now he is eating unleavened cakes, and a pe- 
 culiarly murderous-looking Pathan is tempting him 
 with a pomegranate. Do stop him ; he is dining with 
 us in an hour's time, and mamma will be so vexed 
 if he doesn't eat the most enormous dinner." 
 
 Colonel Fanshawe, with Elizabeth still on his arm, 
 stepped over a couple of sleeping prostrate forms. 
 
 "Yes, we will go to him," he said, "and you shall 
 tell me more about the simple life afterwards. It is 
 getting late." 
 
 Sir Henry had just cracked a pomegranate in his 
 enormous beefy hands. 
 
 "God bless me!" he was saying. "I never saw
 
 40 ARUNDEL 
 
 anything look so good. Fanshawe, be kind enough 
 to tell this man in your best Pushtoo, that there's 
 a fortune in pomegranates. Why, it's quite deli- 
 cious ; never tasted such a fine fruit." 
 
 Colonel Fanshawe made some amiable equivalent 
 of all this in Pushtoo, and spoke to Sir Henry again. 
 
 "He says that his trees will bear in greater abund- 
 ance than ever now, sir. But it is rather late. I 
 think we ought to be getting home. You won't 
 have more than time to eat your dinner in comfort 
 before the train " 
 
 Sir Henry rejected a mass of seeds. 
 
 "Yes, yes; we'll go," he said. "Why, here's my 
 Miss Elizabeth come to insist. I always obey the 
 ladies, Colonel; you obey the ladies always, and 
 you'll have a confoundedly pleasant time. Now, 
 Miss Elizabeth, quick inarch, is it?" 
 
 A sleepless day following on a dancing night, had 
 produced in Mrs, Fanshawe that uncertainty of tem- 
 per which, when it exhibits itself in chili lren, is 
 called fractiousness. The Ck>nunander-in-Ghief, who 
 
 dined with them en famiUe, had been obliged to 
 leave in order to catch his train before dinner was 
 over, and in consequence the very expensive straw- 
 berries which she had designed to form an excep- 
 tional dessert were eaten by herself and Elizabeth, 
 while the Colonel went to the station to speed his 
 parting chief. The chief also during dinner had 
 paid, according to her estimate of what was proper, 
 insufficient attention to his hostess, and more than 
 sufficient to Elizabeth, on whom he rained showers 
 of robust gallantries. In addition, some vague story 
 of a dead man found in the garden had agitated her, 
 while not a single soul from the rest of the station 
 had called to tell her how complete was the eclipse 
 that all other women suffered at the ball last night
 
 THE RIDDLE GROWS 41 
 
 in consequence of her effulgence. This was enough 
 to start a promising crop of grievances and gloomy 
 forebodings in Mrs. Fanshawe's mind, which she 
 served up, so to speak, young, succulent, and tender 
 like mustard and cress. The crop was of extremely 
 varied growth — a perfect macedoine of mixed and 
 bitter vegetables, among which her habitual help- 
 lessness and childlike manner had been completely 
 volatilized. 
 
 "I think it is no wonder," she said, "that the mili- 
 tary future of India gives politicians grave anxiety 
 at home, when there is such a doddering old goose at 
 the head of affairs." 
 
 •"Oh, mamma, it's rather a telling sort of dodder- 
 ing!" said Elizabeth. "They gave him a tremendous 
 reception at Jamrud." 
 
 "And laughed at him behind his back, I know," 
 said Mrs. Fanshawe, with decision. "And his con- 
 duct at dinner, too, with his absurd jokes. I had 
 hoped, Elizabeth, that your good sense would have 
 enabled you to see through them, and for my part, 
 the most charitable explanation I can think of is 
 that he had had too much wine, which I am sure 
 I hope he will sleep off before he makes another 
 laughing-stock of himself at Lahore. Stuffing him- 
 self witli soup and pomegranates, too, like a school- 
 boy at a confectioner's!" 
 
 Elizabeth forebore to suggest that a school con- 
 fectioner who sold soup and pomegranates would be 
 a unique species of tradesman, and proceeded to 
 eat strawberries one by one from the dish. Her 
 stepmother did not often spout with vinegar, when 
 she did the wisest thing was not to attempt to 
 staunch the flow 7 , but merely wait till it ran dry. 
 But it appeared that her silence acted as spur suffi- 
 cient. 
 
 "And as you have nothing to tell me about the
 
 42 ARUNDEL 
 
 pleasures of your expedition," observed Mrs. Fan- 
 shawe, "I must be content with picturing it to my- 
 self, as, indeed, I have been doing all day, thinking 
 that now you had got to Landi Kotal, and now to 
 the other place, the name of which I forget." 
 
 "We started at eight," began Elizabeth. 
 
 "I am quite aware of that, dear," said Mrs. Fan- 
 shawe. "I had lain awake till then after the ball, 
 and was just beginning to think I should get to 
 sleep, when I heard you laughing and calling so mer- 
 rily. I only thought, 'Now my dear ones are start- 
 ing on their expedition/ nothing more at all. Ex- 
 cept to look out of my window, though the light hurt 
 my eyes, to see if you were likely to have a fine day. 
 But, since you have nothing to tell me -" 
 
 "Indeed, mamma, we all talked about our day at 
 dinner," said Elizabeth. "I should have thought 
 you had heard enough of it." 
 
 Mrs. Fanshawe closed her eyes until Elizabeth 
 ceased speaking, and then went on exactly where she 
 had left off. 
 
 "What you have been doing," she said. "I must 
 try to entertain you with what happened last night. 
 The room was very hot and full, and indeed, with 
 Sir Henry bouncing about, there was little space for 
 anybody else to dance at all. Such an elephant I 
 have never yet seen outside a menagerie or at the 
 Durbar, and I should not wonder if when he retired 
 next year, as I am told he does, Barnum offered 
 something handsome for him. But it would be a 
 risky purchase; he might burst any day and cover 
 the place with pomegranate seeds." 
 
 Elizabeth gave a little inward gurgle of laugh- 
 ter at this picturesque phrasing. A peculiarity of 
 Mrs. Fanshawe, and one which she shared with 
 many of the human race, was that, when vexed, her 
 sense of humour entirely deserted her, though her
 
 THE RIDDLE GROWS 43 
 
 humour itself indulged in admirable touches. There 
 was, for instance, humour in her swift thumb-nail 
 sketch of an exploding warrior in a menagerie, but 
 her perception of her own felicity failed to recog- 
 nize it. Under these circumstances it was not diplo- 
 matic for others to greet it; their amusement was 
 not wanted. Mrs. Fanshawe proceeded in her in- 
 imitable way, in a rather faint voice. 
 
 "Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday," she said. "I 
 hope, Elizabeth, you will be able to let me see a 
 little of you before you bury yourself in your trunks. 
 I hope, too, you will keep a hand on your natural 
 exuberance during your voyage. You must not be 
 carried away by such foolish sallies and witticisms 
 as seemed to amuse you during dinner, and make 
 undesirable acquaintances. There is sure to be a 
 number of skylarking young men on board going 
 home, who will want to romp with any girl handy. 
 And be careful to dress very plainly and quietly. 
 You will earn in respect what you will lose in being 
 stared at. Of course you will chiefly sit in the ladies' 
 saloon, especially after dark, and not play any of 
 those foolish games with buckets and bits of rope, 
 which occasion so much silly shouting and giggling, 
 unless there are one or two elderly women play- 
 ing!" 
 
 She observed, with a shaded glance, that Eliza- 
 beth had finished the strawberries. 
 
 "Perhaps you would pass me the strawberries, 
 dear," she said. "They are quite excellent." 
 
 "Oh, I'm so sorry!" began Elizabeth. 
 
 "Ah, you have eaten them all, have you? It is 
 not of the slightest consequence. I only wanted 
 one or two, and no doubt I am quite as well without 
 them. Indeed, I am only glad that you have en- 
 joyed them so much, and wish for your sake there 
 were more. Ah, here is your father back from seeing
 
 44 ARUNDEL 
 
 poor Sir Henry off. Take the dish off the table, 
 darling, so that he shall not see we have had straw- 
 berries, for they are his favourite fruit." 
 
 The goaded Elizabeth turned. 
 
 "Daddy," she said, "I have eaten all the straw- 
 berries, so that there are none for you and mamma." 
 
 Mrs. Fanshawe gave her a reproachful glance. 
 
 "Really, Elizabeth!" she said. "So you are back, 
 Bob. Did you see the poor old man into his train? 
 I was saying to Elizabeth that I hoped it was only 
 wine, but I am afraid his brain must be going. I 
 should not wonder if ho became quite childish." 
 
 Colonel Fanshawe lifted his eyebrows in mild 
 surprise. 
 
 "Sir Henry?" he said. "I hope neither conjecture 
 is true, my dear. By the way, he sent his warmest 
 thanks to you and hoped so much that when you 
 went up to Simla you would stay with him a week 
 or two. He will be there all next month. But of 
 course if you are afraid of his being sent for to go 
 to the asylum " 
 
 Mrs. Fanshawe did not waste time over her transi- 
 tions; she did not modulate from key to key, but, 
 without sequence of transitional chords, put her fin- 
 ger firmly down on the notes she intended to play. 
 
 "My darling, how literally you take my little 
 joke!" she said. "Dear Sir Henry! He is like a 
 great boy, is he not, with his jokes and high spirits! 
 I declare he made me feel a hundred years old. I 
 must say that it is very civil of him, and of course 
 I shall go. I regard the invitations of the Com- 
 mander-in-Chief as a royal command, when one is in 
 India." 
 
 An unusual impulse of candour took possession 
 of her. 
 
 "Besides," she said, "it w T ill be much more amus- 
 ing and comfortable than at the hotel."
 
 
 THE RIDDLE GROWS 45 
 
 Elizabeth, as had now been settled, was to start 
 for England the next week, and since, after the 
 visit of the Commander-in-Chief, a quiet reaction 
 settled down on Peshawar, Mrs. Fanshawe was at 
 liberty to work herself to the bone, as she herself 
 phrased it, to make preparations for her departure. 
 As a matter of strict fact, her labours in this regard 
 were to order her ayah to wash out a Thermos flask 
 of hers, the possession of which, she declared, would 
 make "all the difference" to Elizabeth's comfort on 
 her journey down to Bombay, and to determine to 
 finish a woollen crochet scarf for her, which would 
 make "all the difference" when she was on the 
 boat. The necessity of finishing this — for her de- 
 termination was invincible on the point — caused her 
 to insist on a good deal of reading aloud in the even- 
 ing, which she always enjoyed, while the breaking 
 of the Thermos flask — quite irreplaceable in Pesha- 
 war — by her ayah gave her an excuse, which she had 
 long been wanting, for dismissing her, since it was 
 quite impossible to trust a woman who could be 
 careless over such a treasure, and to keep a servant 
 whom she could not trust, was to violate one of her 
 most sound household laws. Under the stress of 
 these duties it was only prudent to rest for rather 
 longer hours than usual after lunch, with the crochet 
 scarf put on a table by her sofa, in case her after- 
 noon insomnia was persistent, and except for lunch, 
 she was practically invisible until evening. Under 
 these circumstances, though she continued to plan 
 long quiet days for herself and Elizabeth before 
 the wrench of parting came, the girl saw more than 
 usual of her father, for, to speak frankly, it was 
 impossible to have the sense of seeing anybody else 
 when Mrs. Fanshawe was present. She was ob- 
 trusive in the faint but shrill trumpeting manner of 
 a mosquito.
 
 46 ARUNDEL 
 
 To Elizabeth, therefore, and, though loyalty pre- 
 vented his ever forming such a thought to himself, 
 perhaps to her father, too, these days had a re- 
 captured charm. It was now a couple of years 
 since her stepmother had made the third — not shad- 
 owy — in her home; before that, for her mother had 
 died in her infancy, she and her father had been 
 inseparable companions. And in these two years 
 Elizabeth had grown up; from the high romantic 
 mists of childhood, she had stepped down into the 
 level plains, and saw womanhood stretching out in 
 front of her. As was natural, that expanse had come 
 slowly and gradually into sight, and it was not till 
 these few days of companionship with her father 
 brought back the habit of earlier years that she 
 began to realize how far she had travelled. She 
 found, too, that the adequacy of the prattling com- 
 panionship of childhood no longer satisfied her; her 
 heart needed a more mature diet, her brain was 
 awake and tingling with a hundred questions and 
 surmises such as a few days before had inspired 
 her wondering conjectures when she found him at 
 work in his garden. Then, for the first time quite 
 consciously, she had asked herself that momentous 
 question as to the meaning, the 1 principle that lay 
 behind all the phenomena which she had taken for 
 granted; then, too, she had realized that to her 
 father the explanation lay in, or, at any rate, was 
 bound up with, something inherent in the prayers 
 and hymns at church. There to him was the finality 
 which she had been consciously seeking, about which 
 for the first time she felt any real curiosity. 
 
 But she was as diffident about putting any ques- 
 tion to him about it as he, all these years, had been 
 of initiating any speech on the subject. A man's 
 religious convictions necessarily take the colour and 
 texture, so to speak, of his mind, and this quiet,
 
 THE RIDDLE GROWS 47 
 
 unassertive man was no more in the habit of speak- 
 ing about them than about his loyalty to the King 
 or his habits of personal cleanliness. Such sub- 
 jects as these, rightly or wrongly, are the last to find 
 vocal expression ; he would have found it as difficult 
 and as unnatural to speak to Elizabeth on religious 
 topics as to discourse on the meaning of the Na- 
 tional Anthem, or ask her at breakfast if she had 
 performed her ablutions with thoroughness. In his 
 own case, his conduct, his work, and his immaculate 
 appearance bore witness to the reality of his con- 
 victions on these three respects, and. though he 
 shared with no mother the responsibility of par- 
 entage, he assumed her welfare in these regards. It 
 was not because the reality of them was faint to 
 him that lie was reticent, it was because the reality 
 was a matter of instinct, deeply felt and inwardly 
 imperative. Throughout the reigns of various gov- 
 ernesses, he had from time to time reminded those 
 ladies of his wish that a Bible lesson should in- 
 augurate the labours of the day. and, having thus 
 provided for the material of religious instruction, he 
 believed that the child's nature would, out of that 
 pabulum, secrete, in the manner of well-nourished 
 bodily glands, the secret essences that sustained and 
 built. But there had resulted from this method of 
 reticence, a symptom which should have troubled 
 him if he wanted confirmation of its success, for 
 Elizabeth, so open, so garrulous with him on all 
 other subjects, had never spoken to him on this one. 
 This he set down to the same instinct that made 
 himself shy of speech on such subjects, namely, the 
 inherent conviction that does not care to discuss 
 matters like loyalty and cleanliness. It had never 
 occurred to him that her silence was due to indif- 
 ference, to incuriousness, and that religious instruc- 
 tion was to her no more than a part of the curricu-
 
 48 ARUNDEL 
 
 lum of the week-day church, an hour's slightly dis- 
 tasteful feature of Sunday morning. 
 
 But now Elizabeth's curiosity was aroused. 
 "The scheme of things entire" had begun to make 
 audible to her its first faint flute-like call, a call 
 that, before there has fallen on the spirit any ex- 
 perience of agony, of darkness, of loneliness, is as 
 fascinating as the music of Pan or the voice of 
 Sirens, and she longed to know how it sounded in the 
 ears of others. For herself, she was confused, be- 
 wildered by the remote uncapturable melody, that 
 at present only gave hints in broken phrases to her 
 untrained car. 
 
 The two were riding back one day from a horse- 
 back saunter along the lanes among the fruit or- 
 chards. The blossom was beginning to fall, and 
 when a puff of wind disturbed its uncertain cling- 
 ing the ground below would be showered with 
 snowy pear-blossom or pink with the flower of the 
 peach. Elizabeth, in tune with the spring, was 
 inclined to lament this. 
 
 "I would almost go without peaches," she said, 
 "if that would save the blossom from falling." 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 "Yet it would be a hard choice," he said, "to de- 
 termine whether one would look at a tree covered 
 with blossom, instead of having dessert. I think I 
 should let Nature take its course, Lizzie, after all." 
 
 "Is it meant that the blossom has to fall before 
 the fruit comes?" she asked. 
 
 "Well, yes. To want it otherwise would be paral- 
 lel to wanting girls and boys not to grow up." 
 
 "And you do?" 
 
 "Naturally, though it is at the expense of their 
 rosy petals." This seemed to give Elizabeth suffi- 
 cient material for a pondering silence, which lasted 
 a couple of minutes.
 
 THE RIDDLE GROWS 49 
 
 "1 want to grow up," she observed, "and keep all 
 my youth as well." 
 
 He smiled at her. 
 
 "Hard, but worth attempting," he said. 
 
 "Oh ... do you mean it is possible, daddy?" 
 
 "Certainly! You can keep all of youth that is 
 really worth having. But, as I said, hard. For 
 instance, you can continue to have all the glow of 
 enthusiasm of youth till it is time to think about 
 — about turning in." 
 
 "Dying? I don't want ever to think about it. 
 I think it is a perfectly disgusting prospect. Don't 
 you hate the idea of it, daddy?" 
 
 He let his eyes dwell on her a moment. 
 
 "I can't say that I do, Lizzie," he said. "Don't 
 misunderstand me. I enjoy life tremendously; I'm 
 not in the least tired of it. But, as for hating the 
 idea of death, why no! You see. you see, it's only 
 another stage in growing up, which is a process 
 with which, as I said, I am in sympathy." 
 
 They were passing through a lane deeply sunk 
 between its adjacent fields; a cool draught flowed 
 down it, and Elizabeth shivered. 
 
 "Oh, daddy, to be put in the cold earth!" she 
 said. "That, anyhow, is a quite certain accompani- 
 ment of death ; there is no doubt about that. And 
 about the rest, who knows?" 
 
 "My dear, you don't doubt, do you?" he asked. 
 
 "I don't know that I do. One is taught; I was 
 taught. I suppose I believe in the arithmetic I 
 learned, and in the geography I learned " 
 
 She broke off suddenly as a little wind, as it were, 
 blew across the placid sunlit sea of her conscious- 
 ness, shattering the brightnesses. 
 
 "But because I have learned a thing it does not 
 become part of me, as people tell me," she said. 
 "You have to leaven a thing with love in order to
 
 50 ARUNDEL 
 
 assimilate it. I've always known that those things 
 are bone of your bone to you, part of you, vital 
 part of you, part that could not be amputated. Even 
 the fact that you have never talked to me about 
 them has shown that. You don't tell me that you 
 love me, simply because it is part of you to do so; 
 nor do I remind you that I have ten fingers and ten 
 toes." 
 
 She checked her horse as they emerged from the 
 lane into the stream of the traffic that was passing 
 into the native city. 
 
 "That's why we have never talked about it, 
 daddy," she said in sudden enlightenment. "It was 
 too real to you, and it didn't touch me." 
 
 She had never seen him so troubled. 
 
 "Didn't touch you?" he asked. "You don't be- 
 lieve " 
 
 Elizabeth laid her hand on his knee. 
 
 "Daddy dear, I believe in all things living and 
 beautiful, and true. Don't take it to heart — pray 
 don't. Does — does the blossom know what fruit is 
 coming? But surely the fruit comes." 
 
 Swiftly, suddenly at this supreme instant of sun- 
 set, all the world was changed ; it was as if it passed 
 into the heart of an opal. The dust of the main 
 road into which the two had just turned was trans- 
 figured into mist of gold and rose; the wayfarers 
 who passed along, plodding home with camels and 
 mild-eyed buffaloes, were changed into citizens of 
 some rainbow-kingdom. More brilliant grew the 
 excellent opalescence, and then all the tints of it 
 were sucked up into one soft crimson that flooded 
 earth and sky. Then, as the darkness began to 
 overlay it, it grew dusky and yet duskier, till the 
 incarnadined air was robbed of its glories. But 
 high above them northwards and eastwards flamed 
 the rose-coloured snows.
 
 
 BOOK ONE 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 COMFORTABLE MRS. HANCOCK 
 
 It is almost doubtful whether it is right to call 
 Heathmoor a village, since there is something 
 plebeian about the word, implying labourers' cot- 
 tages and public-houses and an admixture of cordu- 
 roy in the trousers of the male inhabitants with 
 strings tied, for reasons eternally inexplicable, below 
 their knees. Even less is Heathmoor a town, if by a 
 town we denote an assemblage of houses cheek to 
 jowl, streets with tramways or omnibuses and a 
 scarcity of trees and gardens. Indeed, no known 
 word implying the collected domicile of human 
 beings — which Heathmoor certainly is — will describe 
 it, and the indication of it necessitates a more ver- 
 bose method. 
 
 It lies at so convenient a distance from the me- 
 tropolis, and is served by so swift and proper a suc- 
 cession of trains at those hours when Heathmoor 
 travels, that it combines, as its inhabitants unani- 
 mously declare, all the advantages of town with 
 the pleasures and fine air of the country. Twenty 
 minutes in a well-padded railway-carriage with bev- 
 elled mirrors and attractive photographs of beaches 
 and abbeys and nice clear rivers lands the business 
 men to whom Heathmoor almost entirely belongs 
 in one of the main and central arteries of the Lon- 
 don streets, and twenty-three minutes suffices to 
 
 51
 
 52 ARUNDEL 
 
 take them and their wives and daughters home again 
 after they have dined in town and been to the 
 play. The question of those extra minutes is a 
 staple of conversation in Heathmoor, and there is 
 a great deal of high feeling about it, for nobody 
 can see, especially after hours of conversation on 
 the subject, why the railway company should not 
 quicken up the return trains in the evening. An- 
 other peculiarity of those otherwise admirable trains 
 is that the first-class carriages are invariably full 
 and the rest of the vehicles comparatively empty. 
 Tickets, moreover — those mean little oblongs of 
 cardboard — are seldom seen, and ticket collectors 
 never make their demands. If some energetic young 
 man, newly promoted, ventures to open a first-class 
 carriage-door between Heathmoor and London, by 
 the train that leaves Heathmoor at 9.6 a.m., for 
 instance, or the later one at 9.42 a.m., its occupants 
 look at him in disgusted astonishment. One, per- 
 haps, sufficiently unbends to murmur, "Season," 
 but probably no n< >t ire is taken of him till the guard, 
 hurrying up, gives him a couple of hot words, and 
 apologizes to the gentlemen. On the whole, they 
 are not made uncomfortable by such intrusions; in- 
 terruption, in fact, rarely occurring, somewhat em- 
 phasizes the privileged aloofness of these Heathmoor 
 magnates, just as an occasional trespasser in well- 
 ordered domains makes to glow the more brightly 
 the sense of proprietorship. The impertinence re- 
 ceives but a shrug, and a settlement behind the page 
 of the Financial Times follows. 
 
 The second of these trains, namely, the 9.42 a.m. 
 from Heathmoor, performs a more sociable jour- 
 ney, for there is less of the Financial Times in it 
 and more of the ladies of Heathmoor, who, with 
 business to transact in the shops, go up to town 
 in the morning with amazing frequency, returning,
 
 COMFORTABLE MRS. HANCOCK 53 
 
 for the most part, by an equally swift transit, which 
 lands them back at home again at twenty minutes 
 past one. All the morning, in consequence, be- 
 tween those hours the roads at Heathmoor, which 
 are level and well drained owing to its famous grav- 
 elly soil, which renders it so salubrious a settlement, 
 are comparatively empty, for those who do not go 
 to London find in their houses and gardens sufficient 
 occupation to detain them there till lunch-time. 
 Once again, between five and six the male popula- 
 tion swarms homewards, and a row of cabs uni- 
 formly patronized awaits the arrival of the mid- 
 night train from town, which enables its travellers 
 to have stayed to the very end of most theatrical 
 performances. 
 
 A small mercantile quarter clusters round the 
 station, but the local shops are neither numerous 
 nor, as Mrs. Hancock, Colonel Fanshawe's widowed 
 sister, sometimes laments, "choice." Butcher, baker, 
 and greengrocer supply the less "choice" comforts of 
 life, but if you want a sweetbread in a hurry, or 
 a bundle of early asparagus, it is idle to expect any- 
 thing of the sort. A "Court milliner," who lately 
 set up there behind a plate-glass window and some 
 elegant "forms," has a great deal of time on her 
 hands, and a tailor, who professes to have the new- 
 est suitings, and to be unrivalled in the matter of 
 liveries, does little more than put an occasional 
 patch in the garments of the male inhabitants, for 
 Heathmoor, in general, gets its apparel from metro- 
 politan markets, and prefers to be waited on by large 
 and noiseless parlourmaids. In fact, the mercantile 
 quarter forms but an insignificant fraction of Heath- 
 moor residences, the bulk of which consists of ad- 
 mirably comfortable and commodious villas, each 
 standing segregate in its acre or half-acre of garden. 
 All along the well-kept roads — the roads at Heath-
 
 54 ARUNDEL 
 
 moor seem to be washed and dusted, like china, 
 every morning — are situated these residences, so 
 aptly described as desirable, each with its gate, its 
 laurel hedge, and small plot of grass in front, each 
 with its tennis-court or croquet-lawn at back, its 
 tiled roofs, its "tradesmen's entrance," and its crim- 
 son rambler aspiring above the dining-room bow- 
 window. The larger houses — those in fact which 
 stand on acre plots — have a stable or garage at- 
 tached to them, though all are in telephonic com- 
 munication with the livery stables that are situ- 
 ated on the far side of the railway-bridge, and all 
 are built in accordance with a certain English norm 
 or rule, designed to ensure solid comfort and an 
 absence of draughts. There is none that lacks the 
 electric light, none in which rivers of hot and cold 
 water are not laid on upstairs and downstairs, none 
 that lacks a lavatory situated close to the front door, 
 in which is hung up a convincing and lucid diagram 
 of the system of drainage. But there is no monot- 
 ony or uniformity in the appearance of these houses; 
 some are of brick, some of rough-cast, and all have 
 a certain mediocre individuality of their own — like 
 the faces of a flock of sheep — which renders them 
 to the observer as various as the high-sounding 
 names that are so clearly printed on their front 
 gates. 
 
 Most of these exceedingly comfortable houses, de- 
 signed for the complete convenience of couples with 
 or without small families, are, as has been said, built 
 on half-acre or acre plots. They are all of modern 
 construction, with a view to the saving of domestic 
 labour, for Heathmoor as a place of residence for 
 well-to-do City men is but of late discovery. But 
 here and there a more spacious specimen can be 
 encountered, and Mrs. Hancock, who found noth- 
 ing choice in the Heathmoor shops, had some ten
 
 COMFORTABLE MRS. HANCOCK 55 
 
 years ago, on the death of her husband, bought two 
 of these acre plots, and had built thereon a house of 
 larger rooms, a boudoir, and a stable with coach- 
 man's quarters. Since then she had devoted nearly 
 all her income to rendering herself completely and 
 absolutely comfortable. An excellent cook, salaried 
 at sixty pounds a year, a sum which, according to 
 the regular Heathmoor standard, would be consid- 
 ered to be sufficient to pay the wages of a parlour- 
 maid also, largely contributed to her well-being, and 
 a maid, a serious butler with the deportment of a 
 dean, a chauffeur, two housemaids, a kitchen-maid, 
 a gardener, and a daughter were all devoted to the 
 same mission. The daughter occupies the ultimate 
 place in this list, not because Edith was not loving 
 and loved, but because on the whole her contribu- 
 tion to her mother's comfort was materially less 
 than that of any of the others, though perhaps 
 physically more. Indeed, she shared in rather than 
 subscribed to it, drove with her in her motor, ate 
 of the delicious food, while in the evenings she 
 laid out her own game of patience, without being 
 called upon to advise or condole or congratulate in 
 respect of Mrs. Hancock's. It is true that the win- 
 dow on Edith's side of the car was put down if 
 her mother required a little more air without being 
 too close to its ingress, and put up if Mrs. Hancock 
 in her seat wished to avoid a draught, but she was 
 by no means enserfed to the ruling spirit that di- 
 rected and controlled the movements of the other 
 dependents. Naturally she drove and dined with 
 her mother, read her into a comfortable doze after 
 tea, and did all the duties of a daughter, but she 
 had, even when with Mrs. Hancock, an existence 
 and a volition of her own, which the others had not. 
 Indeed, there was at this present time an event 
 maturing that promised to provide Edith with a
 
 56 ARUNDEL 
 
 completer independence yet, for Mrs. Hancock had 
 for months been encouraging an attachment that 
 was wholly sensible, and, like most sensible things, 
 could not possibly be called romantic. Edward Hol- 
 royd, the young man in question, was very well off, 
 being partner in a firm of sound, steady-going 
 brokers in the City, was regularity itself in the per- 
 sistence with which he caught the 9.6 a.m. train to 
 town every morning, and. as far as could be as- 
 certained, had never, in spite of his twenty-seven 
 years, given any serious attention to a girl until Mrs. 
 Hancock firmly turned his well-featured head in 
 Edith's direction. He lived, furthermore, in a half- 
 acre residence of his own, next door to ^Irs. Han- 
 cock, and this she reckoned as a solid item among 
 his eligibilities, for Edith would be able to give a 
 great deal of companionship to her mother during 
 the hours when her husband was in the City. Mrs. 
 Hancock did not forget to add — to her own credit 
 side, so to speak — that, since Edith would thus gen- 
 erally lunch with her, and drive with her afterwards, 
 this would save her daughter something substantial 
 in house-books, and give her the motor-drive she 
 was accustomed to. It is true that her prospective 
 husband had a motor of his own in which it might 
 be supposed that Edith could take the air if so in- 
 clined, consequently Mrs. Hancock added another 
 item to her own credit when she reflected that if 
 Edith drove with her there would be effected a sav- 
 ing in Edward's tyre and petrol bills. This was en- 
 tirely congenial to her mind, for she delighted to 
 make economies for other people as well as herself, 
 if the perfection of her own comfort was not af- 
 fected thereby. 
 
 On this genial morning of early May, ventilated 
 by a breath of south-west wind, and warmed by a 
 summer sun, the dining-room windows of Arundel
 
 COMFORTABLE MRS. HANCOCK 57 
 
 — the agreeable name of Mrs. Hancock's house — 
 were both open, and she was sitting at a writing- 
 table just within, fixing her plans for the day. She 
 always sat here after breakfast until she had seen 
 her cook, sent orders to her chauffeur, and read 
 the smaller paragraphs in the Morning Post. 
 Usually the plans for the day, the marching orders, 
 as she habitually called them, depended completely 
 on the weather. If it was fine she drove in her car 
 from twelve to a quarter-past one, and again, after 
 a salutary digestive pause after lunch, when she en- 
 gaged with the more solid paragraphs in the Morn- 
 ing Post, from three till a quarter to five. This, it 
 must be understood, was the curriculum for the 
 summer; in the winter radical changes might occur; 
 and sometimes if the morning was fine, but prom- 
 ised rain later, she would start as early as eleven, 
 and went out — if the weather still held up — for 
 quite a short time in the afternoon. But she always 
 went out twice, even if occasionally her inclina- 
 tion would have been to stop at home, for Denton, 
 the steady chauffeur, and Land, the serious butler, 
 would have thought it odd if she did not take two 
 airings. Did she, then, go out when she had a bad 
 cold? No; but then she never had a bad cold. 
 
 To-day, however, being Ascension Day, the 
 marching orders became exceedingly complicated; 
 and when Lind came in to say that Denton was wait- 
 ing for her commands, he received the same in- 
 structions that had been given him last Ascension 
 Day, but never since. These were not the same as 
 on Sundays and Christmas Days, because on Ascen- 
 sion Day Mrs. Hancock drove in the afternoon. 
 
 "Tell Denton I shall want the car at ten minutes 
 to eleven," she said. "No; you had better say a 
 quarter to — to take me to church. He must be back 
 there at a quarter-past twelve, or, say ten minutes
 
 58 ARUNDEL 
 
 past. I shall drive this afternoon at three. Or " 
 
 Mrs. Hancock pondered a moment, exactly as she 
 had done on last Ascension Day. 
 
 "Edith, dear," she said to her daughter, who 
 was winding the clock, "I think we had better lunch 
 to-day at one instead of at half-past. There will 
 not be time to settle down to anything after church. 
 And in that case we had better go out this after- 
 noon at half-past two. And lunch will be at one, 
 Lind. I will see Mrs. Williams now." 
 
 She paused again. This was not a usual Ascen- 
 sion Day pause, though connected with it. 
 
 "I see there is a holiday on the Stock Exchange, 
 Edith," she said, "so perhaps Mr. Holroyd will lunch 
 with us. Wait a moment, Lind." 
 
 She did not scribble a note, and never had clone 
 so, but wrote it very neatly, begging pardon for so 
 short a notice, and hoping that if — a verbal answer 
 was all that was required. 
 
 "I will see Mrs. Williams as soon as I get the 
 answer, Lind," she said, "and I will tell you then 
 whether we shall be two at lunch or three." 
 
 It was not worth while to "settle" to anything 
 when an interruption would come so soon ; and Mrs. 
 Hancock looked quietly and contentedly out over 
 the garden, where Ellis was mowing the tennis-court. 
 The flower-beds below the window dazzled with the 
 excellence of their crimson tulips, and swooned with 
 the sunny fragrance of their wallflowers, and the 
 hedge of espaliered apples that separated the lawn 
 from the kitchen-garden was pink with blooms of 
 promise. The rose-trees were all cut back in storage 
 for their summer flowering; no spike of weed was 
 insolent on the well-kept paths or garden-beds, and 
 no tending that the most exacting gardener's com- 
 panion could suggest as suitable to the season had 
 been left undone. The same flawless neatness dis-
 
 COMFORTABLE MRS. HANCOCK 59 
 
 tinguished the dining-room from which Mrs. Han- 
 cock looked out. Landseer prints hung quite straight 
 on the paper of damask red. Such chairs as were 
 not in use stood square-shouldered to the walls; 
 the writing-table where she sat was dustlessly fur- 
 nished with pens, pen-wipers, pencils, sealing-wax, 
 and all stationery appertaining; the maroon curtains 
 were looped back at exactly the same angle, and 
 six inches of green blind showed at the top of each 
 window. Room and garden were as soignes as Mrs. 
 Hancock's own abundant hair. 
 
 Mrs. Hancock's pass-book had been returned to 
 her from her bankers that morning, and she found 
 it quite pleasant reading, pleasant enough, indeed, 
 to open and read again as she waited for the arrival 
 of the verbal message from next door. Next to 
 devising and procuring all that could be secured of 
 material comforts, the occupation that, perhaps, 
 chiefly administered to her content was that of sav- 
 ing money. This seemed to her an extremely al- 
 truistic pleasure, since, if you took a large enough 
 view of it, she was saving for Edith. Thus she 
 would always purchase anything she wanted at the 
 place where it could most cheaply be obtained, pro- 
 vided its quality was in no way inferior, and she 
 never omitted to lay in a replete cellar of coal dur- 
 ing the summer months. Anything like waste was 
 abhorrent to her, and, though her ordinary living 
 expenses were excessively high, she could not se- 
 cure absolute comfort and the flawless appointment 
 of her house at a smaller outlay. She paid high 
 wages to her servants and gladly defrayed their 
 doctors' and dentists' bills, since she wished to make 
 it impossible for them to think of leaving her 
 when once she was satisfied with them, for a change 
 of servants was uncomfortable, and produced days 
 of uneasy suspense before it became certain that
 
 60 ARUXDEL 
 
 the new one would suit her. All such expenses were 
 incurred to procure comfort, and so were neces- 
 sary, but beyond them she was extremely economi- 
 cal and dearly liked the secure and continued feel- 
 ing of a big balance at the bank. When that balance 
 grew very large she made a prudent investment, 
 often through Edward Holroyd, and told herself that 
 she was doing it for the sake of Edith. 
 
 Before long came a warm acceptance of her hos- 
 pitality from next door, and, having sent for Mrs. 
 Williams, she added mutton cutlets to the menu, and 
 withdrew the asparagus, as her cook was certain 
 there was not enough for three; then she got up from 
 her writing-table since the marching orders were 
 now completed. Her plump and plea-ant face was 
 singularly unwrinkled, considering the fifty years 
 that had passed over it. yet it would perhaps have 
 been even more singular if the years had written on 
 it any record of their passage. It is true that she had 
 married, had borne a child, and had lost a husband, 
 but none of these events had marred the placidity of 
 her nature. At the most, they had been but pebbles 
 tossed into and swallowed up below that unruf- 
 fled surface, breaking it but for a moment with 
 inconsiderable ripples. She had married because she 
 had easily seen the wisdom of becoming the wife 
 of a well-to-do and wholly amiable man instead of 
 continuing to remain the once handsome Miss Julia 
 Fanshawe. Wisdom still continued to be justified of 
 her child, for she enjoyed the whole of her late 
 husband's income, and since her clear four thousand 
 pounds a year was derived from debenture stock and 
 first mortgage bonds, it was not likely that these 
 fruits of prudence would wither or decay on this 
 side of the grave. But she did not ever distress or 
 harass herself with the thought of anything so 
 comfortless as sepulchres, but devoted her time and
 
 COMFORTABLE MRS. HANCOCK 61 
 
 money to the preservation of her health, and the 
 avoidance of all such worries and anxieties as could 
 possibly disturb the poise and equilibrium of her 
 nervous system. She was slightly inclined to stout- 
 ness, and occasionally had rheumatic twinges in the 
 less important joints, but a month spent annually 
 at Bath sufficed to keep these little ailments in check, 
 while the complete immunity she enjoyed there from 
 all household anxieties, since she lived in a very 
 comfortable hotel, was restorative to a nervous sys- 
 tem that already hovered on perfection, and en- 
 abled her to take up her home duties again — which, 
 as has been said, consisted in providing comfort 
 for herself — with renewed vigour. This visit to Bath 
 was to take place next week, and for the last ten 
 days she had thought of little else than the question 
 as to whether she would take Denton and her motor- 
 car with her. Last night only she had come to the 
 determination to do so, and consequently there was 
 a great deal to be thought about to-day as to cush- 
 ions, luggage, and where to lunch, for she was her- 
 self going to travel in it. 
 
 Edith had finished winding the clock when her 
 mother got up. 
 
 "There is still half an hour before we need think 
 of getting ready for church, dear," she said, "and 
 we might go on planning our arrangements for next 
 week. The maps are in the drawing-room, for Den- 
 ton brought them in last night, but the print is so 
 small that I should be glad if you would get my 
 number two spectacles which I left in my bedroom. 
 They are either on my dressing-table or on the small 
 table by my bed. Filson will find them if you can- 
 not put your hand on them. Oh, look; there are 
 two starlings pecking at the garden-beds. How 
 bold they are with the mowing-machine so close! I 
 hope Ellis will scare them away from the asparagus."
 
 62 ARUNDEL 
 
 Edith managed to find the number two spectacles 
 without troubling Filson, and devoted her whole 
 mind, which was as tranquil and lucid as her 
 mother's, to the great question of the journey to 
 Bath. Though the distance was something over a 
 hundred miles, it was clearly better to risk being 
 a little over-tired, and compass the whole in one 
 day, rather than spend the night — perhaps not very 
 comfortably — at some half-way country inn, where 
 it was impossible to be certain about the sheets. 
 After all, if the fatigue was severe a day's rest on 
 arrival at Bath, postponing the treatment till the 
 day after, would set things right. But in that case 
 lunch must either be obtained at Reading, or, better 
 still, they could take it with them in a luncheon- 
 basket, and eat it < // route. Denton could take his, 
 too, and they would stop for half an hour to eat after 
 Reading, thus dividing the journey into two halves. 
 So far so good. 
 
 The question of Filson's journey was more diffi- 
 cult. If the day was line she could, of course, travel 
 outside with Denton, but if it was wet she would 
 have to come inside — a less ideal arrangement with 
 regard to knees. In that case also Lind would have 
 to go up to town with the heavy luggage, and see 
 it firmly bestowed in the Bath express at Padding- 
 ton. At this point Edith triumphantly vindicated 
 the superiority of two heads over one, and sug- 
 gested that Filson should go up to town with the 
 heavy luggage, and catch the 2.30 express (was it 
 not?) at Paddington, thus arriving at Bath before 
 them. Indeed, she would have time almost to un- 
 pack before they came. 
 
 The 2.30 train was verified, and thereafter all 
 was clear. Lind would escort Filson and the heavy 
 luggage to the station, and since Mrs. Williams 
 would be putting up lunches anyhow, Filson could
 
 COMFORTABLE MRS. HANCOCK 63 
 
 take hers as well. . . . But it was time to get ready 
 for church, and the question of cushions and cloaks 
 for so long a drive which might be partly cold and 
 partly warm must wait. But certainly Denton 
 would have to come in either after church or in the 
 evening, for the route, which appeared to lie straight 
 down the Bath road, had not been tackled at all 
 yet. 
 
 Mrs. Hancock's religious convictions and prac- 
 tices, which Edith entirely shared with her, were 
 as comfortable as her domestic arrangements, but 
 simpler, and they did not occupy her mind for so 
 many hours daily. It must be supposed that she 
 recognized the Christian virtue of charity, for other- 
 wise she would not, in the course of the year, have 
 knitted so large a quantity of thick scarves, made 
 from a cheap I >ut reliable wool, or have sent them 
 to the wife of her parish clergyman for distribu- 
 tion among the needy. She worked steadily at them 
 after the short doze which followed tea, while Edith 
 read aloud to her, but apart from this and the half- 
 crowns which she so regularly put into the offertory- 
 plate, the consideration of the poor and needy did 
 not practically concern her, though she much dis- 
 liked seeing tramps and beggars on the road. For 
 the rest, a quiet thankfulness, except when she had 
 rheumatism, glowed mildly in her soul for all the 
 blessings of this life which she so abundantly en- 
 joyed, and even when she had rheumatism she was 
 never vehement against Providence. She was quite 
 certain, indeed, that Providence took the greatest 
 care of her, and she followed that example by tak- 
 ing the greatest care of herself, feeling it a duty to 
 do so. For these attentions she returned thanks 
 every morning and evening in her bedroom, and in 
 church on Sunday morning, and also frequently in 
 the evening, if fine. When rheumatism troubled her
 
 64 ARUNDEL 
 
 she added a petition on the subject and went to 
 Bath. Never since her earliest days had she felt 
 the slightest doubts with regard to the religion that 
 was hers, and dogma she swallowed whole, like a 
 pill. Her father had been a Canon of Salisbury, and 
 in the fourth and least-used sitting-room in the 
 house, where smoking was permitted if gentlemen 
 were staying with her, was a glass-fronted bookcase 
 in which were four volumes of his somewhat con- 
 troversial sermons. These she sometimes read to 
 herself on wet Sunday evenings, if Edith chanced to 
 have a sore throat. Her evening doze usually suc- 
 ceeded this study. But to say that the principles 
 of a Christian life were alien to her would be libel- 
 lous, since, though neither devout nor ascetic, she 
 was kind, especially when it involved no self-sacri- 
 fice, she was truthful, she was a complete stranger 
 to envy, slander, or malice, and was quite unvexed 
 by any doubts concerning the wisdom and benevo- 
 lence of the Providence in which she trusted as 
 firmly as she trusted in aspirin and Bath for her 
 rheumatism. 
 
 At the church in which she was so regular an at- 
 tendant, she found both doctrine and ritual com- 
 pletely to her mind, even as it was to the mind of the 
 comfortable and prosperous inhabitants of Heath- 
 moor generally. No litany ever lifted up its la- 
 mentable petitions there, the hymns were always of 
 a bright and jovial order, unless, as in Lent, bright- 
 ness was liturgically impossible, and the vicar even 
 then made a habit of preaching delightfully short 
 and encouraging sermons about the Christian duty 
 of appreciating all that was agreeable in life, and 
 told his congregation that it was far more important 
 to face the future with a cheerful heart than to 
 turn a regretful eye towards the sins and omissions 
 of the past. To this advice Mrs. Hancock found it
 
 COMFORTABLE MRS. HANCOCK 65 
 
 both her pleasure and her duty to conform, and, 
 indeed, with her excellent health, her four thousand 
 pounds a year, and her household of admirable ser- 
 vants, it was not difficult to face the future with 
 smiling equanimity. And though, again, it would 
 have been libellous to call her pharisaical, for she 
 was not the least complacent in her estimate of 
 herself, she would have experienced considerable dif- 
 ficulty in making any sort of catalogue of her mis- 
 doings. Besides, as Mr. Martin distinctly told them, 
 it was mere morbidity to dwell among the broken 
 promises of the past. "Far better, dear friends, to 
 be up and doing in the glorious sunlight of a new 
 day. Sufficient, may we not truly say, to the day 
 is the good thereof. Let that be our motto for 
 the week. And now." 
 
 And the refreshed and convinced congregation 
 poured thankful half-crowns into the velvet col- 
 lecting pouches, and themselves into the glorious 
 sunlight. 
 
 Edward Holroyd, from the bow-window of his 
 dining-room next door — like most of the inhabitants 
 of Heathmoor he habitually sat in his dining-room 
 after breakfast when not leaving for the City by 
 the 9.6 a.m. train — saw the Hancocks' car glide 
 churchwards at ten minutes to eleven, and then 
 proceeded to his drawing-room to practise on his 
 piano with slightly agitated hands. The agitation 
 was partly due to the extraordinary number of 
 accidentals which Chopin chose to put into the 
 Eleventh Etude, partly to a more intimate cause, 
 connected with the invitation he had just accepted. 
 For some months now — in fact, ever since his twen- 
 ty-seventh birthday — he had made up his mind that 
 it was time to get married, and had held himself 
 in a position of almost pathetic eagerness — like a 
 man crouching for the sprint, waiting the signal of
 
 66 ARUNDEL 
 
 the pistol — to fall in love. But either the pre- 
 ordained maiden or some psychical defect in himself 
 had been lacking, and he had long been wondering if 
 there was to be any pistol at all. If not, it was idle 
 to maintain himself in the tense, crouching strain. 
 But he had no doubts whatever that lie wished to 
 be married, and that Mrs. Hancock — when he al- 
 lowed himself for a moment to face a slightly em- 
 barrassing question — wished him to be married, too. 
 She constantly turned his head in one particular 
 direction, and thai direction showed him, in house- 
 agents' phrase, a very pleasing prospect, which, with- 
 out complacency, he believed smiled on him with 
 an open and even affectionate regard. But he won- 
 dered at himself for not being of a livelier eager- 
 ness in emotional matters, for he brought to the 
 vocations and avocations of his busy and cheerful 
 life a fund of enthusiasm which was of more than 
 normal intensity. Like the majority of the males of 
 Heathmoor. he rounded off days of strenuous work 
 in the City with strenuous amusements, and with 
 croquet in summer and bridge and piano-playing 
 in the winter, filled up to the brim the hours be- 
 tween the arrival of the evening train ami bedtime. 
 But the failure of the inevitable and unique She 
 to put in an appearance ami bewitch the eyes and 
 the heart which wei iger to be spellbound was 
 
 disconcert ii ig. For years he had looked for her, for 
 years he had missed her. and since his twenty-sev- 
 enth birthday he had begun to determine to do with- 
 out her. He accepted the limitations, namely, his 
 own inability to fall in love, for which he could not 
 device a cure, and was prepared to close gratefully 
 with so pleasant and attractive an arrangement as 
 he believed to be open to him. He liked and ad- 
 mired Edith, her firm and comely face, her serene 
 content, her quiet capable ways. She was as fond
 
 COMFORTABLE MRS. HANCOCK 67 
 
 of croquet and bridge as himself, and — this was a 
 larger testimonial than he knew — really enjoyed his 
 piano-playing. And if the lightnings and thunders 
 of romance roused no reverberating glories in his 
 heart, it must be remembered that romance is a 
 shy rare bird, coming not to nest under every eave, 
 and that there would be a very sensible diminution 
 in marriage fees if every man delayed matrimony 
 until the blinding ecstatic light fell upon his en- 
 raptured eyes. 
 
 It is clear "what was the matter," in medical 
 phrase, with this handsome and lively young man. 
 At heart he was an idealist, but one ready to capitu- 
 late, to surrender to beleaguering common sense. 
 He was ready to sacrifice 1 his dreams, a somewhat 
 serious offence in a world where true dreamers are 
 so rare. By nature he was a true dreamer, but ac- 
 cumulating wealth and the dense comfort of life 
 at Heathmoor had dene much to rouse him, though 
 in music he still saw the fiery fabric, unsubstantial 
 and receding. In performance he was quite execra- 
 ble, in illumination of the highest calibre. Through 
 all his patient and heavy strumming he heard the 
 singing of the immortal bird, and even his reputation 
 as a piano-player in the drawing-rooms of Heath- 
 moor had not made him lose his profound apprecia- 
 tion of his own incompetence. But in music alone 
 was he worthy any more of the title of a dreamer; 
 to-day he stood pen in hand ready to sign the great- 
 est capitulation to common sense that a man is ever 
 called upon to make, for he was ready to give up the 
 image of the invisible conjectured She that stood 
 faintly glimmering in the inmost chamber of his 
 heart and throw it open for a charming enemy to 
 enter. 
 
 It was not long before he gave up his attempts 
 on the piano, for this invitation to lunch next door
 
 68 ARUNDEL 
 
 had caused him to take a definite resolution which 
 upset all steadiness and concentration, and, light- 
 ing a pipe, he strolled out into his garden. He had 
 not room there for a full-sized croquet lawn, and 
 had contented himself with three or four hoops of 
 ultra-championship narrowness, through which, with 
 the fervour of the true artist, he was accustomed to 
 practise various awkward hazards. But here, again, 
 as by the piano, desire failed, and. with an extin- 
 guished pipe, he sat down on a garden-seat, and 
 experienced a sharp attack of spurious middle-age, 
 such as is incidental to youth, regretting, as youth 
 does, the advent of the middle-age, which in reality 
 is yet far distant. He had completely made up his 
 mind to propose to Edith that day. believing, with- 
 out coxcombry, that he would be accepted, believing 
 also that the future thus held for him many years 
 of health and happiness, with the addition, no slight 
 one, of a charming and inalienable companion whom 
 he liked and admired. Yet something, the potenti- 
 ality of the fire which had never yet been lit in him, 
 caused him an infinite and secret regret for the step 
 which was now as good as taken. He longed for 
 something he had never experienced, for something 
 of which he had no real conception, but of which 
 he felt himself capable, for, as the flint owns fire 
 in its heart, but must wait to be struck, he felt that 
 his true destiny was not to be but a stone to mend 
 a road, or, at the best, to be mortared into a house- 
 wall, with all his fiery seed slumbering within him. 
 Yet . . . what if there was no fire there at all? He 
 had long held himself ready, aching, you might 
 say, for the blow that should evoke it, and none 
 had struck him into blaze. 
 
 It was not surprising that the approaching motor- 
 drive to Bath loomed conversationally large at lunch, 
 and Edward proved weighty in debate. He had a
 
 COMFORTABLE MRS. HANCOCK 69 
 
 sharp, decisive habit in social affairs; his small 
 change of talk was bright and fresh from the mint, 
 and seemed a faithful index to his keen face and 
 wiry, assertive hair. 
 
 "Quite right not to break the journey, Mrs. Han- 
 cock," he said. "Most country hotels consist of 
 feather-beds, fish with brown sauce, and windows 
 over a stable-yard. But if you do it in one journey, 
 get most of it over before lunch. I should start 
 by ten at the latest." 
 
 Mrs. Hancock consulted a railway time-table. 
 
 "Then Filson will have to be finished with her 
 packing at half-past nine," she said. "The heavy 
 luggage must go to the station in the car before we 
 start." 
 
 "Have it sent in a cab afterwards," suggested 
 Holroyd. 
 
 Mrs. Hancock pondered over this. 
 
 "I don't think I should like that, should I, Edith?" 
 she said. "I should prefer to see it actually leave 
 the house. Or can I trust Lind and Filson? Edith, 
 dear, remember to remind me to take the patience 
 cards in my small bag. There is room to lay out a 
 patience on the folding-table in the car, and it will 
 help to pass the time." 
 
 "And have you got footstools?" asked Edward. 
 
 Over Mrs. Hancock's face there spread a smile 
 like the coming of dawn. Here was a comfort that 
 had never occurred to her. 
 
 "What a good idea!" she said. "I have often felt 
 a little strained and uncomfortable in the knees 
 when motoring for more than an hour or two. Very 
 likely it was just the want of a footstool. Remind 
 me to take out my bedroom footstool in the car this 
 afternoon, Edith, to see if it is the right height. You 
 are helpful, Mr. Holroyd. I never thought of a foot- 
 stool."
 
 70 ARUNDEL 
 
 His next half-dozen suggestions, however, showed 
 that Mrs. Hancock had thought of a good deal al- 
 ready, including a Thermos flask of coffee, a contour 
 map of the country, and a stylograph pen in case 
 she found that she had left anything behind, and 
 wanted to write a postcard < n route. Postcards she 
 always carried in a green morocco writing-case. 
 
 "Filson must take a postcard, too," she said, 
 "ready directed to Lind, in case any tiling goes wrong 
 with the luggage. That is a good idea. She will 
 be very comfortable, do you not think, Mr. Holroyd, 
 in a nice third-class compartment for ladies only. 
 I am often tempted to go third-class myself, when 
 I see how cheap and comfortable it is." 
 
 Edward felt quite certain that this was a tempta- 
 tion to which Airs. Hancock had never yielded, and 
 lunch proceeded in silence for a few moments. Then, 
 since nobody was able to make any further sugges- 
 tion whatever which could lead to additional com- 
 fort or security on this momentous journey, Mrs. 
 Hancock allowed herself to be drawn into other 
 topics, still not unconnected with Bath, such as the 
 efficacy of the waters, and the steepness of the hills 
 which surrounded it, which, however, with Denton's 
 careful driving and the new brakes she had had 
 fitted to her car, presented no unmanning terrors. 
 
 "I shall be there," she said, "exactly four weeks, 
 so as to get back early in June. Bath is very hot 
 in the summer, but I do not mind that, and the 
 hotel rates are more reasonable then. After that we 
 shall be occupied, for my niece, Elizabeth Fanshawe, 
 will arrive almost as soon as I return. She will be 
 with me till she goes back to India to her father in 
 October." 
 
 Out of the depths of half- forgotten memories an 
 image, quite vague and insignificant, broke the sur- 
 face of Holroyd's mind.
 
 » 
 
 COMFORTABLE MRS. HANCOCK 71 
 
 "Was she not with you two years ago?" he asked. 
 "A tall, dark girl with black hair." 
 
 "Fancy your remembering her ! I so envy a good 
 memory. Edith, dear, remind me to get the piano 
 tuned. I will write from Bath. Elizabeth is for ever 
 at the piano now, so my brother tells me. She will 
 enjoy hearing you play, Mr. Holroyd. Well, if 
 everybody has finished, I am sure you will like to 
 have a cigarette in the garden. Edith will take 
 you out and show you the tulips." 
 
 It must not be supposed that this arrangement 
 was to be dignified into the name of manoeuvre on 
 Mrs. Hancock's part, except in so far that after lunch 
 she liked to skim the larger paragraphs of the Morn- 
 ing Post, comfortably reclining on the sofa in her 
 private sitting-room. She was not a person of sub- 
 tle perceptions, and it had certainly never occurred 
 to her that Holroyd had come to lunch that day 
 with his purpose formed; she only wanted to read 
 the Morning Post, and, as usual, to throw him and 
 Edith together. As for Edith, she had been quite 
 prepared a dozen times during this last month to 
 listen with satisfaction to his declaration, and to 
 give him an amiable affirmative on the earliest pos- 
 sible occasion. Each time that her mother ar- 
 ranged some similar little tete-a-tete for them she 
 felt a slight but pleasurable tremor of excitement, 
 but was never in the least cast down when it proved 
 that her anticipations were premature. She was 
 perfectly aware of her mother's approval, and it 
 only remained to give voice to her own. She had 
 long ago made up her mind that she would sooner 
 marry than remain single, and she had never 
 dreamed or desired that it should be any other man 
 than this who should conduct her to the goal of her 
 wishes. That she was in any degree in love with 
 him — if the phrase connotes anything luminous or
 
 72 ARUNDEL 
 
 tumultuous — it would be idle to assert; but equally- 
 idle would it be to deny that, according to the man- 
 ner of her aspirations, he seemed to her an ideal 
 husband. For ten adolescent years — for she was now 
 twenty-four — she had lived in the stifling and soul- 
 quelling comfort of her mother's house, and it would 
 have been strange if the dead calm and propriety 
 of her surroundings had Dot bred in her a corre- 
 sponding immobility of the emotions, for there is 
 something chameleon-like in the spirit of every girl 
 not powerfully vitalized; it assimilates itself to its 
 surroundings, and custom and u limn the hues, 
 
 which at first are superficial and evanescent, into 
 stains of permanent colour. Passion and deep feel- 
 ing, so far from entering into Edith herself, had 
 never even exhibited themselves in the confines of 
 her horizons: she had neither experienced them nor 
 seen others in their grip. But she thought — indeed, 
 she was certain — that she would like to be mistress in 
 the house where Edward Holroyd was master. She 
 felt sure she could make herself and him very com- 
 fortable. 
 
 She went out, hatless like him, into the warm 
 bath of sun and south-west wind, and they passed 
 side by side up the weedless garden-path. All Na- 
 ture, bees and bright-eyed birds and budding flow- 
 ers, was busy with the great festival of spring and 
 mating-time; nothing was barren but the salted 
 weedless path, so carefully defertilized. The tulips 
 were a brave show, and in their deep bed below the 
 paling a border of wallflowers spun a web of warm, 
 ineffable fragrance. Ellis, returned from his mid- 
 day hour, was still engaged with the clicking mow- 
 ing machine on the velvet-napped lawn, and they 
 went on farther till the gravel of the paths of the 
 flower-garden w r as exchanged for the cinders of the 
 kitchen patch, and the hedge of espaliers hid them
 
 
 COMFORTABLE MRS. HANCOCK 73 
 
 from the house. Then he stopped, and a moment 
 afterwards she also, smoothing into place a braid of 
 her bright brown hair. And without agitation came 
 the question, without agitation the reply. Indeed, 
 there was nothing for two sensible young people to 
 be agitated about. Each was fond of the other, 
 neither had seen any one else more desirable, and 
 over the hearts of each lay thick the cobwebs of 
 comfort and motor-cars and prosperous affairs and 
 unimpassioned content. Only as he spoke he felt 
 some vague soul-eclipse, some dispersal of a dream. 
 
 Then he drew her towards him and kissed her, 
 and for one moment below the cobwebs in her 
 heart something stirred, ever so faintly, ever so 
 remotely, connected with the slight roughness of 
 his close-shaven face, with the faint scent of soap, 
 of cigarette. But it did not embarrass her. 
 
 They stood there for a moment looking into each 
 other's faces, as if expecting something new, some- 
 thing revealed. 
 
 "Shall we tell your mother now?" he asked. 
 
 Still she looked at him ; he was not quite the same 
 as he had been before. 
 
 "Oh, in a minute or two," she said. 
 
 Suddenly he felt that he had to stir himself 
 
 somehow into greater tenderness, greater But 
 
 he felt disappointed; it had all been exactly as he 
 had imagined. 
 
 "I am very happy," he said. "I have thought 
 about this moment so much, Edith." 
 
 It was the first time he had used her name. 
 
 "Edward!" she said, looking straight at him. 
 "Edward! No, I don't think I shall call you Ed- 
 ward. I must have a name of my own for you." 
 
 At the moment the sound of a gong from within 
 the house droned along the garden. 
 
 "The motor is round," she said.
 
 74 ARUNDEL 
 
 This time it was he who delayed, though without 
 passion. 
 
 " Your mother will not mind waiting a minute," he 
 said. 
 
 "No. What else have yen to say to me?" 
 
 "Everything ; nothing." 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 "There is not time for the one." she Baid, "and 
 no time is required for the other. Besides, all the 
 time that there is is ours now." 
 
 In all her life she had never phrased a sentence 
 so neat, so nearly epigrammatic. Its briskness was 
 the fruit of the stimulus that had come to her. 
 
 They delayed no further, bul went bapk to the 
 house, where Mrs. Hancock was already waiting. 
 She did not attempt to appear surprised at their 
 news, but, placidly delighted at it. kissed them both, 
 and took it for granted that Edward would coi 
 in to dine with them that evening. Then, since there 
 was no use in vain repetitions, she reverted to the 
 topic which had to be considered at once. 
 
 "Let me she Baid. "I think the motor is 
 
 round, and Filson has brought down the foot-tool 
 from my bedroom to see if it is the right height. A 
 quarter to eight, then, dear Edward, to-night; we 
 shall be quite alone, and if you will come in half 
 an hour sooner I have no doubt that you will find 
 my darling dressed and waiting to talk to you. Fancy 
 what a lot you will have to Bay to each other now! 
 And then, after dinner, as you arc drinking your 
 glass of port, I shall claim you for a little conver- 
 sation, while we send Edith to wait in the draw- 
 ing-room. Oh, I see you have brought the footstool 
 from the spare room as well, Filson. That was well 
 thought of, as they are of different heights, and one 
 might suit if the other did not. Let me get in, and 
 see which suits me best. . . . Now try them one on
 
 COMFORTABLE MRS. HANCOCK 75 
 
 top of the other, Filson. Well, really I think that 
 is the most comfortable of all. Edith, dear, are you 
 ready? And I have brought down my patience 
 cards, and if I put them into the pocket under the 
 window at once I can dismiss them from my mind. 
 There! A quarter-past seven, then, dear Edward, 
 for a chat before dinner. Yes. leave the footstools 
 in the car, Filson, and we will measure the height 
 when I come back." 
 
 Denton was standing with the door knob in his 
 hand, waiting for orders. 
 
 "You might take us first to Slough, Denton," she 
 
 id, "so that we shall see what the mad is like 
 ; before we join the Bath road next week, and then 
 we can go through the Beeches. We are ten minutes 
 late in starting, but if we are a little late for tea it 
 won't matter for once in a way. Tell Mrs. Williams, 
 Lind, that we may lie ton minutes late for tea." 
 
 Mrs. Hancock habitually wore a perfectly natu- 
 ral and amiable smile on her pleasant face, except 
 when her rheumatism gave her an exceptional 
 twinge, or, more exceptionally yet, Mrs. Williams 
 was not quite up to the mark. To-day the dis- 
 covery of the footstools and Edith's engagement 
 seemed to her to be touching examples of the care 
 of Providence, and she was beamingly conscious of 
 the variety of pleasant objects and topics in the 
 world. She laid her hand in Edith's as the car 
 started. 
 
 "And now I want to hear all — all about it, dar- 
 ling," she said. "Oh, look, there are two magpies! 
 Is not that lucky? And will you let your window 
 quite down, dear? It is so warm and pleasant this 
 afternoon. I will have mine just half-way up. 
 There! That is nice! And now I want to hear all 
 about it."
 
 76 ARUNDEL 
 
 Edith returned the affectionate pressure of her 
 mother's hand. 
 
 "It was all so sudden, mother," she said, "and 
 yet I was not at all startled. He — Edward stopped 
 when we reached the kitchen-garden, and so I 
 stopped, too. And, without any speeches, he just 
 asked me, and I said 'Yes' at once, as I had always 
 meant to. And then he said he was very happy, 
 and kissed mo." 
 
 Mrs. Hancock thought that Denton was driving 
 a little too fast, as if lie meant to make up the lost 
 ten minutes, but she checked herself from calling 
 down the tube to him. 
 
 "My dearest!" she said. "You will never for- 
 get the first kiss given you by the man who loves 
 you. Oh, what a jolt!" 
 
 The jolt decidei | her, and she called to Denton 
 not to go quite so fast. Then she pressed Edith's 
 hand again. 
 
 "Tell me more, dear," she said. "Had you ex- 
 pected it at all?" 
 
 Edith looked at her with complete candour. 
 
 "Oh, yes!" she said. "And that is why it seemed 
 so natural when it came.'' 
 
 The faintest flush glowed on her face. 
 
 "But I never liked him so much before as when 
 he kissed me," she said. "It did not make me feel 
 at all awkward. I used to think that if such a thing 
 ever happened to me I should not know which way 
 to look. But it all seemed quite natural. Our tastes 
 agree in so many things, too — music and croquet and 
 so on. That is a good thing, is it not?" 
 
 Mrs. Hancock beamed again. 
 
 "My dear, of course." she said. "Community of 
 taste is half the" — battle, she w r as going to say — 
 "half the strength and joy of marriage. Oh, here 
 we are in Slough already. Turn to the right, Den-
 
 COMFORTABLE MRS. HANCOCK 77 
 
 ton, and go through Burnham Beeches. Yes, what 
 games of croquet you will have, and what music. 
 I will get a gate made in the paling between his 
 garden and ours, so that there will be no need to 
 go round by the front door and ring the bell. I 
 dare say Ellis could do it, or even if I had to get a 
 carpenter it would be but a trifle anyhow, and I 
 certainly shall not permit Edward to pay half of 
 it, however much he may insist. Bless you, my 
 darling! I feel so happy and contented about it. 
 Look, there is a Great Western express. What a 
 pace they go!" 
 
 Edith usually gave excellent attention to the 
 various bright objects which continually caught and 
 pleased her mother's eye. But to-day she wan- 
 dered, or rather, did not wander. 
 
 "It was wonderful," she said. "I hadn't guessed." 
 
 But her mother had other things as well to think 
 about. 
 
 "Edward was quite right," she said. "A footstool, 
 or rather one on top of another, makes all the dif- 
 ference. I shall order a very thick one from the 
 stores, sending the height I require. And I think I 
 must give a little dinner-party before I go to Bath, 
 dear, just to tell a few friends our news. I wish 
 the asparagus was a little more forward. How 
 lovely the beeches are! And look at those sweet 
 little birds! Are they thrushes, I wonder, or what? 
 And what do you guess they are saying to each 
 other? I will ask Mr. Beaumont, I think, and the 
 Martins and Mr. and Mrs. Dobbs. It will not do to 
 have it on Wednesday if w T e start early on Thurs- 
 day, as we shall find plenty of little jobs on the 
 last evening, and it will be wise to get to bed early 
 if we are to motor all next day. It must be Tues- 
 day. Perhaps the asparagus will have come popping 
 up, if the hot weather holds. Darling, I cannot
 
 78 ARUNDEL 
 
 tell you how pleased I am! And what an excite- 
 ment for your cousin Elizabeth. Fancy if she was 
 a bridesmaid before she went back to India! What 
 a lot she would have to tell to Uncle Robert! We 
 shall soon have to begin to think when it is to be." 
 
 Mrs. Hancock said no more on this subject, for 
 the fact was that she had not made up her mind 
 when she wished the marriage to take place. She 
 had vaguely contemplated going to Egypt with her 
 daughter next winter, and she could not offhand 
 balance the disadvantages of going alone (in case 
 she settled that Edith should be married first), with 
 the advantage of saving the expenses of taking her. 
 Then a brilliant possibility struck her. Edward 
 might be induced to come too, in which case the 
 marriage must certainly take place first. Since then 
 he would, of course, pay for Edith. But all this re- 
 quired consideration. 
 
 Indeed, there were many things which would need 
 a great deal of careful thought. Chief among them, 
 already blotting out the beauty of the beeches, was 
 the whole question of settlements. Edith would nat- 
 urally inherit the whole of her mother's money at 
 her death (an event to be contemplated with only 
 the most distant recognition >, and Mrs. Hancock had 
 no intention of making serious inroads into her in- 
 come, which, handsome as it was, did not more than 
 provide her with everything she wanted, and en- 
 able her to put by a nice round sum of money every 
 year. This she was so much accustomed to do that 
 it was unreasonable to expect her at her age to break 
 so prudent and long-established a habit. But all this 
 must depend to some extent on Edward's attitude 
 and expectations. She had no doubt that, for his 
 part, he would do all that was generous, which 
 would obviate the necessity of being very open- 
 handed herself. Living next door, Edith would be
 
 COMFORTABLE MRS. HANCOCK 79 
 
 able to come in to lunch every day when he was 
 in the City, and enjoy her motor-drive, as usual, 
 without any expense. The croquet-lawn, too, would 
 be quite at Edward's disposal. . . . Practically, she 
 was presenting: the young couple with a motor-car, 
 a lunch daily, and a croquet-lawn, kept in excellent 
 order by Ellis, straight away. Then there were wed- 
 ding presents to be thought of, which would be a 
 great expense; and Elizabeth was going to spend 
 four months at least with her — an additional drain. 
 . . . Mrs. Hancock began to feel quite worried and 
 pressed for money, as she was accustomed to do 
 when, having made some considerable investment, 
 she found she had not more than two or three hun- 
 dred pounds lying at her bank. 
 
 Edward arrived, as had been already agreed, half 
 an hour before dinner, and found Edith, already 
 dressed, waiting for a lover's talk in the drawing- 
 room. Lind had seen that the housemaids had com- 
 pleted the evening toilet of the room, and strict 
 injunctions had been issued that the two were not 
 to be disturbed. Edward kissed her again as soon 
 as they were left alone, but after that no interrup- 
 tion, however sudden, would have surprised a fiery 
 scene. Both were placid, content, happy, undis- 
 turbed by strong emotion, and unembarrassed by its 
 absence. But though as yet no surface signs gave 
 indication, the evenly hung balance had begun to 
 quiver. Once more his kiss woke in her a tremor of 
 dim agitation, while inwardly he wondered, though 
 as yet unembarrassed, at his own want of emotion. 
 Not for a moment did he regret what he had done ; 
 he was happy in the event of the day, but only a 
 little surprised, a little scornful of himself for find- 
 ing that he felt so precisely as he had anticipated 
 that he would feel. He had not expected to be 
 inflamed with sudden rapture, and was not. Dimly
 
 80 ARUNDEL 
 
 he saw that the adventure to which they were com- 
 mitted promised more to her than it did to him, and 
 he was ashamed of that. Yet to him it had its defi- 
 nite promise. This charming girl whom he liked, 
 whom he admired, with whom he was in sympathy, 
 had consented to share his life with him. To no 
 one would he have ao willingly offered himself as to 
 
 her who had so willingly accepted him. His horizon, 
 such as it was. was filled with her. . . . Only he 
 wondered, and thai bul vaguely, whal lay over that 
 horizon's rim. Bul he found no difficulty in fram- 
 ing his lips to tin 1 sense and nonsense of lover's 
 talk. 
 
 "I have been too happy all the afternoon to do 
 anything," he said. "I have just sat and strolled 
 and thought and waited." 
 
 He I 1 d himself of her hand, and told him- 
 
 self how capable it was, yet how soft, how pretty. 
 Hitherto he had not given many thoughts to hands; 
 dow he realized thai this particular one concerned 
 
 him. He admired it; it v rong and line. 
 
 "All. I am having a bad influence upon you al- 
 ready.'" said she, "if I make you idle." 
 
 Suddenly it appeared to him a wonderful and 
 beautiful thing thai he and a charming L r irl should 
 be saying these intimate things, and his response 
 was almost eager. 
 
 "I was only idle from happiness," he said. "Isn't 
 it all wonderful? Would you have had me go to 
 tea with some foolish people whom I did not want 
 to see?" 
 
 "I make you misanthropic as well. But I'm not 
 ashamed if I make you happy." 
 
 Something stirred within her, some new beating 
 pulse. She came a little closer to him. 
 
 "You looked so nice, Edward," she said, "this 
 afternoon, when you stopped and spoke. But I
 
 COMFORTABLE MRS. HANCOCK 81 
 
 couldn't bear your tie. I shall knit you one the 
 same shade of brown as your eyes. I will do it at 
 Bath." 
 
 "It is a great nuisance your going to Bath," he 
 said. "Must you really go? I want you here. But 
 the tie will be lovely." 
 
 "Oh, conceit," she said, "after I have told you 
 it is to be the colour of your eyes." 
 
 "I forgot that. Aren't you being rather mali- 
 cious?" 
 
 He looked up from her hand to her face. Never 
 before had he noticed how bright and abundant 
 was her hair, how delicate the line of black eyebrow. 
 He corrected himself. 
 
 "Malicious, did I say?" he asked. "I meant — I 
 meant delicious. And, talking of eyes, I must give 
 you a turquoise engagement ring f»>r the day, and 
 a sapphire one for the evening." 
 
 "What has that to do with eyes?" she asked. 
 
 "Everything. Yours are light blue in the sun- 
 light, and dark blue at night." 
 
 "I feel as if I ought to apologize. But I don't 
 think I shall; it wasn't my fault." 
 
 "I don't insist." said he. "But I insist on know- 
 ing one thing. When?" 
 
 "When? What do you mean?" she asked. 
 
 "Look me in the face, and say you don't know." 
 
 Edith laughed — a happy little quiver of a laugh 
 that she had never heard yet. 
 
 "I could if I liked," she said. "But I don't choose 
 to. If you mean " 
 
 "That is exactly what I mean." 
 
 "How can you know before I have said it?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "I can. Do say what I mean." 
 
 Again she laughed. 
 
 "When shall we be married was what you meant."
 
 82 ARUNDEL 
 
 She looked extremely pretty and rather shy. He 
 had never noticed before how fine was her mouth, 
 how fine and fair the curve of her upper lip. 
 
 "Yes, sapphire and turquoise," he said. His lips 
 said it, his brain said it. 
 
 The sonorous tones of the ( liinese gonu r . manipu- 
 lated with so cunning a crescendo and diminuendo 
 by Lind, boomed through the house. Immediately 
 afterward- Mrs. Hancock's tread, noticeably heavy, 
 was heard on the stairs. She hummed BOme little 
 nameless ditty in warning. Edith got up. 
 
 "I tinner already?" she said. 
 
 Edward, perhaps, was not quite so much surprised 
 at the swiftness <>t' the passage of this half-hour. 
 
 "Before you have answered my question," he said 
 as the door opened
 
 ■ 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 COMFORTABLE PLANS 
 
 Had the Day of Judgment or any other devas- 
 tating crisis been fixed for the morrow, that would 
 not have delayed Mrs. Hancock's retirement to her 
 bedroom not later than eleven the night before. 
 Sometimes, and not rarely, she went upstairs at half- 
 past ten in order to get a good night before the fa- 
 tigues of the next day, whatever they might hap- 
 pen to be, but in no case, unless by chance she went 
 to the theatre in town, was she later than eleven. 
 She did not always go to bed immediately on arrival 
 in her room; frequently, after she had played her 
 invariable game of patience, while Filson brushed 
 her hair, she read a book, since, as she so often la- 
 mented, she had so little time for reading during the 
 day; sometimes she sat in front of her fire making 
 further plans for her comfort. 
 
 To-night plans occupied her for a considerable 
 time, and though they directly concerned Edith, 
 they might still be correctly classified as bearing on 
 her own comfort. She had literally enjoyed half an 
 hour's conversation with Edward after dinner; this 
 had been of a highly satisfactory character, for she 
 had ascertained that he was making a really substan- 
 tial income, and that he had investments, all of a 
 sound character, which already amounted to over 
 thirty thousand pounds. This, in the event of his 
 death — to which apparently he did not mind alluding 
 at all — he was prepared to settle on his wife. The 
 
 83
 
 84 ARUNDEL 
 
 house next door was freehold property of his, and, 
 though he had contemplated selling that and pur- 
 chasing one that was more of the size to which Edith 
 was accustomed, he seemed perfectly ready to fall in 
 with Mrs. Hancock's clearly expressed wish that he 
 should remain where he was, for the wrench of part- 
 ing with Edith at all was only tolerable to her if the 
 parting was not to be more than a few yards in 
 breadth. The question of the garden-gate in the 
 paling did not, however, fill him with any intense 
 enthusiasm, and she. after making it quite clear that 
 he was not expected fco pay for it. let the subject 
 drop. But she intended to give Ellis the necessary 
 instructions all tie 1 same, U^r she was quite sure he 
 would like it when it was done. Furthermore, he had 
 not expressed the Least curiosity as regards what al- 
 lowance or dowry she was intending to give Edith, 
 which showed a very proper confidence. He could 
 not, in fact, have behaved with greater delicacy, and 
 yet that delicacy had put Mrs. Hancock, so to speak, 
 rather in a hole. She had to determine, by the light 
 of her own generosity alone, what she was prepared 
 to do. 
 
 It was this point that now occupied her, after she 
 had written a note to the stores, ordering a footstool 
 nine inches high, covered in a dark red shade of rus- 
 sia leather. ... So that was off her mind. Edward 
 had given quite a warm welcome to the scheme of 
 the Egyptian expedition, and had expressed his 
 readiness to take no holiday this summer, but have 
 his vacation then. In this case, marriage in Novem- 
 ber, a month's honeymoon with his bride, and a re- 
 union with Mrs. Hancock at Cairo, was an ideal 
 arrangement. All this kindled Mrs. Hancock's sense 
 of generosity, for it would relieve her of the expense 
 of Edith on the Egyptian tour, and in the first glow 
 of her gratification, she proposed to herself to settle
 
 COMFORTABLE PLANS 85 
 
 on Edith a sum that should produce four hundred 
 pounds a year. She was almost surprised at herself 
 for this unhesitating open-handedness, and sat down 
 to consider just what it meant. 
 
 Four hundred a year represented a capital of over 
 ten thousand pounds. That seemed a great deal of 
 money to put without restriction into the hands of 
 a girl who hitherto had been accustomed to control 
 only an allowance for dress and pocket-money paid 
 quarterly. It would be much more prudent, and in- 
 deed kinder, to give her, at first anyhow, till by ex- 
 perience in household management, she became ac- 
 customed to deal with larger sums, a quarterly al- 
 lowance as before. Four hundred a year was more 
 than double what she had been accustomed to, and 
 no doubt Edward, who was clearly the soul of gen- 
 erosity, would give her no less. Edith would then 
 be mistress, for her own private expenses alone, of 
 no less than eight hundred a year. This was colossal 
 affluence; enough, carefully used, for the upbringing 
 and support of an entire family. She could never 
 spend eight hundred a year, and there was no need 
 for her to save, since she was the wife of a well-to-do 
 husband, and heiress to a considerable fortune. So 
 much money would but be a burden to her. If her 
 mother allowed her two hundred a year, that added 
 to what Edward would no doubt insist on giving her 
 — Mrs. Hancock had settled that he would certainly 
 give as much as she had originally thought of giv- 
 ing — would make her a more than ample allowance. 
 
 Her thoughts went back for a moment to the note 
 to the stores which lay on the table. Certainly a 
 footstool made a motor-drive much more comforta- 
 ble, and, since Edith was going to accompany her to 
 Bath, her mother could not bear the thought that 
 she should lack the comforts she gave herself. She 
 would order two footstools. . . . Without a mo-
 
 8G ARUXDEL 
 
 ment's hesitation she opened the letter and made the 
 necessary alteration. There! That was done. How 
 pleased Edith would be. 
 
 She returned to the question of the allowance, 
 viewing it, as it were, from a rather greater distance. 
 She hoped, she prayed that Edith would have chil- 
 dren, who must certainly adore their granny. Their 
 granny would certainly adore them, and it would be 
 nothing Less than a joy to her to give each of them, 
 say, a hundred pounds every birthday, to be pru- 
 dently invested tor them, BO that when they came of 
 age they would have tidy tittle fortunes of their own. 
 
 She glowed with pleasure when she thought of that. 
 Children's education was a great expense, and it 
 would be bo nice for Edward to know that, as each 
 child of his came of age, he would have waiting for 
 him quite a little income of his own; or, capitalized, 
 such a sum would start the boys in life, and provide 
 quite a dowry for the daughters. At compound in- 
 terest money doubled it-elf in no time; they would 
 all be young men and women i^ independent means. 
 Perhaps Edith would have live or >ix children, and, 
 though Mrs. Hancock's munificence would then be 
 costing her six hundred a year — or interest on fif- 
 teen thousand pound- -he felt that it would be the 
 greatest delight to pinch herself to make ends meet 
 for the sake of being such a fairy-granny. But if 
 she was paying Edith two hundred a year all the 
 time the very queen of the fairy-grannies would 
 scarcely be able to afford all this. And she felt quite 
 sure that Edith would choose to have her children 
 provided for rather than herself, for she had the most 
 unselfish of natures. 
 
 Hitherto Edith had received a hundred and fifty a 
 year for dress and travelling expenses when she went 
 alone. She had done very well on that, and was 
 always neat and tidy; now without doubt her hus-
 
 COMFORTABLE PLANS 87 
 
 band would pay all her travelling expenses, since 
 they would always travel together. Even if she con- 
 tinued to give Edith a hundred and fifty pounds a 
 year, that, with her travelling expenses paid by her 
 husband, and an allowance — as before — of four hun- 
 dred a year from him, would be far more than she 
 could possibly require. Besides, her mother had al- 
 ready settled to provide lunch for her every day 
 while Edward was in town, and a motor-drive after- 
 wards, while to keep the croquet-lawn at such a 
 pitch of perfection as so fine a player aa Edward 
 would expect — and she was determined he should 
 find — would mean very likely another gardener, or, 
 at any rate, a man to come in once or twice a week 
 to help Ellis. Then there was the trousseau to be 
 thought of, which Mrs. Hancock was invincibly de- 
 termined to provide herself, and that would cost 
 more than the whole of Edith's allowance for the 
 year. Certainly, with this necessary visit to Bath, 
 and the winter in Egypt which she had promised 
 Edward she would manage, and with the expense of 
 having Elizabeth in the house all the summer she 
 herself would be very poor indeed for the next year. 
 It seemed really unreasonable that for these twelve 
 months she would give Edith any allowance at all. 
 And by that time, please God, there might be a little 
 grandchild to begin providing for. Evidently she 
 would have to be very careful and saving, but the 
 thought of those for whom she would be stinting 
 herself made such sacrifice a work of joy and pleas- 
 ure. But for a moment she looked at the note to the 
 stores again, wondering whether it would not be 
 possible to put one footstool between them to be 
 shared by both. That red leather was very expen- 
 sive. 
 
 Then there were wedding presents to be thought 
 of, and, though she was determined to give Edith
 
 88 ARUNDEL 
 
 her whole trousseau, she meant to behave lavishly 
 in this respect, and, glowing with the prospective 
 delight of giving, she opened the Bramah-locked 
 jewel safe which was let into her bedroom wall. She 
 quite longed to clasp round Edith's neck the four 
 fine rows of pearls which had come to her from her 
 late husband, but this was impossible, since she was 
 convinced they were heirlooms, and must remain 
 in her possession till her death. There was a dia- 
 mond tiara, which, it was true, was her own prop- 
 erty, but tlii- was far too matronly an ornament for 
 a young bride; diamond tiaras also were out of place 
 
 in Beathmoor, and she had DOt once worn it her- 
 self in the ten years that she had lived there; it v. 
 no use giving dear Edith jewels that she would but 
 lock up in her safe Then there was an emerald neck- 
 lace of admirable stones. Imt it was old-fashioned, 
 and greeo aever suited Edith. She disliked green; 
 she would not wear it. But pink was her favourite 
 colour, and here was the very thing, a dog-collar of 
 beautiful coral with a pearl clasp. How often had 
 Edith admired it! How often had her mother 
 thought of giving it her! There was a charming 
 moonstone brooch, I set in dear little turquoises. 
 The blue and the pink would u r o deliciously together. 
 As a matter of fact the turquoises were rather green, 
 too. 
 
 But it was late; time had flown over those liberal 
 schemes. She locked up the coral necklace and the 
 moonstone brooch in a drawer by themselves — 
 Edith's drawer she instantly christened it — said her 
 prayers with an overflowing heart and went to bed. 
 Just before she fell asleep she made up her mind 
 to order new morocco boxes lined with dark-blue 
 velvet, with Edith's new initials in gilt upon them, 
 to hold these wedding-gifts. Then there was Ed- 
 ward; she must give him something he would use
 
 COMFORTABLE PLANS 89 
 
 and take pleasure in; there was no sense in giving 
 presents which were not useful. . . . Suddenly an 
 excellent idea struck her. How pleased he would be 
 at her remembering the want he had expressed the 
 other day — a want that was only one item out of 
 the gift she contemplated. She would give him a 
 whole set, and he might keep them in her garden- 
 house since he would use them here. It would be 
 necessary to write another Letter to the stores. What 
 a lot of things there were to think about and pro- 
 vide when young people were going to lie married! 
 The little party which .Mrs. Hancock invited to 
 receive officially the news of Edith's engagement 
 were all "delighted to be able to accept," even 
 though the notice was so short. Dinner-giving at 
 Heath moor, though during the Bummer croquet and 
 lawn-tennis parties, with iced coffee and caviare 
 sandwiches, were of almost daily occurrence — in- 
 deed, sometimes they clashed — was chiefly confined 
 to Saturday evening, when no sense of early trains 
 on the morrow made writing on the wall to check 
 conviviality. Mrs. Hancock knew that quite well, 
 though in her notes to her guests she had said, "if 
 by any chance you happen to be disengaged on Tues- 
 day," and would have been much surprised if any 
 previous engagement had forced any one to be 
 obliged to decline. Personally, she would have liked 
 to get together a somewhat larger gathering, for 
 Ellis said there was no doubt about a sufficiency 
 of asparagus, but Lind invariably set his hatchet- 
 like face against a party of more than eight, which 
 he considered a sufficiently festive number. In the 
 earlier years of Lind's iron rule Mrs. Hancock had 
 sometimes invited a larger party, but on these occa- 
 sions the service had been so slow, the wine so 
 sparingly administered, and Lind's demeanour, if 
 she remonstrated next morning, so frozen and fatalis-
 
 00 ARUNDEL 
 
 tic, so full of scarcely veiled threats about his not 
 giving satisfaction, that by degrees he had schooled 
 her into submission, and she was beginning to con- 
 sider that eight was the pleasantest number of 
 guests, and a quarter-to the most suitable hour, 
 which also was Lind's choice. So od this occasion 
 there were the engaged couple and herself, the cler- 
 gyman, Mr. Martin, and his wife, an eminent and 
 solid solicitor, Mr Dobbs with Mrs. Dobbs, and Mr. 
 Beaumont, one of the few men in Heathmoor who 
 was not actively i ed .-ill day in making money, 
 partly accounted for by the fad thai he had a great 
 deal already, partly thai he would have certainly 
 lost it instead. Idle, however, he was not, for he 
 was an entomologisl of fanatical activity. He Spent 
 most summer evenings in spreading intoxicating 
 mixtures of beer and sugar on tree-trunks to stupefy 
 unwary lepidoptera, most of the night in visiting 
 these banquets with a lantern, and taking into cus- 
 tody his inebriated guests, and the entire day in 
 beating copses i^v caterpillars, in running over noon- 
 day heaths with a green butterfly net, and in killing 
 and setting the trophies of his chase. For a year 
 or two Mrs. Hancock had spread vague snares about 
 him for Edith's sake, feigning an unfounded interest 
 in the crawlings of caterpillars and the dormancy 
 of chrysalides, but her hunting had been firmly and 
 successfully thwarted by his gaunt sister, who de- 
 voted her untiring energy to the destruction of 
 winged insects and the preservation of her brother's 
 celibacy. She never went out into Heathmoor so- 
 ciety, though she occasionally played hostess at 
 singularly uncomfortable dinners at home. These 
 entertainments were not very popular, since escaped 
 caterpillars sometimes came to the party, a smell 
 of camphor and insects pervaded the house, and 
 Miss Beaumont began yawning punctually at ten
 
 COMFORTABLE PLANS 91 
 
 o'clock, until the last guest had departed. Then 
 she killed some more moths. But her brother was 
 the nucleus of Hoathmoor dinners, and hostesses 
 starting with him built up agreeable gatherings 
 round him, for, though Heathmoor was not one atom 
 more snobbish than other settlements of the kind, 
 it was idle to pretend that the nephew of an earl, 
 brother of a viscountess, and member of the Royal 
 Entomological Society was not a good basis on which 
 to build a social evening. lie had a charming tenor 
 voice which he had not the slightest notion how to 
 use; and Heathmoor considered that, had he chosen 
 to go on the operatic stage, then 1 would not have 
 been so much talk about Caruso; while the interest 
 with which he listened to long accounts of house- 
 hold difficulties with fiends in the shape of house- 
 maids was certainly beyond all praise. At home he 
 managed the whole affairs of the menage from see- 
 ing the cook in the morning to giving his clog his 
 supper in the evening, since his sister, when not oc- 
 cupied with his moths, was absorbed in Roman his- 
 tory. 
 
 Mr. Martin and his wife were the first to arrive, 
 and, as usual, the vicar took up his place on the 
 hearthrug with the air of temporary host. This, in- 
 deed, was his position at Mrs. Hancock's, for it was 
 he whom she always left in charge of the men in 
 the dining-room when the ladies left them to their 
 wine, with instructions as to where the cigarettes 
 were, and not to stop too long. It was his business 
 also, at which he was adept, to be trumpeter in gen- 
 eral of the honour and glory of his hostess, and re- 
 fer to any late acquisition of hers in the way of 
 motor-cars, palings, or rambler roses. In this posi- 
 tion of host he naturally took precedence of every- 
 body else, and his mot ''Round collars are more than 
 coronets" when conducting the leading lady to the
 
 92 ARUNDEL 
 
 dining-room in the teeth, you may say, of a baro- 
 net, dazzled Heathmoor for weeks whenever they 
 thought of it. His wife, a plump little Dresden 
 shepherdess, made much use of the ejaculation, 
 "Only fancy!" and at her husband's naughtier Bai- 
 lies exclaimed. "Alfred, Alfred!" while she at- 
 tempted to cover her face with a very small hand 
 to hide her laughter. Soon they were joined by Mr. 
 and Mrs. Dobhs, and shortly after by Mr. Beau- 
 mont, who looked, as was indeed the case, as if he 
 had been running. 
 
 Mrs. Hancock's dinners were always admirable, 
 and since Mrs. Williams kept a book of all her 
 menus there was qo risk of guests being regaled with 
 dishes they had lately partaken of at tile house. 
 The conversation, if anything, was slightly less 
 varied, since, apart from contemporaneous happen- 
 ings that required comment, the main topics of in- 
 teresl were rather of the nature of hardy perennials. 
 Mr. Beaumont's sister was always inquired after, 
 and usually the opinion of bis uncle with regard to 
 the latesl iniquity of the Radical government. 
 Weather, gardens, croquet were questions that 
 starred the conversational heavens with planet-like 
 regularity, moving in their appointed orbits, and 
 Mr. Dobhs tilled such intervals as he could spare 
 from the mastication of his dinner with its praise. 
 
 "Delicious glass of sherry. Mrs. Hancock," he 
 said, very early in the proceedings. "You can't buy 
 sherry like that now." 
 
 Mr. Martin's evening clothes were not cut so as 
 to suggest his profession. He based his influence 
 not on his clothes, but on his human sympathy with 
 the joys and sorrows of his friends. "There is a 
 time to mourn, to weep, to repent," he said once 
 in a sermon ; "but undoubtedly there is a time to be 
 as jolly as a sand-boy." He did not approve of tee-
 
 COMFORTABLE PLANS 93 
 
 totalism; any one could be a teetotaller. You are 
 more of an example by partaking of the good things 
 of this world in due moderation. He drank half his 
 glass of sherry. 
 
 "I always tell Mrs. Hancock that her wine would 
 cause a Rechabite to recant," he observed gaily. 
 
 .Mrs. Martin covered her face with her hand and 
 gave a little spurt of laughter. This was an old joke, 
 but social gaiety would speedily become a thing of 
 the past if we never appeared to be amused at fa- 
 miliar witticisms. 
 
 "Alfred, Alfred!" she said. "How can you? Is 
 not Alfred wicked?" 
 
 Conversation became general. 
 
 "And have you begun croquet yet this year, Mr. 
 Holroyd?" asked Mrs. Dobbs. "I suppose you will 
 carry off all the prizes again, as you always do. I 
 wish you would make Mr. Dobbs take to it instead 
 of spending all his time catching slugs in the gar- 
 den. So much better for him." 
 
 "Do not listen to Mrs. Dobbs, Holroyd!" cried 
 the vicar. "I use my authority to forbid your listen- 
 ing to Mrs. Dobbs. The slugs spoil the flowers, and, 
 like a greedy fellow, I want every flower in Heath - 
 moor for Trinity Sunday." 
 
 "Alfred! Alfred!" said his wife. 
 
 "Yes, my dear, and you will never guess what 
 Mrs. Hancock has just promised me. While she is 
 at Bath I may order Ellis to send a basket of her 
 best flowers up to the church every Sunday. No 
 limitation over the basket, mind you. It shall be 
 a clothes-basket! And as for best flowers — well, 
 all I can say is that any one who hasn't seen Mrs. 
 Hancock's tulips this year doesn't know what tulips 
 can be." 
 
 Mr. Dobbs, who ate with his head perpendicularly 
 above his plate, looked up at his wife.
 
 94 ARUNDEL 
 
 "I told you salmon could be got, my dear!" he 
 said. 
 
 "You shall have it." she Baid, "but don't blame 
 me for the fishmonger's book." 
 
 Mr. Martin laughed joyfully. 
 
 "My wife tells me I mustn't play golf so much," 
 he Baid, "because it gives me such an appetite that 
 I eat her out of hearth and home. But I tell her it 
 
 is our of my parochial duties. Bow can I L r 't to 
 
 know the young fellows of the place unless I join 
 in their amusements? They will uever tell me their 
 difficulties and temptations unless they have found 
 
 me in sympathy with their joy8. And if when I 
 
 am playing with them there is trouble in, the long 
 
 irrass, and occasionally a little word, a wee naughty 
 
 little word slips out I "Alfred, Alfred !" | — you may 
 
 lie BUre that I im\«t seem to hear it." 
 
 •'Well. I do call that tact!" said Mi-. Hancock 
 
 genially. "But you must take a little cucumber with 
 
 yOUT salmon. Mr. Martin. This is the first cucum- 
 ber Ellis has Bent me in." 
 
 "A gourd — a positive gourd/' said Mr. Martin, 
 taking a slice of this remarkable vegetable. "Jonah 
 
 and his whale could have sat under it." 
 
 "Is Dot Alfred wicked?" said his wife. 
 
 "And you are really off to Bath the day after to- 
 morrow?" asked he. "And are going to drive all 
 the way in your car? Though, of course, with a 
 car like yours it is do distance at all. Sometimes I 
 see your car on one horizon, and then, whizz, you 
 are out of sight again over the other. But no uoi 
 no dust, do smell. But the speed limit. Mrs. Han- 
 cock? I am tempted to Bay no -peed limit, either." 
 
 He refrained from this audacious suggestion, and 
 continued — 
 
 "Such an excellent steady fellow, too, you have 
 in Denton. I always see my friend Denton coming
 
 COMFORTABLE PLANS 95 
 
 in during fche Psalms after he has taken your car 
 home, and if he lias to leave again in the middle of 
 the sermon, I'm sure he only <1<hs at the call of duty 
 what half the congregation would do for pleasure if 
 they had fche courage. They have my sympathy. 
 How bored I should get if I had to listen to a long- 
 winded parson every Sunday." 
 
 Mrs. Hancock cast an anxious eye on the aspara- 
 gus. But there was a perfect haystack of it. 
 
 "Plow much I enjoyed your sermon last Sunday," 
 said Bhe, "about the duty of being cheerful and 
 happy, and doing all we can to make ourselves 
 happy for fche sake of others. Oh, you must take 
 more asparagus! Ellis would be miserable if it 
 was not all eaten. It is only the BOOOnd time we 
 have had it this year." 
 
 For the moment Bhe thought of telling Mr. Mar- 
 tin to supply himself with asparagus while she was 
 at Bath. But tin' duty of making herself happy 
 prevailed, and she refrained, for it occurred to her 
 that Ellis might dispatch daily bundles early in the 
 morning in cardboard boxes, so that they would 
 reach Bath in time to be cooked for dinner. The 
 hotel commissariat would certainly not rise to as- 
 paragus so early in the season. 
 
 Mrs. Martin in the meantime, with one syco- 
 phantic ear open to catch her husband's jokes, was 
 full of fancy ejaculations to Mr. Beaumont, who was 
 describing to her the romantic history of the female 
 oak-egger, which exercised so extraordinary a fasci- 
 nation on all young males for miles around. Here 
 Mr. Dobbs was lacking in felicity, for he remarked 
 that a great many unmarried young ladies would be 
 glad to know how the female oak-egger did it. But 
 Mr. Beaumont made it unnecessary for Mrs. Dobbs 
 even to frown at him, so rapidly did he wonder 
 whether it was called an oak-egger because it laid
 
 96 ARUXDEL 
 
 upwards of a million eggs. Then Mrs. Hancock 
 called the attention of the table generally to the fact 
 that the gooseberry tartlets were the produce of the 
 garden — the firfet of the year-— and Mr. Martin al- 
 luded to the Feast of the Blessed [nnocents, Baying 
 that even massacre had a silver lining, though not 
 for the massacred. A savoury of which Mr. Dobbs 
 was easily induced to take a second helping brought 
 dinner to what musicians call "a full close." 
 
 Then came the moment of the evening. Port 
 was ruthlessly supplied by Lind to all the guest-. 
 whether tiny wanted it or not, and Mrs. Hancock 
 rose with her kind brown eyes moist with emotion. 
 
 "La li< - and gentlemen/' she Baid, "I have a toast 
 to propose. I ask you to drink the health of my 
 dear daughter and of Edward Holroyd, my future 
 son-in-law. Your health, my dear, dear children 1" 
 
 Mr. Beaumont instantly led off the musical hon- 
 ours on so high <i note that those of the party who 
 
 could sing followed with faint gaSDfl and screams. 
 
 And, under cover of the hubbub of comment and 
 
 congratulation that followed, shyly and eagerly 
 Edith's eye soughl her future husband. And when 
 his eye met let felt her heart rap out a tumultu- 
 
 ous do/en of unbidden beats, fast and sweetly 
 suffocating. Then she blushed furiously at a sud- 
 den self-accusation of indelicacy, of unmaidenness. 
 But her heart acquitted her of the indictment. Was 
 it not right to give that tattoo of welcome? 
 
 The start for Bath was made in strict accordance 
 with the scheduled plan. Filson, with the heavy 
 luggage on the top of the motor, accompanied by 
 Lind. her lunch, and a freshly cut bundle of aspara- 
 gus destined for Mrs. Hancock's dinner in the eve- 
 ning, left the house in such good time that she had 
 to wait twenty-five minutes at the station, which
 
 COMFORTABLE PLANS 97 
 
 it took exactly three to reach. The motor returned 
 in time for Lind to serve Mrs. Hancock's breakfast 
 with all the finish and decorum to which she was 
 accustomed. Then the new nine-inch footstool — 
 Mrs. Hancock had decided against the extravagance 
 of two — the map <>f t he route, the large luncheon- 
 basket, the adjustable card-table, the writing-case, 
 a couple of new vol nines from Mu die's, cloaks of 
 varying thickness, and the great green russia leather 
 travelling sack were conveniently bestowed, and 
 full five minutes before the appointed time the car 
 slid silently away from the door, with all possible 
 provision made for a comfortable journey. 
 
 The first five minutes were spent in verifying the 
 presence of all these conveniences, and Mrs. Han- 
 cock sank back on her carefully adjusted cushions. 
 
 "There!" she said. "We arc in for it now, dear; 
 and if all goes as well as it has begun we shall be 
 at Bath by five. How much nicer than all the fuss 
 of crossing London, and the risk of having some- 
 body put into our carriage. Fancy our never hav- 
 ing thought <>{ motoring to Hath before! Oh, look, 
 there is Mr. Martin going to play golf! How early 
 we all are this morning! And perhaps we shall see 
 Mr. Beaumont with his butterfly net. Then as soon 
 as we get into the main road I shall have a look 
 at the morning paper. There has not been a minute 
 to glance at it yet; or perhaps you would look at 
 it for me, dear Edith, and tell me what there is. 
 The motion always makes the print dance a little 
 before my eyes. I expect the time will slip by so 
 that we shall be astonished when we find we are at 
 Bath, and very likely not be at all tired. And you 
 must be on the look-out for anything interesting, 
 and write to Edward about it, in case, when he 
 comes down for a Sunday, he comes by motor. Then 
 he will be on the look-out and see it, too. Why,
 
 08 ARUNDEL 
 
 we are at Slough already! There is the Great West- 
 ern line. Filson'a train will go along there. If 
 she had started three or four hours earlier her train 
 might have gone by as we passed, and she could 
 have looked out of the window and seen us. That 
 would have been a coincidence!" 
 
 The car ran so smoothly on the excellent surface 
 of the Bath road that Mrs. Hancock found that the 
 print of her Morning Post had not the smallest 
 tendency to "dance," and reserving, as usual, the 
 leaders and longer paragraphs for the digestive 
 period after lunch, she soaked herself gently as in 
 a warm bath, in the announcements of the arrival 
 in London of people she had uever seen, and the 
 appearance at the opera of those she had never 
 heard of. What taste exactly was gratified by 
 these tit-bits of information it would be hard 
 to Bay. Possibly the sense that so many people 
 
 were moving backwards and forwards enhanced the 
 
 enjoyment of her own leisure; she mentally con- 
 trasted the bustle that was incident to journeys 
 from Paris with her own smooth, unhurrying prog- 
 ress to Bath. Edith, meantime following her 
 mother's suggestion that she should look out of the 
 window in order to be able to communicate to Ed- 
 ward objects of interest to be seen by the road, soon 
 passed from external observation to introspection. 
 These last four or five days since she had so un- 
 emotionally accepted his offer of himself to her had 
 about them something of the unconjectured sur- 
 prises of dawn, when, after a night of travel, the 
 darkness begins to lift off from the face of a new 
 and unfamiliar country. It was he, in this image, 
 who took the place of the light, and the country 
 which its gradual illumination revealed, as it soaked 
 through and dissolved the webs of darkness, was 
 herself. For it is an undeniable truth that love,
 
 COMFORTABLE PLANS 99 
 
 that absorption of self in another self, cannot take 
 place till the giver has some notion of the nature 
 of the gift that he brings, and Edith up till the 
 present time was as ignorant of herself as are all 
 girls whose emotions and womanhood have never 
 been really roused. She had accepted her lover with- 
 out knowing what devotion meant, or who it was 
 who accepted him, except in so far that her name 
 was Edith Hancock, her years twenty-four, and her 
 complexion fair. For the arrows of love are at the 
 least feathered with egotism; they will not fly un- 
 less a conscious personality enables them to steer 
 straight, but flutter and dip and reach no mark. 
 
 At first, frankly, she was appalled by the barren- 
 ness which the fight of her lover showed. It ap- 
 peared to be level land, without streams or inspiring 
 hill-tops, a country uncovetable, a featureless, a 
 mountainous acreage. But it was not stonily bar- 
 ren; even her eyes, unaccustomed to the light and 
 that which it revealed, saw that. It was barren 
 but from emptiness, and empty, perhaps only as 
 the winter fields are bare. It was not an unkindly, 
 an inhospitable land; the very soil of it cried out 
 and told her that, All day the image of her empty 
 country, but not unkindly, hung in her mind even 
 as an unborn melody hovers a little above the brain 
 of the musician, until condensing like dew it melts 
 into it. And all day, but very gradually, for these 
 dawns of love come seldom in a blinding flash of 
 a sun upleaping over the horizon, but rather in a 
 slow crescendo of illumination as of a waxing flame 
 that shall mount to who knows what transmitted 
 fire, the first wonderful twilight of the day grew 
 rosy. And in that morning-rose, which showed her 
 herself, she saw also him whom it welcomed. 
 Eagerly and with strong sense of possession, she 
 claimed him. It was to her that he belonged; he
 
 100 ARUNDEL 
 
 was hers, to be loved and adored, but also to be 
 owned. 
 
 Outwardly, she was the Edith whom her mother 
 knew, though in her spirit were beginning fchi 
 changes which must bood make her old self a thing 
 unrecognizable to her clearer vision. But it was 
 scarcely strange that Mrs. Hancock saw no hint of 
 change, for, as may have been perceived, she had 
 the gift, or limitation of being completely taken up 
 with the surface of things; indeed, to her mind any 
 inquiry into the mechanism of the spirit and its 
 pulses was of the same indelicacy as discussion of 
 the functions and operations of the human body. 
 If your body was ill you went quickly to the doctor, 
 and did not call your friends' attention to* your in- 
 firmity; if your soul was ill But Mrs. Han- 
 cock's sold was never ill. 
 
 They had the satisfaction of Beeing a great many 
 more Greal Western trains at Reading, and passed 
 out into the delectable country beyond. Then 
 totally unexpected difficulties began to occur with 
 regard to the spot where they should stop and take 
 their lunch. .lust outside Reading, indeed, there 
 was seen an entirely suitable place, secluded, shady, 
 out of the wind, and strongly recommended by Den- 
 ton, but unfortunately it was then only a quarter- 
 past one, and Mrs. Hancock had not intended to 
 lunch till half-past. Therefore they pushed on, 
 going rather slow so as not to miss any really proper 
 encamping ground. Ten minutes later they were 
 again favoured by an oak-tree and a sheltering 
 hedge, but here unfortunately a tramp was asleep 
 by the wayside. At any moment he might wake, 
 and prove to be intoxicated, and Mrs. Hancock was 
 quite sure she could not enjoy her lunch in his 
 vicinity. Further on again there was a wayside cot- 
 tage too near a proposed halting-place, for children
 
 COMFORTABLE PLANS 101 
 
 might come out of it and stare, and the cottage was 
 succeeded by a smell of brick fields. Before long 
 Tilehurst began to show up roofs, and it was neces- 
 sary to get clear of Tilehurst on the far side before 
 any sort of serenity could be hoped for. Then for 
 nearly a mile they had to follow an impenetrable 
 flock of sheep, and it was imperative to get well 
 ahead of them. Pangbourne appeared, and it was 
 already after two o'clock. It will hardly be credited 
 that they had Scarcely got free of this contaminating 
 village when a tyre punctured. A halt was inevita- 
 ble while it was being repaired, but then Denton 
 could not eat while he was mending it. and since 
 they would have to stop again for Denton to have 
 his lunch (since he could not drive during that 
 process), it was better to make a halt for general 
 refreshments when the tyre trouble was overpast. 
 
 Mrs. Hancock looked despairingly round. 
 
 "It is most annoying." she said. "I do not know 
 that we should not have done better to have had 
 lunch at an inn at Reading, or to have stopped at 
 that first place. Remember to tell Edward, dear, 
 to look out for that first place if he drives down; 
 there is positively nowhere after that where he can 
 find a quiet spot. I wonder if we had better eat a 
 couple of biscuits now in case we can't find a suit- 
 able place soon. Dear me, here come those sheep 
 again ! They ought not to be allowed to drive sheep 
 along a road that is meant for carriages. Put the 
 window up, dear, against the dust." 
 
 Suddenly illumination like a cloud-piercing ray 
 shone on Edith. It struck her that all her life had 
 been spent in looking for a place to have lunch in, 
 so to speak, in putting up windows for fear of the 
 dust, in avoiding the proximity of tramps. In- 
 finitesimal as was the occasion, it seemed to throw 
 an amazing light on to her life. Up till the present
 
 102 ARUXDEL 
 
 it was hardly an exaggeration to say that anything 
 more important, anything more directly concerned 
 with existence had never happened to her. Was it 
 this comfortable ordered life in which an infinite 
 agglomeration of utterly trivial things made up the 
 sum total that caused her lately discovered country 
 to appear so barren? She looked at her mother's 
 face; it was flushed with childish annoyance, just as 
 it had been about three years ago when a perfectly 
 satisfactory housemaid gave notice because she was 
 going to be married. Since then she could remem- 
 ber nothing that had so disconcerted her mother, 
 except when once I tenton shut the corner of the new 
 fur carriage-rug into the hinge of the motor-door. 
 On both these previous occasions she had been im- 
 pressed with the magnitude of the moment; now 
 she felt slightly incline' 1 to laugh. Even if the un- 
 thinkable, the supreme disaster happened, and they 
 did not lunch at all, would the world come com- 
 pletely to an end'? 
 
 But a second glance at her mother's face checked 
 her tendency to laugh, and encouraged a feeling that 
 was quite as novel to her. She felt suddenly and 
 overwhelmingly sorry that this drive, this lunch 
 which her mother had planned with such care and 
 with such pleased anticipation of comfort, should 
 have disappointed her. It was like a child's dis- 
 appointment over the breakage of a toy or the non- 
 fulfilment of some engaging expedition. There was 
 laughter in her heart no longer; only a tenderness, 
 a commiseration that sympathized in womanly fash- 
 ion with a childish trouble. 
 
 It is darkest before dawn, and this Cimmerian 
 gloom, composed of puncture and the absence of a 
 possible luncheon place, began to lift. Denton was 
 handy with his tools ; the sheep were herded through 
 a gate into a field by the roadside, so that when
 
 COMFORTABLE PLANS 103 
 
 they went on again there was no further passage 
 through the flock to be negotiated. Goring streamed 
 swiftly by them, and hardly were they quit of its 
 outlying houses when a soft stretch of grass by the 
 roadside, uncontaminated by tramp and untenanted 
 by child, spread itself before their eyes. And Mrs. 
 Hancock, as she finished the last jam puff, was more 
 beaming than the sun of this lovely May afternoon. 
 
 "I'm not sure that it was not worth while going 
 through all these annoyances and delays," she said, 
 "to have found such a lovely place and to have en- 
 joyed our lunch so much. I was afraid the jam 
 might have run out of the puffs; but it was as safe 
 as if they had just come up from the kitchen. I 
 wish Edward was here to have enjoyed it with us. 
 You must tell him what a good lunch we had!" 
 
 And Edith found her mother's enjoyment as ten- 
 derly pathetic as her disappointment had been.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 COMFORTABLE SETTLEMENTS 
 
 Edward Holroyd had arranged to go down to Bath 
 for a certain Saturday till Monday, some fortnight 
 after the safe arrival there (on the stroke of five) 
 of Mrs. Hancock's motor. He had spent a couple of 
 rather lonely weeks at Heathmoor since the de- 
 parture of his neighbours, and he was pleased to 
 find how much he missed Edith. His failure to 
 achieve poignant emotion over his engagement had 
 troubled him; he was distressed about the indo- 
 lence of his temperament. He had never yet seen 
 a girl whom he so much admired and liked, but the 
 very fact that he was able to contemplate her image 
 and tell himself how charming she was, seemed to 
 him part of that failure. She affected him with the 
 same degree of emotion that a spring morning or 
 a melodious song stirred in him. He could, while 
 basking in her charm, tell himself that he basked; 
 he was not by the exquisitiveness of the conditions 
 rendered in the least oblivious of himself; his sensa- 
 tions had not any overpowering mastery over him. 
 Duly he sat and thought about her when he got 
 home in the evening from his day in the City, duly 
 and honestly he told himself how delightful her per- 
 petual presence would be to him. But he did not 
 dream and doat; he never lost himself in haze of 
 rapture; he was not blinded by any intolerable 
 brightness. But he wanted immensely to see her 
 again; he missed her as much as he was capable of 
 
 104
 
 COMFORTABLE SETTLEMENTS 105 
 
 missing anything. But his industry at his office 
 and his appetite at his dinner were wholly un- 
 affected, though they would quite certainly have 
 been impaired if for any reason his engagement had 
 been broken off. She was the nicest girl he had 
 ever seen, and in the autumn she was going to marry 
 him. 
 
 To-night, on the eve of his departure to Bath, he 
 reminded himself many times of his great good for- 
 tune. He had known friends who had suffered the 
 torments of the lost over the obduracy or the in- 
 difference of girls whom they wanted to marry, and 
 his sympathy with such men was tinged with jeal- 
 ousy that they felt so keenly. She had been neither 
 indifferent nor obdurate; she had at once granted 
 him his heart's desire. And then he faced the ques- 
 tion that arose out of his fortunate situation. 
 Would he have suffered unutterable torments if she 
 had refused him? He knew he would not. 
 
 The night was warm; a full moon rode high in 
 an unclouded heaven ; and he let himself out of the 
 French windows of his drawing-room into the small 
 lawn behind the house. A windless calm reigned, 
 and the shadow of the trees that bounded his lawn 
 fell in sharp unwavering outline on the dewy grass. 
 Next door the black mass of Mrs. Hancock's house, 
 unpierced by any lights except the small illuminated 
 square from servants' rooms in the top story, stood 
 with blinds drawn down over the windows, solid, 
 concrete, comfortable, a brick and mortar rendering 
 of the ordered life that was lived there. No roofs, 
 he felt sure, leaked; no windows stuck; no door 
 squealed on its hinges ; and its inhabitants, whom he 
 knew so well, to whom he was so sincerely attached, 
 were equally strangers to squealing and leaking. 
 Soul and body they were watertight; undesirable 
 emotions no more percolated into their souls than
 
 106 ARUNDEL 
 
 did rainwater into their roofs; they stood with their 
 well-built walls cool in summer and warm in win- 
 ter; their windows never rattled when gales bugled 
 outside. And he himself, he knew also, was in the 
 same excellent state of repair; it was a characteristic 
 of Heathmoor to be in an excellent state of repair. 
 They all stood like that, side by side in detached 
 residences, with small though charming gardens be- 
 hind. 
 
 For the moment he was in revolt against this 
 deadly respectability; then, with a comical despair, 
 he knew that he was not even in revolt. He could 
 not do more than imagine being in revolt. Rightly 
 or wrongly, he connected all this well-ordered com- 
 fort, those eggs and bacon for breakfast and but- 
 tered toast for tea with his inability to feel keenly. 
 Life had never stung or prodded him any more than 
 it appeared to have stung or prodded Mrs. Hancock; 
 and that she could be stung or prodded by anything 
 was beyond the bounds of the most fantastic imagi- 
 nation. There were no wasps' nests in all Heath- 
 moor; the gardens were too well looked after. And 
 there were no psychical wasps or gadflies either; the 
 gospel of Mr. Martin, preached so regularly and con- 
 vincingly every Sunday, made it a sin to be other- 
 wise than cheerful and contented and well-fed. No 
 disturbing influence ever came down in those first- 
 class carriages; not even Mrs. Grundy ever paid 
 them a visit; she left her own dear children to look 
 after themselves with a complete and untroubled 
 confidence in their good behaviour. 
 
 As for Edward, his conduct had from boyhood 
 upwards been such as to justify that lady's ab- 
 sence. In life he was a natural Grundyite, indis- 
 posed to the venial if unjustifiable violences of 
 youth, not so much from a lack of vitality or, on the 
 other hand, from high principle, but from a sheer,
 
 COMFORTABLE SETTLEMENTS 107 
 
 innate respectability which beat in his blood. He 
 had been one of those boys who never have given 
 their parents a moment's anxiety, not from any stern 
 sense of right behaviour, but because he was that 
 exceedingly rare product in a world that is almost 
 entirely composed of exceptions — a perfectly normal 
 young man, one, that is, who lies just about upon 
 the mean which is fixed resultantly by contending 
 forces. He was that lusus untune, an average 
 young man, a sport, an exception, a rare variety (to 
 be collected by the Mr. Beaumont of human moths), 
 an instance in himself of the average, which in the 
 sum is made up of qualities of specimens, none of 
 which is average. He was in life and conduct what 
 the average young man is supposed to be and, in the 
 mass, not individually, is. He was neither milksop 
 nor adventurer, neither celibate by nature nor de- 
 bauchee. He was not miserly with money or spend- 
 thrift, neither devout nor irreligious. In two points 
 only did he depart from the perfect specimen of the 
 average: he was exceedingly good-looking, and he 
 had been a dreamer, though his dream blossoms as 
 yet had borne no fruit. Indeed, as has been already 
 stated, he had largely acquiesced in their barrenness, 
 and in the matter of the ideal She had shaken him- 
 self awake. Round one subject only did they linger, 
 that was music, in regard to which, so far as he per- 
 formed at all, he was so atrocious a practitioner. 
 
 It was long past midnight as he stood there in 
 his garden and surveyed the solidity of the house 
 next door, and the novelty (to him) of his reflec- 
 tions about it had been perhaps induced by his lis- 
 tening that night to that out of which his dreams 
 were made, for he had just come back — motoring 
 down in great comfort — from a performance at the 
 opera of the "Gotterdammerung." All evening he 
 had been wrapped and absorbed in the immense
 
 108 ARUNDEL 
 
 tragedy of its portentous people, and just now they 
 and their woes and their loves seemed to him more 
 real, more essentially existent than all the actual and 
 tangible things with which he was surrounded. They 
 were the substance of which this moonlight, this 
 square house next door, the remembrance of Edith 
 even, were but the shadows <>f the spaces they 
 moved among, even as the shadows <>n the gr; 
 were but an accident of light occurring to the trees 
 that cast them. On such a oighl after the uproar of 
 cosmic cataclysm the moon shone on the waters of 
 the Rhine with their restored treasure; through a 
 hundred and a thousand such nights Brunnhilde 
 slept below her breast-plate on the mounjtain-top, 
 maiden, but goddess n<> more, till to Siegfried's soul 
 she resumed a nobler divinity. . . . And that divine 
 duet, with its webs of melody passing through and 
 through it like a shuttle of pure light, was but the 
 expression of love, such love as it had been given to 
 man to feel, since a man wrote and recorded it. It 
 was such music now that his soul should be making 
 when he thought of Edith. But he knew that no 
 such frenzy of fire inspired him; if his soul sang it 
 was but a cheerful little tune, admirably adapted 
 to the domestic hearth. And that was the best 
 music he could make. Anyhow, it had no wrong 
 notes in it; it had no wild cadences or broken and 
 sobbing rhythms. It was just a cheerful little tune 
 such as they sang in church about morning gilding 
 the skies. You only had to substitute "moon" for 
 "morning" . . . and you were as jolly and com- 
 fortable as possible. 
 
 Edward began to be aware that his brain was dic- 
 tating thoughts which his conscious mind did not 
 endorse. They resembled the tissue of confused 
 images which lie on the borderland which intervenes 
 between the sheer incoherence of sleeping dreams
 
 COMFORTABLE SETTLEMENTS 109 
 
 and the drowsiness which precedes it. But there 
 was an uneasy, though only momentary, wonder in 
 his mind whether these disordered images sprang not 
 from the poppy soil of sleep but from a gradually 
 awakening brain, whether they were not the light 
 at the end of a tunnel rather than the dimness of 
 its entrance. The cool cells of thought had grown 
 feverish with the excitement of the drama he had 
 just seen ... or had they begun to stir to their own 
 proper activity? Which was real, in fact, the white 
 cool flame of the moonlight as it shone on still trees 
 and dewy grass, or the song of Siegfried, which 
 burned the sunset air and blinded with rapture the 
 eyes of Brunnhilde, when she woke, goddess no 
 more, and by that the more divine 
 
 Heathmoor, the essential spirit of Heathmoor, in 
 the incarnation of the striking of the clock at the 
 livery stables, came to his rescue, for it unmis- 
 takably reminded him that the hour was two in the 
 morning — a time which probably occurred every 
 night, but a time of which the evidence was a matter 
 of inference rather than experience. He hailed it 
 as a navigator driving before the wind in rock-sown 
 and dangerous waters might hail a harbour light 
 that betokened an inlet in a wave-beaten and inex- 
 orable cliff. He could "put in," and escape from 
 these threats of wave-crest and storm. It was long 
 past the proper time to go to bed, or, in Heathmoor 
 phrase, he would "never" get up in the morning. 
 
 But that waiting in the still moonlight shadowed 
 by the unwavering trees had been a moment of 
 revelation. A little light, coming from the realms 
 of music where alone his imagination worked, had 
 been blinked into the windows of the dark and tidy 
 room where otherwise he lived. It was like a dis- 
 tant lightning flash coming at night to a room where 
 in a cool clean bed a man lay drowsy but awake.
 
 110 ARUNDEL 
 
 He wondered whether the storm would move nearer. 
 And before he slept he wondered whether Edith 
 would understand. She knew he was "fond of mu- 
 sic." Would she understand that "fond of music" 
 was a mere phrase of nonsense if meant to convey 
 what it held for him? 
 
 He fell into a slightly priggish sleep. 
 
 He arrived at the admirable Star Hotel at Bath 
 next afternoon, and found a room had been engaged 
 for him by Mrs. Hancock, who, with Edith, wel- 
 comed him at the station. He had been uncertain 
 whether he was her guest or not, but she at once put 
 and end to all doubt on this point by telling him 
 that she had bargained with the manager on 1 
 behalf, and that he had granted him the reduced 
 terms on which she, making a long stay, was enter- 
 tained, which saved him half-a-crown a day, and 
 included the unlimited use of the bathroom. Of 
 course he would use their sitting-room quite freely, 
 just as if it was his own. 
 
 "And I can't tell you how pleased I am to see 
 you, dear Edward," she said, laying a cordial hand 
 on his knee. "We will have tea at once, as my bath 
 is at half-past five, and I like to reach the establish- 
 ment a full ten minutes before the hour, and so 
 after tea you and Edith will be left to your own 
 devices. What a lot you will have to tell each other, 
 for it's a fortnight and three days since we left 
 home, though Em sure it doesn't seem more than a 
 week. Ellis sends us a bundle of asparagus every 
 morning, and says it will last another ten days at 
 least. They are most civil about having it cooked, 
 and don't charge a penny for it or for giving melted 
 butter with it. I quite expected they would charge 
 for the melted butter!" 
 
 This seemed to be the sum of Mrs. Hancock's 
 news, and shortly after tea (she had brought her
 
 COMFORTABLE SETTLEMENTS 111 
 
 own tea with her, which, perhaps, served to coun- 
 terbalance the munificence of the management as 
 regards the melted butter) she went off to her bath, 
 leaving the two together. 
 
 Edward had occupied a chair, while Edith sat on 
 the sofa; now he came beside her. 
 
 "Well?" he said, capturing her hand. 
 
 Edith looked at him as she had never looked be- 
 fore; her eyes sought and held and embraced him. 
 
 "Tell me all you have been doing," she said, "es- 
 pecially the little things. I think the little things 
 matter most. They are more intimate." 
 
 "But I want your news," said he. 
 
 She flushed a little. 
 
 "I have wanted you," she said simply. "What a 
 little thing!" 
 
 Not till then did he understand the change that 
 had come over her in this last fortnight — the change 
 that concerned him alone. It was clear that the 
 music which her soul made was no cheerful little 
 chant. Inarticulate, it sang and soared. A little of 
 that fire leaped across to him, kindling him. 
 
 "That was sweet of you!" he said. "But it makes 
 me feel rather nervous. What if you are disap- 
 pointed?" 
 
 She came a little closer to him. 
 
 "I've got an awful confession to make!" she said. 
 "When — when you asked me first, I was so pleased 
 and glad, but I didn't care. Not care. But since 
 then " She looked up at him. 
 
 "I care so much," she said. "And I want to be 
 worthy. You have such fine thoughts, Edward, 
 thoughts so much above me. I've always known 
 that, but now that I care for you I realize it. When 
 you play, for instance, you are hearing things I am 
 deaf to, seeing visions, perhaps, that I am blind to.
 
 112 ARUNDEL 
 
 But I do want to learn. Will you teach me? No- 
 body but you can teach me." 
 
 Her confession ennobled her; he saw a glimpse 
 of her far above him. All the years that he had 
 known her he had thought that there was nothing 
 up high like that. But it had always been there; it 
 wanted but the sun and wind of love to part the 
 cloud and show the shining peaks. Human peaks, 
 divine peaks, the highlands of dawning love. She 
 was beginning to realize for herself, quite easily, 
 quite without effort all that he lacked, all that in 
 the vague dream of Ids youth he believed to lie 
 outside of him. Already she was there, her foot 
 on the eternal snows, bathed in the eternal sunshine. 
 The commonest and greatest miracle of all was in 
 process within; the waterpota wnv already redden- 
 ing with the true grape. 
 
 "I never guessed," she said. '"And, oh, Edward, 
 if oidy caring made me Less stupid! But be patient 
 with me and wait for me to learn. I shall be able 
 to learn if you will teach me. There is a whole 
 great world round me, full of splendour and beauty, 
 which somehow doesn't come in one's way at Heath- 
 moor. I think" — and she laughed — ''I think the 
 asparagus, so to speak, shuts it out. But it is there; 
 it's everywhere. You took me right up to it, and 
 even then I didn't recognize it at once. Xow I am 
 beginning to recognize it. I get glimpses of it, any- 
 how.'; 
 
 This was near enough to the dream-thoughts that 
 had come to him last night as he looked at the 
 square house next door to enable him to join her. 
 But she, who besought him to teach her, spoke au- 
 thentically of what she had seen; he, the teacher, 
 but babbled and halted over things imagined and 
 not realized. 
 
 "Ah, that is so much what I felt last night," he
 
 COMFORTABLE SETTLEMENTS 113 
 
 said. "I went to the 'Gotterdammerung' in town, 
 and when I came back I stood in the garden, and 
 all that you say was in my mind. There is a splen- 
 did world round us, and too much asparagus. I 
 don't mean " 
 
 She guessed just what he stopped himself from 
 saying. 
 
 ''But mother is such a dear," she said. "I love 
 her comfortable little plans. They are as touching 
 as a child's. I wouldn't spoil her pleasure for any- 
 thing. Tell me about the 'Gotten laminerung'; it is 
 all that which I want to learn. There's love in it, 
 and tragedy, all big. Music says what you feel. 
 Isn't that it? I can see it does to you when you 
 play. And what music Bays to you, you, the fact 
 of you, say to me." 
 
 Yet he felt this was exactly the same girl whom 
 he had long known, comfortable, pleasant, pretty. 
 The change was but the change that happens to a 
 plant when the spike of blossoms shoots upwards 
 from its heart, and was not so much change as 
 growth. She had shot up, far away ahead of him 
 with her budding stem, and all the time she thought 
 she was reaching up to him. And he, gratified and 
 a little embarrassed, thought so, too. 
 
 "You mustn't say such things to me," he said. 
 "It makes me feel as if — as if you had put me on 
 a pedestal, somehow. But it is true, that music says 
 to me things which turn into ideas, longings, aspira- 
 tions. But, so far from me teaching you what it 
 means, it is you who have got to teach me. It is 
 you who are the explanation of it all. Don't you 
 see " 
 
 He stopped a moment, trying himself to grasp 
 the thought which eluded him. So, at least, he 
 imagined to himself; in reality he sought the fire 
 that should kindle him. And fire of a sort was not
 
 114 ARUNDEL 
 
 hard to find, for they sat alone together, and she, 
 whom he liked and admired, clung to him. He 
 kissed her and found himself nearer to passion than 
 he had ever been yet. 
 
 "It must have been you that I was looking for," 
 he said. 
 
 Again in her the tremulous flame of a girl's first 
 love shot up, fed with the new fuel. Then, by a 
 sudden impulse. she got up and stood a little away 
 from him, passing her hand over her eyes. 
 
 "I feel as if it can't be," she said, "and yet when 
 you say it is, I can't disbelieve you. But are you 
 sure?" 
 
 He got up also. 
 
 "I tell you the truth when I say that I never cared 
 like this before." he said. "All that I know of love 
 is yours; you lit it." 
 
 She looked at him mutely, inquiring, scrutinizing. 
 Something within her wanted more, wanted a con- 
 viction that she had qo1 yet got. It was as if there 
 was still some closed chamber in her heart that was 
 not yet flooded; the tide did not flow freely through- 
 out her. And for that moment's space she won- 
 dered if he. too, was in the same incomplete stress 
 of emotion, if the entire abandonment which she 
 knew she lacked held off from him. 
 
 For a moment only the doubt lasted, the next it 
 was enough for her that so much was hers already; 
 the unfolding of love was at work on the petals of 
 her girlhood, and she did not even desire to hurry 
 the hour of full-blowing. 
 
 That for the present was the apex of the mounting 
 flame in her, which made the air round it quiver 
 and glow, so that its heat and radiance were begin- 
 ning to touch with lambency all the common things 
 of every day around her, transforming them, as by 
 the light of an Indian sunset, into opalescent bright-
 
 COMFORTABLE SETTLEMENTS 115 
 
 nesses. Already to her the sun was of a wider light, 
 the wind of May more caressing, the fields greener, 
 the faces she passed in the street lit with a happiness 
 and a humanity she had never noticed before. She 
 saw and heard and apprehended all that touched her 
 senses with a greater vividness; the paper she read 
 from to Mrs. Hancock when she rested after her 
 bath had a new significance, and as she conned aloud 
 the list of surnames of those who had been born, 
 married, and died — which was the opening chapter 
 of the daily lecture, in case her mother knew any 
 of them — she found herself wondering about the his- 
 tory of their loves. The most commonplace events 
 filled her with reflections which, though delightfully 
 commonplace themselves, were utterly new to her 
 as material for thought. If the Prime Minister 
 went to Balmoral — the kind of news that was par- 
 ticularly gratifying to Mrs. Hancock — Edith now 
 was interested in it, not from wonder — like her 
 mother — as to what they would say to each other, 
 but because before the Prime Minister was a baby 
 in his cradle, a man and a woman had looked with 
 eyes of dawning love on each other. The whole 
 world was vivified, a keener pleasure infused the 
 common actions of life, she ate and drank with a 
 new savour, she went to sleep with a more luxurious 
 sense of that drowsy gulf, and, above all, she awoke 
 with welcome for the day. She joined every morn- 
 ing the ranks of those living and sentient things to 
 whom the knowledge of love had come; she was 
 struggling, yet the struggle was effortless, as if a 
 new force invading her soul did the battle for her — 
 on to the level of real existence, leaving the desert 
 for fertile lands. She read the secret in the eyes and 
 mouths of those she met in the street, for they knew 
 it, even as did the wind and the sun, and the stars 
 that wheeled. Sometimes she spoke of this new
 
 116 ARUNDEL 
 
 thing to her mother, who must be among the initi- 
 ated, and then the wing of comedy shed a feather as 
 it passed. Mrs. Hancock's reminiscences of her 
 beautiful days were of the nature of pressed flowers; 
 it seemed that their fragrance had departed, though 
 they retained their outward form. 
 
 "Your father was a very handsome young man, 
 dear," she would say — "very handsome, indeed, with 
 a rather bluish chin, for at thai time he had no 
 beard. I don't think there can ever have been a 
 more poetical lover, and scarcely a day passed when 
 he did not brim: me some volume of Tennyson's 
 early poems, or Mr. Browning's. Edith, if you 
 would put the window just an inch more *ip we can 
 talk. Thank you. dear! He could understand all 
 Mr. Browning wrote about different ways of love, 
 and explained it most beautifully. There was 'One 
 Way of Love' and 'Another Way of Love,' and one 
 of them happened about the middle of June. I 
 learned thai one by heart in order to please him. 
 He used to say the most wonderful of all was 'By 
 the Fireside,' which was in November; but that was 
 after they married. Oh, lock, dear; what a tire- 
 some dot:! Some day it will be run over, and it 
 won't be Denton's fault. Your father was very jeal- 
 ous, and, though I hope you will never give Edward 
 any cause for that any more, I am sure, than I did, 
 men are like that sometimes, and they don't seem to 
 be able to help it. He was quite devoted to me. so 
 it sprang from a good cause. Yes, he used to read 
 Mr. Browning's poems, though he was very fond of 
 Mrs. Browning's too. Mr. and Mrs. Browning! 
 What a lot of poetry they must have read to each 
 other — all made up by themselves ! I wonder if she 
 understood it as well as your father! He never 
 found any difficulty about carrying on the sense be- 
 tween the lines, which I think is the hardest part.
 
 COMFORTABLE SETTLEMENTS 117 
 
 And to think that now you are going through the 
 same happy time! Darling, look, it is half-past 
 three; and we must turn at once, else we shall never 
 get home in time for tea. Will you tell Denton 
 down the tube to turn as soon as he possibly can? 
 When we get home I will let you read the copies of 
 .Mr. Browning's poems which your father gave me. 
 Have you heard from Edward this morning? When 
 he comes I shall have to talk to him about busi- 
 ness." 
 
 This business talk, which, so far as Mrs. Han- 
 cock was concerned, followed on the lines which she 
 had laid down for herself in the matter of allowance 
 for Edith, took place next morning. He had sug- 
 gested the more usual course that their respective 
 solicitors should represent their clients' views to each 
 other, but Mrs. Hancock preferred a personal and 
 direct interview. She felt that Edward, who was so 
 generous, would understand the somewhat peculiar 
 position that she fully intended to take up, whereas 
 the more practical and less sympathetic mind of a 
 solicitor might not see things in so romantic a light. 
 So Edith was informed when it w T as twenty minutes 
 to eleven and time that she should put her hat on, 
 while Edward was told that it was quite excusable 
 that he should not want to go to church after sit- 
 ting in an airless office all the week. But it was a 
 little chilly, and she asked him to shut completely 
 the window of the sitting-room. 
 
 "And now, dear Edw T ard," she said, "we must have 
 a little business talk, which I am sure will soon be 
 done, since I am as certain to approve of your plans 
 about Edith as you are to approve of mine. And 
 then, when we have talked it over, we can instruct 
 our solicitors, and they will draw up the settlement. 
 Please smoke a cigarette; you will be more com- 
 fortable so. There we are!"
 
 118 ARUNDEL 
 
 Mrs. Hancock, indeed, felt perfectly comfortable. 
 She had pictured her plans in such delicious mand- 
 motherly colours to herself that they could not fail 
 to touch Edward's heart And she proceeded to lay 
 them before him. 
 
 "I am what they call fairly off, my dear," she 
 said, "and, indeed, I put by a little every year, 
 though, as you know, to do that I live extremely 
 simply, just with the ordinary little comforts of life 
 to which I have been accustomed. Now at my death 
 every penny of my fortune will go to Edith, with 
 the exception of two or three little bequests to 
 servants. At present it is something over a hundred 
 thousand pounds. You and Edith will enjoy that 
 for many, many years after I am gone." 
 
 Mrs. Hancock felt as if Bhe was making some 
 deed <>f tremendous generosity; the Bense of that 
 and the allusion to her own death caused her eyes 
 to stand in moisture, which Bhe wiped away with 
 one of her new handkerchiefs, which were so ex- 
 pensive. 
 
 "But I am beginning at the end," Bhe said, "and 
 we must come back to the present. I mean, dear 
 Edward, to give Edith the whole of her trousseau. 
 I shall be very much vexed with you if you want 
 not to let me have my way about that. Everything 
 she can want, and. indeed, much more than I ever 
 had, in the way of frocks and linen, shall be hers, 
 and shall be paid for by me. Put your cigarette in 
 your mouth, and don't think of interrupting me." 
 
 She beamed delightedly at him, sure that had she 
 not positively forbidden it he would have protested 
 against her munificence. Munificence, too, she 
 really thought it, when she considered how much 
 lace. . . . 
 
 "But that is not my great plan," she said. "I 
 know so well, without your telling me, that you will
 
 COMFORTABLE SETTLEMENTS 119 
 
 shower on Edith more than a girl accustomed to the 
 simplicity of life she has hitherto led can possibly 
 dream of spending, and so I have thought of a great 
 expense which, please God, will certainly come upon 
 you and her, which you have not, I expect, taken 
 into consideration. Children, my dear Edward; I 
 want it to be my pleasure and privilege to provide 
 for them, and, with careful management, I shall be 
 able to give each of your children as they are born 
 the sum of a hundred pounds, and oil every one of 
 all their birthdays, if they live to be a hundred, fifty 
 pounds more!" 
 
 To Mrs. Hancock's ears this sounded immense. It 
 is true that her original plan had been to make the 
 yearly birthday gift a hundred pounds to each of 
 them, but in the interval between forming that idea 
 and to-day she had seen that such a scheme would 
 amount to a lavishness that was positively unrea- 
 sonable, if not actually wrong. It is true that it was 
 not exactly likely that she would continue to be in a 
 position to shower this largess on children that were 
 yet unborn for a hundred years after their birth, un- 
 less she was to outrival the decades of old Parr; but 
 the sentence sounded well, and expressed, though 
 hyperbolically, the sumptuous extent of her inten- 
 tions. But she had to climb down from those great 
 heights, and proceeded to small details. 
 
 "Take another cigarette, Edward," she said, "or 
 otherwise you will be arguing with me, and, as I 
 have quite made up my mind, there would be no 
 use in that. My dear, I am a very determined per- 
 son when once my mind is made up, and I shan't 
 listen to your remonstrances, so you needn't trouble 
 to make them. There ! I can afford to do this, and 
 since I can, I am determined to. Now, as regards 
 smaller matters, I know you are very well off, but 
 I want to spare you any extra expenses that I pos-
 
 120 ARUNDEL 
 
 sibly can, and a hundred little schemes occur to me. 
 I send myself to sleep at night with thinking what 
 I can take on my shoulders, for I assure you it is the 
 little drains on one's purse that make the big hole 
 in it, so in the first place let me tell you that your 
 motor bills for tyres and petrol needn't be a penny 
 more after your marriage than they are to-day. I 
 intend that Edith — and I shall tell her so — shall con- 
 sider my car as hers, in exactly the same manner as 
 she has always considered it ours, shall we say? 
 Morning and afternoon, whenever Bhe feela inclined, 
 she can have her drive with me, on my tyres, and 
 on my petrol. You will be sure when you are away 
 in the City thai your car won't be scouring all over 
 the country, eating up every penny you make." 
 
 There is a psychical phenomenon known as sug- 
 gestion, whereby the operator produces a hypnotic 
 effect on his subject, causing his mind to receive and 
 adopt the desired attitude. For the moment, at any 
 rate, Mrs. Hancock was producing this effect on Ed- 
 ward; her own sublime conviction that she was 
 making the most generous provision infected him as 
 she reeled off this string of benefit-. Hut there 
 are subtle conditions under which sie_ r i:e-tion acts, 
 which, perhaps, she did not appreciate, for at this 
 point the effect 1 egan to wear off. Probably she 
 should have stopped there; unfortunately she con- 
 tinued. It may be that she began to see through 
 herself, and thus enabled her subject to see through 
 her. 
 
 "Household books, too!" she said. "You have no 
 conception, nor has Edith — for it takes years of 
 careful housekeeping to understand all about it — 
 you have no conception what economies can be 
 made in them, nor, if you do not practise them, what 
 a tremendous drain they are. Let us say that Edith 
 is alone for lunch, while you are in the City, and she
 
 COMFORTABLE SETTLEMENTS 121 
 
 orders a fillet of sole, and a cutlet, with some French 
 beans, and a little cherry tart, and perhaps a peach 
 to finish up with, for dear Edith has such an excel- 
 lent appetite, I am glad to say, and is not like so 
 many women who, when they are alone, have a 
 sandwich on a tray or a piece'of cake, and find them- 
 selves getting anaemic and run down in consequence. 
 Edith, as I was saying, orders a decent little lunch 
 like what she is accustomed to, every day like that, 
 when she is alone, and at the end of the week I 
 shouldn't wonder if her lunches had cost her twenty- 
 five or thirty shillings. Well, I want to spare you all 
 that expense; there will be lunch for Edith every 
 day at my house, so that all the household books for 
 your purse will be a couple of poached eggs in the 
 morning and a plain little dinner in the evening, if 
 you want to be alone with her. Otherwise you can 
 both find your dinner, and such a warm welcome, 
 my dear, as often as you like where she had her 
 lunch. And even if it costs me another gardener, I 
 am determined to have my croquet-lawn as good 
 as a croquet-lawn can be, and you can come across 
 and play on it, and have your cup of tea or your 
 whisky and soda with me any day you like. I mean 
 to turn my house into a hotel for you and my dar- 
 ling, where you will ask for whatever you like, mo- 
 tors and what not, and never have a bill sent in to 
 you. Everything provided, Edward, all the year 
 round, and the warmest welcome from the old pro- 
 prietress. There! I don't think I can say more 
 than that; and I certainly don't mean less. About 
 wedding presents I shall say nothing, because I 
 mean them to be a surprise." 
 
 But the suggestive glamour had faded, and Ed- 
 ward found himself adding up in a clear-sighted and 
 business-like manner what this all amounted to. 
 Immediately the result seemed to be that Mrs. Han-
 
 122 ARrXDEL. 
 
 cock would have Edith's companionship at lunch 
 and in her drives, and that he could play croquet 
 1 1 * ■ x t door. Edith the day before had alluded to her 
 mother's childlike pleasure in her plans, but it 
 seemed to him that a certain power of parsimonious 
 calculation presided over their childlikeness, and it 
 
 was 111 .t without a Bense of BUrprise and almost of 
 incredulity that he made the inference that Mrs. 
 Hancock had DO intent ion of giving her daughter 
 
 any allowance or of settling anything on her. For 
 himself, he could not by any stretch of malignant 
 criticism be called niggardly or close-handed, and ho 
 felt justified in making quite sine of the unlooked- 
 for situation. 
 ''Then you do not propose to Bettle anything on 
 
 E lith." he said, "or make her any allowance?" 
 
 He knew that this was a perfectly proper Bug- 
 
 -tioii to make, that the a' of any provision 
 
 for Edith was ludicrous, yet the moment lie had 
 
 made the BUggestiOD he v. : ry. He understood 
 
 also what Edith had meant by "childlikem for 
 
 Mrs. Banc* face changed suddenly from its 
 
 beaming and delighted aspect, and looked pathetic, 
 hurt, misunderstood. It was dear that she had 
 taken the Bincerest pleasure in devising all these 
 dazzling plans, which at present, anyhow, cost her 
 nothing, and in avoiding any direct expenditure. 
 She had quite certainly convinced herself of her own 
 generosity, and of the unselfish thought and in- 
 genuity — which caused her to lie awake at night — 
 that had devised th heme-. But this miserli- 
 
 ness, the ingenuity of which was so perfectly trans- 
 parent to anybody else, was not, he felt convinced, 
 transparent to her. Hurriedly he corrected himself; 
 it was as if he had unthinkingly taken a toy away 
 from a child; now he made the utmost haste to re-
 
 COMFORTABLE SETTLEMENTS 123 
 
 store it, to anticipate the howl in preparation for 
 which it had opened its mouth. 
 
 "How stupid of me!" he said. "I had quite for- 
 gotten in the multitude of your gifts that you were 
 providing with Buch generosity for our children. Of 
 course you do that instead of giving money to Edith. 
 I think that is a delightful plan. Why, they will 
 all be heirs and heiresses by the time they grow up. 
 And the lunches and drives for Edith, too; she will 
 never he lonely while I am away in town. And the 
 croquel and everything. I never heard so many nice 
 plans." 
 
 He knew he was being weak, was yielding on 
 points on which he really had no business to yield, 
 in order to avoid a scene. It was quite ridiculous — 
 and he was aware of that fact- t<> treal this middle- 
 aged and wideawake woman as if she was a child, 
 to give her anything to prevent her howling, but 
 the morality of the matter did not trouble him at 
 all. She was like a child; he saw the resemblance; 
 I mt no less striking was the resemblance to a selfish 
 chikl, or t«> a very miserly grown-up person. He did 
 not really doubt that some part of her brain, care- 
 fully walled up and sequestered, knew that she was 
 acting in a thoroughly miserly manner, but she en- 
 tirely refused to attend to that, treating it as we 
 treat some involuntary suggestion of a disobedient 
 mind, putting it from her even as she put away 
 secular reflections when in church, and indulging 
 instead and painting in tender but vivid colours the 
 image of the beloved old granny — not so old, either 
 — incessantly signing the most sumptuous cheques 
 for the benefit of her beloved chicks, or looking from 
 the drawing-room window on to the velvet-napped 
 croquet-lawn where Edward stood with brimming 
 whisky and soda, while Edith, a child tugging at 
 her skirts, went through hoop after hoop. She loved
 
 124 ARUNDEL 
 
 to see everybody happy round hor, all enjoying the 
 fruits of her bounty, and if, incidentally, she herself 
 gained a companion in her daily drives, at any rate 
 Edith would not sit solitary over her expensive Lunch 
 while Edward was in town. And if, in reality, she 
 was a somewhat selfish person, and one somewhat 
 insincere, how much mere comfortable that she 
 should think that she waa brimming with kind plana 
 for other people, when as a matter of fact she v 
 only making the most pleasing schemes for herself. 
 It was doI possible entirely to agree with her in her 
 estimate of herself, but their v rtainly no use 
 
 in distressing her by Letting her know that he saw 
 through her. She had hypnotized herself *-by ex- 
 cessivi ing -into her creed about herself, and 
 any dissension from it was only likely to make her 
 think that the dissentient was unkind, not shake her 
 
 belief in her OWU tender 1 Mtiev. .Imee. She >tarted 
 
 from that even as Euclid starts his amazing proposi- 
 tions from certain postulates; it' you did uot accept 
 the postulates you could uot proceed any further in 
 her company. 
 
 Normal human vanity renders complete self- 
 knowledge impossible, but complete self-blindness is 
 
 almost equally uncommon, and at the very back of 
 her mind Mrs. Bancock knew very well that she was 
 acting in a manner which, if occurring in anybody 
 else, she would have unhesitatingly labelled mean. 
 But she never indulged in such thoughts about her- 
 self; she turned a deliberate back upon them, for 
 they were rankly inconsistent with the spirit of 
 cheerful selfishness which was the key to her charac- 
 ter. She shut the door on them as she shut it on 
 tales of misery and crime, ignoring and, if neces- 
 sary, denying their exigence. And if it was easy 
 to spoil her childlike pleasures, it was easy also to 
 restore them in all their integrity, and Edward's
 
 COMFORTABLE SETTLEMENTS 125 
 
 assurance that he had never heard so many nice 
 plans was amply sufficient for her. Again her well- 
 favoured face beamed with delighted smiles. 
 
 "I thought you would like them," she said, shut- 
 ting the door not only on her knowledge of her 
 meanness, hut on his also, "and you have no idea 
 what a pleasure it was to me to make them. So, 
 since you approve, we will regard my share of the 
 arrangements as settled. And now for your part. 
 I am certain I shall be as satisfied with what you in- 
 tend to do as you are with my intentions. But be- 
 fore we go on you must tell me what I have to do. 
 Must I have a deed drawn up? Is it a deed they 
 call it?" 
 
 He was careful not to spoil pleasure this time. 
 
 "I think that is scarcely necessary," he said. 
 "You see you are — are making no settlements on 
 Edith. You have promised to do certain things for 
 our children, but for the present, anyhow " 
 
 She interrupted. 
 
 "I see," she said, "but you must be certain to tell 
 me whenever it is necessary for me to have a deed 
 drawn up. I shall be always ready to do it, and to 
 thank you for reminding me. Well, then." 
 
 She settled herself in her chair with an air of 
 pleased expectation, and, it must be confessed, a 
 secret gratification that she had not got to "put her 
 name" to anything at all. 
 
 "I shall draw up a will," he said, "settling the 
 whole of my property on Edith in trust for her chil- 
 dren, if she has any, and, if not, for her use during 
 her lifetime. In other words, she will enjoy the in- 
 terest on my money, though the property itself will 
 be in the hands of trustees. It amounts at present 
 to about thirty thousand pounds." 
 
 Edward paused, for it was clear that Mrs. Han- 
 cock was pondering some point.
 
 126 ARUNDEL 
 
 "Let me thoroughly understand," she said. "In 
 case of your death, Edward, without children 
 (though it really is quite horrid to think about such 
 a thing), if she wanted to build herself a little house, 
 shall we say, would she not be able to put her hand 
 on three or four thousand pounds?" 
 
 "No. She would have the income from my money 
 for life." 
 
 Mrs. Hancock was almost as eager to secure finan- 
 cial advantages for Edith, as she was to retain her 
 own herself — almost, not quite. 
 
 "But she would find it difficult to live in a suitable 
 house, the sort of house to which Bhe has been ac- 
 customed, on the interest of thirty thousand 
 pounds," said she. 
 
 "Do you think so? It means about fifteen hun- 
 dred a year." 
 
 "Yes, I know, my dear, a very nice pleasant little 
 income. But you must think what she has been 
 accustomed to, for I must say that, though, as you 
 know, I live very simply, yet I have never grudged 
 Edith anything. Think if she was ill! A long illness 
 is so terribly expensive. Would it not be better to 
 insure your life, and settle that on her, so that she 
 could have a little fund for a rainy day? I know my 
 husband insured his life long before he married me." 
 
 Edward stiffened a little. 
 
 "I think, then, she might look to you for assist- 
 ance," he said. 
 
 "Ah, how pleased I should be to make any econo- 
 mies for her sake," she said, with feeling. "But 
 what if I am no longer here to help her?" 
 
 "In that case she will have all your money in her 
 complete command," he remarked. 
 
 This was undoubtedly the case, and it was not 
 possible to pursue that particular line of grabbing
 
 COMFORTABLE SETTLEMENTS 127 
 
 any further. She smiled at him not quite so ten- 
 derly. 
 
 "My dear, how sharp the City makes you business 
 men," she observed. 
 
 Heathmoor seemed to have done pretty well in 
 that line for her, but he did not draw attention to 
 that. 
 
 "I don't think I feel inclined to make any further 
 provision over that," he said. "Edith is coming to 
 me, I must remind you, quite portionless." 
 
 A sudden resentment at her attitude seized him. 
 
 "Or how would it be if you and I both insured our 
 lives for, let us say, ten thousand pounds," he sug- 
 gested, "and settled it on her?" 
 
 Mrs. Hancock became dignified. 
 
 "At my death," she said, "she already comes into 
 a considerable fortune." 
 
 "Very well. I quite agree with you that no fur- 
 ther provision is necessary." 
 
 Mrs. Hancock had not much liked the reminder 
 that Edith came portionless to him, and did not 
 want that section of the argument — for it really was 
 becoming an argument — pursued further. She re- 
 treated into her stronghold of satisfaction again. 
 
 "And now about the allowance you will make 
 her?" she asked genially. 
 
 "I was proposing to give her two hundred and 
 fifty a year for her private and personal expenses/' 
 he said. 
 
 Mrs. Hancock's smile completely faded. 
 
 "Yes," she said, "yes." 
 
 "I gather from your tone that you are not satis- 
 fied?" said he. 
 
 There was a short, rather unpleasant pause. Then 
 she assumed an air of confiding candour. 
 
 "I did expect, dear Edward," she said, "that you 
 would make a rather larger allowance than that for
 
 128 ARUNDEL 
 
 her. It is no use my denying it. And would you 
 mind not smoking another cigarette just yet? The 
 air is getting quite thick. Now, just as you have 
 told me quite frankly what you think of my pro- 
 vision for Edith, so I will toll you. There is noth- 
 ing like a perfectly frank talk for getting over diffi- 
 culties. All her lite dear Edith lias had a very hand- 
 some allowance from me, with really nothing to 
 spend it on except a dress or a pair of hoots. I 
 don't deny that 1 have often stinted myself so as 
 not to stint her, hut what her mother has done, that, 
 
 I think, her husband should do. 1 don't think you 
 consider how many more calls a married woman has 
 on her purse than a girl living at home — all the run- 
 ning up to London to get household necessities for 
 you, all the greater expenditure on dress that a mar- 
 ried woman must make beyond what a girl requires. 
 Indeed, I don't see how Edith can manage it on the 
 sum you mention." 
 
 I [ward's sympathy with Mrs. Hancock's child- 
 like pleasure evaporated. Be did not believe for a 
 moment that the "very handsome allowance" given 
 her by her mother amounted to anything like the 
 sum he proposed. He knew also that the sum he 
 proposed was a very reasonable one. 
 
 "If you would tell me how much she has hitherto 
 spent," he said, "I should have some made." 
 
 This .Mrs. Hancock did not in the least wish to 
 do. 
 
 "I do not mean to say that dear Edith is extrava- 
 gant," said she, "hut there is a great deal of differ- 
 ence between extravagance and counting every 
 penny. There has been no need for her to do that; 
 she is not accustomed to it." 
 
 It was impossible for him to ask her point blank 
 what Edith's allowance had been ; it was impossible 
 also to ask the girl herself. He could not do such
 
 COMFORTABLE SETTLEMENTS 129 
 
 things; they were contrary to his average politeness 
 of behaviour. 
 
 "It is true that when I settled to give Edith this 
 allowance," he said, "I supposed that you would 
 also give her something. I did not know what your 
 intentions might be." 
 
 Mrs. Hancock brightened. 
 
 "But you do now, dear Edward," she said, "and 
 you said you quite appreciate them. Dear me, what 
 was the expression you used which wanned my heart 
 so? Oh, yes; you had never heard so many nice 
 plans. I am going to provide — and I assure you the 
 more it costs me the better shall I be pleased — for 
 your children when I give Edith, oh, so gaily, into 
 your care. That shall be my part : you were pleased 
 with that. I dare say it had never occurred to you, 
 and you thoUghl it very likely, that I should give 
 Edith a hundred or a hundred and fifty a year, so 
 that she would have three hundred and fifty or four 
 hundred pounds of her own a year. Then, indeed, 
 she would be well off; she would be as comfortable 
 as she had ever been." 
 
 Suddenly the intolerable sordidness of the discus- 
 sion struck him. Justly he told himself that it was 
 none of his making, but he could at any rate de- 
 cline to let it continue. He did not hug himself over 
 his generosity, for he knew that in his comfortable 
 circumstances it made no real difference whether he 
 gave Edith four hundred a year or not; merely he 
 could not possibly go on bargaining and disputing. 
 He got up. 
 
 "She shall have four hundred a year," he said. 
 
 Mrs. Hancock gave a little cry of delight. 
 
 "Exactly what I thought that your generosity 
 would insist on giving her," she said. "It is nice to 
 find how well we agree. I was sure we should. And 
 what a delicious sunny morning!"
 
 BOOK TWO 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 ELIZABETH ENTERS 
 
 Elizabeth was sitting with her cousin in the gar- 
 den-house at the end of the croquet-lawn, waiting 
 
 for the sound of the gong which should announce to 
 her that the motor was round to take her for a drive 
 with Aunt Julia. She had arrived the evening he- 
 fore, after spending a week at Paris with some rela- 
 tions of her mother, and had, at Mrs. Hancock's 
 special desire, breakfasted in her room that morning, 
 this being the comet after-cure for any journey that 
 implied a night in the train or a crossing of the 
 Channel, for had Mrs. Hancock started at midday 
 from Calais and come to her journey's end at Dover 
 she would certainly have had breakfast in her room 
 next day. Elizabeth, as a matter of fact, feeling ex- 
 tremely vigorous when she woke this morning at six, 
 had let herself discreetly out of the house, and much 
 enjoyed a two hours' ramble, returning in time to 
 steal back unobserved to her room, where she ate 
 her breakfast with remarkable heartiness at nine. 
 Soon after, she had come out with Edith, while her 
 aunt read small paragraphs in the paper and saw the 
 cook. The usual schedule for the day had been al- 
 tered so that Elizabeth might have a good long drive 
 that morning, and the motor had been ordered for 
 half-past eleven, instead of twelve; she could then 
 get a good long rest in the afternoon, which should 
 
 131
 
 132 ARUNDEL 
 
 complete the journey-cure inaugurated by break- 
 fasting in bed. But this dislocation of hours had 
 proved too serious to face, and Lind had come out 
 half an hour ago to say that if it suited Miss Eliza- 
 beth equally well, the car would come round at 
 twelve — or a few minutes before — as usual. 
 
 Elizabeth, as has previously been mentioned, had 
 not looked forward to this summer in England with 
 her aunt, nor had she considered that the well- 
 remembered comfort of the house was an advantage. 
 But on this glittering Bummer morning, after the 
 dust of trains and the roar of towns, she found her- 
 self in a singularly contented, amused and eager 
 frame of mind. There was, for the present, a charm 
 for her in the warm airy house, the exquisitely kept 
 garden, the cheerful serenity of her aunt. As is the 
 way of youth, she delighted in new impressions, and 
 she found that in her two years' absence from Eng- 
 land, for she had spent the last summer in the Hills, 
 she had forgotten the aroma of home life. She was 
 recording those new impressions to Edith with re- 
 markable volubility. 
 
 "But the most beautiful bath!" she said. "All 
 white tiles, and roses at the window, and silver 
 handles for everything. You should see our Indian 
 bathroom, Edith! There is a horrible little brown 
 shed opening from your bedroom, and a large tin 
 pan in a corner, and if you are lucky a tap for the 
 water. Usually you are unlucky, and there are only 
 tin jugs of water. In the hot weather the first thing 
 you have to do is to look carefully about to see that 
 a cobra hasn't come to share it with you. Then 
 there are no bells; nobody knows why, but there 
 aren't; and if you want your ayah you shout. If 
 she doesn't want to come she doesn't appear for a 
 quarter of an hour or so, and explains that she didn't 
 hear you shout."
 
 ELIZABETH ENTERS 133 
 
 "Then how did she know you shouted?" said 
 Edith brightly. 
 
 "That is what you ask her, and she explains at 
 such length that you wish you were dead. Oh, look 
 at the grass — real grass, and there's still dew on it 
 in the shadow. I long to take off my shoes and 
 stockings and walk about on it. May I?" 
 
 "Oh, Elizabeth, I think not!" said Edith, slightly 
 alarmed. "Ellis would think it so odd." 
 
 "Ellis? Oh, the gardener! He looks like a clergy- 
 man, with his side-whiskers. But does it matter 
 much what he thinks? Servants must think such a 
 lot of awful things about us. However, I don't mind. 
 I wanted my bath tremendously this morning, if 
 you'll promise not to tell, because it wasn't exactly 
 what Aunt Julia meant. You see, she thought I 
 was tired, and really I wasn't, so I got up at six and 
 had a delicious ramble. I went on to a quiet com- 
 mon covered with heath, and there was nobody there 
 but a sort of lunatic with a butterfly net, running 
 madly about. He caught his foot in a root of 
 heather and fell flat down at my feet. Of course 
 I howled with laughter." 
 
 "Mr. Beaumont," remarked Edith in a tone of in- 
 spiration. 
 
 "So he told me, because we sat and talked after 
 that. I rather liked him, and he gave me a cigar- 
 ette." 
 
 "A cigarette?" asked Edith. "You don't mean 
 
 Elizabeth laughed. 
 
 "Oh, dear, have I done anything improper?" she 
 asked. "But, anyhow, Ellis wasn't there. He is 
 rather mad, I suppose, isn't he — Mr. Beaumont, I 
 mean? Then while we were sitting there an awful 
 woman came along the path, like a witch in spec- 
 tacles and the most enormous boots I ever saw."
 
 134 ARUNDEL 
 
 "Yes?" said Edith, rather apprehensively. 
 
 "You would never guess; it was his sister. After 
 I had said she was like a witch. Then she became 
 like a policeman and took him in charge, and I was 
 left smoking my cigarette all alone. The heather 
 smelt so good, better than the cigarette. Bui every- 
 thing smells good in England, and reminds you of 
 being clean and happy and cool. But oh, Edith, the 
 Indian smell, the old tired wicked smell 1 There's 
 always a little bit of it smouldering in my heart like 
 a joss-stick. It's made of incense and hot sand and 
 brown naked people and the filth of the street- and 
 the water-cart; it's Bavage and eternal, and it recks 
 of — it doesn't matter. ... Oh Look] Ellifi i< brush- 
 ing the grass's hair! Does he comb it a- well?'' 
 
 Edith had but little chance ^i Baying anything 
 at all while these remarkable statements were being 
 poured out by her COUSin, but as a matter of fact 
 she was well content to listen. Two years ago, when 
 she ha<l seen Elizabeth last, the latter was a tall, 
 thin, sallow girl, with burst- of high spirits and long 
 intervals of languid silences, and now, with the 
 strength of two years added and the How of her 
 adolescent womanhood tingling in her veins, she was 
 a very different creature. Her sallow face was 
 tinged with warm blood, giving her the warm brown 
 complexion that goes with black hair and soft dark 
 eyes; it was as impossible not to feel the kindly 
 effect of her superb vitality as to be insensible to the 
 glow of a frosty-burning fire. She was taut and 
 poised, and full of vigour as a curled spring of steel 
 or the strained wings of a hovering hawk, with the 
 immobile balance that implies so intense an energy. 
 Edith, with a rather unaccustomed flight of imagina- 
 tion, compared herself to a sparrow hopping cheer- 
 fully about a lawn, with a nest in the ivy, and an
 
 ELIZABETH ENTERS 135 
 
 appetite for bread-crumbs. . . . But apparently the 
 sparrow had to chirrup. 
 
 "And now I want to hear all sorts of things, 
 Edith," she said. "Tell me about Mr. Beaumont, 
 and the witch, and who lives next door on that side 
 and on that. On that side" — and she pointed with 
 her long brown hand — "I saw a roundabout little 
 woman like a cook, sitting on a bench and reading 
 the paper. Was it the cook? Was she looking in 
 the advertisements for another place, I wondered." 
 
 "No; Mrs. Dobbs," said Edith. "She's a friend 
 of mother's and mine." 
 
 "Tell me about her. What docs she think about?" 
 
 It had never occurred to Edith to conjecture what 
 Mrs. Dobbs thought about. You did not connect 
 Mrs. Dobbs with the idea of thought. 
 
 "She is very fond of dogs," said Edith. 
 
 "I saw them too, curled and brushed. I expect 
 she blacks the ends of their noses like horses' hoofs. 
 I don't call them dogs. But what does she think 
 about if she lies awake at night? What you think 
 about lying awake is what you really think about. 
 Perhaps she doesn't lie awake. We'll leave her. I 
 don't seem to be interested in her. Who lives 
 there?" 
 
 "Mr. Holroyd." 
 
 "Whom Aunt Julia said was coming to dinner to- 
 night? She called him Edward — dear Edward, I 
 think — and I am sure she was going to tell me some- 
 thing about him when the old man — Lind, isn't it? 
 — came in to say Mrs. Williams was waiting. So I 
 came out here. Tell me about Edward. Is he a 
 relation? Shall I caU him Edward?" 
 
 Elizabeth gave one glance at Edith's face, stopped 
 suddenly, and clapped her hands. 
 
 "I guess, I guess!" she said. "He isn't a relation,
 
 136 ARUNDEL 
 
 but he is going to be. Edith, ray dear, how excit- 
 ing! I want to hear all about him instantly." 
 
 She stopped again. 
 
 "I think he must have come out of his front gate 
 in rather a hurry at nine o'clock," she said. "Is he 
 rather tall and clean-shaven, with the look that some 
 people have as if he had washed twice at least that 
 morning? Also, he was whistling Schumann's first 
 Novelette, very loud and quite out of tune. I 
 thought that was rather nice <>f him, and I whistled 
 too, out of my bedroom window. I had to; I 
 couldn't help it. Of course 1 didn't let him see me, 
 and he stopped and looked up at the sky to see 
 where it came from. My dear, tell me all about Ed- 
 ward instantly." 
 
 Edith gasped in the grip of this genial whirlwind 
 of a girl. 
 
 "You arc quite right, Elizabeth," she said; "and — 
 and there's nobody like him. I should have come up 
 to talk to you last night, bul mother said you would 
 be tired. How did you guess? It was quick of 
 you." 
 
 Elizabeth laughed. 
 
 "Not very, dear!" she said. "You looked as if — 
 as if you were in church. And as you weren't, it 
 was obvious you were in love. 'Mr. Holroyd' — you 
 said it like that, like an 'Amen.' My dear, what 
 fun! But I do hope h< id enough for you, and 
 
 attractive enough. A man has to be so tremen- 
 dously attractive to make up for being a man at all, 
 with their tufts of hair all over their faces. Of 
 
 course, I shall never marry at all. I shall Oh 
 
 dear, I've begun to talk about myself, and really 
 I'm not the least interested in myself. Tell me 
 straight off all about Cousin Edward." 
 
 This was a task of which Edith was hopelessly 
 incapable. She could no more talk about him than
 
 ELIZABETH ENTERS 137 
 
 she could talk about religion. Reticent at all times, 
 on this subject her inability to speak amounted al- 
 most to dumbness. Her thoughts, unable not to 
 hover round him, were equally unable to alight, to 
 be put into words. The very thought of speaking 
 of him embarrassed her. 
 
 "Quick!" said Elizabeth, putting her arm round 
 her. 
 
 "I can't! I can't say anything about him except 
 that he is he. You must see for yourself. But oh, 
 Elizabeth, fancy his wanting me! And fancy that 
 when he asked me first I didn't really care. But 
 very soon I began to care, and now I care for him 
 more than anything. If I go on like this I shall 
 begin not to care about anybody else. Oh, there is 
 the gong ; that is for the motor. You must go. But 
 in the interval I think you are a dear. I care for 
 you." 
 
 Edith got up, hearing the sonorous Chinese mu- 
 sic, but Elizabeth pulled her back to her seat again. 
 
 "Surely the motor can wait five minutes," she 
 said. "We are beginning to know each other." 
 
 "But mother doesn't like waiting," said Edith. 
 
 "Nor does daddy; but he very often has got to. 
 What do you and Cousin Edward talk about? I 
 shall call him Cousin Edward at once, I think, to 
 show him that I know. Or is that forward and tropi- 
 cal of me?" 
 
 Lind approached swiftly across the grass. 
 
 "'Mrs. Hancock is waiting, miss," he said to Eliza- 
 beth. "She thinks you can't have heard the gong 
 out here." 
 
 Elizabeth gave him a ravishing smile. 
 
 "Oh, I heard it beautifully!" she said. "Say I'm 
 coming." 
 
 "I think Mrs. Hancock expects you at once, miss,"
 
 1.38 ARUNDEL 
 
 said Lind, quite unsoftened, and continuing to stand 
 firmly there until Elizabeth should move. 
 
 Under these circumstances it was impossible to 
 continue anything resembling an intimate conversa- 
 tion, and Elizabeth rose jusl as Mrs. Hancock her- 
 Belf came out on to the gravel walk below the draw- 
 ing-room window. She had been waiting at least 
 three minutes — a thing to winch she was wholly 
 unaccustomed except when going by train. Then, 
 for the sake of the corner seal facing the engine, she 
 
 cheerfully waited twenty. 
 
 Elizabeth was quite unconscious of any severity 
 
 of scrutiny on the part of her aunt as Bhe ran acri 
 the lawn and jumped over a flower-bed. DOT did sin- 
 detect the BUghtesI intention of sarcasm in Mrs. 
 Hancock's greeting. 
 "Are you nearly ready. Elizabeth?" she asked. 
 
 "If so the ear has been waiting seine time." 
 
 "I'm quite ready. Aunt .Julia." -he -aid, "and I 
 am BO Looking forward to my dri\ I 
 
 The usual detailed discussion was gone through 
 
 with Denton a- to their exact route, and Mrs. Han- 
 cock put her feet up on the footstool that had been 
 bought for the journey to Bath. 
 
 "New we're etT." -he -aid; "and if you would put 
 down your window two more holes, dear, it perhaps 
 three, we shall be quite comfortable. You look quite 
 rested; that's what comes of stopping in your room 
 for breakfast. And if you L r et a good long resl again 
 this afternoon, while Edith and I are out, I've no 
 doubt you'll be quite brisk this evening. Mr. Hol- 
 royd is coming to dinner, and you'll hear him play. 
 That will be quite a treat for you as you are so fond 
 of music. And now I want to tell you " 
 
 Elizabeth interrupted her aunt. To this also she 
 was unaccustomed. 
 
 "I think I know," she said. "Do you mean about
 
 
 ELIZABETH ENTERS 139 
 
 Mr. Holroyd? Edith told me. But she didn't seem 
 able to describe him at all. Do tell me about him! 
 Is he good enough for her? I think she's a dear!" 
 
 "Edward is a young man in a thousand," began 
 Mrs. Hancock. 
 
 "Yes; but is he the right young man in a thou- 
 sand? I hope he's rich too, though of course that 
 doesn't matter so much for Edith. Aunt Julia, what 
 a lovely cat'! May I drive it some day? Would 
 your chauffeur lend me his cap and coat? I used 
 often to drive daddy, till one day when 1 went into 
 a ditch. It was so funny; one door was jammed, 
 of course, against the side of the ditch and we 
 couldn't open the other. Mamma was inside. We 
 thought we should have to feed her through the win- 
 dow. But daddy said afterwards that it wasn't 
 entirely my fault. May I drive now? Or per- 
 haps I had better learn about the car first. And 
 now about Cousin Edward?" 
 
 Mrs. Hancock had received several shocks dur- 
 ing this hurricane speech, and she had to collect 
 herself a little before she could reply. But before 
 she could reply Elizabeth was away again. 
 
 "Oh, here we are on that nice heath!" she said. 
 "It did smell so good! Oh, Aunt Julia, I think I 
 had better confess! I couldn't stop in bed this 
 morning, though it was nice of you to want me to 
 get rested, and I w r ent for a walk about six." 
 
 "My dear! All alone?" 
 
 "Some of the time. I met a man whom I thought 
 w T as a lunatic with a butterfly net, but Edith says 
 it was Mr. Beaumont. He fell down, so we talked. 
 And his sister came out of a wood! Oh, I believe 
 that is he again, coming along the road towards 
 us now!" 
 
 "But, my dear, what odd conduct on your part!"
 
 140 ARUNDEL 
 
 "Was it? It seemed the only thing to do. Had 
 I better bow to him, Aunt Julia?" 
 
 Mrs. Hancock felt slightly bewildered by so 
 puzzling a question of etiquette as that involved by 
 a girl conversing with a total Btranger— particularly 
 when that stranger turned out to be Mr. Beaumont 
 — at six o'clock in the morning. Prudence pre- 
 vailed. 
 
 "We will both look at the view out of the side- 
 window," she said, and Mr. Beaumont encountered 
 a pair of profili 
 
 But Mr. Beaumont and his butterfly net being 
 left behind, Mrs. Banoock thought well to take ad- 
 vantage of the opportunity for a few general re- 
 marks. Already she had been kept waiting, been 
 
 interrupted, and been faced with this problem aris- 
 ing from quite unheard-of conduct on Elizabeth's 
 part. And as a gentian thrusts blossoms through 
 
 the snow, so at the base of her cordiality of tone lay 
 a frozen rigidity. As her custom was, when she 
 wanted to say something of the correcting and im- 
 proving nature, she laid her hand softly — then 
 squeezed— on Elizabeth's. This was symbolical of 
 the affectionate nature of her intention. 
 
 "I can't tell you. dear Elizabeth," Bhe said, "how 
 I have been looking forward to your coming here, 
 and I am unite certain we shall have the happiest 
 summer together. And 1 hope you won't find the 
 manners and customs expected of a young lady in 
 England very strange, though I know they are so 
 different to what is quite right and proper in India, 
 with all its deserts and black people. Most interest- 
 ing it all must be. and I am greatly looking forward 
 to hearing about it all. and I'm sure when you tell 
 me I shall want to go to India myself. But here, 
 for instance, dear Edith would never dream of taking 
 a walk at six o'clock in the morning all alone, when
 
 ELIZABETH ENTERS 141 
 
 there might be all kinds of people about, or talking 
 to strangers, or thinking even of driving a motor-car. 
 My dear, if you would reach down that tube and 
 blow through it and then say, To the right, please, 
 Denton,' he will take us a very pleasant round, and 
 we shall get back ten minutes before lunch and have 
 time to rest and cool. Had we started a few min- 
 utes sooner, when the car came round, we should 
 have had time to go a long round, past a very pretty 
 mill which I wanted to show you. As it is, we will 
 take a shorter round." 
 
 There was all Mrs. Hancock's quiet masterfulness 
 in these agreeable remarks, all the leaden imper- 
 turbability which formed so large a factor in the 
 phenomenon of her getting her own way in her own 
 manner, and of everybody else doing, in the long 
 run, what she wished, until they were reduced to 
 the state of abject vassalage m which her imme- 
 diate circle found themselves. The effect it pro- 
 duced on Elizabeth, though not complete, was ma- 
 terial. 
 
 "I'm afraid that it was my fault we didn't start 
 punctually, Aunt Julia," she said. "But couldn't we 
 go round by the mill all the same and be a little 
 late for lunch?" 
 
 Mrs. Hancock laughed. 
 
 "And make other people unpunctual as well?" she 
 said. "No, my dear; when anybody has been un- 
 punctual — I am never unpunctual myself — my rule 
 is to get back to punctuality as soon as possible and 
 start fair again. We will go to the mill another 
 day, for I hope we shall have plenty of drives to- 
 gether. About Mr. Beaumont, I hardly know what 
 to do. If only, you naughty girl, you had not got up 
 but stayed quietly in bed, as I meant you to do, it 
 would never have happened. I think the best plan 
 will be for me to ask him to lunch with us and then
 
 142 ARUNDEL 
 
 introduce you quite fresh, so that he will see that 
 we all mean to forget about your meeting on the 
 heath. Look, here are the golf links! Very likely 
 we shall see Mr. Martin playing. He is our clergy- 
 man, and we are most lucky to have him. Yes, upon 
 my word, there he is! Now he sees my car and is 
 waving his cap! Well, that was a coincidence, meet- 
 ing him, for now you will recognize him again when 
 you see him in his surplice and hood in church to- 
 morrow morning. Dear me, it is the first Sunday 
 in the month, and there will he the Communion 
 after Morning Service. Mr. Martin never calls it 
 Matins; he says that is a Roman Catholic name. 
 How quickly the Sundays come round!" , 
 
 Elizabeth looked out of the window at the cele- 
 brated Mr. Martin, and saw that here was an op- 
 portunity for Baying what she felt she must say to 
 her aunt before Sunday morning. The talk she 
 had had with her father on the reality of religious 
 beliefs to her had been renewed before she left 
 India, and, with his consent, she had made up her 
 mind not to go to church while the reason for so 
 doing remained inconclusive to her. To attend pub- 
 lic worship seemed to her a symbolical act, an out- 
 ward sign of something that, in truth, was non-ex- 
 istent. ... It was like a red Socialist joining in 
 the National Anthem. But she had promised him 
 — and, indeed, the promise was one with the de- 
 sire of her heart — to pray, not to let neglect cement 
 her want of conviction. 
 
 "Aunt Julia," she said, "I want to tell you some- 
 thing. It is that I don't want to go to church. It 
 — it doesn't mean anything to me. Oh, I'm afraid 
 you are shocked!" 
 
 It seemed a justifiable apprehension. 
 
 "Elizabeth!" said Mrs. Hancock. "How can you 
 say such wicked things?"
 
 ELIZABETH ENTERS 143 
 
 This roused the girl. 
 
 "They are not wicked!" she said hotly. "It is 
 very cruel of you to say so. I had a long talk, two 
 talks, with daddy about it. He agrees with me. 
 He was very sorry, but he agrees." 
 
 It is hard to convey exactly the impression made 
 on Mrs. Hancock's mind. If Elizabeth had con- 
 fessed to a systematic course of burglary or murder 
 she would not have been more shocked, nor would 
 she have been more shocked if her niece had an- 
 nounced her intention of appearing at dinner with- 
 out shoes and stockings. The conventional out- 
 rage, in fact, was about as distressing to her as the 
 moral one. She knew, of course, perfectly well that 
 even in well-regulated Heath moor certain most re- 
 spectable inhabitants, who often sat at her table, 
 were accustomed to spend Sunday morning on the 
 golf-links instead of at public worship, but she never 
 for a moment thought of classing them with Eliza- 
 beth. She could not have explained that; it was 
 merely matter of common knowledge that grown-up 
 men did not seem to need to go to church so much. 
 Similarly it was right for them to smoke strong 
 cigars after dinner, whereas the fact that Elizabeth 
 had consumed one of Mr. Beaumont's cigarettes, 
 had she been cognizant of that appalling occurrence, 
 would have seemed to her an almost inconceivable 
 breach of decency. Girls went to church, and did 
 not smoke ; here was the statement of two very sim- 
 ple fundamental things. 
 
 "I hardly know what to say to you," she said. 
 "Talking to Mr. Beaumont is nothing to this. I 
 must ask you to be silent for a little while, Eliza- 
 beth, while I collect my thoughts, and on our first 
 drive too, which I hoped we should enjoy so much, 
 although your being late made it impossible for 
 us to go round by the mill as I had planned."
 
 144 ARUNDEL 
 
 The poor lady's pleasure was quite spoiled, and 
 not being accustomed to arrange her thoughts in 
 any order, except when she was forming careful 
 plans for her own comfort, she found the collection 
 of them, which she desired, difficult of attainment. 
 But very quickly she began to see that her own 
 comfort was seriously involved, and that gave her 
 a starting-point. It would be known by now 
 throughout Heathmoor that her niece from India 
 had come to stay with her for the summer, and 
 it would be seen thai do niece sat with her in the 
 pew just below the pulpit. Almost all the seats in 
 the church faced eastwards; this, with one or two 
 others, ran at right angles to them, and was thus 
 in full view of the congregation. It foHowed that 
 unless she explained Elizabeth's absence, Sunday 
 by Sunday, when there was always a general chat 
 — except on the first Sunday of the month — at the 
 gate into the churchyard, by a cold or some other 
 non-existent complaint i and this was really not to 
 be thought of), her circle of friends would neces- 
 sarily come to the most shocking conclusion as to 
 Elizabeth's non-appearance. Certainly Mr. Martin 
 would notice it. and it would be his duty to inquire 
 into it. That would be most uncomfortable, and 
 if inquiries were made of her she could not imagine 
 herself giving either the real reason or a false one. 
 No doubt if Mr. Martin talked to Elizabeth he 
 could soon awake in her that sense of religious se- 
 curity, of soothed, confident trust — a trust as com- 
 plete as that with which any sane person awaited 
 the rising of the sun in the morning, which to Mrs. 
 Hancock connoted Christianity, but that he should 
 talk to her implied that he must know what ailed 
 her. And in any case the rest of Heathmoor would 
 notice Elizabeth's absence from church. ... It was 
 all very dreadful and puzzling, and was no doubt
 
 ELIZABETH ENTERS 145 
 
 the result of a prolonged sojourn in India, where 
 heathens, in spite of all those missions to which 
 she did not subscribe, were still in such numerical 
 preponderance. But the cause of Elizabeth's pro- 
 posed absence did not in reality so greatly trouble 
 her. What spoiled her pleasure, in any case, was 
 the uncomfortableness of the situation if Elizabeth 
 was seen to be consistently absent from the eleven 
 o'clock service. 
 
 Then the light began to break, and conventional 
 arguments flocked to the assistance of her be- 
 leaguered conventionality. 
 
 "I am so shocked and distressed, dear," she said, 
 "though you will tell me, I dare say, that there 
 is little good in that, and on this lovely morning, 
 too. But of the reason for your not going to church 
 I will not speak now. I am thinking of the effect. 
 Every one knows that you are here with me, and, 
 unless I am to say you are unwell every Sunday 
 morning, what am I to say? And, indeed, I could 
 not bring myself to say you are unwell, and keep 
 on repeating it. Of course we all say, 'Not at home,' 
 when it is not convenient to receive callers, but on 
 a subject like this it would be out of the question. 
 There is Mr. Beaumont again; we seem always to 
 be meeting him. And the servants, too. Lind and 
 Denton and Filson will all certainly know you don't 
 go to church, and Mrs. Williams, who can't go, 
 though I am sure she would if her duties allowed 
 her to, will be certain to hear you moving about 
 from the kitchen. They will talk among them- 
 selves and say how odd it is. It will offend them, 
 dear, and you know what is said about giving of- 
 fence. I am sure you did not think of that" — Mrs. 
 Hancock had only just thought of it — "or consider 
 what effect your absence would have. I assure you 
 that often and often I have felt inclined not to go
 
 146 ARUNDEL 
 
 on Sunday morning, and should much prefer, when 
 it is wet, to read the psalms and lessons at home. 
 Even then Lind and Filson and the others would 
 know that it was only the weather that prevented 
 me, and they would see the prayer-books and Bibles 
 lying about." 
 
 Elizabeth again interrupted. 
 
 "You Qeedn'1 say any more, Aunt Julia," she said. 
 "Certainly I will go to church on Sunday. It seems 
 to me that it would bo an offence against your hos- 
 pitality for me to refuse. It is part of the routine, 
 is it not, a rule of the house? On those grounds I 
 will go. Will that satisfy you?" 
 
 Mrs. Hancock found that all that had "shocked 
 and distressed her" was sensibly ameliorated. The 
 feelings of lind and Filson would be spared, and 
 the chat at the churchyard gate would be as cheer- 
 ful as usual. She beamed on her niece. 
 
 "I knew you would see it in the right light, if it 
 was put to you," she said. "And, with regard to 
 your reasons for not wanting to go, would you like 
 to talk to Mr. Martin about it? He is so wise. Any- 
 how, you will hear him preach, and I cannot imagine 
 any one hearing Mr. Martin preach without feeling 
 the absolute truth of what he says. But that we 
 will talk of another time. Dear me, we are back 
 at the golf links again ; we have made a loop, you 
 see. And if that isn't Mr. Martin going into the 
 club-house. Fancy seeing him twice in a morning! 
 Well, we have had a nice drive, after all. And when 
 we get in you must remind me to give you a volume 
 of sermons by your grandfather, in which he tells 
 about his own doubts when he was a young man, 
 and how he fought and overcame them. It is all so 
 beautifully put, and after that he never had any 
 more doubts at all. And we shall get back ten min-
 
 ELIZABETH EXTERS 147 
 
 utes before luncheon-time, which is just what I like 
 to do." 
 
 Edward was the only guest that evening, and 
 during dinner Elizabeth found herself observing 
 him somewhat closely, and coming to no conclusions 
 whatever about him. Certainly he was good-look- 
 ing, he was well-bred and quiet of voice, but she 
 found nothing in him to distinguish him from the 
 host, nothing that to her could account for the 
 lighting up of Edith's face when she looked at him. 
 He had a couple of Stock Exchange jokes to repeat, 
 one of which made Mrs. Hancock call him naughty, 
 and the subjects of perennial interest, such as the 
 weather and the train-service — it appeared that the 
 directors were going to cut off the vexing three min- 
 utes in the evening train from town — took their 
 turns with the hardy annuals, such as the forth- 
 coming croquet tournament and the ripening straw- 
 berry crop. New plays going on in town, the criti- 
 cisms of which Mrs. Hancock had read in the Morn- 
 ing Post, followed, and the much-debated action of 
 the Censor in refusing to license the Biblical drama 
 called "David" infused a tinge of extra vividness 
 in discussion, and Mrs. Hancock exhibited consid- 
 erable ingenuity in avoiding the word "Bathsheba." 
 
 "Mr. Beaumont was talking to me about it the 
 other day," she said, "and he said his cousin, who 
 is in the Lord Chamberlain's office, told him that 
 there was no question about its having the licence 
 refused. There were episodes quite unfit for the 
 stage." 
 
 Everybody looked regretfully at the dessert. 
 
 "I am very glad it was stopped," continued Mrs. 
 Hancock. "I feel so uncomfortable at the theatre 
 if I think there is something coming which isn't 
 quite -"
 
 148 ARUNDEL 
 
 "But we have it all read in the lessons in church, 
 don't we, Aunt Julia?" asked Elizabeth. 
 
 "Yes, my dear; but what is suitable to read is 
 often not suitable for the stage. For my part, even 
 if they do give 'Parsifal' in town, I shall not think 
 of going to it." 
 
 "But that is not quite parallel to David and 
 Bathsheba," said Elizabeth straight out. Land was 
 at her elbow, too, with the savoury. 
 
 "Ami do come in to-morrow afternoon, Edward," 
 said Mrs. Hancock, with extraordinary presence of 
 mind, "and play these two young ladies at croquet." 
 
 Smoking, of course, was not allowed in Mrs. Han- 
 cock's drawing-room, and Edward was^firmly shut 
 into the dining-room, with the injunction not to 
 stop there long. No word was said regarding Eliza- 
 beth's awful lapse, dot did any silence reproach 
 her. The one swift change of Bubject at the mo- 
 ment of the crisis had called sufficient attention 
 to it. The table with patience cards was set ready, 
 and Mrs. Hancock, over her coffee, got instantly 
 occupied and superficially absorbed in her game. 
 Before long Edward, as commanded, reunited him- 
 self. 
 
 "And now give us our usual treat, dear Edward," 
 said Mrs. Hancock, building busily from the king 
 downwards in alternate colours, "and play us some- 
 thing. That beautiful piece by Schumann now, 
 where it keeps coming in again." 
 
 From this indication Edward was quick enough 
 to conjecture the first of the Noveletten, and opened 
 the Steinway grand, covered with a piece of Italian 
 embroidery on which stood a lamp, two vases of 
 flowers, and four photograph frames. Edith moved 
 round to the other side of the card-table, where 
 she could see the player; Elizabeth, with a flash 
 of delighted anticipation, shifted round in her chair
 
 ELIZABETH ENTERS 140 
 
 and put down the evening paper. She adored the 
 piece "which kept coming in again," and, knowing 
 it well herself, felt the musician's intense pleasure 
 at the idea of hearing what somebody else thought 
 about it. Somewhat to her surprise, Edward put 
 the music in front of him; more to her surprise, he 
 did not show the slightest intention of moving 
 the lamp, the vase of flowers, or the photograph 
 frames. 
 
 Then he began with the loud pedal down, as 
 the composer ordered, and Elizabeth listened 
 amazed to an awful, a conscientious, a correct per- 
 formance. Never were there so many right notes 
 played with so graceless a result; no one could have 
 imagined there was so much wood in the whole 
 human system as Edward contrived to concentrate 
 into his ten fingers, those fingers which, Elizabeth 
 noticed, looked so slender and athletic, and for all 
 purposes of striking notes properly were as efficient 
 as a row of wooden pegs. He made the piano bel- 
 low, he made it shriek, he made it rattle; and when 
 he played with less force he made it emit squeaks 
 and little hollow gasps. As for phrasing, there was 
 of course none at all ; each chord was played as writ- 
 ten, each sequence that made up the phrase played 
 with laborious and precise punctuality. To any one 
 of musical mind the result was of the most excruci- 
 ating nature, or would have been had not the entire 
 performance been so extremely funny. As a parody 
 of how some quite accomplished but unsympathetic 
 pianist performed the Novelette it was beyond all 
 praise. Elizabeth rocked with noiseless laughter. 
 So much for the sound, and then Elizabeth, looking 
 at his face in the twilight of the shaded lamp, saw 
 that in it was all that his hands lacked. The fea- 
 tures that at dinner, when she somewhat studied 
 him, had appeared so meaninglessly good-looking,
 
 150 ARUNDEL 
 
 were irradiated, transfigured; he heard all that his 
 fingers could not make others hear, his eyes saw 
 and danced with seeing, all the abounding grace 
 and colour that lay in the melodies his hands were 
 incapable of rendering. Then, in three inflexible 
 leaps, as if a wooden marionette jumping down from 
 platform to platform of rock, the piece came to an 
 end. 
 
 Edith gave a great sigh. 
 
 "Oh, it's splendid!" she said. 
 
 Mrs. Hancock triumphantly put the knave of 
 hearts on to the queen of clubs. 
 
 "Thank you, Edward!" she said. "I like it where 
 it comes in again. There! I believe -it's going to 
 come out!" 
 
 He faced round on his music-stool to receive their 
 compliments, his eyes still glowing, and met Eliza- 
 beth's look. Perception flashed between the two, 
 wordless and infallible. He knew for certain that 
 she knew, knew all the exultant music meant to 
 him, knew all the entire incompetence of his ren- 
 dering. He got up and went to her. 
 
 "You play, don't you?" he said, speaking rather 
 low. "Can't you take the taste of that out of our 
 mouths?" 
 
 Elizabeth almost laughed for pleasure at the com- 
 plete understanding so instantaneously established 
 between them. 
 
 "Yes. What shall I play?" she asked. 
 
 "If only you happened to know that first Novel- 
 ette," he said. 
 
 She raised her eyebrows. 
 
 "Shall I really?" she said. "I think I know it." 
 
 "And won't you give us that other delicious one?" 
 said Mrs. Hancock, plastering the cards down. "The 
 one I like next best, which is sad in the middle." 
 
 Elizabeth did not answer, but went straight over
 
 ELIZABETH ENTERS 151 
 
 to the piano. He had shut the book from which 
 he played, and she did not open it, for, though 
 she suspected she might not be note-perfect, she 
 intended to play, not to practise. Mrs. Hancock, 
 absorbed in the patience that really was "coming 
 out," did not notice that she had no reply to her 
 question, and the click of her triumphant sequence 
 of cards continued. Edith, who had not heard what 
 had passed between the two, remembered that Eliza- 
 beth was fond of music, but felt surprised and 
 slightly nervous at the thought that she should 
 think of playing when the echoes of that rever- 
 berating performance still lingered in the air. But 
 neither Elizabeth nor Edward seemed to heed her. 
 Elizabeth sat down, then half-rose again, and 
 gave a twirl to the music-stool. Then she paused 
 for a moment, with her hands before her face, 
 and without any preliminary excursions, plunge* 1 
 straight into the first Novelette again. And all that 
 had been in Edward's brain, all that could not com- 
 municate itself to his hands, streamed from her 
 firm, soft finger-tips. The images imprisoned in his 
 brain broke out and peopled the room with colour 
 and with fire. Banners waved, and a throng of 
 laughing youths passed, jewel-decked, in wonderful 
 processions down a street of noble palaces. At every 
 corner fresh members joined them, for on this joyful 
 morning the whole world of those spirit-presences 
 kept festival, and whether they sang or not, or 
 whether the marching melody was but the sound of 
 joy, he knew not. . . . Innumerable as the laughter 
 of the sea they glittered along, until by some wonder- 
 ful transformation they were the waves on a spring 
 morning, and over them a song floated. ... Or 
 were they a field of daffodils, and over them the 
 scent of their blossoming hovered? From the sun- 
 light they passed into a clear blue shadow, and out
 
 152 ARUNDEL 
 
 of it, as out of waters, came the strain. . . . From 
 shadow into sunlight again they passed, and from 
 sunlight into waves with singing sea-birds flashing 
 white-winged over them. Once more sun and ban- 
 ners, and in the sunlight a fountain of water aspired. 
 . . . Where under his hands the wooden doll had 
 tumbled from rock to rock, bouquets of rainbowed 
 water fell from basin to basin of crystal. . . . And 
 that was the first Novelette. 
 
 Mrs. Hancock had noticed the change of per- 
 former, though not at first, for it only occurred to 
 her that Edward was playing the same piece over 
 again. But it struck her very soon that he was 
 not "keeping the time" with such precision as usual, 
 and the moment afterwards that this was altogether 
 different from the tune that kept coming in again, 
 as rendered before. Then, looking up, she saw it 
 was Elizabeth at the piano, and there followed a 
 couple of obviously wrong notes. How foolish and 
 forward of this girl to play after Edward, to play his 
 piece, too, and make mistakes in it. And when the 
 tune came in again she didn't put half the force 
 into it that Edward did. Certainly she had not 
 Edward's "touch," nor his masculine power, that 
 stamped out the time with such vigour. 
 
 Her natural geniality prevented her saying or 
 even hinting at any of these things, and she was 
 extremely encouraging. 
 
 "Thank you, Elizabeth!" she said. "What a co- 
 incidence that you should be learning one of Ed- 
 ward's tunes. Now you have heard it played, haven't 
 you? I am sure you will get it right in time. You 
 must play it to Edward again next week, when you 
 have practised, and he will see how you have got 
 on." 
 
 "Ah, do play it again to me next week," said he, 
 "or before next week."
 
 ELIZABETH ENTERS 153 
 
 "And now, Edward," said Mrs. Hancock, "do let 
 us have the tune that gets sad in the middle." 
 
 He turned to her, with face that music still vivi- 
 fied. 
 
 "After that all my tunes would be sad," he said 
 — "beginning, middle, and end. But won't Miss 
 Fanshawe play again?" 
 
 Mrs. Hancock thought that charming of him; it 
 was so tactful to make Elizabeth think she had 
 played well; poor Elizabeth, with her wrong notes 
 that any one with an ear could detect. As a mat- 
 ter of fact she did not care one particle who played 
 or if anybody played, so long as her patience came 
 out. She perceived nothing of the situation, guessed 
 nothing about the fire from the girl's fingers which 
 tingled in his brain. 
 
 But Edith saw more; she saw, at any rate, that 
 something in Elizabeth's playing had enormously 
 pleased and excited her lover. And he had said 
 that it was surely she herself who lay behind mel- 
 ody, she whom he sought. She went to Elizabeth 
 and gently pushed her back on to the music-stool. 
 
 "Do play again, dear!" she said. "It gives us 
 such pleasure." 
 
 Elizabeth, as her father knew, was conscious of 
 little else than her "German Johnnies," when there 
 was singing in her brain, and she sat down at once. 
 
 "Do you know this?" she said. "Quite short." 
 
 She touched the keys once and then again, as if 
 to test the lightness of her fingers, and then broke 
 into the Twelfth Etude of Chopin, letting the piano 
 whisper — a privilege so seldom accorded to that be- 
 laboured instrument. Even Mrs. Hancock responded 
 to it, and laid down her cards and spoke. 
 
 "What a delicious tune, my dear," she said. 
 "Tum-ti-ti; tum-ti-ti!" 
 
 The tune was still hovering and poised. Eliza-
 
 154 ARUNDEL 
 
 beth put her hands firmly down on a suspension 
 and stopped. 
 
 "But what an abrupt end!" said Mrs. Hancock. 
 
 "Yes," said Elizabeth, turning round on the stool. 
 
 When Mrs. Hancock had had enough patience 
 and conversation she secretly rang an electric bell 
 which was fixed to the underside of her card-table, 
 upon which Lind brought in a tray of glasses and 
 soda-water, which was rightly regarded by her guests 
 as a stirrup-cup. This signal occurred rather earlier 
 than usual to-night, for it was likely that the two 
 lovers would wish to say a few words to each other 
 in the library before parting. This was made com- 
 pletely easy for them by Mrs. Hancock's sugges- 
 tion that Edith would find Edward's hat and coat 
 for him, as Lind no doubt had gone to bed — he had 
 left the soda-water tray about three minutes be- 
 fore — and the two went out together. 
 
 The words of parting were short, and Edward, 
 still tingling with music, still inflamed by that lam- 
 bent fire, went back to his house. In musical mat- 
 ters, despite his own incompetence in matter of 
 performance, he had an excellent judgment, and he 
 knew that he had been listening that night to the 
 real thing. There was no question as to the quality 
 of Elizabeth's playing; she had authority, without 
 which the most agile execution is no more than a 
 mere facility of finger, acquirable like the nimble 
 manoeuvres of a conjurer, and in itself as devoid of 
 artistic merit. That magic, like his, is a matter of 
 mere manipulation, and no more constitutes a pian- 
 ist than does the power of pronouncing words with- 
 out stammer or stumbling constitute an actor. But 
 behind Elizabeth's playing sat the master, who un- 
 derstood by virtue of perception the meaning of 
 music, and by virtue of hands co-ordinated with that
 
 
 ELIZABETH ENTERS 155 
 
 burning perception, could interpret. And, above all, 
 he felt that in music she spoke his language, ut- 
 tered the idioms he understood but could not give 
 voice to. Her soul and his were natives of the 
 same melodious country; not foreigners to each 
 other. 
 
 He told himself, and honestly believed it, that 
 there was no more than this — as if this was not 
 enough — in the hour he had spent in Mrs. Han- 
 cock's drawing-room. He was not even sure whether 
 he liked Elizabeth or not; certainly she was as dif- 
 ferent as might well be from the type of marriage- 
 able maidenhood which had so greatly and so sanely 
 attracted him that he rejoiced to know that his 
 future life would be intimately and entirely bound 
 up in hers. All through dinner Elizabeth had meant 
 nothing at all to him, and he had noted, rather than 
 admired, her vitality, for certainly she was like a 
 light brought into a dusky room, dispersing the 
 shadows that completely and somnolently brooded 
 in the corners, and restoring colour to mere grey 
 outlines. But he was not very sure that he desired 
 or appreciated this unusual illumination; they had 
 all of them got on very nicely in the dark, where 
 if you dozed a little, there was not much probability 
 of being detected, and of late he had sat with chair 
 close to Edith's, so to speak, and listened with 
 tenderness to Mrs. Hancock talking on in her sleep. 
 Into this had Elizabeth come with her vivid bull's- 
 eye lantern, which got in one's eyes a little, and 
 was slightly disconcerting. 
 
 So had it been until she played, and at that mo- 
 ment and in that regard he found her simply and 
 utterly adorable; and he poured out his homage 
 for her as he would have done for some splendid 
 Brunnhilde awaking and hailing the sun. And he 
 knew the nature of the homage he brought, so he
 
 156 ARUNDEL 
 
 as yet confidently told himself, a homage as sex- 
 less and impersonal as that which prompts the 
 presentation of wreaths to elderly and perspiring 
 conductors at the close of an act. It needed not 
 a Brunnhilde to evoke that, for it was merely the 
 tribute to artistic interpretation manifested by man 
 or woman, and responded to by those who could 
 appreciate. Mrs. Hancock's deplorable ejaculation 
 of "Tum-ti-ti; tum-ti-ti - ' was of the same nature. 
 It was not a tribute to Elizabeth, nor was his aban- 
 donment of himself to her spell, or, at the most, it 
 was a tribute to her fingers, for the music that flowed 
 from them. But how lie would have worshipped 
 that gift in another; if only it had been Edith who 
 played ! 
 
 He had sat himself down in the broad window- 
 seat of his drawing-room, which looked out into 
 the garden and trees that a fortnight before had 
 stood made of ebony and ivory in the blaze of the 
 May moonlight, on the night when the house next 
 door had been empty. To-night it was tenanted, 
 tenanted by the girl who, within a few months, 
 would come across so short a space of lawn and 
 make her home with him, tenanted also by the 
 dark, vivid presence of her who had made music 
 to them. In his drawing-room where he sat, empty 
 and blazing with electric light, for some unaccounted 
 impulse had made him turn on all the switches, 
 stood his big black piano, with inviolate top, stand- 
 ing open. How would Elizabeth awake the soul 
 in it, even as Siegfried had by his kiss awakened 
 Brunnhilde, by the magic of her comprehending 
 fingers! Almost he could see her there, with her 
 profile, a little defiant, a little mutinous, cut, cameo- 
 wise, against the dark grey of his walls, with her 
 eye kindling as she listened to the music in her 
 brain, which flowed like some virile, tumultuous
 
 ELIZABETH ENTERS 157 
 
 heart-beat out of her fingers. How well she un- 
 derstood the tramp and colour of that Novelette! — 
 yet he knew he understood it quite as well him- 
 self — how unerringly her fingers marshalled and 
 painted it! In her was the secret, the initiation, 
 and — oh, how much it meant! — in her also was the 
 mysterious power of communication. She was not 
 one of those incomplete souls who are born dumb, 
 as so many were. She could speak. . . . Others 
 were born empty, and so their power of speech was 
 but a bottle of senseless sounds, of flat wooden 
 phrases. . . . And then, with a shock of surprise 
 to himself, he became aware that he was thinking 
 no longer about the music which Elizabeth made, 
 but Elizabeth who made it.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE INTERMEZZO 
 
 Business on the Stock Exchange had boon, as was 
 not uncommon, somewhal slack during this month 
 of June, and Edward found it easy to get down 
 to Heathmoor by the train that arrived soon after 
 five instead of that winch started an houi later. It 
 was natural for him. after getting rid of the habili- 
 ments of town, to come round next door, where 
 he would find Mrs. Hancock and Edith ready to 
 give him a slightly belated cup of tea in the garden- 
 house that adjoined the croquet-lawn. As a rule 
 Elizabeth was not there, but her whereabouts was 
 indicated by the sound of the piano, for she was 
 practising with the energy of the enthusiast, and 
 found this hour, when the house was empty and 
 she could escape from the sense of disturbing or 
 being disturbed, the most congenial time in which 
 to make as much noise as she chose, or to practise a 
 particular bar in endless repetition. Mrs. Hancock 
 continued to believe — and to reiterate — that Ed- 
 ward was the maestro and that Elizabeth followed, 
 faint but pursuing, in the wake of his victorious fin- 
 gers, and she often asked him how he thought she 
 was getting on. He frequently dined there, and, 
 with the regularity that characterized her, she in- 
 sisted on his playing one or more of his "pieces" 
 when he had smoked the cigarette that detained 
 him in the dining-room. And on these occasions 
 his eye was wont to seek Elizabeth's in tacit apol- 
 
 158
 
 
 THE INTERMEZZO 159 
 
 ogy, and though no word had passed between them 
 on the subject the situation was quite clear to them 
 both. More than once he had attempted to con- 
 vince Mrs. Hancock that while he could only strum 
 abominably her niece played, and she, perfectly in- 
 credulous, thought it was nice of him to be so modest 
 himself and to encourage Elizabeth. So, protest 
 being utterly useless, he played, with Elizabeth in 
 his confidence. But the sense of this secret between 
 them — for Edith shared her mother's belief in the 
 maestro — gave him a peculiar and, so he still told 
 himself, an inexplicable satisfaction. With that 
 knowledge he enjoyed, rather than otherwise, his 
 own long-drawn murders of the classical authors, 
 and he completely understood the dimpling smile 
 that fluttered, light-winged, over Elizabeth's face 
 as he performed his ruthless deeds. 
 
 During this last fortnight life at Arundel had 
 pursued, to all outward appearance, the regulated 
 and emotionless course that characterized existence 
 at Heathmoor. The time of strawberries had come, 
 and therefore also the time of garden parties; and 
 a quarter of an hour after the arrival of the even- 
 ing train from town the well-laid roads were thick 
 with hurrying flannelled figures, carrying lawn-tennis 
 racquets or croquet mallets, for this latter game was 
 taken with extreme seriousness, and nobody among 
 the regular players would have dreamed of trust- 
 ing to a mallet of the house. Elizabeth naturally 
 had her share in these invitations, and it was a 
 source of never-ending surprise to see young and 
 athletically limbed men, of the same species ap- 
 parently as those who in India spent their leisure 
 in polo and pig-sticking, pursuing their laborious 
 way through hoop after hoop, and talking about 
 the game afterwards with greater gusto and minute- 
 ness than if they had been tiger-shooting. Chief
 
 160 ARUNDEL 
 
 amongst those heroes of the lawn was Edward, 
 but he, as she did him the justice to observe, pre- 
 served the reticence of the accustomed conqueror 
 and sat silent when the Vicar and Mr. Dale "lived 
 their triumphs o'er again." Elizabeth felt that to 
 be like him, but she made the admission grudgingly. 
 The fact that she grudged him such credit was 
 symptomatic of her feelings towards him, and in 
 especial of tho^e feelings which she did not admit. 
 Though she would honestly have denied it, she was 
 fighting him. Again and again, not knowing why, 
 she assured herself that he was a very ordinary 
 young man. that Edith must be blind, so to speak, 
 to see anything in him. Except in one point, she 
 told herself that there was nothing there, that a 
 lanky frame — it was beyond her power to deny his 
 inches — crowned by a vacant face, was the har- 
 bourage of an insignificant soul. He spent his day 
 among the money-bags, his evening on the croquet- 
 lawn, and found that sufficient for him. He was 
 not nearly worthy of Edith or of Edith's inexplica- 
 ble adoration; he was not even, BO he appeared to 
 Elizabeth's eye. m love with her, which would have 
 been a foundation for worthiness. He seemed in- 
 dulgent of her, kind to her, sometimes a little im- 
 patient of her. There Elizabeth did not wholly 
 acquit her cousin of Maine; she set him, willy-nilly, 
 on a pedestal, and those on pedestals, for he did 
 not deprecate the plinth, are bound to stoop. But 
 he should have stepped down from the pedestal, 
 he should not have consented to be edified into 
 the statuesque; here was the ground of Elizabeth's 
 censure of him. In fine, she reminded herself 
 twenty times a day of some reason for belittling to 
 her own mind her cousin's betrothed, and concealed 
 from herself that she belittled him. That was an 
 affair of her instinct, and instinctively she knew,
 
 THE INTERMEZZO 161 
 
 though she whispered it not to herself, why she did 
 it, for she feared to give rein to her liking for him. 
 
 One exception she made in this policy of self- 
 defence; in one thing she gave him his due, for 
 she never attempted to deny or belittle the validity 
 of his musical passion. It was a fingerless passion, 
 so to speak; between his brain and his hands there 
 seemed to be a total want of co-ordination ; he was 
 paralytic, but she could not doubt the intensity of 
 his perception. He was but an alphabet-babbler 
 when he tried to communicate, but when she played 
 to him she knew by a glance at his face whether she 
 did ill or well. Thus, ironically, Mrs. Hancock's 
 judgment of him as maestro and Elizabeth as pupil 
 was strangely correct, and the girl did not attempt 
 to conceal from herself that it was of him and his 
 opinion that she thought, when she practised, with 
 a greater diligence and fire than had ever been hers 
 before, the music which he understood and loved 
 so discerningly. Day by day she slaved exultingly 
 at the piano, and the thought that he would appre- 
 ciate her progress became an inspiration to her. But 
 at present this reverence for his gift was like an 
 insoluble lump in the cup of her cold indifference 
 towards him; it neither sweetened nor embittered 
 the beverage. But certainly through him she was 
 beginning to get closer every day to the ineffable 
 spring and spirit from which that bewildering beauty 
 of sound is poured forth, that "dweller in the in- 
 nermost," one glance from whom sends the beholder 
 mad with melody. 
 
 On one afternoon at the end of the month, gra- 
 ciously exempt from garden-parties, Elizabeth was 
 alone in the house, for the hour after lunch had 
 been too hot for Mrs. Hancock's drive, and the 
 whole curriculum of the day had been upset, tea 
 having taken place at the very unusual hour of
 
 1G2 ARUNDEL 
 
 half-past four, so that she might enjoy a cooler 
 progress between that time and dinner — a disloca- 
 tion of affairs that had Dot occurred since the year 
 before last. But the heat was bo intense that she 
 really hardly cared at all whether Denton and 
 Lind thought it odd or not, and punctually at five 
 she had set out with Edith, leaving a message with 
 Lind that if Mr. Holroyd came round he was to 
 be told that they were out, but would be back by 
 half-past six. Thus— here Denton became con- 
 cerned — they would have time to go round by the 
 mill, proceeding very slowly where the road had 
 been newly mended, and bo forth. But if — heir 
 Lind was attentive again - Mr. Holroyd came by the 
 six o'clock tram he might be offered a whisky and 
 soda and asked to wait, but if by the five o'clock 
 train the original m< should be delivered. Then 
 
 Filson brought out a light dust-cloak and the heav- 
 ier blue one was taken out; then it W8S put back 
 
 again in case the evening L r "t chilly. They passed 
 
 over the bridge by the station the moment after 
 the five o'clock train got in. and Edith thought 
 she saw Edward stepping out of it. but she was not 
 
 sure. But Edward saw the motor and its passen- 
 gers without any doubt whatever. 
 
 He went straight to his house and out into the 
 garden. There from the open French windows of 
 the house next door the piano was plainly audible. 
 Elizabeth was playing the first of the Brahms' in- 
 termezzi, and the air sang like a bed of breeze- 
 stirred flowers. ... In less than a minute he had 
 rung the bell, and in answer to Lind's message had 
 said he would come in and wait. In spite of the 
 fact that the offer of whisky and soda applied only 
 to the six o'clock train Lind suggested it. But 
 Edward said he wanted nothing, and, turning the
 
 
 THE INTERMEZZO 163 
 
 handle of the drawing-room door very softly, he 
 entered. 
 
 Elizabeth, utterly intent on her music, heard 
 nothing of his coming, and he sat down in a chair 
 close to the door, knowing that he was doing a rude 
 and an ill-bred thing, knowing, too, in his heart 
 that he was doing worse than that, for he was defi- 
 nitely indulging infidelity, even though the infi- 
 delity was, in fact, no more than listening to the 
 girl's playing. But he knew quite well why he lis- 
 tened, and it was not for the sake of the music 
 alone; it was to allow himself, unseen and unsus- 
 pected — for there was in this questionable conduct 
 something of the self-effacing quality of love — to 
 see incarnated the dreams from which he had mused 
 himself when a month ago he engaged himself to 
 Edith. For years of his youth he had cherished 
 this unrealized vision, fondling it in his dreams; 
 now, when too early he had told himself that the 
 time for dreaming was done and he must awake to 
 the average humdrum satisfaction of domesticity 
 with a delightful partner, the dream incarnate had 
 walked into his waking hours. 
 
 The sound of what she played had been the mag- 
 net which drew him here, but now that he had come 
 he was scarcely conscious of her music, which 
 throughout this month had been that which at- 
 tracted him to her. Now it was as if that had done 
 its work, for it had brought his heart to her, and 
 Nature, or the law of attraction, threw it aside like 
 a discarded instrument, and for the first moments 
 that he sat here he scarcely heard the sweetness of 
 the melody. Then it seemed to him that the strong 
 and tender tune was Elizabeth's soul made audible; 
 she played, thinking she was alone, as she had never 
 played before. She seemed to reveal herself. . . . 
 And then it struck him that he had done, and was
 
 164 ARUNDEL 
 
 doing, what was equivalent to looking through a 
 keyhole at somebody who thought she was alone. 
 Shame awoke in him for that, but shame passed 
 and was swallowed up in his intense consciousness 
 of her, of Elizabeth and the tune that was Eliza- 
 beth herself. 
 
 She finished, and sat still for a moment with her 
 fingers still resting on the last chord. Then she 
 gave a long sigh, and. turning round, saw him. 
 
 "Cousin Edward!' - she said, almost incredulously, 
 feeling exactly what just now he had felt, namely, 
 that he had been looking through a keyhole at her. 
 
 He got up, only dimly conscious of the rebuke in 
 her voice. 
 
 "I came in after you had begun that intermezzo," 
 he said, "and I didn't want to disturb you. I know 
 how you hate an interruption. I " 
 
 He paused a moment, dead to all else except the 
 fact of her. 
 
 "I never heard you play like that before," he said. 
 "It was you." 
 
 She still looked troubled. 
 
 "I don't think you should have done that," she 
 said. "Didn't Lind tell you that Aunt Julia and 
 Edith were out?" 
 
 "Yes. If you think I oughtn't to have come in 
 I am sorry. But I can't help rejoicing that I have 
 heard you play like that." 
 
 Suddenly it seemed to Elizabeth that it was ri- 
 diculous of her to object to what he had done. She 
 had often played to him alone before, and what 
 difference did it make if on this occasion she did 
 not know of his presence? But her reason was at 
 variance with her instinct. 
 
 She smiled at him. 
 
 "It is nothing," she said ; "I was absurd to mind.
 
 THE INTERMEZZO 165 
 
 I am glad you thought I played it well. Have you 
 had tea? Shall we go into the garden?" 
 
 He saw his danger slipping away from him; he 
 had but to make a commonplace reply and it would 
 be past. But he saw his dream, that had become 
 incarnate, slipping away from him also, and at the 
 moment that meant everything in the world to him. 
 He was reckless, on fire, and came close to her and 
 stammered a little when he spoke. 
 
 "For the last fortnight," he said, "I have thought 
 of nothing else but you " 
 
 Loyalty and cowardice mixed caused him to stop. 
 He saw amazement and utter surprise flood Eliza- 
 beth's face; he saw also, faint as the reflection of 
 far-away lightning, something that responded to 
 him, something that leaped towards him instead 
 of recoiling from him. But all the rest of her was 
 lost in pure bewilderment, which only wanted to get 
 rid of him. She did not even answer him, but, with 
 finger and following eye, pointed to the door. 
 
 "I beg your pardon!" he said quickly. 
 
 "Please go!" said the girl. 
 
 She sat down on the music-stool which she had 
 so lately left, and while waiting for her brain to 
 work again struck a random note or two. As far 
 as she felt anything she felt surprise. Then in 
 a flash came indignation that, while he was but a 
 month old in his engagement to Edith, he should 
 speak thus to her. And following instantly on that, 
 like some burglar violently breaking into her mind, 
 came the unbidden thought, "He cares for me." 
 
 She tried to eject it; she called for help, so to 
 speak, but the burglar contemplated her quite 
 calmly, as if he had a right to be there. He seemed 
 to speak to her, to say, "You will have to get used 
 to me." In turn she looked at him and ceased
 
 166 ARUXDEL 
 
 calling for help. Something inside her — that, with- 
 out doubt, which Edward had seen faintly behind 
 her first amazement and surprise — seemed to recog- 
 nize, to smile at him. . . . And Elizabeth ceased 
 from being surprised at Edward and became sur- 
 prised at herself. But what was to be done? Be- 
 yond all doubt the answer was clear. There was 
 nothing to be done at all; at any rate, there was 
 nothing for her to do. It was ludicrous to con- 
 template telling Aunt Julia; it would not have been 
 more ludicrous to tell Edith. Nobody must know; 
 nobody must ever bo faintly conjecture what had 
 happened. Edward was going to marry Edith on 
 the eighth of October, and there were 'to be six 
 bridesmaids, of whom she herself was to be one. 
 
 Elizabeth's surprise at herself waxed and grew, 
 and her surprise was due to the fact that she was 
 not in the leasl shocked, she made one unsuccessful 
 attempt to tell herself that Edward had not meant 
 what he -aid, but she swiftly gave that up, being 
 quite aware that he meant much more than he had 
 said. His trembling voice, his fingers that plaited 
 themselves together, told her that. He was quite 
 in earnest. Then, as suddenly as if she had been 
 shaken out of some deep sleep, she obtained com- 
 plete control and consciousness of herself. She was 
 not shocked because Bhe welcomed what he had said, 
 because she responded to it. Shame and a secret 
 rapture overwhelmed her, and the burglar went neck 
 and crop out of the wide-flung window 7 of her mind. 
 It was not till she had turned him out that any 
 struggle in her own mind began. She knew now 
 why she had made a habit of belittling and criti- 
 cizing him to herself: she had been defending her- 
 self against him. Now she had to defend herself 
 against herself as well. She had to inquire into the 
 fidelity of her own garrison. And she knew that
 
 I 
 
 THE INTERMEZZO 167 
 
 there were traitors among them. But still she was 
 not the least shocked ; certainly they must be turned 
 out or executed or drawn and quartered, but their 
 crime against herself did not anger her against them. 
 The practical aspect of the situation engaged 
 her again, and she saw now that there was just one 
 thing to be done, namely, to obliterate altogether 
 what had happened — not to think of it any more 
 at all. No doubt it was very bad that Edith's af- 
 fianced lover should have said what he had said, 
 should have meant so much more than he said, and 
 that she should not have been horrified at him, but 
 only surprised, and when her surprise was passed 
 that she should have found that there was response 
 to him in her soul. But all this must be expunged, 
 and if she could not forget it she must remember 
 it only as some queer distorted dream that in reality 
 is nonsense, though, while the dreamer still slept, 
 it seemed so intensely real. She felt she could an- 
 swer for herself in this matter, that she was quite 
 competent to seal the affair up in her mind, as bees 
 seal up in wax some intruder to their hive. Edward 
 must also see that to her the whole episode was no 
 longer existent, since non-existence was undoubtedly 
 the best fate for it, and thus her manner to him 
 must be exactly what it had been before he had 
 made his unfortunate intrusion. Hardly less im- 
 portant was it that Edith and her aunt should re- 
 main unaware that anything had occurred between 
 Edward and herself. This gave a reason the more 
 for her treating him quite normally. Only . . . 
 how did she treat him before? . . . How did she 
 look at him? Did she usually smile when she spoke 
 to him? She felt that to meet him again now with- 
 out consciousness of what had just happened would 
 be like meeting a perfect stranger. But it had got 
 to be done. To admit in her bearing to him that
 
 1C8 ARUNDEL 
 
 any recollection of the scene still had a place in 
 her mind, to indicate even by coldness of manner 
 and an aloof demeanour that he must keep his dis- 
 tance was impossible, for Edith would be sure to 
 notice it, and, above everything almost, it was es- 
 sential that Editli should be utterly unaware of any 
 — she hardly knew what to call it— any understand- 
 ing or misunderstanding between them. < hrer those 
 three minutes there musl be pasted a sheet of white 
 paper. It seemed to her well within her power 
 to do that. Ami she musl continue to make her 
 mind fight and belittle and criticize him. That 
 
 ought t<> be easy now that he had done what she 
 
 knew to be a despicable thing. Unfortunately she 
 did not despise him for being despicable, or, at the 
 most, her reason did, but not her instinct 
 
 She heard the sound of the motor-wheels crunch- 
 ing the gravel, and fell perfectly prepared to re- 
 sume not only her natural manner, but her normal 
 consciousni bs. She swung round on her music-stool 
 and began the intermezzo again, getting up as her 
 aunt entered with Edith. 
 
 "Weir.' And I hope you've had a good prac- 
 tice, deai ' i 1 Mre. Hancock very cordially. "And 
 we've had a pleasant drive, and uot so dusty as 
 I expected it would be. But we hurried back sooner 
 than I intended originally, because there was a 
 huge black cloud coming up, and Denton said he 
 wouldn't be surprised if it came on to rain very 
 suddenly. So I think I shall sit out in the garden 
 to get a little more air, and you and Edith might 
 have a game of croquet. I expect Edward will 
 come in when the six o'clock train arrives. Dear 
 me, it is after six. Perhaps he has been, Edith, and 
 went back. Lind will know. Then you can all three 
 play croquet. If you touch the bell, dear."
 
 THE INTERMEZZO 169 
 
 Elizabeth found the natural manner perfectly- 
 easy. 
 
 "He came in," she said, "and went back to his 
 house again, I think. I was practising." 
 
 Suddenly she found herself wondering whether 
 her manner was quite natural, and she glanced at 
 Edith, who was "touching" the bell. 
 
 "No doubt he did not want to disturb your prac- 
 tice," said Mrs. Hancock, who always liked to re- 
 mind herself of the comforts she showered on other 
 people, "for I have given strict orders, dear, that 
 you are not to be disturbed when you are prac- 
 tising. Perhaps he is in the garden. We will call 
 to him over the wall. I want him to come in to dine, 
 and you shall both play to us afterwards. I wonder 
 if we could not get some nice duets with an easy 
 part for \ou, dear, which you could play together. 
 Look, it has begun to rain already; Denton was quite 
 right. I am glad he advised us to turn, though it 
 was Edith who saw the big black cloud first. There 
 is an end to our going into the garden and to your 
 croquet, I am afraid, but I will send a note round 
 to Edward. I think that was a flash of lightning. 
 Perhaps you would write the note for me, Edith, and 
 give it to Lind. Oh yes, Lind, there will be a note. 
 Yes, there is the thunder. Quite a loud clap. What 
 a blessing we turned!" 
 
 Lind's wooden face looked inquiringly round when 
 he was told that there was a note for Edward to 
 be taken round, as if he expected to find him con- 
 cealed under the piano. 
 
 "I thought Mr. Edward was here, ma'am," he 
 said. "Perhaps he is in the garden. He said he 
 would wait." 
 
 Elizabeth, gathering her music together, made 
 a sudden awkward movement and spilled it.
 
 170 ARUNDEL 
 
 "No, he went back home, Aunt Julia," she said. 
 "He came in when I was practising, as I told 
 you." 
 
 "I told him you were out, ma'am," repeated Lind, 
 "and he said he would wait." 
 
 Elizabeth felt a wild exasperation. There was 
 nothing to explain, and yet she had to go on ex- 
 plaining. 
 
 "But he went away again," she repeated. 
 
 "Yes, dear; I quite understand," said Mrs. Han- 
 cock. "He saw y<»u were practising. Did he say he 
 
 would come back? If so. I need not send this note!" 
 
 It all seemed like a plot of the Inquisition. 
 
 "No, he said nothing/' remarked Elizabeth rather 
 shortly, feeling that this perfectly straightforward 
 visit was somehow becoming Buspicious. 
 
 "Did he stop lung?" asked Edith, quite casually. 
 
 "No. five minutes — ten, perhaps/ 1 Baid Elizabeth. 
 
 "I really did not time him." 
 
 Mrs. Hancock always kept a feather in a small 
 vase of water on her writing-table. With this she 
 smeared tin' gum on the flap of envelopes in prefer- 
 ence to the more ordinary use of the tongue on such 
 occasions. It seemed to her slightly indelicate to 
 put out her tongue — even the tip of it — in public; 
 and besides, who knew what the gum was made of 
 or who had been touching it? This genteel ob- 
 servance singularly annoyed Elizabeth, and it was 
 her privilege to snatch away envelopes from her 
 aunt and lick them herself, with, so to speak, yards 
 of tongue protruding, rather than allow the use of 
 the horrible feather. Here she saw her opportu- 
 nity, and with a complete resumption of her natural 
 manner, which up to that moment had not been a 
 complete success, upset the feather's water and 
 brought an end to the senseless catechism. 
 
 Lind was obliging enough to take the note him-
 
 I 
 
 THE INTERMEZZO 171 
 
 self, and prepared for this expedition of about forty 
 yards by putting on a cap, a mackintosh, and go- 
 loshes, and providing himself with an umbrella. 
 There was need only for a verbal answer, but he 
 waited some five minutes before an acceptance 
 came. By this time the rain had completely cease 1. 
 but Edward, from his window, siw him put up his 
 umbrella again — no doubt to guard against drip- 
 pings from the trees. He observed this with a very 
 minute detached feeling of interest. Then he sprang 
 up to call to Lind and substitute "regrets" for his 
 "delight." Then that impulse died also, and he sat 
 down to think over what had happened. 
 
 He did not fall into the mistake of considering 
 it a little thing, though the incidenl in itself v. 
 nothing. It was, at the least, a feather of carded 
 cloud high up in the heavens, that told, though so 
 insignificant and remote a thing, of the great wind 
 that blew there. He had not spoken idly; rather, 
 he scarcely knew that he had spoken at all until 
 his own words Bounded in his ears. He had not 
 addressed pretty words to a pretty girl; it seemed 
 to him that they had been squeezed, as it were, 
 by some force infinitely superior to his power of 
 will out of his resisting mouth. His whole conduct, 
 from the chance hearing of the Brahms' intermezzo 
 in his garden, leading on to his ill-bred and silent 
 intrusion into the room where Elizabeth played and 
 his words, all seemed to have been dictated by an 
 irresistible power that arose out of the sense of his 
 incarnate dream. It had been perfectly true that 
 for the last fortnight he had thought of nothing else 
 but her, that the affairs of every day had for him 
 moved like shadows across that solid background. 
 ... In the meantime he had promised his sub- 
 stance and his life to one of the shadows, and, as 
 far as he knew or guessed, he was nothing more
 
 L72 ARUNDEL 
 
 than a shallow, rather a distasteful one, to the girl 
 who for him was the only reality. 
 
 Then the practical side of the situation, the "what 
 next" which always hastens to Btir the boiling pot- 
 tage of our emotions with its bony fingers, held his 
 attention, even as it had held Elizabeth Be 
 came to the same conclusions, but with an important 
 
 ervation. She had consigned the whole affair to 
 complete oblivion, whether or no the consignment 
 lay in her power; he \. glad as she to consign 
 
 it also, until and unless, in legal phi tmething 
 
 modified th< ting conditions. He knew very well 
 what he connoted by that modification; it meant 
 
 me Bign, some signal Prom Elizabeth that should 
 
 .firm the secret welcome that her amazement b 
 itly smothered. Just dow he had told him- 
 self that he was but a di teful shadow to her; 
 dow again the remembrance of her soul's leap 
 towards him told that he was Dot that. Yet he had 
 had do right ' e that smothered welcome any 
 more than he had a righl to intrude himself pri- 
 vately into her presence. But in his heart of heai 
 he was ashamed of neither feat. Only his surfs 
 his sense of breeding, his respect for things like 
 conduct and convention rebuked him. He himself, 
 the seer of dreams, cared not at all; rather, he 
 hugged him- If on it. 
 
 lie had drifted away from practical considera- 
 tions and wrenched himself hack to them. On the 
 eighth i^i October next, as matters stood, he was 
 to be married to Edith, and his conduct — again 
 with that reservatioD — must be framed on the lines 
 demanded by that condition. He felt no doubt 
 whatever that Elizabeth would breathe no word 
 of what had passed to her aunt or Edith, for, if 
 she did so, it would imply wanton mischief on 
 her part, of which he knew her to be incapable, or
 
 
 THE INTERMEZZO 173 
 
 the determination to stop his marriage for — for 
 other reasons. . . . She would only speak if she 
 intended to spoil or to stop. She might, it was 
 very likely that she would, interpose between her- 
 self and him that screen of maimer, invisible as a 
 sheet of glass, which yet cuts off all rays of he:>t 
 from a fire, while it suffers to pass through it the 
 sparkle of its brightness. She would probably ap- 
 pear t<i others to shine on him as before, but lie, 
 poor shivering wretch, would know that all warmth 
 had been cut off from him. 
 
 For a moment his passion blazed up within him, 
 and he fell himself barbarian and primitive man 
 without code of morals, without regard tor honour 
 and environment. Be who spent his innocuous 
 days in an office making money, wearing a black 
 coat, living the dull, respectable, stereotyped life, 
 who spent his leisure in reading papers about af- 
 fairs that he cared not one drop ni heart's blood 
 about, in tapping foolish croquet balls through iron 
 hoops, in playing the piano at Beathmoor dinner- 
 parties, in enveloping himself and his soul in the 
 muffled cotton-wool of comfort and material ease, 
 knew that within this swathed cocoon of himself, 
 that lay in a decorous row of hundreds of other 
 similar cocoons, there lurked, in spite of all con- 
 trary appearance, an individual life. He found 
 himself capable of love and utterly indifferent to 
 honour or obligations, regarding them only as arbi- 
 trary rules laid down for the pursuance of the fool- 
 ish game of civilized existence. In essentials he 
 believed himself without morals, without religion, 
 without any of the bonds that have built up cor- 
 porate man and differentiate life from dreams. And 
 this flashed discovery did not disconcert him; he 
 felt as if he had found a jewel in the muddy flats 
 of existence.
 
 174 ARUNDEL 
 
 Then, in another flash, he was back in his cocoon 
 again, prisoner in this decorous roomful of things 
 which he did not want. There was a silver 
 cigarette-box on a polished table; there was an ivory- 
 paper-knife stuck into the leaves of a book he was 
 reading, a parquetted floor spread with Persian ru 
 and all these things wi re symbols of slavery, chains 
 that bound him, or, at the best, bright objects by 
 which a baby is diverted from its crying for the 
 moon. And the clock chiming its half-hour after 
 seven told him he must conform to the prison rules 
 
 and go to dress for dinner at Mrs. Hancock's. 
 
 He took out of his coat-pocket an envelope about 
 which, up to t!n- moment, he had completely for- 
 gotten. It contained the ticket for a box at the 
 opera, which he had bought that day for a per- 
 formance of : grried" in a week's time. Be hoped 
 to persuade the ladies next door to be his guests, and 
 since the pursuance of tin- formed part of the re- 
 sumption of ordinary normal life he meant to pro- 
 
 poee In- plans to them. But both when he bought 
 
 the ticket ami now. he saw that it might bear on 
 the life that lay within the COCOOn. More than all 
 the material diversion or business of the world he 
 wanted to go with Elizabeth to "Siegfried." And, 
 
 with his hat. when he started to dinner, he took 
 the book of the music with him. 
 
 He was a little late as judged by the iron punc- 
 tuality of Arundel, and he found the ladies as- 
 sembled. He had one moment of intense nervous- 
 ness as he entered, but it was succeeded by an 
 eagerness not less intense when he saw Elizabeth's 
 cordial and welcoming smile. That set the note for 
 him; he had already determined on the same key, 
 and he knew himself in tune with it. 
 
 As he shook hands with the girl he laughed and 
 turned to Mrs. Hancock, involuntarily detaining
 
 
 THE INTERMEZZO 175 
 
 Elizabeth's hand one second, not more, than was 
 quite usual. 
 
 "I was rather nervous," he said. "I intruded on 
 Elizabeth's practice this afternoon. Perhaps she 
 has told you. In fact, I meant to stay to wait for 
 your return and Edith's, but I found it quite im- 
 possible." 
 
 "Dear!" said Mrs. Hancock. "Yes, bind has told 
 us dinner is ready. Did Elizabeth scold you?" 
 
 Elizabeth, equally relieved, laughed. 
 
 "You behaved very rudely, Edward," she said; 
 "and, as a matter of fact, I didn't tell them. I 
 wanted to screen you. But as you don't seem in 
 the least ashamed of yourself I shall l ve you up." 
 
 "What revelations we are going to 1. n ' said 
 Mrs. Hancock. "Yes, your favourite & up, Ed- 
 ward. Mrs. Williams thought of it when she heard 
 you wen 1 coming. She Bent out for the cream. Now 
 let us hear all about it. I thought there was some 
 mystery." 
 
 This was not quite true. Mrs. Hancock had not 
 thought anything whatever about it. But this 
 phrase of purely dinner conversation disconcerted 
 Elizabeth for a moment. Edith, suddenly looking 
 up, perceived this obscure embarrassment. 
 
 "No, Aunt Julia, there was no mystery," said 
 Elizabeth. "There was merely my mistaken kind- 
 ness in sparing Edward. Now I shall sacrifice and 
 expose him. He came in when I was practising 
 quietly, so that I didn't hear him, and sat down to 
 listen. And when I had finished my piece I turned 
 round and saw him, and, of course, I was startled 
 and annoyed. Wasn't it caddish of him! Do say it 
 was caddish!" 
 
 That should have been sufficiently robust to have 
 carried off and finished wdth the subject. But it so 
 happened that Mrs. Hancock went on.
 
 176 ARUNDEL 
 
 "My dear, what words to use!" she said. "Edith 
 will be up in arms. Look, there is another flash 
 of lightning! We shall have a regular storm, I am 
 afraid. And what did you say to him?" 
 
 "She told me to go away," said Edward, "which 
 I did. And I asked her to forgive me. I don't know 
 if she's done that yet." 
 
 The desire for secret communication with her 
 prompted and impelled him. 
 
 "I shall ask her later if she has," he said, raising 
 his eyes to her face. "Her screening me was a sign 
 of her softening." 
 
 "But her giving you away now shows signs of 
 hardening again," Baid Edith. 
 
 "Perhaps she doesn't know her own mind," said 
 Edward, still looking at her. and knowing but not 
 caring that he had do business to force replies on 
 her, so long as he could talk with a meaning that 
 Was clear to her alone. 
 
 This time the secret look that leaped out to him 
 below her amazement showed aL r ain through the 
 trouble and brightness of her face. 
 
 "I know my mind perfectly," she said. "I will for- 
 give you if you are sorry." 
 
 "I am. But I liked hearing you play when you 
 didn't know any one was there." 
 
 Mrs. Hancock looked vaguely and beamingly 
 round. 
 
 "But I always thought that people played best 
 when there was an audience to listen to them," she 
 said. 
 
 "There was an audience," remarked Edward. 
 
 Mrs. Hancock saw the fallacy without a moment's 
 hesitation, and enlarged on it till it became more 
 clear than the sun at noonday. 
 
 "But she didn't know there was," she said lucidly, 
 "and so it would count as if there wasn't. Listen,
 
 THE INTERMEZZO 177 
 
 there is the rain beginning again, like that beauti- 
 ful piece of Edward's which always makes me feel 
 sad. He shall play it to us after dinner. Was it 
 one of your pieces that Elizabeth was playing be- 
 fore, Edward?" 
 
 Mrs. Hancock always spoke of immortal works 
 by classical masters as if Edward's atrocious ren- 
 derings of them gave him the entire right and pos- 
 session of them. 
 
 "No," said he, "it was her own. I shall always 
 think of it as the Elizabintermezzo." 
 
 Mrs. Hancock turned an attentive eye on the 
 asparagus dish. 
 
 "Finish it, Edward," she said; "it is the last you 
 will get from my garden this year, and what an 
 amusing conversation we are having about Eliza- 
 beth and you! Elizabintermezzo — the intermezzo 
 which Elizabeth plays! What a good word! 
 Quite a portmanteau!" 
 
 All this private signalling of Edward to her, all 
 his double-edged questions as to whether she had 
 forgiven him, seemed to Elizabeth in the worst pos- 
 sible taste. She had just now announced, so frankly 
 that she could not be imagined to be serious, that 
 he had behaved caddishly that afternoon, and his 
 behaviour now seemed to endorse her judgment. And 
 yet she, by her outspokenness perhaps, had set the 
 fashion of double-edged speech; it was justifiable 
 in him to think that she meant to allude to what 
 neither of them openly alluded to. But he was 
 caddish; she felt irritated and disgusted with him. 
 She looked at him with eyebrows that first frowned 
 and then were raised in expostulation. 
 
 "Haven't we all had enough of my practice this 
 afternoon?" she said. 
 
 As she looked at him she noticed what she had 
 noticed a hundred times before, how his hair above
 
 178 AHUNDEL 
 
 his forehead grew straight and then fell over in 
 a plume. And while her mind was ruffled with his 
 behaviour, she suddenly liked that enormously. She 
 wondered if it was elastic, that thickness of erect 
 hair, like a spring-mattress; she wanted to put her 
 hand on it. And that radical and superficial emo- 
 tion called physical attraction had begun — super- 
 ficial because it concerns merely the outward form 
 and colour of face and limbs, radical because all the 
 sex-love in the world springs from its root which 
 is buried in the beating heart of humanity. After- 
 wards, no doubt, those roots may dissolve and be- 
 come part of the life-blood, red corpuscles of love, 
 but without them there has never yet opened the 
 glorious scarlet of the flowers of passion, nor the 
 shining foliage that keeps the world green. 
 
 Thus, at the very moment when he was indif- 
 ferent to her except that she was a little nauseated 
 by his behaviour, he began to become different to 
 all others, and very faintly but authentically it was 
 whispered to her that he and she "belonged," that 
 they fitted, entwined ami interlacing, into this great 
 Chinese puzzle of a world. Instantly she shut her 
 ears to the whisper. But she had heard it. 
 
 He had the decency, she allowed, to change the 
 subject. 
 
 "No encore for the intermezzo," he said; "but 
 'Siegfried' is being given this day week, and I have 
 got a box for it. I want you all to come." 
 
 "Well, that would be a treat," said Mrs. Hancock. 
 "These are the first white-heart cherries we've had 
 from the garden, Edward. You must take some! 
 'Siegfried!' That is by Wagner." 
 
 Elizabeth banished from her mind caddishness 
 and springy hair alike. 
 
 "Oh, Aunt Julia!" she exclaimed. 
 
 "That is capital, then!" said Edward, knowing
 
 THE INTERMEZZO , 179 
 
 the value of an atmosphere of certainty. "We had 
 better all sleep in town so that we can stop to the 
 end without any sense of being hurried, which would 
 spoil it all. I'll see to all that, and, of course, it's 
 my treat." 
 
 Mrs. Hancock's face changed, but brightened 
 again as she caught the full flavour of the first 
 white-heart. 
 
 "Sleep in town!" she said. "I never Aren't 
 
 the cherries good? I shall tell Ellis he was quite 
 right when he wanted extra manure. Delicious! 
 But sleep in town, Edward! Is that necessary? 
 Can't we come away before the end, for I quite 
 agree with you that it is no use stopping in your 
 seat grasping a fan in one hand and your dress in 
 the other, waiting for the curtain to go down. And 
 even then, they all come on and bow. Wouldn't 
 it be better if we all slipped out in plenty of time 
 to catch the theatre-train, as we always do?" 
 
 Elizabeth sighed. 
 
 "Aunt Julia, I would sooner not go at all than 
 come away before the end," she said. "It's the love 
 duet, you know, and oh! I've never seen it!" 
 
 Aunt Julia looked mild reproof. 
 
 "My dear, we mustn't be in a hurry. We must 
 think it over and see how we can contrive." 
 
 "We can contrive by stopping in town," said 
 Elizabeth. "Or couldn't you drive down in your 
 car afterwards?" 
 
 "But, my dear, it might be a wet night, and if we 
 drove back it would only be reasonable to drive 
 up. Shall we have coffee in here now for an ex- 
 ception, and then we need not interrupt ourselves? 
 Yes, Lind, coffee in here, not in the drawing-room, 
 but here. It would only be reasonable, as I said, to 
 drive up, for it would be no use going by train, 
 while Denton took up the car empty, and if it was
 
 180 ARUNDEL 
 
 a wet night I should not liko him hanging about 
 all afternoon and evening, for his wife expects a 
 baby." This was aside to Edward, though since 
 Edith was soon to be married she did not so much 
 mind her hearing. 
 
 "But his wife isn't going to hang about all after- 
 noon and evening," said Elizabeth swiftly. 
 
 "My dear, lei me talk it over with Edward! And 
 Denton would not know how to meet us at the opera 
 — we might miss him, and then what would hap- 
 pen?" 
 
 Edward laughed 
 
 "Then, Mrs. Hancock, you would have to si 
 
 in town uncomfortably, without night things, in- 
 stead of sleeping comfortably according to my 
 
 plans." 
 
 "But I should have to take Filson, w said Mrs. 
 
 Hancock, lather unwisely, since if you mean not 
 to do a thing and she had not the smallest wish to 
 
 "Siegfried" — it weakens the position to argue, 
 however sensibly, about it. 
 
 "( )f course you would take FUson!" said Fdward. 
 "Take Lind as well, if you like! I will arrange it 
 all.'' 
 
 "Well, it would be an event, wouldn't it, to see 
 the opera and sleep up in town," said Mrs. Han- 
 cock, who, though she (lid not mean to go, a little 
 hankered after anything of this sort, if it was to be 
 had without any expense. "But there would be a 
 great deal to think of and to plan. I always forget 
 if you take cream, Edward. Yes? A great deal 
 to plan, for if one is to go one must look tidy, and 
 have a few jewels." 
 
 She formed a rapid mental picture of herself in 
 the front of a box with the pearls, and perhaps the 
 tiara. It rather attracted her, but she felt that if 
 she stayed in a hotel she would not get a wink of
 
 THE INTERMEZZO 181 
 
 sleep all night with thinking of those treasures. She 
 rejected the picture, but simultaneously a bright 
 idea struck her. 
 
 ''Wednesday next, did you say?" she asked guile- 
 fully. 
 
 "No, Thursday." 
 
 Mrs. Hancock made a gesture of impatience. 
 
 "Well, if that isn't annoying," she said, "when 
 we were arranging it so nicely and getting over 
 every difficulty. Because Thursday is Mrs. Mar- 
 tin's garden-party, which I haven't missed in all the 
 years I have been at Heathmoor, and I mustn't miss 
 it! She would think it so unkind, for she always 
 says she depends on me. I wonder if she could 
 possibly change her day. Listen to the rain. I 
 impe you have brought your mackintosh, Edward. 
 No, I'm afraid it's too late to ask her, for the invi- 
 tations are already sent out. Well, that does knock 
 our delightful plan on the head. How battered the 
 garden will be, though we want rain. And 'Sieg- 
 fried,' too; of all operas that is the one I should 
 so like to see again. But I have an idea. Yes, pray 
 light your cigarette, Edward! What if you took 
 these two girls up to see it? Couldn't they be sup- 
 posed to chaperone each other, and Edith so nearly 
 married, too? I don't know what people would 
 think, though!" 
 
 Mrs. Hancock was the soul of good nature, and 
 having so adroitly shown the impossibility of her- 
 self partaking in this plan, thought nothing of the 
 disagreeableness of spending an evening alone. 
 
 "But couldn't you come after the garden-party, 
 mother?" asked Edith. 
 
 "My dear, I should be a rag! Mrs. Martin says 
 that she feels no responsibility if I am there at her 
 party, but I assure you I do. I have always said 
 it is no use trying to listen to music unless you are
 
 182 ARUNDEL 
 
 firsh. It is an insult to the music. But I wonder 
 if it is very wrong of me to BUggesI such a thing. 
 Edith, darling, the candle-shade Well done! You 
 have saved it. But if you girls go up together and 
 join Edward in town I don't Bee who will know. 
 Well, that will be a secret for us all to keep! Shall 
 we all go into the drawing-room? Hark how the 
 rain is falling! We must have Borne music" 
 "Then that's settled?" asked Kdward. 
 
 "If these young ladies approve. But what a lot 
 we have to arrange where you are to go, and wh< 
 
 they are to meet you, and the train they are to 
 
 come hack by in the morning." She paused a mo- 
 ment as she took up her patience pack. 
 
 "And Filson shall go up with them!" she pro- 
 claimed. "II will make me feel more comfortable 
 if I know Pilsoo is there. What a talk we ha 
 had! I declare it is half-pasl nine already! Do 
 let us have some music! Edith, dear. I think you 
 might open the window into the garden a little 
 hit. If any of us feel it damp, we can close it 
 again. Look, there are two aces OUl already. What 
 a good beginning!" 
 
 Edward turned to Elizabeth. 
 
 "And you like the 'Siegfried' plan " he asked. 
 
 "But it's too nice of you! I " 
 
 She stopped. 
 
 "Do go on," he said, speaking low. 
 
 Suddenly Elizabeth saw that Edith was observing 
 them. 
 
 "I suppose I shall have to forgive you," she said, 
 in a voice clearly audible, "now that you are tak- 
 ing me to 'Siegfried.' " 
 
 And the very fact that she spoke aloud, so that 
 Edith could hear, falsified, so she felt, the truth 
 of her light speech. She knew he would not take 
 it quite lightly, and she allowed him to put one
 
 * 
 
 THE INTERMEZZO 183 
 
 construction on it, so that Edith might put another. 
 
 His eye quickened with the secret message he 
 sent to her, and she did not refuse it. 
 
 "But it wasn't a bribe," said he with his lips. 
 "I made the plan before I sinned. So play your 
 intermezzo." 
 
 A week afterwards Elizabeth was walking up and 
 down the long garden-] >ath while the morning was 
 yet dewy. She had awoke early on this day that 
 she and Edith were going up to town to Bee the 
 opera, woke with a sense of ecstatic joy in life, of 
 intense and rapturous happiness. For the last week 
 she had been living in a storm of emotion, that 
 seemed not to come from within her, but from with- 
 out, beating and buffeting her, but giving her, from 
 time to time, serene and wonderful hours. She had 
 wrestled with and worked over the transcript of 
 "Siegfried" until she had made the music her own, 
 and she seemed to have come into a heritage that 
 was waiting ready for her to claim it. The pas- 
 sionate excitement of the true musician, with all 
 its flow of flooding revelations, its stream of infinite 
 rewards was hers; she had entered that kingdom 
 which, to all except those few who can say "we 
 musicians know," is but a beautiful cloudland and 
 a place of bewildering mists. But now for her it 
 had cleared; she had come into her own, and saw 
 steadfastly what she had before but guessed at, of 
 what she had heard but hints and seen images. Till 
 now, with all her love of music, she had been but a 
 speller of the mere words that made its language, 
 knowing the words to be beautiful and feeling their 
 nameless charm. But now it was as if the printed 
 page of their poetry was open to her. There was 
 meaning as well as beauty, coherence and romance
 
 184 ARUNDEL 
 
 in the sounds which had hitherto but suggested im- 
 ages to her. 
 
 The revelation had not come singly; the golden 
 gates had not swung open of their own accord. Well, 
 she knew the hand which for her had thrown them 
 open, the wind that had dispersed the mists. She 
 was in love, in love, as she had once said indif- 
 ferently and disappointedly, with "a common man." 
 Beyond any shadow of doubt it was that which had 
 opened out the kingdom <>f music for her; thus 
 quickened, her receptive nature had been enabled to 
 receive. Hitherto she had been like a deaf man, 
 vivid in imagination, to whom the magic of sound 
 had been described. Her perceptions had -been dor- 
 mant : die had but felt the light as the bud of a 
 folded flower may be imagined to feel it. Now she 
 received it on expanded petals. 
 
 About that love itself she had at present no 
 qualms, she admitted no recognition <>f its hopeless- 
 ness, she had no perception of its dangers. She v. 
 
 too full of the first wonder of its dawning to L r uess 
 or to care what the risen day might bring forth. The 
 fact that Edward was engaged to be married to her 
 cousin was a complete safeguard against dangers 
 
 which she barely conjectured, and the very thought 
 of hope or hopi l< ssness made no imprint on her 
 mind, for in the presence of the thing herself she 
 could not bring herself to consider the possible is- 
 sues of it. It exalted and possessed her; the fact 
 that she loved filled her entire being, which already 
 brimmed with her new perceptions of music. Each 
 heightened the other, each was infinite, possessing 
 the whole of her. She had no thought for the mor- 
 row, or for the day, or for herself. The whole of 
 the eagerness of her youth was enslaved in a per- 
 fect freedom. She was blind and ecstatic, and in 
 truth was running heedlessly, sightlessly between
 
 THE INTERMEZZO 185 
 
 quicksands and deep seas and precipices, uncon- 
 scious of them all, and above all, unconscious of her- 
 self, absorbed by love and melody, even as the dew 
 on the lawn was being absorbed by the sun. 
 
 Above, the sky was unflecked by cloud and as yet 
 of pale and liquid blue; the warm air had still a 
 touch of night's coolness in it, and the young day 
 seemed like a rosy child awakening from sleep. At 
 the end of the garden the tall elms stood motion- 
 less, towers of midsummer leaf, and the smell of 
 the evaporating dew that had lain all night in the 
 bosom of red roses and among the thick-blade grass 
 of the lawn, told her where it had slept. It hung 
 thick on the threads of the netted fruit-trees, and 
 glimmered on the red-brick wall thai ran alongside 
 the shining gravel walk. Already the bees had be- 
 gun their garnerings, the birds were a-chuckle in 
 the bushes, and suddenly the whole pervading sweet- 
 ness and song of the morning smote on Elizabeth's 
 heart, already full to overflowing, and demanded the 
 expression of her gratitude. She was compelled to 
 thank somebody for it — not Ellis, not Aunt Julia, 
 not Edward even. 
 
 "Somebody, anyhow!" she said aloud.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE M< UN TAIN-TOP 
 
 Edward, from lorn: living at Heathmoor, had littlo 
 to Irani about comfort, and tin- arrangements he 
 had made for the two girls were of a completer 
 that Mrs. Hancock could hardly have rivalled, even 
 if she had been concerned with plans for herself. 
 He had gone up to town by the 9.6 a.m. that morn- 
 ing, and had Bhown himself but briefly at his office, 
 devoting the rest of his time to orders and inspec- 
 tion. H<' had been to aee the rooms prepared for 
 their reception at the Savoy, bedrooms for the two 
 girls, with a Bitting-room between, had ahown in a 
 
 practical way that he recollected Elizabeth's ardour 
 
 for -wirt peas and Edith's respect for roses, had or- 
 dered tea to be ready for their arrival, a table to 
 be reserved in the n stauranl for their dinner be- 
 tween the note, and an entrancing little supper to 
 be served in the sitting-room when the opera was 
 over. Finally, he was waiting at the station with 
 his motor for their arrival. 
 
 It was not only the desire for their eomfort that 
 prompted this meticulous supervision, for the even- 
 ing in prospect was symbolical to him of a parting, 
 a farewell, and. with the spirit in which all fare- 
 wells should be said, he wished to join hands with 
 Elizabeth once more festally and superbly, not with 
 lingering glances and secret Bigns, but to the sound 
 of music and to the sight of a glorious drama. He 
 had spent this last week among waves and billows 
 
 186
 
 THE MOUNTAIN-TOP 187 
 
 of emotions, and, though his ship had not foundered, 
 his lack of experience as a sailor in such seas had 
 completely upset him in every other sense. But 
 to-night, he had told himself, he would reach port; 
 already he had rounded the pier-head, and within 
 a few hours now he would put Elizabeth ashore. 
 The pier was decorated for her reception, flags 
 waved and bands played. He would pari with her 
 splendidly, and go back to his boat, where Edith 
 would await him for their lifelong cruise in calm and 
 pleasant waters. 
 
 He had made, so he honestly believed, the honest 
 decision, and though honesty is a virtue which is 
 so much taken for granted that it is ranked rather 
 among the postulates of life than among its ac- 
 quirements, honest decisions are not always made 
 without struggle and difficulty. He felt for Eliza- 
 beth, the actual flesh and blood and spirit of her, 
 what he had only hitherto imagined in the dreams 
 which, a few months before, he had settled to have 
 done with. Bitterly, and with more poignancy of 
 feeling than he had thought himself capable of, he 
 regretted his precipitancy in their abandonment; in 
 a few months more he would have seen them re- 
 alized, he would have had his human chance, of an 
 attractive boy with a girl, to have made them true. 
 But he had not waited; he had shaken himself 
 awake, and, with full sense of what he was doing, 
 had made love to and been accepted by the girl he 
 knew and liked and admired. To-day he acknowl- 
 edged his responsibility and had no intention of 
 shirking it. A week of what was not less than spirit- 
 ual anguish had resulted in this decision. In one 
 direction he was pulled by honour, in the other by 
 love. He had a "previous engagement," which, he 
 had settled, took rank before anything else what- 
 ever. He believed, without the smallest touch of
 
 188 ARUNDEL 
 
 complacency, that Edith loved him, but he believed 
 also (and again not a grain of that odious emotion 
 entered into his belief) that had he been free Eliza- 
 beth would have accepted him. Since his deplorable 
 lapse a week ago, she had treated him with a friend- 
 lier intimacy than ever; this, for they had had no 
 further word on the subject, he interpreted to mean 
 that out of the generosity of her nature she had 
 completely forgiven him and obliterated the occur- 
 rence, and that her friendliness was meant to show 
 how entirely she trusted him for the future. In this 
 he was absolutely right; he was right also in the 
 corollary he instinctively added, that sin- would not 
 have adopted this attitude unless Bhe was fond of 
 him. She could quite correctly have kepf him at 
 arm's Length, she could have continued to manifest 
 that slight hostility to him which had previously 
 characterized her behaviour. But she had not; she 
 had given him a greater warmth and friendliness 
 
 than ever before. 
 
 So far he could let his thoughts bear him without 
 shame or secrecy. But there went on beneath them 
 a tow, an undercurrent, which, though he suppressed 
 and refused to regard it. was what had caused, in 
 the main, the soul-storm in which he had been 
 buffeted all this week. He believed there was more 
 than friendliness in her regard for him, and with the 
 terrible Bharpsightedness of blind love (as if one of 
 his eyes saw nothing, while the other was gifted 
 with portentous vision) he had not missed the signs, 
 little signs, a look, a word, a movement, which are 
 the feelers of love, waving tentacles of infinite sen- 
 sitiveness, that threadlike and invisible to the ordi- 
 nary beholder, shrivel and spring and touch instinc- 
 tively without volition on their owner's part. No 
 one, fairly and impartially judging, could say that 
 Elizabeth had behaved to him except with friendly
 
 THE MOUNTAIN-TOP 189 
 
 unreserve. But to him she seemed to reserve much, 
 to reserve all. 
 
 In spite of all this, Edward, as he waited on the 
 platform for the arrival of their train, had no doubt 
 that he was doing right in following the demands 
 of honour. He had killed his dreams, so to speak, 
 when he engaged himself to Edith ; to-night, to the 
 sound of flutes and violins, he was going to conduct 
 their funeral, and did not see that in reality he was 
 intending to bury them alive, and that dreams are 
 not smothered by burial; rather, like the roots of 
 plants, they grow and flourish beneath the earth, 
 sending up the sap that ivod< their blossoms. He 
 did not contemplate the future with dismay; he 
 believed that both he and Edith would have a very 
 pleasant, comfortable life together, according to 
 the Heathmoor pattern. And with a touch of cyni- 
 cism, which was unusual with him, he added, as the 
 train steamed in, that this was more than could be 
 said for many marriages. Then, before the train 
 stopped, he saw Elizabeth get out and look round 
 for him with shining, excited eyes, and his heart 
 beat quick at her recognition of him. 
 
 The three met with jubilance, and drove straight 
 to the Savoy, for there was not more than time to 
 have tea and dress. The day, like the last dozen of 
 its predecessors, had been dry and dusty, and the 
 roadway in front of the hotel had been liberally 
 watered. Stepping out of the motor, Edith slipped 
 and fell heavily, her foot doubled under her. 
 Bravely she tried to smile, bravely also she tried 
 to get up. But the smile faded in the agony of her 
 twisted ankle, and she was helped into the hotel. 
 
 It seemed at first that it might be a wrench of 
 little consequence, the pain of which would be as- 
 suaged by ten minutes' rest. But all that ten min- 
 utes did for her was to give her a badly swollen
 
 190 ARUNDEL 
 
 ankle, and show the utter impossibility of her set- 
 ting foot to the ground. Then, swathed in wet 
 bandages, and lying on the sofa in the sitting-room, 
 she took a peremptory line with the others. 
 
 "You two must go," she said; "and if you wait 
 here any longer you will be late. If you aren't both 
 of you ready to start in a quarter of an hour, I shall 
 go myself, bandage and all, if I have to hop there." 
 
 "But you can't spend the evening alone," said 
 Elizabeth. "And w< " 
 
 "I shan't spend the evening alone, because we 
 shall all have supper together. Dinner, too. if you 
 will be awfully kind. Edward, and have it up here 
 with me instead <>f in the restaurant." 
 
 Edward hail already yielded in his heart — yielded 
 with a scent exulting rapture. The Fates, though 
 at Edith's expense, were L r ivin<: him a splendid fare- 
 well to Elizabeth. They would be alone together 
 for it; he did not let his thoughts progress further 
 than that. 
 
 "If you insist " he began. 
 
 "Am I not insisting? My dear, it is a dreadful 
 bore, but we must make the best of it. Be kind, 
 and order dinner here instead, and go to dress." 
 
 Elizabeth was left alone with her cousin. 
 
 "But Aunt Julia!" she said. "What will she say?" 
 
 "I have thought of that. Mother mustn't know. 
 You must coach me up when you come back, and 
 — and I shall have sprained my ankle when we 
 came back to the hotel at the end. Don't forget! 
 Oh, do go and get ready, Elizabeth; it's all settled! 
 I can't bear that Edward should be disappointed 
 in not seeing 'Siegfried,' nor, indeed, that you 
 should. It would be perfectly senseless that you 
 should stop at home because I can't go!" 
 
 It cost Elizabeth something to argue against this. 
 She wanted passionately to see the opera, and if a
 
 THE MOUNTAIN-TOP 191 
 
 dream-wish, a fairy-wish, for a thing that was im- 
 possible could have been presented to her that morn- 
 ing, she would have chosen to see the awakening 
 of Brunnhilde alone with Edward. His wild-blurted 
 speech when he intruded upon her practising a week 
 ago she had buried, so complete since then had been 
 his discretion, and if she thought of it at all, she 
 thought of it only as a momentary lapse, an un- 
 guarded exaggeration. Since then she had not de- 
 fended herself against him by any coldness of man- 
 ner, any unspoken belittlement of him, and they 
 had arrived at a franker and more affectionate inti- 
 macy than ever before. She did not inquire or 
 conjecture what his secret emotional history was. 
 She was safeguarded enough from him by his en- 
 gagement to Edith; while from herself her own in- 
 tegrity of purpose seemed a sufficient shield. Yet 
 she argued against Edith's insistence on the fulfil- 
 ment of the fairy-wish. 
 
 "But Aunt Julia wouldn't like it," she said. 
 
 "I can't help that!" said Edith. "I want it so 
 much that I don't care what mother would think. 
 Besides, she won't think anything. She will never 
 know." Edith paused a moment and flushed. 
 
 "Besides, dear," she said, "if I asked you and Ed- 
 ward, or even wanted you not to go, what reason 
 could there be for it? It would appear so — so odious 
 — as if I can't say it! Oh, go and dress!" 
 
 The unspoken word was clear enough, and it con- 
 tained all that Elizabeth was conscious of. It would 
 have been odious that either of them should harbour 
 the thought that Edith could not put into words. 
 It was sufficient. 
 
 The two came back to dine at the end of the first 
 act, full to the brim of music, intoxicated w r ith the 
 beady ferment of sound and drama, and both a little
 
 192 ARUNDEL 
 
 beside themselves with excitement. At present the 
 music, and that alone, held them; in the flame of 
 their common passion each as yet paid little heed 
 to the other, except as a sharer in it. Elizabeth 
 hardly touched any food; she was silent and bright- 
 eyed, exploring her new kingdom. But with Ed- 
 ward, the return to the hotel, to the commoD Deeds 
 of food and drink, above all, to Edith, took him 
 poignantly back into the actual world again. Once 
 again, more vividly than ever before, his choice 
 which he told himself was already decided, was set 
 before him as he sat with Elizabeth silent and 
 strung-up od the one side, with Edith intelligently 
 questioning him, with a view to subsequent cate- 
 chism of herself on the other. Her questions seemed 
 idiotic interruptions; he could barely make cour- 
 teous narrative — "And then Mime told him about 
 his youth. And then he began to forge the sword. 
 Yes. it was Palstecher who played Siegfried — he 
 was in excellent voice. . . ." 
 
 He did not revoke his choice, but he ceased to 
 think of it. He wanted only, for the present, to 
 hasten the tardy progress of the hands of the clock 
 to the moment when it would be time for him to go 
 away again alone with Elizabeth. But the aspect of 
 this evening, as his farewell to her, was ousted in 
 his mind by the prospect of the next hour or two. 
 He thought less of what it symbolized; more and 
 growingly more of what it was. But even as no 
 thunderstorm bursts without the menace of gather- 
 ing clouds, so the thickening intensity of his emo- 
 tions warned him with utterly disregarded caution, 
 that forces of savage import were collecting. Had 
 a friend laid the facts, the possibilities, the danger 
 before him, and asked his opinion as to what a man 
 should do under such circumstances, unhesitatingly 
 would he have advised, without regard to any other
 
 THE MOUNTAIN-TOP 193 
 
 issue, that he should not go back alone with Eliza- 
 beth. Let him take a waiter from the hotel, a 
 stranger out of the street, rather than trust him- 
 self alone to keep a sternly head and a firm foot in 
 those precipiced and slippery places. Had he be- 
 lieved that Elizabeth had no touch of more than 
 pleasant friendly feelings towards him, he might 
 have been justified in believing in himself. But — 
 and this was the very spring and foundation of his 
 excitement, his expectancy — he did not so believe. 
 He fancied, rightly or wrongly, that she had shown 
 signs of a warmer regard for him than that. But 
 still, as unconvincinidv as a parrot-cry, he kept say- 
 ing to himself, "Edith trusts me, and therefore I 
 trust myself." He did not even feel he was doing 
 a dangerous thing; he felt only that he had an irre- 
 sistible need to be with Elizabeth in the isolation 
 of the darkened house when Brunnhilde awoke. 
 
 The performance, viewed artistically, was mag- 
 nificent. From height to height mounted the second 
 act, till the sounds of the noonday, the murmurs of 
 the forest, grew from the scarcely audible notes to 
 the full triumphant symphony of sunlight and liv- 
 ing things, pervading, all-embracing, bringing the 
 voice of all nature to endorse heroic deeds, and at 
 the same time to bring to the hero the knowledge of 
 his human needs. To him, even as to Siegfried, it 
 woke in his heart the irresistible need of love, of the 
 ideal mate, of the woman of his dreams, who sat 
 beside him. Once only, as the clear call of the bird 
 rang through the hushed house, did Elizabeth take 
 her eyes off the stage, and turned them, dewy with 
 tears and bright with wonder, on him. She said 
 no word, but unconsciously moved her chair a little 
 nearer his and laid her ungloved hand on his knee. 
 
 He had one moment's hesitation — one moment in 
 which it was in his power to check himself. There
 
 194 ARUNDEL 
 
 was just one branch of a tree, so to speak, hanging 
 above the rapids down which he was hurrying, and 
 it was just possible, with an effort, to grasp it. He 
 made do such effort. Deliberately, if anything in 
 this fervour of mowing madness could be called de- 
 liberate, he let that moment go by; deliberately he 
 rejected the image of Edith awaiting their return, 
 and, all aflame, acquiesced with his will in anything 
 that should happen. Deliberately he cast the reins 
 on the backs of his flying Bteeds, and not again did 
 the sense that he had any choice in the matter come 
 to him. The last atom of his manliness was ab- 
 sorbed in his manhood. Elizabeth's hand lay on 
 his knee, the fingers bending over it inwards. Gently 
 he pressed them with his ether knee, and he felt her 
 response. She had but Bought that touch to assure 
 herself she was in time with him, one with him over 
 this miracle that Bhe was looking at ; but on the mo- 
 ment Bhe felt there w;i< more than that both in 
 that preS8Ure <>f her hand and her OWU response to 
 
 it. But she was too absorbed, to., rapt to care; noth- 
 ing mattered except Siegfried, and the fact that she 
 and Edward were together and beating with one 
 heart "s-l.lood about it. 
 
 And presently afterwards Brunnhilde lay beneath 
 the pines in her shining armour, and through the 
 flames, the vain obstacle that barred his approach to 
 her, came Siegfried. Of no avail to her was the 
 armour of her maidenhood, for while she slept he 
 loosened it, and of no avail to stay his approach 
 was the fierceness of the flames that girt her resting- 
 place. At his kiss — the kiss that sealed her his — 
 the strong throb of her blood beat again in her body; 
 the eyes that had so long been shut in her unmo- 
 lested sleep w T ere unclosed, and she sat up and sa- 
 luted the sun, and she saluted the day and the earth 
 and all the myriad sounds and sights and odours
 
 THE MOUNTAIN-TOP 195 
 
 that told her she was born into life again. Sieg- 
 fried had stood back in awe at the wonder and holi- 
 ness of her awakening, and she turned and saw him. 
 And once more Elizabeth turned to Edward, and 
 their eyes met in a long glance. 
 
 To each, at that moment, to her no less than to 
 him, it was the drama of their own souls that was 
 unfolding in melody and love-song before them. 
 She needed to look at him but for that one glance 
 of recognition, for there on the stage she learned, 
 as she saw the immortal lovers together, the immor- 
 tality of love. The whole air rang with this su- 
 preme expression of it, the violins and the flutes and 
 that glorious voice of Brunnhilde spoke for her, and 
 it was her companion, here in the box with her, who 
 bore the rapture higher, who completed it. made it 
 perfect. Indeed, there was greeting in the farewell; 
 if he said "vale" to her he sang "ave" also. But his 
 "vale" was less now than a mutter below his breath. 
 
 She sat with her arms resting on the front of the 
 box till the last triumphant notes rang out, and 
 through the applause that followed she still sat 
 there, unmoving. There was no before or after for 
 her then ; her consciousness moved upon a limitless, 
 an infinite plane. He had left his place, and when 
 she turned he was standing close behind her. Again 
 their eyes met in that long look, and the question 
 that was in his saw itself answered by the smile, 
 shy and solemn, that shone in hers. Then, still in 
 silence, they went out into the crowd that filled the 
 passages. 
 
 The entrance porch was crowded with the efflux 
 of the house, waiting for their carriages to arrive, 
 and Elizabeth saw the surging, glittering scene with 
 a strange, hard distinctness; but it all seemed re- 
 mote from her, as if it w r as enclosed in walls of crys- 
 tal. The crowd w T as no more to her than a beehive
 
 196 ARUNDEL 
 
 of busy, moving; little lives, altogether sundered in 
 intelligence and interests from herself and Edward. 
 The whole world had receded on to the insect-plane; 
 it crawled and skipped and jostled about her, but 
 he and she were infinitely removed from it, and it 
 aroused in her jusl the vague wonder of a man idly 
 gazing at a disturbed ant-hill, hardly wondering 
 what all the bustle wa- about. Here and there stood 
 members of this throng, wailing quietly in corners, 
 taking no part in the movement, and it just occurred 
 
 to her that in a room in the Savoy Bote] there was 
 
 another such member of this queer, busy little race 
 waiting their return. Bu1 even the thought "t" Edith 
 barely found footing in her mind; she was but an- 
 other specimen under glass. 
 
 The night was quite fine, and in a moment or two 
 they had made their way out of the doors and 
 were walking down the queue of carriages to find 
 their motor. Ho had suggested that she should wait 
 while lie hunted it and brought it up. but she pre- 
 ferred to go out of this crowded insect-house to 
 look for it with him. The Btreet was full also of 
 the vague throng, that alt med utterly unreal, 
 
 utterly without <iirr 1 iticu ic< • ; -ho would BCarcely have 
 been surprised if the lights and the people and the 
 
 houses and the high-swung moon had all collapsed 
 
 and melted away. Leaving only a mountain-top girt 
 with flames that rose and fell with iiu^ts of sparkling 
 melody. She would not be alone there; her whole 
 self, her completed -elf. at least would be there — the 
 self which she had seeD bo often, had criticized and 
 belittled, which, till this evening, she had never 
 known to be herself. Now she knew T nothing else. 
 All the rest was a mimic world, full of busy little 
 insects. 
 
 The motor was soon found, and she stepped in, 
 followed by Edward. She had heard him give some
 
 THE MOUNTAIN-TOP 107 
 
 directions to the chauffeur about driving down to 
 the Embankment, and going to that entrance of the 
 hotel, and they slid out of the queue and turned. So 
 intensely did she feel his presence that it seemed to 
 bring him no nearer to her when he took her hand 
 in In-, when she heard him whisper — 
 
 "Brum ill ill le — you awoke!" 
 
 "Yes, Siegfried," she answered. 
 
 And his arms were round her. and for one second 
 she clung close to him as he kissed her. 
 
 Then, even while his fire burned close to her, so 
 that it mingled with her own blaze, and while the 
 ringing of the music that was mystically one with 
 it drowned all other sound, the real world, the actual 
 world, which had quite vanished from her conscious- 
 ness, stood round her again, menacing, reminding, 
 appalling. Her real self, her integrity, her honour 
 pointed at her in amazement, in horror, so that 
 through their eyes, and Dot through the eyes of her 
 passion, she saw herself and what she was doing, 
 and what she was permitting, and what she was 
 rapturously welcoming. Memory, loyalty, honesty 
 cried aloud at her, and though it seemed that she 
 was tearing part of herself away she wrenched her- 
 self free. 
 
 "Oh, what are we doing?" she cried. "We are 
 
 both mad! And you Oh, why did you let me? 
 
 Why did you make it possible for me? Let me go, 
 Edward!" 
 
 He had seized her again. 
 
 "I can't!" he said. "You are mine, and you know 
 it! It's you that I have dreamed of all my life! 
 We both dreamed, and we have awoke to-night to 
 find it is true!" 
 
 Again, and this time easily, she shook herself free 
 of him, for that in him which had struggled before, 
 which had planned this evening as a farewell to her,
 
 198 AKTXDEL 
 
 came to her aid. For the moment, Elizabeth, far 
 stronger than he in will, was wholly against him, 
 and against him he had honourable traitors in his 
 own house. 
 
 "We dreamed to-night of impossible things," she 
 said; "and I have awoke again." 
 
 She began to tremble violently as the struggle to 
 maintain that first flush of true vision Beized her. 
 It had come to her with the flashing stroke of im- 
 pulse; now — and here was the difficulty — she had 
 to keep hold of it. 
 
 "Edward, you I do really!" she Said. 
 
 "You know we've been mad. mad! Ah, thank God, 
 here we are!" 
 
 The motor had stopped by tin 4 hotel door, and 
 already a porter was coming across the pavement to 
 it. 
 
 "No, we can't leave it like this," he said. "Let's 
 drive on for a little. Just for ten minutes, Eliza- 
 beth." He was on the near Bide of the carriage and 
 tried to prevent her getting up. 
 
 "< "• • to your lid. 
 
 "But it is impossible to meet Edith like this!" he 
 said. "She will see " 
 
 He considered that for a moment. What if she 
 did see? Was not that exactly what he desired? 
 But Elizabeth interrupted him. 
 
 "She won't, because she mustn't," she said. "I 
 can do my share, you must do yours. Get out, 
 please!" 
 
 Next moment he followed her into the hotel. At 
 the door of the sitting-room she paused a moment, 
 feeling suddenly tired and incapable, and she looked 
 appealingly at him as he joined her. 
 
 "Edward, do help me!" she said. "I rely on you!" 
 
 The tremendous pressure at which she had been 
 living all day helped Elizabeth now, for reaction
 
 THE MOUNTAIN-TOP 199 
 
 had not come yet, and whatever at that moment she 
 had been set to do she would have done it with ten 
 thousand horse-power. She made a rush of it across 
 the room to where Edith Lay, dropping fan, gloves, 
 handkerchief on her way, and it Beemed that Ed- 
 ward's help would chiefly consist in listening. 
 
 "Oh, my dear," she cried, "we've gone quite mad. 
 both Edward and I ! There is nothing in the world 
 but Brunnhilde and Siegfried!" 
 
 She kissed Edith, and wont on breathlessly, turn- 
 ing the deep tumult of her soul into the merest froth. 
 
 'Siegfried and Brunnhilde, Brunnhilde and Sieg- 
 fried! I felt I was Brunnhilde, darling, and I was 
 rather surprised thai Edward did do! kiss me!" 
 
 "I will now, if you like!" remarked Edward, tak- 
 ing his cue unerringly. 
 
 "Yes, do; you're such a dear for having taken 
 me! Perhaps you had better not, though. It's a 
 little late; you should have done it earlier, and be- 
 sides, Edith might not like it. We must consider 
 Edith now, after thinking about our own enjoy- 
 ment all the evening. How is the ankle? I ask out 
 of politeness, dear; I don't really care in the least 
 how your ankle is! I only care for Siegfried! Oh, 
 do let's have supper at once. I had no dinner to 
 mention, and I am brutally hungry. That is the 
 effect of emotion. After daddy was charged out 
 pig-sticking, and was nearly killed, I ate the largest 
 lunch I ever remember. Ah, they are bringing it! 
 I shall never go on hunger-strike whatever happens 
 to me! Siegfried! That wasn't quite in tune. Oh, 
 Edith! Now help me to pull her sofa up to the 
 table, Edward. Then she needn't move at all. And 
 how is your ankle? I do care, really!" 
 
 This remarkable series of statements and ques- 
 tions could hardly be called conversation, but it
 
 200 ARUNDEL 
 
 served its purpose in starting social intercourse 
 again. 
 
 Edith turned to Edward. 
 
 "Is she mad?" she asked. "And are you mad, 
 too?" 
 
 "Yes, he has got dumb madness," said Elizabeth. 
 "He hasn't said a word all the evening. Occasional 
 sighs. Oh, I wish you had been there, Edith ! Yes, 
 certainly soup! For the third time I inquire about 
 your ankle!" 
 
 Looking up, she caught Edward's eye for a mo- 
 ment. He was eagerly trazing at her, as Siegfried 
 gazed at Brunnhikle — that was in some opera she 
 had once seen in remote ages ago, in some dim land 
 
 of dreams, in And as she looked at him the 
 
 stream of her babbling talk froze on her lips and her 
 heart beat quick, and she was back again in the 
 darkness of the motor, and she was saying to him, 
 "Yes, Siegfried!*' without thought of anything but 
 the present moment, and of her love. Then, with a 
 sense of coming from some infinite distance, she 
 was back in this sitting-room again, conscious that 
 Edith had said something, and that she had not 
 the remotest notion what it was. 
 
 But Edward answered. 
 
 "That is capital!" he said. "I am glad it is bet- 
 ter. Of course, you and Elizabeth will drive down 
 in the motor to-morrow morning, so that you needn't 
 walk at all. When will you go? I must tell Joynes 
 at what time he is to come round." 
 
 So he, Edward, also belonged to his world, not 
 to the world of the mountain-top and the ring of 
 flame. Of course he did; he was going to marry 
 Edith on October 8th, and it was not yet certain if 
 she herself would be there or not. She would be 
 leaving about then for India — it depended on 
 whether she could get a passage by the boat that
 
 THE MOUNTAIN-TOP 201 
 
 left Marseilles on the 15th. She felt like a child 
 saying over to itself some absurd nonsense rhyme. 
 July, August, September, then October — "Thirty 
 days hath October." It did not sound right. Quail 
 — yes, why not quail? So little while ago she lay 
 on her mountain-top, and Siegfried loosed her 
 armour and kissed her. 
 
 Supper was over, and Edith was saying some- 
 thing to her about her looking very tired. She was 
 suggesting that she should go to bed. For herself, 
 she was going to sit up a little longer and have a 
 chat with Edward, for he had to coach her thor- 
 oughly in the opera, since Mrs. Hancock was never 
 to know — at least, not at present — the true history 
 of the evening. 
 
 Elizabeth found herself laughing at that; it 
 seemed so unnecessary to say that Mrs. Hancock 
 must never know the true history of the evening. 
 Nor must Edith herself ever know the true history 
 of the evening — never, never. There was no ques- 
 tion of "not for the present" about that. But that 
 Mrs. Hancock should not know the mere fact that 
 she and Edward went to the opera alone seemed a 
 ludicrous stratagem, laughable. 
 
 "What a tangled web we are going to weave all 
 about nothing," she said. "I warn you, Edith, I 
 shall be sure to forget, and let it out!" 
 
 "Oh, mother would be horrified!" said Edith. 
 "You must take care!" 
 
 Elizabeth sat down and took one of Edward's 
 cigarettes. Somehow, her revulsion of feeling 
 against him had altogether vanished, and her yearn- 
 ing for him was stealing back again like pain that 
 has been temporarily numbed and begins to reassert 
 itself. The dream, the impossibility was that on 
 October 8th he was going to marry Edith. It was 
 quite incredible, a mere piece of nonsense that she
 
 202 ARUXDEL 
 
 had hoard down at some dream-place called Heath- 
 moor, where everybody was fast asleep. It was just 
 part of the dreams of one of them, of Aunt Julia, 
 perhaps, who certainly had no pains or joys, only 
 comforts. She herself had to humour the dream- 
 people, saying things to those drowsy people (of 
 whom Edith was one) which really had a meaning, 
 but not for them. 
 
 "But have we really done anything so awful?" 
 she asked. "Is it highly improper that Edward and 
 I should go to the opera together? There were 
 about two thousand people there to chaperone us, 
 ami a lot of them were bo respectable bald men 
 and stringy women!" She laughed again* "I >id you 
 see the on* 1 just behind us. Edward?" she -aid. "I'm 
 sure you did! She had been out and '_ r "t caught 
 in a sudden shower of diamonds. Slif was peppered 
 with them. There were several on her forehead, 
 
 and I think one on her DOSe. Oh, dear!" 
 
 "And why that?" asked Edith. 
 
 "Because I feel quite mad. and because T am 
 afraid I shall recover. I supp me I -hall gi i to Heath- 
 moor again to-morrow. There will be bind there, 
 
 and Mr. Martin, and. and Any other place 
 
 would be as bad. It isn't that Heathmoor is more 
 impossible than London or India, or any other place 
 would be. Yes. I'll remember that you sprained 
 your ankle after the opera —about now, in fact ; and 
 then I helped you to bed, and then I went to bed 
 myself, exactly as I'm going to do! Oh, I'm so 
 tired! Good-niL r ht. Siegfried and Brunnhilde! Ed- 
 ward, you are a darling for taking me!" 
 
 Next minute she was alone in her bedroom, and 
 there shot through her like fire a pain, agonizing 
 and contemptible, which she had never known be- 
 fore, 1 the intolerable torture of jealousy seized her, 
 and she writhed in its grip. As clearly as if the
 
 THE MOUNTAIN-TOP 203 
 
 scene was before her eyes, she knew what was hap- 
 pening next door. She could almost hear Edith say- 
 ing in that quiet, sincere voice of hers, "Now we 
 shall have a little time alone, Edward. I thought 
 dcai Elizabeth was never going. Is she not queer 
 and excited to-night?" And she would hold out 
 her hand to him, and he would sit on the edge of 
 her sofa holding it in his, and he would bend to 
 kiss her, not once, not once only. They would whis- 
 per together the words that were natural and proper 
 between pledged lovers, the words that but an hour 
 ago he was burning to say to her. Now, she made 
 no doubt, he was glib with them to Edith. And 
 yet an hour ago she had wrenched herself away 
 from his arm and his kiss with horror and upheaval 
 of her nature. Of that horror there was nothing 
 left now in the hour of the first onslaught of jeal- 
 ousy. Now it was inconceivable to her that when 
 he had offered her what she longed for, the thought 
 of which, given to another, made her writhe with 
 jealousy, she could have rejected it. She had re- 
 pulsed him for wanting to give her what her whole 
 heart cried out for, and what was hers, though he 
 had already sworn it away to another. He had not 
 met her, then; he did not know that she was or- 
 dained for him, even as he for her. And now, just 
 because he had promised like a child, not knowing 
 what he promised, he was giving all that by right 
 was hers to a girl whom he did not love. 
 
 For a moment that thought, namely, that Edith 
 was nothing to him, assuaged her; she might as well 
 be jealous of a dog that he caressed and mumbled 
 nonsense-love to, and her rage turned against her- 
 self for having been so insane as to give him scru- 
 ples instead of welcome. What if she went back 
 now into the room she had so lately left, and said 
 to Edith, "Let him go; you will have to let him
 
 204 ARUNDEL 
 
 go. It is not you he cares for!" What if she chal- 
 lenged him to say which of them he chose? She 
 knew well what his answer would be. 
 
 Inconceivable as was her folly in rejecting him, 
 equally inconceivable was her mood on that morn- 
 ing — was it only the morning of to-day? — when she 
 walked about the dewy garden in an ecstasy of hap- 
 piness at the knowledge of her love. She had 
 thought it was sufficient to love; it had made her 
 happy to do that. But she had understood nothing 
 of its nature then. It was only when she saw 
 Brunnhilde awake to Siegfried's kiss that ^-lic had 
 begun to understand. And the full understanding 
 had eoine when Edward clasped and kissed her, and 
 she for thai moment had clung to him. only to push 
 him away, to thrust from her just that which she 
 
 wanted, which her whole BOUl needed. It was but 
 
 a foolish fairy-tale she had told herself among the 
 roses and sweet peas — a tale of sexless, bodiless love, 
 fit for a Sunday School or a Bible-reading -a tide 
 
 of white blossoms and white robes — a thing for chil- 
 dren and old maids. 
 
 The Inquisition had another pair of pincers heat- 
 ing for her; they were ready now. and glowing. 
 What if his moment's heat and flash of desire for 
 her was but the fruit of excitement, but the froth 
 which the music had stirred up in him? Certainly 
 it had been easy to quell it. She had but to tell 
 him to let go of her and he obeyed; to get out of 
 the motor, and then he stood on the pavement. She 
 despised his weakness, for surely a man who was in 
 earnest, who was stirred even as she was stirred, not 
 by some mere breeze of attraction, or by the excite- 
 ment of a stimulated scene, but felt the heart's need, 
 would not have relinquished her as easily as that. 
 Yet it looked to her in unreasoning agony that it 
 was so, for now he was with Edith, indulging in more
 
 THE MOUNTAIN-TOP 205 
 
 madrigals, no doubt. Yet, when she thought as 
 collectedly as might be for a second she had the 
 cold water ready for those pincers. She knew really 
 that what she now called his weakness was in reality 
 of the same stuff as her own strength; that which 
 made her strong — that grotesque angular old image 
 called "Honour" — was one with the reason of his 
 yielding to her. She was left alone v/ith that now; 
 next door a precisely similar idol presided over the 
 two whom she raged to think upon. 
 
 Yet, if he had not so easily succumbed to her 
 strength, or if, to put it more truthfully, if they 
 had not both been held in by the force that re- 
 strained the hot impulse, that governed, that laid 
 cool hands on the reins he had flung away, would 
 she, so she asked herself now, have continued to 
 persist, have ranged her will and purpose against 
 his, till there was no more courage left in her? She 
 did not know; swift and decisive though the strug- 
 gle had been, it seemed to have taken all the force 
 of which she was capable to make it at all. 
 
 For the moment there was remission for her at 
 the hands of her jealousy, and she walked across to 
 the window and stood behind the curtain looking 
 out on to the moon-emblazoned river. The flood- 
 tide was at its height, and the reflection of the lights 
 from the farther bank lay on the lake-like surface 
 in unwavering lines. Stars and moon burning in 
 the blaze of an everlasting day, and something in 
 the calm of the night, in the eternal progress of those 
 shining worlds, gave her a momentary tranquillity, 
 so that she was able to ask herself this question, on 
 the answer to which all depended, with a mind aloof 
 from herself. How long her will could have held 
 out against her love she did not know, but she knew 
 she would not have chosen to yield. 
 
 And at that moment she had won, had she but
 
 200 ARUNDEL 
 
 known it, the first real battle of her life. For that 
 moment she stood with her banner waving round 
 her. The next she was back in the thick of the 
 melee again, without tactics, without any sense of 
 there being any one in command of the army she 
 fought with, or even of herself being but a unit in 
 an immense warfare. She felt utterly alone, strug- 
 gling, yet hardly knowing why, knowing only that 
 the odds against her seemed desperate.
 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 edward's absence 
 
 The injury to Edith's ankle which, according to the 
 authorized version, had happened on their return 
 from the opera to the hotel, gave more trouble than 
 she had expected, and ten days after its infliction 
 she was still a limping pedestrian. This morning 
 she was whiling away the half-hour that would 
 elapse before the motor took her out with her 
 mother, in a long chair in the strip of shade just 
 outside the drawing-room window, with an unread 
 paper on her knees, hearing rather than listening 
 to Elizabeth's stormy performance on the piano. 
 The agitation that sounded there was not confined 
 to those musical excursions, for ever since that night 
 at the opera there had been something about Eliza- 
 beth that her cousin would have summed up in the 
 word "queer." Had not other circumstances and 
 other people been "queer," too, she would probably 
 have been content to define without analysis. As it 
 was, she had spent a good deal of time during this 
 last week in attempting to penetrate this queernesa 
 of Elizabeth, and seeing if it fitted in with other 
 oddities. And she had come to the uncomfortable 
 conclusion that they w r ere not unconnected. 
 
 Very small phenomena — more remembered now 
 than noticed at the time — had announced, like horns 
 faintly blowing, the train of circumstances that were 
 growing peaked, like a volcano-cone, and promised 
 eruption. Such, for instance, had been her sense 
 
 207
 
 208 ARUNDEL 
 
 that something had happened on the afternoon when 
 Edward had interrupted Elizabeth's practising. It 
 was barely noticeable at the time but it tended to 
 confirm her view of subsequent happenings, which 
 began to take shape and substance in her mind on 
 the evening of the opera. That night Elizabeth had 
 been rather oddly excited, and though an excited 
 Elizabeth was a daily, if do! an hourly, phenomenon, 
 her excitement then had been of peculiar texture. 
 Though not given to -mule-;, it had represented it- 
 self, quaintly enough, to Edith's mind, under the 
 image of Elizabeth holding some young living thing 
 — a puppy or a kitten down in a bucket of water to 
 drown it, while to draw off attention from her em- 
 ploymenl she had been wildly and incoherently talk- 
 ative. At the time it had -truck Edith that her ex- 
 citement was not merely a reaction from the climax 
 of music and drama: she was certainly attempting 
 
 to drown BOmething, and while her tongue was volu- 
 ble with vivid talk her fingers were holding some- 
 thing down, shrinking but resolute. 
 
 Tin- was Qot wholly an affair of memory and in- 
 terpretation; the impression had been conveyed to 
 Edith at the time, and now, taken in conjunction 
 with other events and conclusions, it assumed the 
 importance of a cipher, when a numeral is prefixed 
 to it. And the numeral, without doubt, was Ed- 
 ward. Tor on the night of the opera, after Eliza- 
 beth had gone to her bedroom, Edward hail lingered 
 for a talk, and lie had been as inanimate as Eliza- 
 beth had been vivid, as grey as she had been rain- 
 bowed. He was absent-minded, preoccupied, inac- 
 cessible; he had nothing enthusiastic or enraptured 
 to tell her about the opera which had so stirred his 
 companion, and yet when questioned he said that 
 so far from being disappointed with it it had been 
 magnificent. To her comment that Elizabeth had
 
 EDWARDS ABSENCE 209 
 
 seemed to enjoy it, he had for reply, that "he be- 
 lieved she did." Half a dozen times he had tried 
 to rouse himself, and for a few minutes had pulled 
 himself up by muscular effort, as it were, to a nor- 
 mal level, but as often as he thus exerted himself 
 he fell back again below the surface, below waves 
 and waters. And once more her own image of Eliza- 
 beth trying to drown something occurred to her. 
 Then, again, Edward would ask after her injured 
 ankle, and' not listening to her reply, repeat his in- 
 quiries; he suggested a train for their return next 
 morning to Heathmoor, having himself arranged 
 half an hour before they were to drive down in his 
 ear. Finally, Edith, half-amused, half-piqued with 
 him, had told him that whether he knew it or not, 
 he was tired, and had better follow Elizabeth's ex- 
 ample and go to bed. For a few minutes after that 
 he had roused himself to the performance of the 
 little loverlike speeches, the touches and hints of 
 their relationship. It had never been the habit of 
 either to be demonstrative, but to-night these atten- 
 tions seemed to her purely mechanical things, 
 wooden and creaking, not the result of the fatigue 
 with which she had saddled him. 
 
 Since that night, instead of seeing him, as she was 
 accustomed to do, every evening on his return from 
 town, she had not once set eyes on him. He had 
 telephoned next day that stress of business kept him 
 that night in London (a thing that occasionally 
 happened) but the same stress of business, it ap- 
 peared, had prevented his coming down to his house 
 next door ever since. A Sunday had intervened, and 
 he had merely told her that he was engaged to pay 
 a week-end visit, and this morning a further note 
 had come, saying that a similar engagement pre- 
 vented his coming down on the Saturday that was 
 at hand. It was true that he had written to her
 
 210 ARUNDEL 
 
 with frequent regularity, for every morning pre- 
 sented her with a note from him, but those com- 
 munications were of the most unsatisfactory descrip- 
 tion, with perfunctory regrets for his continued ab- 
 sence, and perfunctory assurances of the impera- 
 tiveness of the employments which detained him. 
 Once he had said that the hot weather had pulled 
 him down from the usual serenity of his health, and 
 visited him with headaches, but her inquiry and 
 sympathy on this point had brought forth no fur- 
 ther allusion to it. He was still staying at the Savoy 
 Hotel, for while work was so heavy it was not worth 
 while getting to Heathmoor late in the evening, only 
 to leave by the early train in the morning. This, he 
 said, would only add further fatigue to a fatiguing 
 day. And he had clearly written in, between lines, 
 "I should not set eyes on you, even. How is your 
 ankle?" 
 
 These notes, as has been mentioned, arrived with 
 regularity, but they were not the only communica- 
 tions received at Arundel from him. Twice, to 
 Edith's knowledge, Elizabeth had heard from him, 
 and, allowing herself now to suspect everything and 
 everybody. Edith imagined that her cousin had 
 heard oftener than that. For the early post was 
 delivered at the house an hour before breakfast- 
 time, and was sent up to the rooms of its various 
 destinations. But a week ago now, Edith, by chance, 
 had come down before its arrival, and when it came 
 had sorted it out herself and seen the neat unmis- 
 takable handwriting; and to-day, in obedience to a 
 definite jealousy and suspicion, she had come down 
 early again, and again found that Edward had writ- 
 ten to her cousin. This time, hating herself for it, 
 yet unable to resist, she had fingered the envelope 
 and come to the conclusion that there were certainly
 
 EDWARD'S ABSENCE 211 
 
 two sheets in it. To neither of these letters had 
 Elizabeth made the slightest allusion. 
 
 There remained to colour, as it were, all these 
 various outlined features with a general "wash" the 
 aspect of Elizabeth, the impression of her. Of Ed- 
 ward she could only judge by the tenor of his notes, 
 and in them he revealed nothing except reticence. 
 But Elizabeth was here, her moods, her appear- 
 ance, her voice, all gave information about her; and 
 if Edward's notes suggested reticence, Elizabeth 
 suggested repression. It required very little knowl- 
 edge of human nature (luckily for Edith, since her 
 acquirements in that supreme branch of knowledge 
 were of the most elementary description ) to see that 
 her mind was beset by some monstrous incubus. 
 Often she sat silent and absorbed, and then, with an 
 effort, would break into a torrent of broken-winged 
 high spirits and gaiety, which presented the ap- 
 pearance of a fair forgery of her normal apprecia- 
 tive pleasure in life. Then, with equal suddenness, 
 she would seem incapable of keeping up this spuri- 
 ous pageant, and in the middle of some voluble ex- 
 travagance she would sink back again into a nervous 
 silence. More than once this change had come on 
 the ringing of the front door bell, which, sounding 
 in the kitchen passage, was clearly audible from the 
 garden. Not once or twice only in this last week 
 had Edith seen her drop suddenly into a restless 
 silence when this innocent harbinger was heard, 
 while with eager and shrinking anxiety she watched 
 beneath dropped eyelids for the appearance of a 
 visitor. Sometimes some such would appear and 
 Elizabeth would soon make an excuse for a visit to 
 the house or a conjecture as to the arrival of the 
 post. 
 
 Now up till the moment of her falling in love 
 with Edward, Edith's potentialities for jealousy had
 
 212 ARUNDEL 
 
 remained practically dormant and sealed up in her 
 nature, the reason presumably being that she had 
 not cared enough about anybody to be able to wake 
 that green-eyed monster, three-quarters fiend and 
 one-quarter angel, from its hibernation. For though 
 jealousy is a passion which at first sight seems 
 wholly ugly and contemptible, it must not be for- 
 gotten that its very existence postulates the pre- 
 existence among its ancestors of love. Love, we 
 may say, represents one of its grandparents; it is 
 always of that noble descent. Or, if it be argued 
 that a passion so utterly mean is wholly larking in 
 the open -hearted trust which so emphatically is in 
 the essence of love, it must at least be conceded that 
 love is in the hand that turns the key or breaks the 
 
 d of the cell where jealousy lies confined, then 
 flings open the door to let the wild and secret pris- 
 oner escape and roam. The love that is lofty, that 
 seeks not its own. will no doubt wring its hands in 
 despair to see what sort of intruder it has set loose, 
 will use its best efforts, shocked at the appearance 
 of this monster, to confine it again ; but without love 
 never has jealousy been allowed to get free, to root 
 about among the springing crops of the heart, de- 
 vouring, trampling, spoiling. And in Edith's case 
 her love had from the first come mixed with the 
 sense and pride of possession ; its first act, while yet 
 new-born, was to set guards round its treasure, sen- 
 tinels to watch. To-day they were wide-eyed and 
 alert. 
 
 From inside the drawing-room came the sound of 
 the galloping squadrons of chord and scale and har- 
 mony; Brahms was working up to one of his great 
 intellectual crises with an attack thought out, bril- 
 liantly manoeuvred, before delivering the irresistible 
 assault. Then quite suddenly the music entirely 
 ceased in the middle of a bar, and there was dead
 
 V 
 
 EDWARD'S ABSENCE 213 
 
 silence. For half a second Edith conjectured the 
 turning of a page, but the half second grew and 
 grew, and it was clear that it was no such mo- 
 mentary halt as this that had been called. Simply, 
 Elizabeth had finished, had broken off in the middle. 
 
 An idea, an explanation leaped into Edith's mind, 
 suggested to her by one of her green-eyed senti- 
 nels, and in her present mental condition, sapped 
 as it was by the secret indulgence of a week's jeal- 
 ousy, she was unable to resist testing the accuracy 
 of her conjecture as she was to resist the demands 
 of her lungs for air. But in pursuance of her ob- 
 ject she waited without moving until the pulse in 
 her clenched hand had throbbed a hundred beats. 
 Then very quietly she got out of her chair and went 
 softly in through the open garden door into the 
 drawing-room. 
 
 Elizabeth was sitting with her back towards her 
 at the writing-table that stood at the far end of the 
 room. As Edith entered the swift passage of her 
 pen ceased, and she sat with her head resting on 
 one hand, thinking intently. Then, taking it up 
 again, she began writing once more. Edith had seen 
 enough for her present purpose, and she took an 
 audible step forward. Instantly Elizabeth turned 
 round, and as she turned she shut the blotting-book 
 on her unfinished letter. 
 
 "Oh, how you startled me!" she said. "I thought 
 somehow you had gone out driving with Aunt 
 Julia." 
 
 Edith sat down. 
 
 "No, the car has not come round yet," she said. 
 "It will be here in a minute. We shall pass the 
 post-office; I will post your letter for you." 
 
 Elizabeth turned farther round in her chair, but 
 her hand still lay on the closed blotting-book.
 
 214 ARUNDEL 
 
 "Oh, I was only just beginning a scribble to fa- 
 ther!" she said. "It will not be ready." 
 
 Edith considered the days of the week; but she 
 felt that she knew it was not to her father that 
 Elizabeth was writing. 
 
 "It will just catch the mail if I post it for you," 
 she said. "Otherwise it will have to wait another 
 week." 
 
 "Then it must wait another week," said Eliza- 
 beth. 
 
 Jealous people never themselves feel the wanton- 
 ness and cruelty of their unconfirmed suspicions; 
 they only know that these are not suspicions at all, 
 but certaintii 
 
 "I noticed that you had a letter from Edward 
 again this nmniiii<:.*' Bhe said. 
 
 Elizabeth slightly shifted the l>l<>tting-book, and 
 Edith registered the fact — for so it seemed to her — 
 that the letter was lying there. 
 
 "Again?" said Elizabeth. 
 
 I" lith felt that she was not being wise. But jeal- 
 ousy is of all pa— i<>ns the most pig-headed; it only 
 says "I must know, I must know!" 
 
 "Yes, you heard from him a week ago." 
 
 Elizabeth, who had been startled by her cousin's 
 entry, was cool enough now. She perfectly under- 
 stood what prompted this catechism. But little did 
 Edith know how gallant a battle was being fought 
 on her behalf by the girl whom she now so utterly 
 distrusted and suspected; little also did she know 
 that which Elizabeth was using her whole strength 
 to conceal. 
 
 Elizabeth laughed; she meant to laugh, anyhow; 
 the effort might pass for a laugh. 
 
 "Yes, I believe I did," she said. "And as for that, 
 I rather fancy you have been hearing from him 
 every day."
 
 EDWARD'S ABSENCE 215 
 
 "Naturally. Did he say in his letter to you when 
 he expected to come down here again? He has not 
 told me that." 
 
 "No, he did not mention it, as far as I remember. 
 He appears to be very busy." 
 
 "He appears to have time to write very long let- 
 ters to you!" said Edith, hatred and resentment 
 flashing out. Till that moment she had not known 
 that she hated her cousin. 
 
 Elizabeth opened her blotting-book, took out of it 
 her unfinished letter, and from under it Edward's. 
 She slipped them into a piece of music that lay 
 there, and, holding it in her hand, stood up and left 
 the table. 
 
 "What do you know about the length of his let- 
 ter to me?" she asked. 
 
 Edith saw her mistake. The instinct that said 
 "I must know, I must know!" had been wonderfully 
 ill-inspired in its notions of how to find out. 
 
 "I happened to take it up ; it was a thick letter," 
 she said, hopelessly trying to efface her steps, giv- 
 ing as reason an irrational excuse. 
 
 "I don't know the thickness of Edward's letter 
 to you," said Elizabeth. "It is no concern of mine 
 how many sheets he writes you." 
 
 She paused a moment. 
 
 "You speak as if you resent Edward's writing to 
 me at all," she added. 
 
 Edith saw that she could get at nothing in this 
 way. Swiftly and unexpectedly she shifted her at- 
 tack, answering Elizabeth's comment by another 
 question. 
 
 "Why does he keep away from Heathmoor?" she 
 said. 
 
 Elizabeth had not been expecting anything of 
 this kind. She winced as from a blow, and had to
 
 216 ARUNDEL 
 
 wait a moment before she could trust her voice to 
 be steady. 
 
 "Has he not told you?" she asked. "I thought it 
 was work during the week, and a couple of visits 
 for the Sundays that he is away." 
 
 Two instincts were dominant in Edith — love and 
 jealousy, inextricably intertwined, disputing for 
 mastership. Love and its yearning anxiety — a cord, 
 so to speak, of which jealousy held the other end, 
 pulled her here. 
 
 "But it's so strange of him," she said: "and his 
 letters are strange! I don't understand it at all. 
 Can't you help me to understand, Elizabeth? You 
 are so much cleverer than I! Has it anything to do 
 with music?" 
 
 There was no mistaking the sudden and piteous 
 sincerity of her tone. Half a minute ago she had 
 been all anger, all hate, all suspieion. Now she ap- 
 pealed tn her whom she had hated and suspected. 
 
 Elizabeth felt her eves grow suddenly dim. 
 
 "If I were yon. I wouldn't worry. Edith!" she said. 
 "I should be quiet, not let my thoughts run away 
 with me. and — and trust that everything is all 
 right." 
 
 "Then there is something wrong?" asked Edith. 
 
 "I didn't say that. I didn't mean to imply it. 
 Take it that he is busy, that he has visits he feels he 
 must pay. Why should he conceal things from you? 
 Why should you assume there is anything to con- 
 ceal?" 
 
 Edith instinctively shrank from making the di- 
 rect accusation which all this week her jealousy 
 had been dinning in her ears so that her head rang 
 with it. Elizabeth would simply deny it, but it 
 would put her on her guard (here jealousy was busy 
 to prompt) and the chance of finding out more 
 would be lost. Her emotion had narrowed and en-
 
 EDWARDS ABSENCE 217 
 
 feebled the scope and power of thought; she could 
 make no plan. 
 
 "I am very unhappy," she said simply. 
 
 Elizabeth took a step towards her. 
 
 "I am sorry for that, dear," she said. "But — but 
 don't make yourself unhappy. Don't contribute to 
 it." 
 
 The expected summons came, and even as the 
 wheels of the motor crunched the gravel Lind 
 sounded the gong and Mrs. Hancock entered. The 
 household books had proved at least a sovereign less 
 than she had expected, also the coral necklace with 
 the pearl clasp had come back from the jeweller's 
 in its new case, with Edith's initials on it. She felt 
 that these two delightful phenomena were somehow 
 dependent on each other; the money she had spent 
 on the new case seemed to be returned to her by the 
 modesty of the household books. 
 
 "Dearest, are you ready?" she asked Edith. "Let 
 us start at once and we can go round by the old 
 mill. And what delicious tunes you have been play- 
 ing, Elizabeth, my dear. Edward will think you 
 have got on when he hears you again. Why, you 
 hardly limp at all this morning, Edith ! I knew that 
 the lotion I gave you last night would make you 
 better." 
 
 Mrs. Hancock settled herself among her cushions. 
 She had lately got a new one, rather stiff and resist- 
 ing, which admirably supported the small of her 
 back. The footstool from the stores continued to 
 give complete satisfaction. 
 
 "And such a lovely day!" she said. "Just not too 
 hot! Oh, what a jolt, and yet I hardly felt it at all 
 with my new cushion. I see there has been a dread- 
 ful accident in a Welsh colliery. So sad for the poor 
 widows and families! What a lot of misery there 
 is in the world. But, as Mr. Martin says, we should
 
 218 ARUXDEL 
 
 not dwell on it too much, for fear of dimming our 
 sense of thankfulness for all our blessings. And Ed- 
 ward? Have you heard from Edward? When is 
 that naughty boy coming back? You will have to 
 scold him, dear, for neglecting you while he absorbs 
 himself in making money. There! Did you not 
 hear the cuckoo just say Tuck'? — there is a rhyme 
 about it. Yes, Edward IS really quite greedy, stop- 
 ping up in London like this to make money. Yet, 
 after all, dear, you musl consider that he is work- 
 ing for you, making himself rich for you." 
 
 Edith turned round sharply, so sharply, in fact, 
 that her mother was startled, for sudden movements 
 were not characteristic of her. 
 
 "Do you really think that is all, mother?" she 
 said. "And if so, how about the Sundays? He was 
 not here last Sunday, and he i^ not coming down 
 for next Sunday." 
 
 "But what do you mean. Edith?" asked Mrs. 
 Hancock. "You have not had a quarrel <>r any- 
 thing?" 
 
 What Edith could not say to her cousin was pos- 
 sible now. 
 
 "No, we have not quarrelled," she Baid. "But 
 what if he doesn't even care to quarrel? What if 
 he has ceased to care at all? Or" — it came out with 
 difficulty — "or if he cares for somebody else?" 
 
 Mis. Hancock was sufficiently disturbed not to 
 call attention to another cuckoo, that, in defiance 
 of the rhyme, was still gifted with complete speech. 
 
 "But what a wild and dreadful idea!" she said. 
 "Have you any reason for supposing so?" 
 
 So far could Edith go. But she could not tell her 
 mother that she had definite suspicions that affini- 
 ties, attractions had begun to exert their force be- 
 tween her lover and Elizabeth. The chief feeling 
 that kept her silent was pride. The confession
 
 1 
 
 EDWARDS ABSENCE 219 
 
 would be humiliating; she would be acknowledging 
 herself as having failed to feed the affection she had 
 inspired. Her love for him, genuine though it was, 
 and the best of which her nature was capable, was 
 not large enough to make her drown herself. She 
 still kept her own head above water, not guessing 
 that it is through the drowning, the asphyxiation of 
 self, that the full life of love is born. A second 
 cause of reticence, less dominant, was her belief in 
 Edward's loyalty. It was overlaid with suspicion, 
 which, ivy-like, covered it, and thrust pushing ten- 
 drils between the stones of its solidity, but beneath 
 all this rank growth it was still there. She did not 
 yet quite soberly believe all that she suspected. She 
 sat silent a moment, to her mother's huge discom- 
 fort, weighing her pride in the balance and confusing 
 it with her loyalty. 
 
 "If it were not for his absence I should not have 
 any reason," she said. "But I don't understand his 
 absence." 
 
 The gospel according to Mr. Martin w r as of the 
 greatest assistance on this point. 
 
 "Then, my dear, dismiss it altogether," said Mrs. 
 Hancock, with relief. "Why, it was that very point 
 that Mr. Martin spoke of last Sunday. Ah! I re- 
 member; you could not go to church because of 
 your ankle. But he told us that we ourselves w r ere 
 responsible for most of our own unhappiness, and 
 that if we only determined to feel cheerful and thank- 
 ful w r e should find the causes of thankfulness being 
 multiplied round us. Was it not a coincidence that 
 he preached on that very subject? One can hardly 
 call it a coincidence; indeed, one feels sure there 
 must have been some purpose behind it. W T hat 
 lovely sunshine, is it not? ,, And there is the old 
 mill. So picturesque! Tell Denton to stop a mo- 
 ment and let us look at it."
 
 220 ARUNDEL 
 
 A pause was made for the contemplation of this 
 particular cause for thankfulness, and Mrs. Hancock 
 put up her parasol to temper the other. 
 
 "Well, that is nice!" she said. "Shall we drive 
 on? I have never heard Mr. Martin more con- 
 vincing and eloquent, and I'm sure he practises what 
 he preaches, for he has always got a smile and a 
 pleasant word for everybody. So dismiss it all from 
 your mind, dear, and I'll be bound you will find 
 Edward coming down here before many days are 
 past, just the same as ever, showing how right Mr. 
 Martin is, for your cheerfulness will be rewarded. I 
 see nothing odd in his having to stop up in town all 
 the week; and as for his going away for a couple of 
 Sundays to see his friend?, what could be more natu- 
 ral? You would not wish him to be without friends, 
 I am sure, or to shirk the claims of friendship. And 
 since you said that his absence was your only 
 ground for your dreadfully foolish idea, I think we 
 may consider that we've disposed of that. Now let 
 us look about us and enjoy ourselves. Oh, there's 
 a windmill ! How its sails are going round ! " 
 
 Mrs. Hancock cast a slightly questioning glance 
 at her daughter to see if Mr. Martin's wonderful 
 prescription was acting at once, like laughing-gas, 
 and, finding that Edith still sat serious and silent, 
 proceeded to administer other fortifying medicines. 
 
 "He has often told us to busy ourselves with plans 
 and thoughts for others," she said. "And there, 
 again, how he practises what he preaches: he has 
 had the dining-room repapered, since Mrs. Martin 
 thought it was a little gloomy, and has given her 
 the most beautiful new carpet for her sitting-room. 
 And I'm sure I've never been happier in my life 
 than this summer, with all your future, dear, to plan 
 and scheme for, and with Elizabeth as well to think
 
 • 
 
 EDWARD'S ABSENCE 221 
 
 about. I must say I haven't had a moment to think 
 about myself, even if I had wanted to." 
 
 Her kind face beamed with such smiles as Mr. 
 Martin considered to be symptomatic of the Chris- 
 tian life. 
 
 "I've got a plan about Elizabeth," she said, 
 "though it's a secret yet. But I should like to tell 
 you about it. I am thinking of making a proposal 
 to Elizabeth and suggesting that she should not go 
 back to India as early as October. There is no great 
 affection between her and her stepmother, and I ex- 
 pect she often feels very lonely and unhappy there, 
 with no music and, as far as I can judge, only sol- 
 diers to talk to. Dear Elizabeth! I think she is 
 enjoying our quiet life at Heathmoor. I dare say 
 that after those dreadful wildernesses and jungles in 
 India it seems to her one round of excitement and 
 pleasure and parties and operas, all given her free. 
 Indeed, I have a further plan still, which will make 
 her quite wild with pleasure, I am sure. I am think- 
 ing of asking her to come with me to Egypt, and I 
 have written to ask Uncle Bob about it, just to see 
 if he will allow it before I say anything to her. Of 
 course, he would pay for her journey — and, indeed, 
 it is all on the way to India — and her hotel expenses. 
 But I should not dream of charging her for her 
 share of our sitting-room, if we have one. I shall go 
 shares with Edward in that, and I dare say the 
 servants at the hotel would not expect her to tip 
 them!" 
 
 Mrs. Hancock's plans for other people always ne- 
 cessitated a certain amount of interpretation ; it was 
 important to look at them from her point of view. 
 Here the interpretation was easy. It had occurred 
 to her that she would be rather lonely when Edith 
 and Edward left after their marriage, and that in 
 Egypt it would be pleasant to have somebody in
 
 222 ARUNDEL' 
 
 constant attendance on her, since the other two, 
 presumably, would want to make all kinds of expe- 
 ditions that she herself might not care to join in. 
 She liked Elizabeth's vitality and fervour, finding it 
 stimulating. This point she touched on next. 
 
 "I declare Elizabeth is as good as a tonic," she 
 said, "with all her high spirits and gaiety, though 
 for the last ten days she has ooi been quite so lively. 
 I dare say it is the hoi weather, though, to be sure, 
 she ought to be used to that. Here we are, on the 
 heath again. We shall be at home in ten minutes. 
 How quickly we have come! Well, my darling, I do 
 think I have managed to disperse your clouds for 
 you this morning. I don't think Edward's absence 
 will give you any more anxiety now that we have 
 talked so fully about it. There is nothing like talk- 
 ing a thing thoroughly over. Y<>u will -re that it 
 will not be long before his stress of work is finished. 
 Perhaps he is making quantities and quantities of 
 money, for I hear that Bometimes on the Stock Ex- 
 change people make fortunes in quite a short time. 
 Would not that be exciting?" 
 
 Mrs. Hancock, as has been seen, had a great be- 
 lief in the imitative instinct, which she interpreted 
 by means of her own. To her it meant that if she 
 herself felt thoroughly content and happy, it was 
 certain that those round her would feel happy too, 
 for she diffused happiness. In the same way, if 
 she felt very well she knew that she diffused a spirit 
 of health. It was a comfortable belief (like all the 
 clauses of her creed), and she would have been quite 
 incredulous if she had been told that all she had 
 done was to accentuate Edith's suspicions by her 
 allusion to Elizabeth's diminished liveliness, and to 
 depress her thoroughly at the thought of Elizabeth 
 joining them on the Egyptian tour. And had Edith 
 known how Elizabeth had been spending this last
 
 • 
 
 EDWARD'S ABSENCE 223 
 
 hour while her mother had been so rich in uncon- 
 vincingness, she would have known how solid her 
 suspicions really were. 
 
 The girl had gone up to her bedroom after the 
 motor had started in order to be secure against any- 
 further interruption, and had again read through 
 the letter she had received from Edward that morn- 
 ing, which, as Edith had ascertained, contained two 
 sheets. She heard his voice in the pleading sen- 
 tences; it seemed to her as she read, with eyes that 
 ever and again were too dim to decipher the words, 
 that he was actually talking to her. And she could 
 not interrupt him, argue with him as she would 
 have done if he had been here; she had to fight the 
 cumulative effect of those close-written lines. He 
 besought her to allow him to come down, for it was 
 at her instance that he stayed away, and tell Edith 
 all. He scouted as childish the idea that absence 
 could make any difference, that he could forget 
 what she had called "the excited madness of that 
 evening." Above all, again and yet again, with a 
 lover's clamorous iteration, he begged her to see 
 him. 
 
 Elizabeth sat with this letter in front of her for 
 a long time after she had finished reading and re- 
 reading it, letting her tears have their way with her. 
 In strange guise had the soft god come to her, girt 
 about with bitterness and impossibilities. She raged 
 at herself for loving him; she reviled this torturing 
 demon that others found so sweet, but how she 
 longed for the changed, transfigured aspect that he 
 burned to show her. Once, for mere relief of heart, 
 she filled a page with scrawled words of love, only 
 to tear it up again, and once she filled another page 
 with useless denials, with cold assertions that Ed- 
 ward was nothing to her, that she was perfectly in- 
 different to him. That, too, was fruitless; he knew
 
 224 ARUNDEL 
 
 she loved him, and even if she could have convinced 
 him that it was not so, she could not have brought 
 herself so to convince him to deny the most sacred 
 truth that she had ever known. She could no more 
 have done that than she could accept the love which 
 brought misery on another and rose from the ashes 
 of a broken promise. If there was no binding force 
 in loyalty all ties were dissolved. 
 
 After a while her sobs grew quieter, and she tore 
 up the letter she had begun to him when Edith, that 
 morning, had come in from the garden. Till then, 
 Elizabeth had not known that her cousin suspected 
 anything, that she had begun to put the real con- 
 struction on Edward's absence. Now it was neces- 
 sary to quiet those suspicions, to let Edward know 
 also, in a way she could not convey by letter, that 
 while Edith claimed his promise, that promise could 
 not be broken for any reason whatever. Nothing 
 in the world seemed so certain as this. Edith must 
 voluntarily give him up before . . . Then she care- 
 fully erased that sentence. That contingency was 
 not to be thought of yet. 
 
 Elizabeth felt utterly weary and confused and 
 heart-sick. Obstacles, menacing and monstrous, 
 faced her in whichever direction she turned. Per- 
 haps Edward's presence would only confirm and 
 strengthen Edith's suspicions, and lead her to the 
 certainty which she suspected. Yet if Edward con- 
 tinued to be absent, that would lead to a break on 
 his side, at his initiative, and it was that above all 
 that must be avoided. If he threw her over, said he 
 could not marry her, the hosts of hell and heaven 
 combined would not be able to bring Elizabeth to 
 him. She could not take what by right was Edith's 
 against Edith's will. It was possible, and more than 
 possible, that Edith might see he did not love her, 
 and not release him only, but bid him begone. And
 
 EDWARD'S ABSENCE 225 
 
 yet Edward had never loved her, while she, loving 
 him in her own manner, had been content with his 
 liking and friendly intimacy. When she knew that 
 his heart had been awakened, but not for her, would 
 she still desire that moonlight, when his sun had 
 risen on another land? Elizabeth, as she finished 
 her letter to Edward, felt that she had not the slight- 
 est idea. 
 
 The letter got written, and no word of tender- 
 ness or love appeared in it; it might have been 
 penned by some fossil of a family friend and written 
 in prehistoric ink, for if she had not written like that 
 there was but one other way in which she could 
 write to him, and she would have said, "I am com- 
 ing to you." The thinnest partition, but a partition 
 the most impenetrable, insulated her from him. On 
 this point her will stood utterly firm. In this short, 
 dry note she did not attempt to argue the question ; 
 she merely told him that he must come down at 
 once, and put an end to Edith's intolerable sus- 
 picions. "But for you to break your engagement 
 to her will not bring me one step nearer you," were 
 the concluding words. Whether she was acting 
 wisely or not, whether there was not some step she 
 could take later that would be cleverer, more tact- 
 ful, she could not consider. The situation was sim- 
 ple enough, and they had to wait for Edith to de- 
 cide its solution. 
 
 The thing was done; that cold, hard little sen- 
 tence that finished her letter was written. All this 
 last week of his absence she had wondered whether 
 her will would stand firm enough to enable her to 
 tell him that, and to make no other answer to his 
 pleading. She knew that when he came down, as 
 he assuredly would on the next day, she would be 
 obliged to see him, to let him in justice state the 
 case for himself. But she had now her own word
 
 226 ARUNDEL 
 
 to bind her; she would be able, by memory, to re- 
 capture the spirit of the moment when she wrote 
 it. It was her definite decision, and the knowledge 
 of it would fortify her. She would need it, she felt, 
 when she was face to face with him and her over- 
 whelming need of him. 
 
 A resolution taken and embedded in the mortar 
 of fact always gives relief, even if a death-sentence 
 is involved in it. The acute edge of suspense is re- 
 moved, and when Elizabeth, having posted her let- 
 ter, strolled out again into the garden, she was con- 
 scious of a certain tranquillity, to which for the last 
 ten days she had been an utter stranger. She did not 
 suppose that there was anything more than a lull 
 in the tempest; she knew that it must again howl 
 and buffet round her, but even as on the night after 
 the opera, she had felt a momentary calm as she 
 looked at the moonlit flood-tide, so now she was 
 given another respite. But now she felt securer ; she 
 had gained a little ground, she could look out over 
 the contention and estimate the odds against her 
 as less desperate. 
 
 It was just here she had walked on the dewy 
 morning, in ecstasy of unreflecting happiness, when 
 the instinct to give thanks to Some One first came 
 to her. To-day she saw the triumphant riot of mid- 
 summer under a noonday sun, and she, no less than 
 the garden, was surrounded by the burden and heat. 
 The dew and freshness had faded from the cool 
 petals, and the heavy heads of the roses drooped on 
 their stems. But with brimming eyes and bitten lip 
 she encouraged herself to exhibit a sturdier pluck 
 than they. She would not yield, she would not hang 
 her head, she would, whatever the issues might be, 
 be grateful to the power that had come into her 
 soul, the power to love. Ignorantly, ten days ago, 
 she had thought that sufficient; now, with greater
 
 
 EDWARD'S ABSENCE 227 
 
 knowledge, she wondered whether her ignorance had 
 not told her right, after all. Then it seemed to mat- 
 ter nothing so long as she loved; now, just for a 
 little while, she knew it mattered nothing. She 
 caught a glimpse, as of snow-peaks behind storm- 
 clouds, of a reality so lofty, so serene, that she al- 
 most distrusted her eyes. 
 
 Suddenly her mind sped on its magic flight to the 
 low white house at Peshawar, from which so often 
 she had lifted her eyes up through the heat-haze 
 to the quivering lines of eternal snows, to the stead- 
 fast peaks that rose above all dust and storm-cloud, 
 and she smiled as she recognized by what associa- 
 tion of ideas her mind had winged its way thither. 
 The gardens there would be withered in the heat, 
 but she yearned for the scene where life had been 
 so unperplexed. Above all, she yearned for her 
 father, who even now retained the simplicity of 
 youth; she yearned for his comradeship, his wis- 
 dom, his patience, his sympathy. She could have 
 told him all the trouble so easily and confidently; 
 she could hear him say, "Lizzie, dear, I am so sorry, 
 but, of course, you had to do just what you did." 
 She could have argued with him, taking the side 
 of her longing and love, telling him that nothing 
 could be counted or reckoned with against the fact 
 that she and Edward loved each other. And again 
 she could hear him say, "My dear, I know you don't 
 think that really." And then she could have said, 
 "No, no, I don't mean it," and have sobbed her 
 heart out against that rough homespun jacket which > 
 he wore in the garden. 
 
 The garden! At the end was a low wall, over 
 which one night she had vaulted, when, just out- 
 side, lay the dying Brahmin, to whom a beggar's 
 death by the wayside, needy, indigent, was a 
 triumph that transcended all telling, was the find-
 
 228 ARUNDEL 
 
 ing of that which all his life he had sought. His 
 eyes, already dim in death, were open not upon 
 death, but life. He had renounced all the fair 
 things that the world offered to find something in- 
 finitely fairer. Round him, tired, hungry, dying, the 
 banner of some stupendous triumph waved. 
 
 How had he reached that? By seeking. 
 
 And how had he sought? By renunciation. 
 
 And what had lie found? Life. 
 
 The moment had worn the vividness and splen- 
 dour of a dream, and Elizabeth was again conscious 
 of the heavy-headed flowers and the noonday heat. 
 The wheels of the motor scraped on the grave] 
 sweep at the other side of the house, and in an- 
 other minute she would be plunged back in the 
 deeds and the needs of every day. But she no 
 longer felt s<» utterly alone and desolate; far behind 
 the storm she had Been the snows, and for a mo- 
 ment the moonlight had shone on the face of the 
 dying Brahmin. There was Borne tie between them 
 all, something that expressed itself in the peace of 
 the gnat Bilence, and in the vision of the dying 
 eyes, and — was she not right in hoping? — in the 
 choice she had just made. There was one thread 
 running through them, there was a factor common 
 to them all. 
 
 And here was Mrs. Hancock coming into the gar- 
 den. 
 
 "My dear, is it wise to be out in this sun without 
 a hat?" she asked. "You have had a nice quiet time 
 for your practising, haven't you? I was telling Edith 
 that I felt sure Edward would think you had got 
 on, when he comes down here again."
 
 » 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 Edward's return 
 
 Elizabeth's letter to Edward had pressed upon him 
 an immediate return to Heathmoor, at the cost of 
 his week-end engagement, if such existed. To them 
 both the desire of their hearts for each other had 
 been revealed on that night of the opera, as chaos 
 suddenly made manifest by a flash of lightning, and 
 on all considerations it had been more decent and 
 wise that he should absent himself. But, as Eliza- 
 beth had foreseen, this absence could not indefinitely 
 continue, since it implied absence from Edith as well 
 as herself, and was but of the nature of a temporary 
 measure, to give breathing-space and time for re- 
 flection. She had told him, but not with confidence, 
 that absence would restore his legitimate allegiance ; 
 poor girl, she had but little trust herself in the mild- 
 ness of that prescription, which was, so to speak, but 
 a dose where the knife was called for. In any case, 
 Edith's revealed suspicions had rendered his return 
 necessary. Whatever the solution of that knot into 
 which the heart-strings of three young folk were 
 tangled, it must be dealt with by his presence here. 
 For both girls the interval before he could an- 
 swer, whether his reply was an argued negative to 
 Elizabeth or an affirmative announcement to Edith, 
 passed in acute discomfort, that rose and fell, like 
 the ebb and flow of the physical pain of some deep- 
 seated mischief, into crises of anguish and numb 
 reactions. There was not an employment, there 
 
 229
 
 230 ARUNDEL 
 
 was scarcely a topic of conversation that did not 
 conduct them sooner or later to an impassable road, 
 where was a red flag and a danger signal. The hours 
 passed in broken conversation and aching silences, 
 with Edith sentinelled about by her fears and jeal- 
 ousies, Elizabeth torn with longings, and hearing 
 amid the troubled peace of her renunciation voices 
 that accused her of bitter cruelty to herself and to 
 him and poured scorn on the tragic folly of her re- 
 fusal. Twenty times that day she felt she could 
 barely resist the need of telegraphing to him, can- 
 celling her Letter, and, acceding to his imperative 
 desire, of simply taking the next train up to town, 
 going to him, and Baying, "I have come." But her 
 will renounced him still, and her will still dominated 
 her deeds. And all the time she know that Edith 
 watched her with Bidelong glances that were quickly 
 removed when her own eyes met them. Sometimes 
 
 it seeinrd that Edith musl speak, so intense was the 
 
 miserable strain, but she always shied away at the 
 
 last moment. Over those palpitating duellists, who 
 
 never quite came to blows, presided Mr-. Hancock, 
 
 unconscious ami bland, foolish and voluble. She 
 had experienced a moment's discomfort this morn- 
 ing, when Edith spoke to her of Edward's continued 
 absence, but, as Mi - . Martin would have her do, she 
 dismissed it with complete success from her mind, 
 telling herself that .-he had quite cleared it all up, 
 and made Edith comfortable again. The obvious 
 constraint that hung over the two girls she merely 
 refused to admit into her mind. It might batter 
 and ring at the door, and there was no need for her 
 even to open that door a chink, and assert that she 
 was out. She sat and knitted at her crossovers, and 
 in the evening played patience, refusing to hear the 
 signals of distress and trouble. Next day came a 
 telegram from Edward to Edith announcing his ar-
 
 EDWARDS RETURN 231 
 
 rival at half-past seven that evening, and asking, 
 or rather supposing, that he might dine with them. 
 It was delivered at lunch-time, and Edith, as she 
 tore it open, glanced at Elizabeth opposite, and saw 
 the sudden whiteness of her face, saw that she sat 
 with her fork half-raised to her lips, then put it back 
 on her plate again, that she waited with hand 
 pressed to the table to control its trembling. His 
 message gave rise to debate, for Mrs. Hancock and 
 Edith were engaged to dine at the Vicarage that 
 night, and a small solitary dinner had already, three 
 hours before, been ordered for Elizabeth. There 
 was to be a slip, a lamb cutlet — quite enough and 
 not too much. 
 
 "Of course, it would be natural," said Mrs. Han- 
 cock, "to ask him to come and have a little dinner 
 with you, dear Elizabeth, and then you could amuse 
 ypurselves by playing to each other afterwards till 
 Edith and I returned. And then Edith and I could 
 have made an excuse to get away perhaps at 
 ten, or even five minutes before. But now your 
 dinner is ordered; it is very provoking, and Mrs. 
 Williams " 
 
 Edith interrupted, watching Elizabeth narrowly. 
 Her jealousy seemed to have divided itself into two 
 camps. Part (and for the moment this was the 
 stronger) allied itself with this scheme; if Eliza- 
 beth and Edward had an evening together, things 
 (if there were things) would declare themselves; 
 there would be an answer to that eternal question, "I 
 want to know; I want to know!" 
 
 "That's a delightful plan, mother," she said; "and 
 surely Mrs. Williams has got some cold beef. Ed- 
 ward says nobody can need more than plenty of 
 cold beef for dinner. He and Elizabeth will enjoy 
 an evening together; they will talk over the opera
 
 232 ARUNDEL 
 
 and play. And we shan't be obliged to hurry back 
 from the Martins'." 
 
 This rather diabolical speech hit its mark. Eliza- 
 beth blushed furiously as she heard the yapping 
 bitterness in Edith's voice. And it was not only 
 with the rush of the conscious blood that her face 
 flared; anger flamed at the innuendo, the double 
 meanings. 
 
 "In fact, I needn't reply to Edward's telegram at 
 all," said Edith, "and he will naturally come here 
 for dinner." 
 
 Elizabeth looked up at her cousin. At the mo- 
 ment she completely and fervently hated her. 
 
 "Oh. that wouldn't do, Edith!" she said. "Ed- 
 ward would come over here all anxiety to Bee you, 
 
 and find only me. He would be horribly disap- 
 pointed and make himself very disagreeable, I 
 shouldn't wonder if he went straight hack to Lon- 
 don again." 
 
 That was the first pass of the naked swords be- 
 tween them; ■ day they had doI come to the 
 touch of the steel, and the first bout was distinctly 
 in Elizabeth's favour. Elizabeth had not parried 
 
 only, she had attacked. And yet it was only with 
 foolish words that could not wound that she had 
 thrust. Had Edith only known, her cousin was 
 fighting for her with a loyalty that was as divine 
 as it was human, and calling on the loyalty of her 
 lover to be up in arms. But her assault, with its 
 sharp double meaning, only gratified a moment's 
 laudable savagery and she instantly turned to her 
 aunt. 
 
 "Oh, Aunt Julia," she said, "I should so like an 
 evening alone. Do tell Edward you are out; he can 
 be here all Sunday. I want to write to Daddy and 
 I want to practise. Not play, but practise." 
 
 "Well, it would put Mrs. Williams out," said Mrs.
 
 
 EDWARD'S RETURN 233 
 
 Hancock, "to know that she had to provide dinner 
 for Edward as well, for as for letting him eat noth- 
 ing but cold beef, I think she would sooner leave 
 my service than do that. Edward is a great favour- 
 ite with Mrs. Williams. Indeed, where she would 
 get provisions I don't know, for it's early closing, 
 and even such shops as we have here are shut. I 
 think your plan is the best, dear, and your father 
 wouldn't like not to hear from you, and then there's 
 your practice as well. I'll write a note to him. Has 
 everybody finished? And which of you would like 
 to drive with me this afternoon?" 
 
 Elizabeth, conscious of her own loyalty, did not 
 in the least mind having another thrust at her 
 cousin. Edith had provoked her; Edith should take 
 the consequences — the superficial ones. She turned 
 to her. 
 
 "It will be a good punishment for Edward," she 
 said, "to find that you are out. You will be pay- 
 ing him back in his own coin for keeping away so 
 long. Perhaps he will come round after you get 
 back. If I were you I should say I was tired and 
 would not see him." 
 
 Edith looked at her with her real anxiety, making 
 anxious, imploring signals. Elizabeth saw and dis- 
 regarded them. 
 
 "Of course, it would be the worst punishment of 
 all for him," she said, "if you let him come round 
 expecting to find you and he found only me alone 
 with my lamb-cutlet. But you mustn't punish him 
 as much as that, Edith. It would be too cruel." 
 
 Mrs. Hancock had passed out of the dining-room 
 on the quest for the longer paragraphs in the Morn- 
 ing Post, and for a moment the two girls faced each 
 other. Elizabeth was still quivering with indigna- 
 tion at Edith's first wanton attack, the attack which 
 sounded so friendly and pleasant a salutation and
 
 234 ARUNDEL 
 
 which both knew was so far otherwise. And if 
 Edith only knew what wrestlings, what blind 
 strivings after light Elizabeth had undergone for 
 her. . . . 
 
 "Don't scold him too much," she said. "He is 
 so nice. I love Edward! Shall I drive with Aunt 
 Julia this afternoon, or would you like to?" 
 
 Elizabeth ran upstairs to her room and locked 
 herself in. Already she was sick at heart for her 
 barren dexterity. She had pricked Edith with her 
 point, made her wince, startled her into miserable 
 silence. And what was the good of it all? It did 
 not even for the moment allay the Bavage anguish of 
 her own wound. She threw herself on her^bed and 
 sobbed. 
 
 By soon after eight she had finished her dinner 
 and was sitting in the drawing-room, neither writ- 
 ing to her father nor practising. For the last half- 
 hour she had had one overpowering sensation in her 
 mind, which absorbed the active power of thought, 
 and spread itself like a dense enveloping mist, ob- 
 scuring all other perceptions — namely, the knowl- 
 edge that in the house next door Edward sat alone, 
 or perhaps walked in the garden, longing to catch 
 sight of her over the low brick wall. She, too, would 
 have spent this hour of darkening twilight outside 
 but for fear of seeing him, or more exactly but for 
 the longing to see him which she must starve and 
 deny. No doubt she would have to see him, have 
 to listen to his pleading; but it was part of her 
 resolve that she would use all her will to hold her- 
 self apart. But the thought of him possessed her, 
 and she could not concentrate her mind enough even 
 to attempt to practise or to write her overdue letter. 
 It had taken all her nervous force to arrive where 
 she was; now, like a bird after the flight of migra- 
 tion, she had to rest, to let the time go by, without
 
 EDWARD'S RETURN 235 
 
 stirring up her activities ; for any activity she roused 
 seemed to be directed from the cause of purpose 
 that excited it, and to be sucked into the mill-race 
 that but ran the swifter for an added volume of 
 awakened perception. 
 
 Soon mere inactivity became even more impos- 
 sible than employment, and she opened the piano. 
 The wonder of music, which his love had so magi- 
 cally quickened in her, perhaps would not desert 
 her even now, and she set herself to study the in- 
 tellectual as well as the technical intricacies of 
 Brahms' variations on the Handel themes. If she 
 could give them any attention at all, she felt she 
 could give them her whole attention; it was im- 
 possible merely to paddle knee-deep in that pro- 
 found and marvellous sea; you had either to swim, 
 or not enter it at all. She bent her mind to her 
 work, as a man bends the resisting strength of a 
 bow. She would string it; she willed that it should 
 bend itself to its task. 
 
 How marvellous was this artistic vision! To the 
 composer, the theme was like some sweet, simple 
 landscape, a sketch of quiet country with a stream, 
 perhaps, running through it. Then he set himself 
 to see it in twenty different ways. He saw it with 
 gentle morning sunshine asleep over it; he saw it 
 congested with winter, green w T ith the young growth 
 of spring, triumphant in the blaze of summer, and 
 gorgeous with the flare of the dying year. He saw it 
 with rain-clouds lowering on its hills and swelling 
 its streams with gathered waters; he saw it under- 
 neath the lash of rain, and echoing to the drums of 
 thunder; he saw it beneath the moonlight, and 
 white w T ith starshine on snow. 
 
 Suddenly Elizabeth held her hands suspended 
 over the keys, and in her throat a breath suspended. 
 Through the maze of melody she had heard another
 
 236 ARUNDEL 
 
 sound, faint and tingling, that pierced through the 
 noise of the vibrating strings. A bell had rung. 
 Hearing it, she knew that unconsciously she had 
 been listening for it with the yearning with which 
 the eyes of the shipwrecked watch for a sail. 
 
 There were steps in the hall, a few words of in- 
 distinguishable talk, and she turned round on her 
 music-stool and faced the door. It opened, whis- 
 pering on the thick carpet, and Edward stood there. 
 
 In silence he held out both hands to her, and she 
 rose. But she did not advance to him, or he to her. 
 
 She felt her lip trembling as she spoke. 
 
 "You should not have come," she said. 
 
 "You told me to come." 
 
 "But not to me. I told you to come to Edith." 
 
 He sat down in a chair near her. 
 
 "You have got to hear what I have to say," he 
 said. "You have not heard it yet," 
 
 "Yes; you have written to me. I have answered 
 you." 
 
 "I can't express myself in writing. I can only 
 write symbols of what I mean." 
 
 "I understood your symbols very well. I am sure 
 you understood mine." 
 
 It seemed to her that the real struggle had only 
 just begun. Even as he had said, what he wrote 
 had only been symbols compared to the awful reality 
 of his presence. The short, sharp sentence that each 
 had spoken rang with keen hostility; in each love 
 was up in arms, battling, as with an enemy, for a 
 victory that must be hard won. 
 
 "You speak as if you hated me for coming," he 
 said. "If you do, I can't help it." 
 
 She raised her eyes to him. 
 
 "Oh, my dear, don't make it harder for me," she 
 said. "It's hard enough already. I can't bear much 
 more."
 
 EDWARDS RETURN 237 
 
 "I am going to make it as hard for you as I pos- 
 sibly can," said he. "I don't care what it costs you, 
 so long as I convince you." 
 
 "You won't even convince me." 
 
 "I shall try my best. I believe your happiness 
 as well as mine is at stake." 
 
 He paused a moment, and his voice, which had 
 been low and quiet, like hers, suddenly raised itself. 
 
 "I want you!" he cried. "Oh, can you know what 
 it means to want like that? I don't believe you 
 can, or you could not resist. Do you realize what 
 has happened? how, by a miracle of God-sent luck, 
 we two have found each other? And you think that 
 there can be an obstacle between us! There can't 
 be! There is nothing in the world that is real 
 enough to come between us. You do love me. I 
 was wrong when I said I didn't believe you knew 
 what it meant to want. When, for one moment, you 
 clung to me, you knew. You were real then; you 
 were yourself. But since then you have held up 
 a barrier between us. I am here to tear it down." 
 
 "You can't tear it down," said Elizabeth. 
 
 "You shall tear it down yourself. I didn't know 
 what love meant when I got engaged to Edith ; that 
 was because I hadn't seen you. Oh, I know, two 
 years ago I had set eyes on you, but I hadn't seen 
 you. It was obvious that I couldn't love just be- 
 cause I hadn't seen you. I couldn't unlock my heart 
 without the key. And you were the key. Elizabeth, 
 oh, Elizabeth, I worship you! Oh, my darling, what 
 is the use of torturing me as you have been doing 
 during these awful days! You won't go on — you 
 won't!" 
 
 He had left his chair and was kneeling before her, 
 with his hands clasped together on her lap. As he 
 had said, his written words were but symbols com- 
 pared to the reality; they were but as pictures of
 
 238 ARUNDEL 
 
 flames compared to the burning of authentic fire, 
 as splashes of paint compared to actual Bunshine. 
 She could not speak just yet; only with the quiver- 
 ing semblance of a smile and eyes that were bright 
 with tears could she answer him. But she did not 
 shrink from him, nor move, and Bhe laid her hands 
 on his. 
 
 "Edward!" she said at last, and again, ''Edward!" 
 
 Against some inward weight of unacknowledged 
 conviction he allowed himself to hope, and, bending, 
 he kissed the hands that lav on his. Not now, even, 
 did she shrink, for Bhe could not. It was as much 
 as she could do not to respond. And she could not 
 respond. 
 
 "You see, then?" he whispered. "At last you 
 see!" 
 
 He looked up and faced the tender, inexorable 
 love in her ey< 3. 
 
 "I see more clearly than ever." she said. "Plea 
 dear, don't interrupt me. Not by word or by look 
 even. I can't marry you unless — unless Edith vol- 
 untarily gives you up. I can't. I can't accept love 
 that can be mine only through your disloyalty, 
 through your breaking a promise you have given. 
 And I can't let you take my love on those terms. 
 It would kill love; it would kill the most sacred 
 thing there is. No; loyalty is as sacred. And you 
 mustn't ask her to set you free. Love can only give, 
 only give — it cannot ask for itself." 
 
 He got up. wild with impotent yearning, inflamed 
 to his inmost fibre. 
 
 "But are you flesh and blood!" he cried, "or are 
 you some — some unsubstantial phantom that does 
 not feel?" 
 
 She rose also with fire of loyalty to meet his fire 
 of passion, and flung out her words with a strength 
 that more than matched his violence.
 
 EDWARDS RETURN 239 
 
 "No, I am flesh and blood," she said, "and you 
 know that I love you. But love is holier to me 
 than to you. I can't love you differently. We can 
 never come together while a single thread of loy- 
 alty, of common honour, has to be snapped to let 
 us." 
 
 He interrupted. 
 
 "Trust your heart, my darling," he said; "only 
 trust that!" 
 
 "I do trust it. And I trust yours. You know you 
 are battling with not me alone, but yourself. There 
 is something within you that tells you I am right." 
 
 "My cowardice. Nothing more. My fear of un- 
 pleasant things for which my real self does not care 
 two straws." 
 
 She shook her head at him; then advanced and 
 laid her long hands on his shoulders. 
 
 "It is just your real self that does care," she said. 
 "Oh, my dear, I do not mean it is your false self 
 that loves me. But it is your false self that has 
 been urging me to-night. Edward" — and again her 
 lips so trembled that she could scarcely speak — 
 "Edward, I don't want to spare you one moment 
 of the wretchedness that has come upon us, nor 
 would I spare myself. If we were not suffering so, 
 we should not love so. All our suffering is part of 
 our love. I don't know why it has happened like 
 this, why God didn't allow us to meet sooner. And 
 that doesn't concern us. It is so. What does con- 
 cern us is not to graft our love on to disloyalty and 
 unfaithfulness. It is in our power to do right. I 
 can't deliberately choose to find happiness for you 
 or for me in a crime." 
 
 "Crime!" 
 
 "Yes, the worst sort of crime, for it is one that is 
 a crime that we should commit against each other. 
 I don't think" — and a shadow of a smile hung round
 
 240 ARUNDEL 
 
 Elizabeth's mouth — "I don't think I should feel so 
 very bad if I murdered some one whom I hate. But 
 in this I should be murdering all that is best in the 
 man I love." 
 
 "You are talking wildly!" he said. "Murder! 
 What nonsense!" 
 
 "I never spoke more deliberately," said she 
 
 Again he was stunt: to a frenzy of impotence. 
 
 "And you admit you love me!" he cried. "You 
 admit it!" 
 
 "But of course. Don't — don't be so silly!" 
 
 "But I can't do it. I can't let you go!" he broke 
 out again. '"And would you have me marry Edith, 
 you. who talk about the sacredi I loye?" 
 
 Elizabeth pushed Kim gently away from her. 
 
 "I don't know. I haven't had room in me to think 
 about that." she -aid. "It has taken inc. well — all 
 
 my time to think about us." 
 1 [e was silent a moment. 
 
 "Do you think she will let me no. when she 
 know-'.'" he asked. 
 
 "I think she does know. At least I think she 
 gu< 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "I can't tell. But I think she loves you. I am 
 sure she loves you. And it is hard to let go a person 
 one loves." 
 
 "It's impossible!" he cried suddenly. 
 
 "She may find it bo." 
 
 "I wasn't thinking of her." -aid he. 
 
 He stretched out his arms wide and towards her. 
 
 "Elizabeth!" he cried. 
 
 She wavered where she stood. Never yet had the 
 balance hung so evenly, as when now he made his 
 final appeal to her. wordless except for her own 
 name, for into that his whole soul went. She felt 
 dragged to him by a force almost irresistible. From
 
 EDWARD'S RETURN 241 
 
 him and her alike for the moment all the ties and 
 considerations of loyalty and honour were loosed; 
 he knew only his overmastering need, she, the in- 
 tensity of a woman's longing to give herself. Had 
 the choice been then for the first time to be made, 
 she would have flung herself to him. But the force 
 of the choice she had made before had already made 
 itself firm within her. 
 
 "No, no, no!" she said, and the words were drops 
 of blood. Then once more she had power to turn 
 from him. 
 
 She went back to the piano to close it, and me- 
 chanically shut up the music she had been playing 
 from. Then, though she had heard nothing, she 
 felt that some change had come into the room. 
 From the edge of the field of vision she saw that Ed- 
 wan I had turned towards the door, and she looked. 
 The door was open, and Edith stood there. 
 
 Elizabeth let the piano-lid slip from her hands, 
 and it fell with a bang and jar of wires. 
 
 "You are back early," she said. "At least it is 
 early, is it not? Has Aunt Julia come back?" 
 
 "No. I telephoned for the car, and left almost 
 immediately after dinner. My ankle began to hurt 
 again." 
 
 The reaction after her struggle had begun in 
 Elizabeth. Though it was for Edith's advantage she 
 had done battle, it was not for Edith's sake, and the 
 sight of her cousin suddenly filled her with bitter 
 resentment. She felt perfectly sure also that this 
 reason for her return was wholly fictitious ; she had 
 come back like this for an entirely different pur- 
 pose. Elizabeth feigned an exaggerated sympathy. 
 
 "Oh, I am so sorry," she said, "and surely, Edith, 
 it is madness to stand like that. I am sure you are 
 in agonies. Of course you will go to bed at once. 
 Shall not I ring for Filson? And then I will tele-
 
 242 ARUNDEL 
 
 phono and ask Dr. Frank to come round imme- 
 diately. Is it very had? Poor dear! But anyhow 
 you have the pleasure of Beeing Edward. You did 
 
 not expect to find him here, did you*.' Did you?" 
 
 (loaded and Belf-aCCUSed of a foolish attempt at 
 deceit. Edith turned to her. 
 
 "Yes, I did." she said, "I thought it extremely 
 probable." 
 
 "Ah. and can it hav» for the sake of finding 
 
 him here as much as for the sake of your ankle, 
 which I Bee you -till continue to stand on. that you 
 came hack? Edward, do you hear? Edith expect* d 
 tn find you hei 3 she is not disappointed. And 
 I'm Mite her ankle feels much better." « 
 
 It was Bcarcely possible to believe that this j< 
 ing, scoffing girl was the Bame who five minute- I 
 
 fore pleaded with her lover with BUCh womanly 
 strength, such Bplendid Belf-i q, or that she 
 
 could have thus battled for the rigjits of her whom 
 she now so bitterly taunted. And indeed the mi 
 identity of Edith waa but a casual accident; Eliza- 
 beth had ranged herself on the side of a principle 
 rather than the instance of it. For the rest, after the 
 scene in which she had called upon every ounce of 
 her moral force to aid her. she had nervously, en- 
 tirely collapsed with a jar like that of the fallen 
 piano-lid. Then her collapse spread a little farther; 
 the angry tire that burned in her for this pitiful 
 subterfuge went out. and. Bwaying as she stood, she 
 put her hands before her eyes. 
 
 "I'm giddy!" she .-aid. "I'm afraid I'm going to 
 faint!" 
 
 Edward took a quick step towards her, but she 
 waved him aside and fell on to the sofa. Edith 
 looked at her without moving. 
 
 "You will be all right if you sit still a moment," 
 she said, "and then I think it is you who had better
 
 EDWARD'S RETURN 243 
 
 go to bed. As Edward is here, I want to talk to him 
 privately. Leave her alone, Edward; she is better 
 left alone." 
 
 lie paid no attention to this, and went to the sofa. 
 
 "Can I do anything for you?" he said. "Can't I 
 gel you some water, or some brandy?" 
 
 Elizabeth sat up. 
 
 "I shall be all right," she said. "I will just sit 
 here a minute or two. Then I will go. Edith wants 
 to talk to you. She — she has not seen you for so 
 
 Slowly her vitality returned, and with it for the 
 second time that day the aching sense of the use- 
 lessness of her bitter, ironical words to her cousin, 
 of the sheer stupidity of their wrangle. If Edith 
 chose to tell a foolish tale about her ankle, it con- 
 cerned nobody but herself. It did not matter, for 
 one thing only in the world mattered. And with re- 
 gard to that, for the present, she felt a total apathy. 
 She had done her part ; nobody, not even herself, 
 could require anything more of her. She felt hugely 
 and overwhelmingly tired, nothing more at all. She 
 got up. 
 
 "I shall take your advice. Edith, arid go to bed," 
 she said. "If there is anything you want to tell me 
 afterwards, please come up to my room. Good- 
 night, Edward!" 
 
 Not till her steps had passed away up the stairs 
 did either of the two others speak. Edith's face, 
 firm, pretty, plump, showed not the slightest sign of 
 emotion. She stood in front of the empty fire-place, 
 waving her feather fan backwards and forwards op- 
 posite her knee, looking at it. 
 
 "I think you had better tell me what has hap- 
 pened," she said. "Or if you find a difficulty in 
 doing that I w T ill tell you. You imagine that you 
 have fallen in love with Elizabeth."
 
 244 ARUNDEL 
 
 An answer seemed superfluous. After a little 
 pause she apparently thought so too, and went on, 
 still in the same quiet, passionless tone. 
 
 "I have often watched you and her," she said. 
 "She has used her music as an instrument to en- 
 courage you and draw you on " 
 
 "That is not so!" said Edward. 
 
 "Of course you arc bound to defend her. It is 
 manly of you, and what I should expect from you. 
 But that does not matter." 
 
 "Yes, it does matter/ 1 said ho. "Throughout the 
 fault has been entirely mine. You have got to be- 
 lieve that. You do not understand her at all if you 
 think ntherw \» 
 
 "I do not want to understand Elizabeth. Her na- 
 ture and mine are BO far apart that I do not attempt 
 t<» understand her. What is perfectly clear to me is 
 that she knew that you and I were engaged, and she 
 has tried t<» come between us. So far I understand 
 her, and for mo that is far enough." 
 
 Edward looked at her. Half an hour ago he had 
 wondered whether Elizabeth was flesh and blood. 
 New he wondered if Edith was. 
 
 "You are absolutely mistaken about her," he said. 
 "It is she who has been unswervingly loyal to you. 
 The disloyalty has been entirely mine. I know I 
 cant make you believe it. but it is so." 
 
 Edith met his eye looking at her steadily with- 
 out tremor. 
 
 "Yes, you can make me believe it, if you ask me 
 to release you from your engagement to me," she 
 said. "Do you do that?" 
 
 The waving of her fan ceased as she waited for 
 his answer. She stood absolutely still, a marvel of 
 self-control. 
 
 "No, I don't ask that," he said. "All the same,
 
 * 
 
 EDWARD'S RETURN 245 
 
 you must believe what I tell you about your 
 cousin." 
 
 "And if I can't?" 
 
 "I will force you to. I will tell you what hap- 
 pened on the night of the opera; I will tell you why 
 I have kept away all these days. I will even show 
 you the letter from her that brought me back. You 
 will have to believe." 
 
 For the moment nothing seemed to matter to 
 him except that Edith should believe this, and in 
 the silence that followed he watched her face, and 
 marvelled at the change that came there. It was 
 as if it was possible to Bee the belief penetrating 
 into her brain, and transforming her features, even 
 as the thaws of the spring penetrate into the con- 
 gealed ground, softening its outlines and bedewing 
 the spear-heads of frozen grass with moisture, that 
 percolates and liquefies the ice-bound tussocks. 
 Even so, Edith, frozen with jealous hate for Eliza- 
 beth, melted at the words the truth of which it was 
 impossible to doubt, for the nature of the proofs 
 he offered was the guarantee for them. She had to 
 believe. And this unfreezing melted her; the crust 
 of her hardness was dissolved, and pitiful impera- 
 tive yearnings welled up from the very springs of 
 her, that pierced and flooded the ground that had 
 been sealed to their outflow. As far as her will went, 
 she banished her bitterness and blame of Elizabeth ; 
 she was herself alone with her lover and her love, 
 that was more adamantine than this mere frozen 
 surface of hatred and jealousy had been. Till that 
 crust was dissolved, the inner springs could not flow; 
 now it was melted and they flooded her. 
 
 Her fan dropped unregarded at her feet, and she 
 clasped her hands together. 
 
 "I believe you," she said. "It is you who — who 
 are responsible. But you don't ask me to release
 
 246 ARUNDEL 
 
 you. That is well, for — for I can't release you. You 
 can refuse to marry me, I suppose. A man can 
 always do that if he has made a girl love him and 
 has asked her to marry him." 
 
 He did not answer, and she went on winding and 
 unwinding her fingers. 
 
 "You see I love you," she said, "and I can't let 
 you go. And only a few weeks ago you liked me 
 enough anyhow to want me to marry you. You 
 thought you would be very well content to live with 
 me always. I think that was about it. And I felt 
 much the same towards you. Then immediately, 
 when I found you wanted me, I began to love you. 
 And I love you more and more. Before that noth- 
 ing in the world had meant anything to me. Even 
 if you asked me to let you go, I could not." 
 
 Still he said nothing, and she came up close to 
 him, treading on her fan and breaking the ivory 
 sticks of it. 
 
 "It would be simply impossible for me," she said. 
 "Do you think that by my own act I could give you 
 up, and let you many Elizabeth — as I suppose you 
 would do?" 
 
 She pointed through the open window at his 
 house next door. 
 
 "Could I see you living there with her?" she 
 asked. "Hear the gate clang as you went in on your 
 return in the evening? See the lights lit in the 
 house and quenched again at night, and know you 
 were there with her, and that I had permitted it? 
 Never, never! You can refuse to marry me, if you 
 will; that is your affair. But don't, Edward, don't!" 
 and her voice broke. 
 
 He felt utterly humiliated by her sudden entreaty. 
 It was pitiful, it was intolerable that she whom he 
 had sought light-heartedly with a view to comfort 
 and quiet happiness and domestic peace should
 
 • 
 
 EDWARDS RETURN 247 
 
 abase herself to him, asking that he should not 
 withdraw so paltry a gift. He had known and liked 
 and admired her for years, and had offered her, not 
 knowing how cheap and shabby was his devotion, 
 what was wholly unworthy of her acceptance. In 
 return now she gave him unreservedly all she had, 
 all she was capable of, only asking that his rubbish 
 should not be taken from her. 
 
 And now as he sat there, full of cold pity for her, 
 full of scorn for himself that he should give her 
 pity and be unable to give her warmth, she knelt to 
 him, clasping his knees. And her beseeching, so 
 grovelling, so abandoned, seemed only to degrade 
 him. Knowing now that he knew what love was, 
 how royal was the gift she brought him, he saw 
 himself bankrupt and abject, receiving the supplica- 
 tions of some noble petitioner. 
 
 With streaming eyes and voice that choked she 
 besought him. 
 
 "Just give me what you can, my darling," she 
 said, "and oh, how content I will be! It is so short 
 a time ago that you thought I could make you 
 happy, and I can — believe me, I can. I was not 
 worthy when you asked me first, but I have learned 
 so much since I began to love you, and I am worthier 
 now. You have always liked me, we have always 
 been good friends, and you will get over this sud- 
 den infatuation for Elizabeth. I will be so good 
 about that; I won't be jealous of her. It wasn't 
 your fault that you fell in love with her; I will never 
 reproach you for it. We shall be so happy together 
 very soon; she will go back to India and you will 
 forget. I will do anything except give you up ! " 
 
 Once or twice he had tried to interrupt her, but 
 she swept his words away in the torrent of her 
 entreaties. But here for a moment her voice ut- 
 terly choked, and he put his arm round her, raising
 
 248 ARUNDEL 
 
 her, dragging her from her knees. Weeping hys- 
 terically, she clung to him, burying her face on his 
 shoulder, and all the tenderness and kindliness in his 
 nature came to him. 
 
 "My dear, don't talk like that," he said, sooth- 
 ing her, "and don't cry like that. Dry your eyes, 
 Edith; there is nothing to cry about." 
 
 "Tell me, then," Bhe Bobbed, "what are you going 
 to do with me?" 
 
 Still with his arm about her he Led her across the 
 room to the sofa where, half an hour ago, Elizabeth 
 had fallen. There was qo possibility of choice left 
 him, and he saw thai clearly enough. He could not 
 break a promise made to one who Loved him, the 
 strength of whose love he had not even conjectured 
 before. Undemonstrative and reticent by nature, 
 Edith had never yet ahown him her heart, nor had 
 he known how completely it was his. There was no 
 
 struggle any more; there was left to him only the 
 self-humiliating task of comforting her. 
 '"( rod knows I will give you all I can," he said. "I 
 
 will do my best to make you happy. But, my dear, 
 don't humiliate me any more. I know that you are 
 giving me all a woman can give a man. And it is 
 sweet of you to forgive me; I don't deserve to be 
 forgiven. There, dry your eyes. Let me dry them 
 for you. Never, never, I hope, will you cry again 
 because of me." 
 
 Edith's sobbing had ceased, and with a woman's 
 instinct she began to repair with deft fingers the 
 little disorder of her dress. 
 
 "Oh, I will love you so, my darling!" she whis- 
 pered. "We shall be happy; I know we shall be 
 happy. And when I give you the best gift of all, 
 when I give you a child, and another child . . . ,: 
 
 "Yes, yes, I know 7 ," he said. "And how their gran- 
 nie will love them!"
 
 EDWARD'S RETURN 249 
 
 She shrank away from him a moment at this. He 
 had said anything that might comfort and quiet her, 
 which came to his tongue. 
 
 "And how we shall love them!" he added quickly. 
 "There, you look more yourself." 
 
 Still leaning on him, as if loth to let him go, she 
 turned her tear-stained face round to the mirror 
 above the sofa. 
 
 "Ah, but what a fright!" she said. "I shall just 
 go and wash my face and then come back to you. 
 Mother will be in any minute now. And I shall 
 look into Elizabeth's room, shall I not? She — she 
 said she wanted to know." 
 
 The sounds of the arrival of the motor hastened 
 her departure upstairs, and next moment Mrs. Han- 
 cock came in. 
 
 "Well, it is nice to see you, my dear!" she said. 
 "But I can't say it's a surprise, for I told Edith I 
 was sure you would look in. But where's Edith? 
 And where's Elizabeth?" 
 
 Edward shook hands. 
 
 "Elizabeth went to bed half an hour ago," he said. 
 "She was not feeling very well. Edith has just gone 
 upstairs. She was going to look in and see how she 
 was." 
 
 Mrs. Hancock sat down to her patience-table. She 
 always played patience when she had been to a 
 party, to calm herself after the excitement. 
 
 "Isn't that like my darling Edith!" she said. "For- 
 getting all about her ankle, I'll be bound, and even 
 about you, though you mustn't scold her for it. She 
 will have told you that her ankle began to pain her. 
 Fancy! There is a second king already. Ring the 
 bell, dear Edward, I must have a little lemonade, 
 and no doubt you would like a whisky and soda. 
 Another ace — how provoking!" 
 
 Mrs. Hancock had a tremendous belief in her own
 
 250 ARUXDEL 
 
 perspicacity, and, looking at the young man, came 
 to the very distinct conclusion that something had 
 happened. His voice Bounded rather odd, too. 
 Simultaneously she caught Bight of the wreck of 
 Edith's fan on the floor. Her remarkable powers 
 of imagination instantly enabled her to connect this 
 deplorable accident — for Edith was usually so care- 
 ful — with whatever it was that had happened. Per- 
 haps there had beeD a little tiff over Edward's long- 
 continued absence. She Bummoned up all her tact 
 and all her optimism. 
 
 "Why, if that isn't Edith's fan!" Bhe Baid. "She 
 must have dropped it and stepped on it. Or it 
 would be more like Elizabeth i" step on it. And 
 what a long time you have been away. Edith v. 
 almost disposed to blame you for that, until she 
 and I had a good talk together. 1 told her it would 
 never ^\^ for you to neglect either your business or 
 
 your friends. Once Mi'. Hancock was away from 
 
 me for a mouth, when there was either a slump or a 
 boom in the markets. Dear me. how the old words 
 come back to one, though I'm sure I forget what 
 
 fchey mean! Baa it beeD a -lump or a boom, dear 
 Edward, all this last fortnight?" 
 
 "Oh. everything has been pretty quiet," said he 
 absently. He could barely focus his attention 
 enough on what Bhe was saying to understand her. 
 Upstairs Edith had gone in to sec Elizabeth — to tell 
 her what had happened 
 
 "I sec,'' said Mrs. Hancock, with great cordiality. 
 "And so yon have had to watch things very care- 
 fully. Such a pleasant dinner at Mr. Martin's, and 
 a great deal of wise and witty talk. And I have 
 such a lovely plan for Elizabeth, which I shall tell 
 her about to-morrow, so there's no reason why I 
 should not tell you now. I mean to let her stay with 
 me after you have taken my darling away, all Octo-
 
 
 EDWARD'S RETURN 251 
 
 ber and November, and come with me to Egypt, so 
 that we shall all meet again, our happy little party. 
 I have just heard from her father, who, of course, 
 will pay for her travelling expenses, and he is quite 
 agreeable, if Elizabeth likes. I quite look forward 
 to telling her; she will go mad with joy, I think, for 
 imagine a girl seeing Egypt at her age! I am very 
 fond of Elizabeth; she is lively and cheerful, though 
 I think she has felt the heat this last fortnight. So 
 affectionate, is she not? And I'm not sure she 
 doesn't like her Cousin Edward best of all of us." 
 
 This amazing display of tactful conversation, de- 
 signed to take Edward's mind off any little tiff that 
 he might have had with Edith, demanded some 
 kind of appreciation from him. 
 
 "I should be delighted to know that Elizabeth 
 liked me," he said. 
 
 "You may be sure she does. Such a common in- 
 terest you have, too, in music. Ah ! here is Edith ; 
 and my patience is coming out in spite of that hor- 
 rid ace which blocked me so long. We were talking 
 about Elizabeth, clear, and I was telling Edward 
 how fond she is of him." 
 
 The poor lady had touched the limit of his en- 
 durance. 
 
 "I think I must be getting to bed," he said. 
 
 "Not wait and chat while I have my lemonade? 
 Well, dear, it is nice to see you again, and I have no 
 doubt that Edith will see you out, and lock the door 
 after you, so that I need not ring for Lind again. 
 Edith, my darling, your fan! Who could have 
 stepped on it? Was it Elizabeth? And has your 
 ankle ceased to pain you?" 
 
 Edward followed Edith out into the hall. There 
 was no repressing his anxiety to know. 
 
 "Did you see her?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes. Oh, Edward, I have been wronging Eliza-
 
 252 AHIXDEL 
 
 beth so. And I am sorry. She told me she didn't 
 care for you, not one scrap. It — it had never en- 
 tered her head. I asked her forgiveness for havi 
 had Buch dreadful thoughts about her. I don't km 
 how I thoughl bo. It has made me quite happy. 
 You Bee, she never thought of you. And Bhe kissed 
 me and forgave me." 
 She lifted her face to his. 
 
 "She told me to tell you," Bhe said. "She " 
 
 Edward kissed her quickly and Btepped out into 
 the black, cloud-shadowed night.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 THE TELEGRAM 
 
 Mrs. Hancock was distinctly aware when, three 
 days afterwards, she started in her motor for a drive 
 with Elizabeth, that in order to live worthily up to 
 Mr. Martin's pattern of the thankful, cheerful ( Chris- 
 tian life, she had to keep a very firm hand on her- 
 self and nail her smile to her pleasant mouth. In- 
 deed, for these last few days she had to set before 
 herself an ideal not of cheerful, but of grinning 
 ( liristianity. Like a prudent manager, however, 
 she had steadfastly saved up as an all-conquering 
 antidote to the depression and queerness which 
 was so marked in Elizabeth, her joyful plan that 
 should give the girl a month more of Heathmoor 
 and her own undivided society and a reunited tour 
 in Egypt afterwards at Colonel Fanshawe's expense. 
 The prospect of that, she felt sure, could not pos- 
 sibly fail to restore to Elizabeth her accustomed 
 exhilaration and liveliness. 
 
 Meantime Mrs. Hancock had carefully forborne 
 to ask either of the girls (for Edith also had ex- 
 hibited symptoms of queerness) what was ailing 
 with the serenity of life. It fitted in with the cheer- 
 ful gospel to know as little as possible about worry- 
 ing and annoying topics, lest their infection should 
 mar the soothing and uplifting influence over others 
 of a mind wholly untroubled. Two inquiries only 
 had she made (and those were from Edward), which 
 elicited the comfortable fact that the event of the 
 
 253
 
 254 ARUNDEL 
 
 8th of October still remained firm, and that he had 
 not lost any money in the City. After that she 
 firmly shut her eyes to any possible cause of trouble, 
 and though one (and that the com et one) actually 
 
 od immediately in the foi ad of her mental 
 
 vision, she by long practice in obedience to Mr. Mar- 
 tin's gospel had reached a pitch of absolute perfec- 
 tion in the feat of mental eye-closing, oven as a 
 child frightened by the dark can by an effort of will 
 shut out terrifying possibilities by the sponding 
 
 physical feat, or firmly bury it- head under the bed- 
 clothes. 
 
 But her victory over these subtle influences of 
 gloom and general oddity hail net been gamed with- 
 out effort. It had been distinctly hard to maintain 
 an equable cheerfulness with Elizabeth. Sometimes 
 
 for a little the nil 1 was quite herself witli a short- 
 lived flood of high-spirited talk; sometimes from 
 her Bitting-room Mrs. Bancock would hear a flight 
 of brilliant song-birds on the piano. But then sud- 
 denly the flood would cease fr pouring, and the 
 
 flight fail in mid-air. Once just after a silence had 
 
 fallen on the ringing air -lie had come into the draw- 
 ing-room to find Elizabeth sitting with her hands 
 still resting on the keys, and her head bowed for- 
 ward over them. Her assertion that she was not ill 
 carried conviction; her denial that anything was 
 the matter was less easy of belief. But she said it, 
 and since successful inquiry might lead to disturbing 
 information, Mrs. Hancock fell back on the unim- 
 peachable genera] duty of trusting everybody com- 
 pletely and in particular of believing what Elizabeth 
 said. 
 
 But it required an effort to remain perfectly com- 
 fortable, for she was surrounded with people who 
 did not appear to be so, and Edward, so it seemed 
 to her, though he had lost no money and was going
 
 
 THE TELEGRAM 255 
 
 to marry Edith on the 8th of October, seemed to 
 have been drawn into what she looked upon as a 
 vicious circle — vicious since it was wrong, positively 
 wrong, not to be happy and comfortable. She was 
 not quick or discerning in the interpretation of 
 symptoms, nor, indeed, when she suspected that 
 anything was amiss, quick to see symptoms at all. 
 But through her closed eyelids, so to speak, there 
 filtered the fact that Elizabeth altogether avoided 
 looking at Edward, but that he observed her with 
 furtive, eager glances, that somehow seemed dis- 
 appointed in what they sought. Also, though Eliza- 
 beth took spasmodic and violent spells at the piano, 
 she never played in the evening when Edward was 
 there, but had evinced a sudden desire to learn 
 the new patience which Mrs. Hancock had found 
 in a ladies' paper. Mrs. Hancock did not so much 
 wonder at that, for this particular mode of killing 
 time was undoubtedly of thrilling interest, and she 
 almost thought of buying Elizabeth a little patience- 
 table for her birthday, which occurred in October. 
 She intended in any case to look out the article 
 in question in the catalogue from the stores and 
 see how much it cost. There would be no harm in 
 that, and if it cost more than she felt she could man- 
 age, why, there would be no necessity to say any- 
 thing about it. But then an admirable notion struck 
 her — her own table was getting a little rickety; it 
 shook when she put cards down on to it. Also it 
 was rather small for the great four-pack "King of 
 Mexico," which she had fully determined to learn 
 this autumn. So Elizabeth should have her old 
 table, and she would get a new one of size No. 1 
 (bevelled edges and adjustable top). That it was 
 even more expensive did not trouble her, and she 
 impressively told herself that she would not have 
 dreamed of buying it had it not been that she
 
 250 ARUNDEL 
 
 wanted to give dear Elizabeth a present. In fact, 
 though she bought it apparently for herself it was 
 really Elizabeth for whom this great expense was 
 incurred. And all these rich and refreshing rewards 
 — namely, another month at Heathmoor, instead of 
 the cobras and deserts of India, a tour in Egypt, 
 and the most expensive patience-table at the stores 
 — she would announce to her fortunate niece as they 
 went round by the old Mill. Bow all the look of 
 trouble and depression would fade from dear Eliza- 
 beth's face as she Listened to the announcement of 
 those delicious joys, one after the other. Mrs. Han- 
 cock felt a sudden gush of thankfulness to the kind 
 disposition of Providence thai had ghdowed her 
 with the ample income which she was so eager to 
 spend in securing the happiness of others; and even 
 while, without Belf-conscious commonplace, she felt 
 herself blessed in such opportunities and the will 
 to take advantage of them, she could not help feel- 
 ing how true it was that kindness and thought for 
 others is bo laden with gain for oneself. For she 
 herself would have a new patience-table (size No. 
 1, with bevelled edges), a delightful companion 
 throughout October, after Edith had left her, while 
 Elizabeth's father would pay her expenses in Egypt. 
 She could not help feeling also how much more 
 Christian and how much more Martincsque it was 
 to stifle, smother, and destroy whatever might be 
 the cause of Elizabeth's trouble by this perfect 
 shower of causes for happiness, rather than inquire 
 into it and thus run the risk of being herself un- 
 settled and made uneasy. But it had certainly re- 
 quired an effort; she had to put firmly out of her 
 mind not only Elizabeth's possible worries, but also 
 the remembrance of the evening when she had come 
 back from dinner with the Martins, and thought 
 Edward's voice had sounded odd, and seen Edith's
 
 THE TELEGRAM 257 
 
 fan lying broken on the floor. That had never been 
 explained. Edith had said subsequently that she 
 supposed she must have stepped on it, but it was 
 very odd she should not have noticed it, for the 
 breaking of all those ivory sticks musl have made 
 quite a loud snap. Meantime the gong that heralded 
 the arrival of the motor had Bounded quite two 
 minutes and Elizabeth had not yet appeared. Mrs. 
 Hancock thought she would just speak to her on 
 the subject of punctuality, and then wipe all im- 
 pression of blame away by the recital of these 
 prospective benefits. Elizabeth was not downstairs, 
 and it was just possible that she had not heard the 
 gong; Lind was told to sound it again. 
 
 Elizabeth heard it the second time that it boomed, 
 and rose from where she knelt by her bed, by the 
 side of which five minutes ago she had flung her- 
 self, following, so it seemed to her, some blind in- 
 stinctive impulse. That morning there had broken 
 over her a storm of rayless despair. For a couple 
 of days after her final rejection of Edward, when 
 Edith's absolute determination not to give him up 
 voluntarily had been known to her, the apathetic 
 quiet of the step taken, of deliberate renunciation, 
 had been hers. But it had not been, and the poor 
 girl guessed it, the peace that is always eventually 
 not only the reward but the consequence of self- 
 abnegation, but only the exhaustion that follows a 
 prolonged mental effort. Edith's choice, apart from 
 the tremendous significance it had for herself, was 
 incredible and monstrous to her nature. She did 
 not question the fact that Edith loved Edward, but 
 the notion of love not seeking the happiness of 
 the beloved was to her inconceivable. She could 
 not understand it, could not in consequence have 
 the smallest sympathy with it. But this she had 
 to take and did take on trust, and let depend on it
 
 258 ARUNDEL 
 
 her own unalterable decision — that decision that, as 
 far as she could sec took the sun bodily out of her 
 own life. From mere weariness she had found in the 
 dull acquiescence in this an apathy that had for a 
 couple of days anesthetized her. Against this insen- 
 
 BitiveneS8, knowing that it was valueless, she had 
 
 made pitiful little struggles, seeking now to estab- 
 lish sonic kind of Bympathy and renewal of intimacy 
 with her cousin, now to rouse herself to feel in 
 music the passion with which it had inspired her. 
 Instead, for the pit nut, she found -he had a shrink- 
 ing abhorrence of it. It- beauty had become re- 
 mote, and from its withdrawn eminence, its unas- 
 sailable Bnow-peaks, it mocked her. It did m< 
 than mock: it reminded her of all it had done for 
 
 her, how through it Bhe and Edward had been 
 
 brought together, to stand now close to each other, 
 embracing, overlapping, yet with a thin, unmeltable 
 between them. 
 Then in due course had come the recuperation 
 
 of her vital forces, and Bhe had awoke this 
 
 morning after l^wj; and dreamless Bleep to find that 
 the anaesthesia of her mind had passed off. F<>r 
 a couple "f minutes perhaps Bhe had lain still in 
 the delicious consciousness of i I vigour, and 
 
 of delight in the new freshness of the early day. 
 Then as she became fully conscious of herself 
 again, Bhe found that what had been recuperated 
 in her was but her capacity for Buffering, and the 
 blackness of a vivid despair, bright black, not dull 
 black, fell on her, more black because she knew that 
 it was a darkness of her own making. A word 
 from her to Edward would scatter it and let loose 
 the morning. She had no doubt of that, no doubt 
 that he, at her bidding, would break the fetters of 
 his promise that bound him as easily as if they had 
 been but a wisp of unwoven straw. She told her-
 
 THE TELEGRAM 259 
 
 self and, what was the more persuasive, she could 
 hear his voice telling her that she was committing 
 a crime against love, that she was refusing and bid- 
 ding him profane the most sacred gift of all. She 
 told herself that she was a fool to listen to any 
 voice but that which sounded so insistently, but 
 there was yet a voice, still and small, that was 
 steadfast in its message to her. It was qoI that she 
 cared one jot for the ordinary external consequences 
 of a disobedience to that; she guessed that there 
 would be a consensus of opinion in her favour if 
 she disobeyed. No doubt they would say it was 
 a deplorable accident that she and Edward had 
 fallen in love with each other, but once the acci- 
 dent had happened it was best to make the best 
 of a regrettable situation. The young man had 
 never been in love with poor Edith; he had but 
 fallen a lukewarm victim to the influence of pro- 
 pinquity and Mrs. Hancock. Certainly it was very 
 sad for Miss Hancock, but she was young, she would 
 get over it, and probably end by making quite a 
 good marriage. 
 
 Elizabeth cared little for either the approval or 
 condemnation of the world in general. The thought 
 of it was remote and stifled and insignificant. But 
 it was Edward who called to her, called loud, called 
 closely and low, and she must be deaf not to listen 
 to him, not hear him even. At whatever cost she 
 had to approve of herself. 
 
 Black, empty aching, an intolerable loneliness. 
 She had but one desire, apart from the desire of 
 her heart, and that was to escape from it all, to go 
 away as quickly as possible, to be out of sight of 
 what she might not contemplate. Far away, across 
 leagues of hot ocean and miles of plain baking from 
 the summer solstice, was her father. No one else 
 in the world did she want to see, to no one else — if
 
 260 ARUNDEL 
 
 even to him — could she pour out her woe. He would 
 comprehend, would approve, she knew, of all she 
 had done, not blaming her for letting love bo com- 
 pletely envelop her, ool praising her rejection of 
 it, but simply seeing even as Bhe had seen, in Lone- 
 liness and heart's anguish, thai there was no other 
 course possible. She knew thai as thoroughly as if 
 she had already opened her whole heaii to him. 
 
 There was a letter already written which Bhe 
 
 had not yel posted; now Bhe opened it and added 
 
 a postscript: ther, dear," -lie wrote, 'i am 
 
 awfully awfully unhappy, ami can't write to you 
 
 aboul it. Bui when you gel this, please send me 
 a telegram Baying you want me home at once. Trust 
 
 me that tin- i- u iser. Don'1 delay, dear daddy." 
 
 The pen dropped from her I • she had 
 
 re-directed her letter, and she sat quite still look- 
 ing blankly at it. She had told Edith she did not 
 love Edward, that sic had never thought of him 
 like that. If there could be di in this abjeel 
 
 wretchedness, hers was a depth unplumbable. Yei 
 this colossal lie Beemed to her q< try. Edith, 
 believing that her cousin loved Edward, yet refused 
 to release him of her own will. So she was to have 
 
 him. she must he given what was already her8, hand- 
 somely, largely. It would he wicked, even at the 
 cost of this denial, to give him her witli a stab, so 
 to speak. 
 
 Emptiness, utter loneliness self-ordained. She 
 must tell Bomebody about her misery; she must 
 pour out her unshared grief, for the burden of it 
 was intolerable. With dry blind eyes, with the 
 groping instinct to seek, just to seek, she threw 
 herself on her knees by her bed. She knew not 
 what or whom she Bought; there was just this blind 
 unerring instinct in her soul, the instinct of the hom- 
 ing pigeon.
 
 THE TELEGRAM 261 
 
 Mrs. Hancock put up her parasol when the three 
 cushions were perfectly adjusted, and the car slid 
 slowly forward. 
 
 "I think we shall have time to go round by the 
 Old Mill," she said, "though we arc a little late in 
 starting. I wonder, Elizabeth, if you could make 
 an effort to be more punctual, dear. I don't think 
 there is a person in the world who hates blaming 
 people as much as I do, so I don't want or mean to 
 blame you. I only ask you to make a little effort. 
 It is so easy to form a habit, and while you are 
 about it you might just as well form the habit of 
 punctuality as of unpunctuality." 
 
 I am so sorry, Aunt Julia," said she. "I — I 
 wasn't thinking about the time." 
 
 "No, dear, that is just it, I want you to think 
 about the time a little more. There is just a little 
 touch of selfishness and inconsiderateness in keep- 
 ing other people waiting, and selfishness is so horri- 
 ble, is it not? Edith is never unpunctual, though 
 all the time her ankle was bad she got downstairs 
 very slowly. But she allowed for that. What was 
 the engrossing employment to-day that kept you?" 
 
 "I was saying my prayers, Aunt Julia. At least, 
 I was trying to." 
 
 Mrs. Hancock laid her hand on Elizabeth's. 
 
 "My dear, that is a very good reason," she said, 
 "though I am afraid it means that you forgot to say 
 them when you got up. It's a very good plan, Eliza- 
 beth, to say them the moment you get out of bed. 
 Then they are off your mind. Oh, what a beautiful 
 fresh air there is this morning! I think we might 
 almost have my window half down, and yours quite 
 down. Your prayers, yes. And to think that when 
 you came you didn't want to go to church at all. 
 But I felt sure that Mr. Martin — why, there he is, 
 do you see, in a red coat, playing golf? Fancy,
 
 262 ARUNDEL 
 
 what a coincidence! He is dining with us to-night, 
 and I must be sure to tell him that we saw him just 
 the very momenl that I was speaking of him. But 
 the only way to gel through the 'lay's work is to do 
 everything punctually, prayers and all. Then when 
 bedtime comes you air ready for it, with nothing 
 left undone to keep you awake. Ami now, my dear. 
 I have a great deal to tell you, and I'm Bure I look 
 forward to doing so. It i- almost a- great a (ilea -hit 
 to me as it will be t<> you t<> hear about all the plai 
 I have made for you." 
 
 Mrs. Hancock had settled that her climax was to 
 
 1m- Egypt. The patience-table perhaps was the least 
 
 sensational of the benefits, and she vfas going to 
 begin with that. 
 
 I have often noticed lately, dear," she -aid, "what 
 an interest you take in my patieno much 
 
 indeed, Elizabeth, that we've had uot a uote of 
 music in the evening for a week past, though I've 
 thought sometimes that I have seen Edward Look- 
 ing at the piano afi it he would like to hear how you 
 an- getting on. Look, there is the < )ld Mill. Will 
 you tell Denton to Btop, .-«> that we can enjoy look- 
 
 ing at it? So I thoughl t yself the other niL r ht. 
 
 or perhaps a little bird whispered it to me. that you 
 would like to play patience, too, in the eveni] 
 
 And so you -hall. deal'. You shall have my patience- 
 table all for your very own, and I will get another 
 one for myself. Mind. Elizabeth, it is not lent you 
 to use only a- you use the other things in the house, 
 but it is quite yours, the moment my other table 
 comes from the Ybu may take it back to 
 
 India if you wish, when you go. Whi n you go." 
 
 "Oh. that is kind, dear Aunt Julia," said the girl. 
 "But why should you give it me. and go to the 
 expense of a new one? I enjoy seeing you play just 
 as much as I should enjoy playing myself."
 
 THE TELEGRAM 263 
 
 Mrs. Hancock wondered if this was really true. 
 Her generosity about taking the table to India, 
 which so neatly introduced the next topic, had been 
 an unpremeditated flash. Of course, if Elizabeth 
 did not want to play patience, there was no kind of 
 reason for getting a new table. But luckily at this 
 moment she remembered "King of Mexico," which, 
 employing four packs, could not be properly laid out 
 on the table she at present used. 
 
 "My dear, I am determined you shall have a 
 table of your own," she said, "to take to India with 
 you if you wish. And perhaps you noticed that I 
 said 'when you go,' and repeated it. That brings 
 me on to my second plan. I should enjoy, dear, I 
 should really enjoy your stopping on here after 
 Edith and Edward arc married; then you will no 
 longer share the little treats, like having a drive 
 in my motor, with Edith, but you can come out in 
 it whenever I go, twice a day if you like. And if 
 you like, you shall have Edith's room, and I shall 
 make Mrs. Williams and Lind and all of them quite 
 understand that you are to take Edith's place. 
 You shan't be a visitor any more. Arundel shall 
 be your English home." 
 
 "Oh, Aunt Julia !" began Elizabeth. 
 
 "No; wait a minute. You shall have all my 
 plans together. Here you will be all October, with 
 your own patience-table, and Edith's room, until I 
 go to Egypt in November. And then, and then, 
 my dear, you shall come with me. I have written 
 to your father, and we have quite arranged it. You 
 will be absolutely one of our party, and when Edith 
 and Edward join us, as they will do at Cairo — oh, 
 look at those starlings, wdiat a quantity! — when they 
 join us at Cairo we will all go up the Nile together 
 and see everything there is to be seen. How busy 
 we shall be, you and I, all October, my dear, read-
 
 2f,4 ARUNDEL 
 
 ing all sorts of learned books; I am sure you will 
 read aloud very well with a little praetiee. We shall 
 be quite a pair of blue-stockings when we meet 
 I lith ami Edward again, and be able to tell them 
 all sorts of interesting things about the Greeks and 
 ancient Egyptian We will take your patiei 
 table with us, for it shuts up more conveniently 
 
 than any table I have ever Been, and I dare say I 
 
 shall often ask you for the loan of it. if you will be 
 
 so kind as to lend it me. And thru we shall all come 
 down the Nile together, such a happy party, and 
 I know very well, dear Elizabeth, that when we 
 come to part, and you go on to India from wherever 
 
 it is that the boat- call. 1 for one shall miss you very 
 much indeed." 
 
 Mrs. Hancock had warmed herself up into the 
 most pleasurable glow of generosity, and felt that 
 
 all these wonderful plans, which, as a matter of 
 fact, had been made solely with a view to her own 
 comfort, were entirely due to her altruistic desire 
 
 for Elizabeth's delight. Her self-deception l m- 
 plete and triumphant; she had for the time quite 
 
 lOSl Bight of the undoubted fact that she had thought 
 
 of herself and herself only in the making of them. 
 
 She had secured an i \>>v a new patience-table, 
 
 a companion during what would have otherwise 
 been a month of loneliness, ami, at no expense to 
 herself, of somebody who would look after her in 
 Egypt and be devoted to her comfort. She fully 
 expected a burst of gratitude, a rapturous and 
 scarcely credulous assent from the girl. 
 
 Elizabeth sat quite silent for a moment. 
 
 "Oh, Aunt Julia, it is sweet of you," she said, 
 "but I think it is all quite impossible. I must go 
 back to India; I must get back to father." 
 
 Aunt Julia still glowed. 
 
 "My dear, your father has made up his mind to
 
 THE TELEGRAM 265 
 
 do without you and let you enjoy yourself," she said. 
 "I wrote to him about it, oh, weeks ago, telling him 
 not to allude to it at all to you, but that I would 
 tell you. He will rejoice in your happiness as much 
 as I." 
 
 Elizabeth clasped her hands together on her knee. 
 
 "Oh, I can't, I can't!" she Baid. "Hut thank you 
 ever so much, Aunt Julia. Indeed, I wrote to father 
 only to-day, saying that I wanted to come back to 
 him quite soon, sooner than I had planned. I can't 
 explain. You have been so kind to me, I know, but 
 I must go back to India as soon as possible. Simply 
 that." 
 
 Mrs. Hancock recognized the earnestness of the 
 girl's tone, and all the pleasure and glow faded from 
 her face. 
 
 "Really, I think your words do require some ex- 
 planation," she said. "To think of me so busy plan- 
 ning and contriving for your pleasure, and you say- 
 ing that you don't want any of my plans! Yes, 
 Denton, drive on. We have looked at the Old Mill 
 long enough. I think you ought to tell me what 
 it all means, Elizabeth." 
 
 "I can't tell you," said she. "Try to think it 
 means nothing, or that it means only just what I 
 have said. It does mean that. I want to go back 
 to India. If it was possible I would go back to- 
 day. I want to see father. I have been a long time 
 away from him, and though you and — and Edith 
 and Edward are so kind I miss him dreadfully. I 
 am homesick ; I want to get back." 
 
 Mrs. Hancock's owm beautiful architectural de- 
 signs for Elizabeth's happiness tumbled in ruins, and 
 Elizabeth's notions of replacing them did not seem 
 in the least satisfactory. She who avowedly had 
 "planned and contrived" for this end found her- 
 self accusing the girl of the most barefaced selfish-
 
 266 ARUNDEL 
 
 uess when she stated what she really wanted. Ap- 
 parently she thought about aothing bu1 herself. 
 
 "Well, all I can say at present/ 1 said Mrs. Han- 
 cock, "is that I am dreadfully disappointed and 
 grieved." 
 
 "Yes, I am sorry." put in Elizabeth, "but — but it 
 is quite impossible. STou mustn't think I am un- 
 grateful, Aunt Julia." 
 
 "I do not think you can expect me i" praise you 
 for your gratitude," said Mrs. Hancock. 
 
 "No. I don't want praise; I don't di it. 
 
 But I want to L r o back to father." 
 
 Mrs. Hancock 9e of ill-usage, of having her 
 
 kindness met by Mack ingratitude, rankled and grew. 
 Thi-> was worse, much worse, than the painful a 
 of the housemaid, who Buited her bo well, going 
 away from her Bervice to be married. Indeed, that 
 misguided creature the marriage did uot turn out 
 very happily, and Mrs. Hancock was sure she didn't 
 
 wonder — the cause of 90 many hitter memorii 
 
 appeared now as a perfect angel in comparison. 
 • I must Bay that I cannot consider this a pretty 
 
 return for all the indulgences I have showered on 
 you," iid. "I have treated you like my own 
 
 daughter, Elizabeth, with the piano always ready 
 dusted for you, and the most expensive motor al- 
 ways whirling you about the country, wherever 
 you like to go, and the new table for your patience, 
 and never a thin. 1 of you in return till I sug- 
 
 3t that you should keep me company during Oc- 
 tober, and this you flatly refuse. And what your 
 father will say I don't know, with all his kindnt -- 
 in paying for your tour in Egypt, when we set- 
 tled between us to let you come with me all up the 
 Nile, at a great deal of expense. And now all you 
 can say is that you don't want to go, and can't ex- 
 plain why. And here was I thinking of ordering
 
 4 
 
 THE TELEGRAM 267 
 
 books on Egypt from the London library this very 
 afternoon, and even planning going up to London 
 Borne day this week to make sure of getting places 
 in the sleeping-car to Marseilles. And you can't 
 
 explain!" 
 
 Elizabeth felt suddenly goaded to exasperation 
 
 at this child's babble of books from the library and 
 tickets for the sleeping-car. It was round such 
 things as these that her aunt's emotions clung like 
 swarming bees around their queen. She fell a wild 
 desire to supply Aunt Julia with something real to 
 think about, something that would really pierce 
 through those coils of COmfort-padding that wrapped 
 her up as in eiderdown quilts. At present all that 
 ever reached her was a slight disarrangement, a 
 minute tweaking of one of her quilts. Or if by years 
 of habit they were too firmly tucked round her, it 
 would be something to let her see that others were 
 not so grossly wadded against the world, against 
 reality. 
 
 "I will explain if you like," she said quickly, and 
 almost smiled to see Aunt Julia huddling her quilts 
 round her, clutching them with eager fingers, dread- 
 ing lest they should be taken from her by cruel and 
 inconsiderate hands. 
 
 "My dear, you haven't given me your confidence 
 voluntarily," she said in a great hurry, "and I am 
 the last person in the world to ask for confidence 
 when it is not freely given. Dear Edith has al- 
 ways told me everything, but that is no reason why 
 you should " 
 
 "Do you mean that Edith has told you about 
 this?" asked the girl. 
 
 "About your inexplicable rejection of all my plans 
 for you, including the patience-table? No, certainly 
 not. That, I imagine, concerns you. My dear
 
 268 ARUNDEL 
 
 Edith would be the last to betray what seems to be 
 a secret " 
 
 Elizabeth broke in again. 
 
 "But I am offering not to make a secret of it from 
 you," she said. 
 
 Mrs. Hancock turned an almost imploring face 
 to her. 
 
 "No, Elizabeth," she said. "You have not come 
 to me with it of your own accord, and I was quite 
 wrong to hint that you owed me an explanation. 
 If I have hinted so I withdraw it. Look, there is 
 Mr. Beaumont with his butterfly-net. Let us be 
 silent for a little and collect ourselves .again ; our 
 talk was getting very wild and uncomfortable. 
 Would you kindly put your window a shade more 
 up?" 
 
 Mrs. Hancock regarded the view with a severe 
 and compressed face, into which there stole by de- 
 grees an expression of relief. She felt that she had 
 dealt with this threatening situation in an extremely 
 tactful manner. Elizabeth had not chosen to con- 
 fide in her, and she had put, so she told herself, 
 all, all her natural curiosity aside and refused to 
 hear the secret which had not voluntarily been made 
 known to her. That waiving of her personal feel- 
 ings in the matter had, as usual, its immediate 
 rewards, for she had averted the risk of hearing 
 something thoroughly uncomfortable. She dis- 
 missed that consideration, and in the silence for 
 which she had asked devoted herself to the pained 
 contemplation of Elizabeth's selfishness, which had 
 so much surprised and grieved her. Hitherto she 
 had not thought Elizabeth at all selfish, except in 
 the matter of unpunctuality, and the discovery was 
 a great blow to her. She had quite made up her 
 mind that the girl would jump at those delightful 
 proposals, which had been the fruit of so much
 
 
 THE TELEGRAM 269 
 
 thought. About Egypt she did not care so particu- 
 larly, but she felt terribly blank at the prospect of 
 a lonely October. With Elizabeth taking a real 
 solid interest in patience, with the interval between 
 tea and dinner rilled in by readings about the an- 
 cient Egyptians, and with a companion for the 
 two daily motor drives, she had felt really quite re- 
 signed to losing Edith, since on their return from 
 Egypt she would be living again next door, and of 
 course would be only too delighted to enjoy her 
 mother's companionship during Edward's daily ab- 
 sence in the City. And now there had come this 
 earthquake, upsetting everything. There was a 
 proverb that misfortunes never come singly, and 
 she felt an indefinable dread that Filson would want 
 to marry next, or Mrs. Williams threaten to leave 
 her. Of course, she could raise Mrs. Williams's 
 'wages again to stem this tide of disaster, but if Fil- 
 son wanted to marry No doubt she could try 
 
 the effect of raising Filson's wages, and could point 
 to the awful fate of the housemaid, but even that 
 might not prove sufficient if Filson loved some hy- 
 pothetical young man very much. Then she tried 
 to cling to the gospel of Mr. Martin, and determined 
 not to dwell on these unnerving possibilities. 
 
 Meantime, Elizabeth sat silent (as requested) by 
 her, and the kindliness of Mrs. Hancock, which ex- 
 isted in large crude quantities, and her affection for 
 the girl, which in its own way was perfectly genu- 
 ine, came to her aid. However startling and de- 
 plorable Elizabeth's selfishness was, she was sorry 
 for whatever might be the trouble that lay at the 
 root of it, and, provided only that trouble was not 
 confided to her, was willing and eager to do her best 
 to alleviate it. Secretly she guessed that Edward 
 was concerned in it ; she guessed, also that the girl's 
 affections were concerned in it. She rejected with-
 
 270 ARUNDEL 
 
 out difficulty that Elizabeth had conceived a hope- 
 less passion for Mr. Beaumont, or an illicit one for 
 Mr. Martin, and she inferred that Elizabeth's affec- 
 tions and Edward were synonymous terms. But 
 that was only a guess Bhe hastened to assure her- 
 self <>f that — and might really be a- insubstantial as 
 she hoped was the shattering notion that Filson w 
 engaged in a love affair, and she Bhut the door on 
 it. There was p<">r Elizabeth's trouble safely locked 
 up, and she wondered how she could help her. She 
 turned to the girL 
 
 "My dear, I am sure you have Borne trouble/ 1 
 she said, "and. though T would be the last to ask 
 you about it, h there not anybody you could con- 
 sult? Perhaps your wanting to go hack to your 
 father means that you think he could help you. 
 But is there no one here? < Jould you not tell Edith, 
 if she does not know about it already? Or there is 
 Mi-. Martin. You would find him all kindness and 
 wisdom. I often think of him as my mind-doctor, 
 to whom I would certainly go myself if I was wor- 
 ried." 
 
 "Oh. thank you. Aunt Julia," -aid -he. "But I 
 don't think T will worry Mr. Martin. I should like 
 to tell daddy about it, and I shall." 
 
 "But it would he no worry for Mr. Martin." said 
 Mrs. Hancock. "He is so used to hearing about 
 other people's troubles. It is quite his profession. 
 He has often said to me that his wish is to bring 
 joy to people and take away their wretchedness. 
 Such a noble career! I can't think why they don't 
 make him a bishop." 
 
 Elizabeth gave a little squeal of laughter, as 
 unexpected to herself as it was to her aunt. 
 
 "I don't think I will, really, Aunt Julia," she re- 
 peated. 
 
 This appeared to Mrs. Hancock another bit of
 
 THE TELEGRAM 271 
 
 selfishness. It seemed to her quite likely that Mr. 
 Martin's really magical touch might easily remove 
 Elizabeth's trouble, in which case Egypt and the 
 patience-table blossomed again instead of withering 
 on their stalks. But she determined not to give it 
 all up quite yet and abandon Elizabeth, so it repre- 
 sented itself to her, to the moral pit of her selfish- 
 ness. 
 
 Mr. Martin, who dined with Mrs. Hancock that 
 evening, and spoke of Egypt as if it was a newly 
 acquired possession of hers, like her motor or the 
 gate thai had, in spite of Edward's luke-warmness 
 on the subject, been put into the wall that separated 
 the two gardens, trumpeted her praise in his usual 
 maimer. 
 
 "We shall miss you terribly," he said. "Heath- 
 moor will not be itself without you. But still how 
 right you are to go and see it all for yourself. You 
 take your ear with you? No? Then I shall be down 
 on Denton and expect him to stop for my sermon 
 every Sunday morning, poor fellow! instead of 
 stealing oul to bring your car back for you. Poor 
 Denton! Ha, ha! He'll lie glad, I'll warrant, when 
 you come back again and he can shirk the padre's 
 jaw as usual. An excellent fellow, Denton! Upon 
 my word, I am sorry for him. I shall skip a page 
 or two every now and then if Denton looks too re- 
 proachfully at me." 
 
 "Alfred, Alfred!" said his wife. 
 
 "I shall nobble— isn't it nobble, Edward?— I shall 
 nobble Denton to sing psalms in the choir," said 
 Mr. Martin, "while Mrs. Hancock is away. He 
 will have no car to take back after she has gone 
 to church. Yes, yes; give Denton a dose of David 
 to begin with, and Alfred to finish up w T ith!" Mr. 
 Martin looked furtively round to see if Lind was 
 amused, and Mrs. Martin put her hand to her face.
 
 272 ARUNDEL 
 
 "Alfred, Alfred!" she said. "Is not Alfred 
 naughty!" 
 
 Mrs. Hancock beamed delightedly. This wild 
 religious badinage always pleased her. It seemed 
 to make a human tiling of religion, to bring it into 
 ordinary life. 
 
 "I will Leave Denton in your hands," she said, 
 "with the utmosl confidence." 
 
 "So long as we don't make a clergyman of him 
 before you come back/' suggested Mr. Martin. 
 "We won't do that: their are many mansions, and 
 I'm sure that a good fellow in his garage occupies 
 one of them. We all have got our mansion, have 
 we not? You, Misa Elizabeth, in yourmusic, 101- 
 ward here in the City, though he's a Lucky fellow 
 to be sure, for he has a musical mansion as well. 
 And we all meel : we all meet." 
 
 This was a shade more solemn than Mr. Martin's 
 usual dinner-table conversation, and Mrs. Hancock, 
 crumbling her bread with dropped eyes, saw here 
 a very good gambit to open with again in a little 
 serious conversation she meant, if possible, to have 
 with him afterwards. Then the appearance of a 
 very particular salad roused her immediate atten- 
 tion. 
 
 "This you must eat, Mr. Martin," she said; "it 
 is the new sort of lettuce which Ellis insisted on my 
 getting. I am told that in Egypt it is quite unsafe 
 to eat salad or any raw vegetable, for you can't tell 
 who has been touching it, or what sort of water it 
 has been washed in. It's the same in India, is it not, 
 Elizabeth?" 
 
 Mr. Martin turned briskly to the girl. 
 
 "And why don't you join your aunt in her tour to 
 Egypt?" he said. "It's all on the way back to India, 
 is it not? Why not put Afric's sunny fountains in
 
 THE TELEGRAM 273 
 
 before India's coral strands? Dear me, how won- 
 derful Bishop Heber's grasp is!" 
 
 This was indeed another coincidence, that Mr. 
 Martin should suggest, quite without consultation, 
 the very scheme that Mrs. Hancock had "planned 
 and contrived." That Mr. Martin should think of 
 it quite independently, seemed to Mrs. Hancock a 
 tremendous, almost a religious, argument in its fa- 
 vour. 
 
 "Well, that is odd now that you should have men- 
 tioned that," she said, "for I was proposing to Eliza- 
 beth only this morning that she should do that very 
 thing. And that Mr. Martin should agree with me! 
 Well!" 
 
 Edward looked up, caught Elizabeth's eye, rico- 
 cheted, so to speak, on to Edith's, and returned in 
 time to catch the drift of Mr. Mai tin's further com- 
 ment on Bishop Heber. Mrs. Hancock saw the sud- 
 den colour flame in Elizabeth's face, saw the glance 
 that played between her three young people, and 
 shut more firmly than ever the door into which she 
 had thrust her conjecture on this subject. She en- 
 tirely refused to recognize the possible existence of 
 anything so very uncomfortable. Mr. Martin ob- 
 served that his wife had got well under way again 
 with Bishop Heber, and spoke confidently to his 
 hostess. 
 
 "I've got schemes in my head, too, about Egypt," 
 he said, "though I don't know that they will come 
 to anything. I want to send my dear Minnie to the 
 South for a month or two of the winter. You re- 
 member, perhaps, how unwell she was last winter, 
 and what wonderful jellies Mrs. Williams sent her. 
 Indeed, if I think I can manage it, I believe I shall 
 really have the courage to suggest that she goes 
 out about the same time as you, so that she won't 
 be quite alone in the land of bondage. Of course,
 
 274 ARUNDEL 
 
 I don't for the moment hint at her actually joining 
 your party. But hush, Mrs, Hancock, we are ob- 
 served] I have not said a word about it to her yet." 
 
 It was impossible that Mis. Hancock should not 
 feel that Providence had kindly turned his attention 
 
 to her disappointment about Elizabeth and the 
 
 I jvptiaii tour. It was true that the even more har- 
 rowing subject <>f her lonely < totober — in case Eliza- 
 beth persisted in her selfishness had not at present 
 
 attracted his notice, hut this BUggestion of Mr. Mar- 
 tin's BOemed to her to he a direct and Divine con- 
 trivance for her comfort. She had no wish to • 
 amine into the logic of her belief; she did jiot dream 
 of inquiring if she really thought that Mrs, Martin 
 had suffered from bronchitis last winter in order 
 that her husband might think of Bending her South 
 now. bo that Mrs. Hancock should have somebody 
 
 to attend to her in Egypt, hut she felt that. Eliza- 
 beth perhaps was Dot intended to no to Egypt, which 
 being so, Providence, having a special regard for her 
 
 comfort, had put forward this utterly unexpected 
 idea to Bee if -he liked it. She did like it. She also 
 formed the COnclusiOD that she on her side was 
 meant not to urge Elizabeth any more, nor even 
 to sic if Mr. Martin could not probe and heal her 
 
 trouble. It was evident that her entire arrange- 
 ments were being seen after for her. But she had 
 to moot this half-way, to acquiesce thankfully, and 
 help it on. She tinned beamingly to Mr. Martin. 
 
 "The very thing!" she said. "And as for dear 
 Mrs. Martin not being of our party, how could you 
 surest such an idea?" 
 
 Some subject connate to Bishop Heber was ac- 
 tively engaging Mrs. Martin, and Mrs. Hancock 
 could speak without fear of being overheard. 
 
 "She shall share my sitting-room, as my guest, 
 of course, and everything," she said. "And after
 
 THE TELEGRAM 275 
 
 dinner you and I must have a couple of words to- 
 gether, if it is only the question of expense that 
 troubles you. If there is any difficulty there you 
 must allow me to help. And Elizabeth Bays, for 
 the matter of that, that the Becond-class cabins on 
 the liners to Port Said are every bit as good as the 
 first." 
 
 This offer to help was no1 bo precipitate as it 
 Bounded. Mrs. Hancock had seriously considered 
 during the afternoon what the expense of a com- 
 panion would be, and had come to the conclusion 
 that if Elizabeth would not join her. she would be 
 able to afford it. But this providential idea would 
 save her the greater part of that expense, for no 
 doubt, if she could persuade Mr. Martin to let her 
 pay (sine, she would then be saved the full expenses 
 of a companion) some forty pounds or perhaps 
 thirty towards Mrs. Martin's travelling, his doubts 
 on the subject of whether it could be afforded would 
 be completely removed. Hie would tell him that 
 she looked on it as a form of charily, which he must 
 not be too proud to accept. She was subscribing to 
 Mrs. Martin's efficiency in parochial work, which 
 was a clear duty. Mrs. Martin must be induced to 
 see it in the same light, and she surely would, when 
 she saw that her husband and Mrs. Hancock were 
 so completely in accord on the subject. And if — 
 if behind that locked door in her mind there was 
 shut up the true reason for Elizabeth's unwillingness 
 to go to Egypt, how wonderfully it had been con- 
 veyed to her that she must not urge her any more. 
 That, of course, was the most important thing of 
 all. She must also cease from accusing Elizabeth 
 in her mind of any selfishness. She must dismiss 
 it all now, not even wonder whether it was true or 
 not. Providence had locked the door on it, and 
 indicated, quite unmistakably, that Elizabeth was
 
 276 ARUNDEL 
 
 not to go to Egypt. Providence, too, had caused 
 her pass-book to be returned to her disclosing a 
 very sound position; even forty pounds would not 
 worry her at all. But that was do reason why she 
 should not see whether thirty would not put Mr. 
 Martin's mind at ease on the question of expense. 
 She would certainly ask Elizabeth to play to them 
 after dinner, and go out into the garden with Mr. 
 Martin to enjoy the music from there. 
 
 Mr. Martin, left alone with Edward after dinner, 
 had another glass <>f port before he took his cig- 
 arette on general principles of bonhomie and par- 
 taking in the pleasure of other people, and also on 
 the particular principle that Mrs. Bancock's port 
 was a very charming beverage. He continued also 
 to trumpet her praises in a confidential manner. 
 
 "The most generous woman I know!" he said. 
 "Vim arc indeed lucky to l»e allying yourself with 
 her daughter. An instance occurred at dinner. I 
 mentioned that I was thinking of sending my wife 
 South for the winter — not a word of this i any- 
 
 body, my dear fellow — and she guessed that expense 
 might be a Berious consideration to me. I had but 
 ever so faintly alluded to it, Instantly she offered 
 to help, suggesting that my wife should be of her 
 party. You join them, I think, you and your bride, 
 at Cairo, do you not?" 
 
 "That is the idea." 
 
 "A very good one. And Miss Elizabeth, is she 
 going too? It seemed to have occurred to her aunt." 
 
 Edward got up. 
 
 "I know she thought of it," he said, "but — but I 
 do not suppose Elizabeth will go. Shall we join 
 the others? I get scolded if we stop in the din- 
 ing-room too long." 
 
 "Certainly, certainly, if you will allow me one 
 more whiff of this excellent cigarette. Mrs. Han-
 
 THE TELEGRAM 277 
 
 cock always gives her guests of the very best. And 
 how much more, my dear fellow, has she given you 
 her best of all." 
 
 Edward did not reply to this, but waited in silence 
 while Mr. Martin took his one whiff. As they 
 crossed the hall the front-door bell sounded and Lind 
 took in a telegram. 
 
 "Miss Elizabeth, sir," he said to Edward. 
 
 Edward just glanced at it; it was a foreign tele- 
 gram. 
 
 "I'll take it in," he said. 
 
 Mrs. Hancock had stationed herself strategically 
 near the window, so that she could easily stroll out 
 with Mr. Martin. 
 
 "There you are," she said ; "and you've both been 
 good and not waited too long. Now let us have 
 some music. There's room for you here, Mr. Mar- 
 tin. Who will begin — you, Edward, or Elizabeth? 
 I meant to have got some duets for you, and then 
 you could have plaved together. What is that, Ed- 
 ward?" 
 
 "A telegram for Elizabeth," he said. 
 
 "Open it then, dear," said Mrs. Hancock to the 
 girl. "We'll excuse you." 
 
 The little hush that so often attends the opening 
 of a telegram fell on the room as Elizabeth tore open 
 the thin paper. She looked at the message, and, 
 standing quite still, handed it to her aunt. It was 
 from her stepmother, and told her that her father 
 had died of cholera that morning.
 
 BOOK THREE 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 APRIL EVENING 
 
 Elizabeth was sitting in the drawing-room window 
 of the little house that her mother and she had 
 taken in Oakley Street on a warm, uncertain after- 
 noon of April in the following year. The window 
 was wide open and the breeze that blew in from 
 the south-west ruffled the leaves of the music that 
 stood open on the piano. It seemed to the girl's in- 
 dolent mood that there was quite a good chance of 
 their not blowing on to the floor, and since that was 
 so, she much preferred going to pick them up if this 
 happened rather than disturb herself for fear of its 
 happening. Outside there was a small brick-walled 
 enclosure, with strips of flower-bed, bright, nodding 
 with daffodils, and a fig-tree, rather sooty in foliage, 
 and hopelessly incapable of bearing any fruit at all, 
 was thrusting out broad handlike leaves from its 
 angled boughs. This enclosure Mrs. Fanshawe was 
 accustomed to call "that dreadful little backyard" 
 when she felt like that, but in more cheerful moods 
 alluded to it as "that dear little garden." For some 
 days past it had been a dreadful little backyard. 
 
 Colonel Fanshawe had left his widow and daugh- 
 ter in circumstances that admitted of comfort and 
 demanded care, and Mrs. Fanshawe sometimes com- 
 plained of, sometimes rather enjoyed the practice 
 of economy. Elizabeth was rather afraid of those 
 
 279
 
 280 ARUNDEL 
 
 bouts of economical enjoyment, for they meant that 
 Mrs. Fanshawe was apt to order more coal than the 
 cellar would possibly hold, as she got a cheaper quo- 
 tation for large quantities, or would take a taxicab to 
 some far-distant shop in Oxford Street, keep it wait- 
 ing an hour and drive back in it bursting with in- 
 numerable package-. She would then gleefully 
 reckon up the saving she had effected by not buy- 
 ing the same goods at the shop just round the cor- 
 ner; sometimes it amounted to as much as two 
 shillings, in which case she would give Elizabeth 
 quite a little homily on the virtue of thrift and the 
 immense importance of looking after the pence. The 
 shillings apparently as represented by the*taxi were 
 capable of looking after themseh After this 
 
 thrifty afternoon she would feel that a little treat 
 was owing to them, ami she would take Elizabeth 
 to a concert. At other times, still enjoying it, she 
 would help in the housework, and. putting on a very 
 pretty grey apron, dust the china on the chimney- 
 piece in the drawing-room, or even clean the handle 
 of the front door with some sample that hail been 
 sent her which was of unrivalled merit in polishing 
 brasswork. She still required a great deal of rest 
 to recuperate her from labours past, and fit her 
 for those to come, and always had breakfast in 
 bed. Apart from this necessary repose and the 
 fatigue engendered by the practice of economies, 
 her time for the last two months had been largely 
 taken up in collecting materials for a "Short 
 Memoir" of her late husband. 
 
 "I feel that I who know him best," she said to 
 Elizabeth, "owe it to his large circle of friends at 
 home and abroad, who loved him, to tell them what 
 I can about him. It is my duty, dear. In addition 
 to that, his public service as a soldier was never 
 properly appreciated by the War Office, and it is
 
 APRIL EVENING 281 
 
 right that they should know what they have lost, 
 now that it is too late." 
 
 Elizabeth felt as if a file had been drawn across 
 her front teeth, and her stepmother went on with 
 a certain degree of complacency, with a sense of im- 
 portance, and yet not without sincerity. 
 
 "It is so beautiful, that passage in 'In Memo- 
 riam,' " she said, wiping her eyes, "where Tennyson 
 says that to write about Mr. Hallam is a 'sad nar- 
 cotic, numbing pain.' I know he would have under- 
 stood my feeling about it, which is just that. I shall, 
 of course, state in the preface my reasons for writ- 
 ing the memoir, and say that, though it is like tear- 
 ing open a wound that will never heal, I owe it to 
 my dear husband's memory." 
 
 She paused a moment. 
 
 "It will be privately printed, of course," she said, 
 "and I shall give it to all his friends. I was thinking 
 of having a purple cloth binding with gilt lettering." 
 
 "Won't it be very expensive, mamma?" asked the 
 girl. 
 
 "I cannot bring myself to think about the expense. 
 You and I will have to be very economical, I know ; 
 but when a call of duty comes like this, I feel that 
 no other consideration can stand in my way. If 
 you think it quietly over, Elizabeth," she said, 
 again crying a little, "I believe you will agree with 
 me, when you recollect all that your dear father was. 
 It will help — I hope it will help — you to appreciate 
 him, too, as well as the War Office." 
 
 This awful little conversation, which held for 
 Elizabeth a certain miserable wounding humour, 
 had taken place soon after Mrs. Fanshawe had come 
 back to England after her husband's death. She had 
 returned as soon as she had settled her affairs in 
 India, and had sold, not unsuccessfully, the bunga- 
 low and all it contained, retaining only a few per-
 
 282 ARUNDEL 
 
 sonal possessions of his and what belonged to Eliza- 
 beth and herself. This private property included 
 many packets of his letters, which she tied up in a 
 black ribbon and bestowed in an immense tin dis- 
 patch-box, with "Correspondence" (the orthography 
 of which was not worth correcting) printed in white 
 letters on it. This, indeed, had suggested to her the 
 idea of the "Short Memoir," and with it by the side 
 of her chair or sofa she made masses of extracts, with 
 a view to arranging them afterwards in the chapters 
 on his second marriage and his home-life. The pieces 
 which she selected for publication almost entirely 
 consisted of affectionate words to herself, and she 
 mostly omitted messages he sent to Elizabeth, or, 
 indeed, anything that did not directly refer to his 
 affection for his wife. Mrs. Hancock had been put 
 under contribution to supply details about his boy- 
 hood and early manhood, which similarly consisted 
 for the most part in stories to show how fond he was 
 of her. These for a month had poured in in im- 
 mense quantities, and before they came to an end 
 Mrs. Fanshawe had begun to find them exceedingly 
 tedious. Dry details, in the same way, about his 
 military service, did not so much engage Mrs. Fan- 
 shawe's attention, and it was Elizabeth's duty to 
 get the facts about those from Army Lists, while 
 she, during the long winter evenings, searched 
 through his letters for fresh instances of his devo- 
 tion to her, and wrote and had typewritten the 
 preface, which was on the lines already indicated. 
 The chapter on "Social Life in India" was already 
 arranged also, in a rambling sort of fashion, and 
 showed without the slightest doubt how popular 
 Mrs. Fanshawe was at dinner-parties and balls, and 
 how her husband, with the wonderful confidence and 
 trust he had in her, was never the slightest bit jeal-
 
 • 
 
 APRIL EVENING 283 
 
 ous. His first wife, Elizabeth's mother, was scarcely 
 to be mentioned in the "Short Memoir." She might 
 have been a week-end visitor who had not made 
 much impression on him. . . . 
 
 The wind, which had been threatening so long 
 to spill the music that stood open on the piano, car- 
 ried out its intention at last, but still Elizabeth did 
 not stir. Something of the languor of spring had 
 invaded her, and meaning every moment to get up 
 and go on with her practising, which had been the 
 excuse for her not going out with her mother on 
 an expedition of economy to the Army and Navy 
 Stores, she still lounged in the window-seat think- 
 ing over all that had passed since that evening 
 when Edward came into the drawing-room at Arun- 
 del with the foreign telegram in his hand. It had 
 been a shock to her, the violence of which she had 
 not been conscious of at the time, but which showed 
 itself afterwards in the weeks of nerve fatigue that 
 followed. There had been taken away something 
 in the very core and kernel of her life, and for the 
 time she had known less of grief than of an inex- 
 plicable lack, as if, on the physical plane, a limb 
 had been amputated, and that she had just awoke 
 from the operation and found herself with arm or 
 leg no longer there. Indeed, the feeling was not so 
 much that he was dead as that a piece of herself was 
 gone. She sent out messages from her brain and 
 they were not received anywhere, nothing thrilled 
 or moved in correspondence with them. 
 
 And then slowly and by degrees there began to 
 wake in her that new sense that almost always wak- 
 ens in those who have suffered some intimate 
 bereavement. Her mind could not take in, could not 
 conceive, when once faced with it, the notion of an- 
 nihilation, of ceasing to be. It revolted from it, and
 
 284 ARUNDEL 
 
 though for a time her reason (as she accounted her 
 reason ) kept telling her that he was gone, that the 
 clays of their love and confidence were over, she 
 found the conclusion growing incredible. It began 
 to dawn in her, like the waking of a new intelligence. 
 that there was nothing of him gone, except the sight 
 of him, and the possibility of his presence being ap- 
 prehended any more by her physical senses. She 
 knew she would not again see or touch him as she 
 had known him before, or again hear his voice, but 
 she found heist 'If daily realizing more and more dis- 
 tinctly, by Borne perception as innate in her as 
 growth, the knowledge that he was not and could 
 not have been taken away, amputated, ^destroyed. 
 All of him that she missed BO dreadfully, all that 
 for which she stretched out empty arms in the dark, 
 was not her essential father, but only the signs by 
 which she knew him. Be became her companion 
 again, by no effort of the imagination, but by the 
 assertion of an instinct that could not be contra- 
 dicted. Never in those communings with his quiet 
 wisdom beneath the fading crimson of the Indian 
 sunsets had she felt more strongly than now the 
 immortal kinship between them, the reality of their 
 spiritual alliance. He had told her once in words 
 that at the time seemed to her to have been spoken 
 in an unknown tongue that it was impossible to go 
 beyond love, that you can only penetrate into it, 
 finding it without beginning and without end. It 
 was by his death that she had begun to understand 
 that, by the knowledge of the impotence of the 
 
 supreme divider The supreme divider! She 
 
 echoed the meaningless w r ords, the words from which 
 all meaning had departed. Death did not divide; 
 it was only meanness, falseness, impatience that 
 could do so tragic a work. 
 She remembered with growing clearness, as she
 
 I 
 
 APRIL EVENING 285 
 
 lay in the window seat, with the daffodils nodding 
 outside, and the music splayed on the floor, their 
 talk in the garden that evening. It was as if it 
 had been written in her mind with invisible ink, 
 which required some spiritual solution to be poured 
 over it, to bring out the words again. She herself, 
 she remembered, had been full of vague visions as 
 to the possibilities and wonders of the world. She 
 had been full of the dreams that were coloured with 
 the vivid unsubstantial hues that are painted by 
 inexperience. Now behind them, not removing 
 them or painting over them, there was stealing, 
 soaking into them the colours that at the time 
 seemed to her to be somehow dull, dingy, stereo- 
 typed. What he had said to her about love had 
 seemed somehow commonplace, and when an hour 
 or two afterwards she had sat by the dying fakir 
 at the bottom of the garden, it was more the sen- 
 sationalism, the picturesqueness of that weary and 
 happy passing that had affected her. Now she saw 
 differently — she saw that precisely the same spirit, 
 precisely the same inborn knowledge had inspired 
 both. The same rich and unclouded vision was their 
 daily outlook. They had both staked their all on 
 love. Then a few days afterwards Elizabeth had 
 ridden out with her father, and he had spoken to 
 her in the same quiet way about death. He had 
 said he enjoyed life tremendously, but as for death 
 it was to him but another stage in growing up. . . . 
 
 Elizabeth turned her face to the garden and the 
 bright daffodils. 
 
 "Daddy! Daddy!" she said aloud. 
 
 She raised herself on her elbow, with the indo- 
 lence and languor of spring quite slipped off from 
 her, overwhelmingly conscious of her nearness to 
 her father, not to his memory, but to him. None
 
 286 ARUNDEL 
 
 knew, none ever would know except herself, and 
 she but guessed at the huge significance of it, just 
 what his death had done for her with regard to her 
 comprehension of life. The news had come to her 
 in days of despair, when love itself seemed mani- 
 fested to her only in the form of a desperate renun- 
 ciation, when she who loved and was loved in re- 
 turn, was severed just by an untimely promise, by 
 a bond signed blindly. Even then she had known, 
 though only by the groping of instinct, that to dis- 
 own that, or to allow it to be disowned, was to poison 
 the very fountain and well-spring of Love. Edward, 
 she knew well, with reason on his side, had longed 
 to marry her in despite of that, believing that the 
 eternal gushing of that spring would wash away 
 from the mouth of it the taint that had been laid 
 there. But now she had begun to see how it was 
 that her instinct had directed her, for even then, 
 when her need was the sorest, she had compre- 
 hended, though without conscious knowledge of her 
 comprehension, that while loyalty was of the very 
 essence of love, passion was but a symptom of it; 
 that while love died at the breath of disloyalty, it 
 existed still, deep and calm, though the symptom, 
 the froth on the surface was blown off it by the 
 austere wind of mere straightforward, common- 
 place duty, or was suffered to die down under the 
 frozen dawn of renunciation. How she had longed 
 through those thirsty days to be able to go to her 
 father and be comforted by his steadfast upholding 
 of her choice, a draught of cold, sweet water in the 
 sultriness of a barren land. Never, so it had been 
 ordained, should she whisper to him the story of 
 the summer, nor cry her fill on his shoulder, but 
 his upholding and his comforting had been not one 
 whit less vivid and present to her, though far away
 
 APRIL EVENING 287 
 
 the parching wind swept over the grave beneath the 
 tamarisk-trees in that remote cemetery. 
 
 But it was not often she thought either of the 
 grave or of his death itself, for those things seemed 
 to her even as they had seemed to him, but little 
 incidents of the wayside, not events of great moment 
 in the onward march of his soul, nor to be given a 
 place beside what he had been and what he was 
 to her. He had died swiftly under the stroke of 
 the sword of the pestilence, died in a few hours 
 from the time that he had been taken ill. They 
 had buried him that night as the moon rose, with 
 the wheeling planets for his funeral lamps, and the 
 flitting owls crying his requiem. It was but little 
 of him and that no more than a garment outworn 
 that had there been laid to rest; he, his essential 
 self, seemed to Elizabeth never to have left her 
 through all the dark days of autumn and winter, 
 nor through the lengthening evenings of this long- 
 delayed spring. 
 
 It had been a hard struggle and a stern one, this 
 work in which his spirit seemed so continually to 
 have been at her side. There was so much which 
 appeared inextricably intertwined with her love for 
 Edward that must be cast out, annihilated; there 
 was so much also, and this was of even greater 
 moment, that must be so loyally and uncompro- 
 misingly kept. Not one of those threads of pure 
 gold that ran through the whole fabric must be 
 drawn out of it; there must be no loss of that, no 
 turning the royal mantle into a cloak for a funeral. 
 She must not part, if her shoulders, on to which it 
 had fallen, were to be worthy of it, with one gleam 
 of its splendour, with one atom of its gold, and here 
 was a task to test the utmost of her patience and 
 her wisdom, in preserving all this, and yet unravel- 
 ling and disentangling certain other threads. There
 
 288 ARUNDEL 
 
 were feelings, there were attitudes of mind, there 
 were desires connected with Edward that seemed 
 at first to be an integral part of the fabric, so strictly 
 were they woven into it; it seemed that to draw 
 these out must make rents. And yet it had to be 
 done, to be done radically and completely, though 
 no rent must be seen or exist there. It was not 
 that these things were in themselves no part of 
 love; it was only that circumstances had made it 
 impossible that they should be part of her love for 
 him. Indeed, they were not hers; they belonged by 
 right to Edith. They must come out of her fabric; 
 each one of them must come out. She had to divert 
 from it certain strains, certain colours/ the human 
 longing, the desire, the yearning even. They were 
 natural, they were proper for one other woman only, 
 but not for herself. How well she remembered how 
 her father had told her that knowledge would come 
 to her through love, through love of a "common 
 man," as she had added. It was even so; it had 
 come to her thus, and even more through the right 
 renunciation, not the mere rejection of the whole, 
 but the rejection of a certain part of it. The gold, 
 all that was infinitely precious, must remain. But 
 the rest was not dross; merely it was not hers. 
 
 Not only at first, but through long months of 
 patient effort, the task appeared impossible, so 
 intimately was the passion of her love woven in 
 with the love itself. Sensibly enough, she let her 
 subconscious mind work at it, while she employed 
 her best efforts in filling the days with other in- 
 terests and occupations. Yet so many of these, 
 and of them all the one that hitherto had most en- 
 thralled and engrossed her, namely, the study of 
 music, gave her every moment stabs of recollection. 
 Her passion for it had been so immensely kindled 
 and quickened by him, that when she tried to kindle
 
 APRIL EVENING 289 
 
 it again, it was still the thought of him that fed 
 the flame. All that had to go; she must retrace 
 her steps and find for it the inspiration of itself 
 alone. She had to shatter the dreams with which 
 it filled her; she had to shake herself awake from 
 them. The associations which it roused in her must 
 be disconnected from it; it had to be made to speak 
 to her with its own voice. Often she thought of 
 giving it up altogether, of cutting off from the stem 
 of her life the flower of melody and harmony, so 
 closely were they set with thorns that made her 
 heart bleed. Yet that again would have been a 
 wanton and a mutilating renunciation. Instead, 
 with patience that sometimes shrank and fainted, 
 she set herself to pick off the thorns that were no 
 essential part of the growth. Yet the thorns bled; 
 the very stem seemed to ooze with the life-sap. 
 
 And of all the spiritual tasks which filled Eliza- 
 beth's days with strivings, and drove sleep from 
 her during the weary nights, the most haunting, 
 the most difficult of all remains to be mentioned 
 — namely, that of keeping her heart sweet when 
 she thought of Edith. It seemed at first that mere 
 patience, mere daily and unremitting striving, was 
 of no avail to quarry away that adamantine block; 
 the tools of her armoury were blunted at its con- 
 tact. She tried not to judge her, or to attempt to 
 record a verdict about an action that was morally 
 unintelligible to her, if, indeed, she could preserve 
 herself from thinking it vile, but when she contem- 
 plated the choice Edith had made, her refusal to 
 let Edward go free from the promise he had made, 
 before he knew what love was, she could scarcely 
 abstain from revolted condemnation, or succeed in 
 leaving the case unjudged. It was not easy to dis- 
 sociate from it the momentous personal conse- 
 quences that this refusal held for her, or to look at it
 
 290 ARUNDEL 
 
 impartially, as if the situation had been presented 
 to her as an incident that had happened among 
 strangers; but even when she most schooled her- 
 self to put her own entanglement in it out of the 
 question she felt it difficult not to seethe with scorn 
 over it. She could not understand how a girl with 
 respect either for herself or the great emotions 
 could refuse to set free a man who no longer wished 
 to be tied to her, who longed, as Edith knew very 
 well, to be acquitted of his promise. It was incon- 
 ceivable, ev<n had he not given his heart elsewhere, 
 to claim a right in such a matter, to refuse to un- 
 cage the bird of love which was beating its wings 
 against the wires, just because the cage was hers, 
 and in her hands it was to close or unclose the door. 
 It seemed to Elizabeth that the very fact that Edith 
 loved him, though it made it more difficult for her 
 to give him up, must make thai giving of him up 
 the more imperative. Love, so it appeared to her, 
 must have relaxed the fingers thai detained him. 
 Had she not cared for him, had she not known 
 what love was, these other desires, the liking she 
 had for him, the desire in a general way to be 
 married, the feeling that she would be happy with 
 him, might have caused her to keep him, or, at 
 any rate, not voluntarily to release him from his 
 promise. But that she could love (as Elizabeth 
 rightly felt she did) and yet not find predominant 
 over everything else the longing for his happiness 
 was the thing that was utterly inconceivable. 
 
 Whether Edith had secured her own happiness 
 she had no idea whatever. She had but seen her 
 some half-dozen times since Edward and Edith had 
 returned from Egypt in the early spring, and Edith 
 seemed to have developed a sort of sheath over her, 
 a carapace that was insensitive to the touch. It 
 was natural — indeed, anything else would have
 
 APRIL EVENING 291 
 
 been impossible — that no mention of past history 
 or how it bore on the present should take place be- 
 tween them, but it seemed to Elizabeth that her 
 cousin had shut herself up in this hard integument, 
 and gave no indication of her real self. If she spoke 
 of her home, it was to say that they had put a fresh 
 carpet down in the drawing-room, if of her daily 
 life, to say that she often lunched with her mother; 
 if of Mrs. Hancock, that she had raised Denton's 
 wages; if of Edward, that he seldom came back 
 from the City before the later of the two trains. 
 Once or twice, it is true, it had seemed to Eliza- 
 beth as if Edith was wanting to say something 
 more, that, as if shipwrecked on some desert island, 
 she was silently waving an inconspicuous flag, that 
 might, indeed, not be a flag at all. But nothing 
 came of these efforts, and it was impossible for 
 Elizabeth to urge her to confidence, when it was 
 so very doubtful whether she wished to confide, or, 
 indeed, had anything to say. Once Elizabeth had 
 made an impulsive attempt — had said suddenly, 
 not pausing to consider the wisdom of such a 
 speech, but eager for her own sincerity — 
 
 "Oh, Edith, I hope you are happy. You are, 
 aren't you?" And Edith, if she had been signal- 
 ling, furled her flag at once, as if afraid it had been 
 seen. 
 
 "Quite happy, thank you," she had said, and 
 picked up from the floor the umbrella with a false 
 onyx top that had fallen there. She proceeded to 
 explain about the top. Mrs. Hancock had bought it 
 in Cairo very cheap, and Edith hoped she would 
 never know it was not real onyx. She need not 
 have been afraid, for Mrs. Hancock had had her 
 doubts on the subject, but had resolutely put them 
 from her before she made this present. 
 
 It has been said that Elizabeth was "eager for
 
 292 ARUNDEL 
 
 her own sincerity" in wishing to know that Edith 
 was happy. That expresses with fair accuracy the 
 measure of her success in trying not to judge Edith. 
 It may be taken also as the epitaph on the grave 
 where her jealousy of her was buried. The cynic 
 is at liberty to reflect that since Edward did not 
 love his wife she had no cause for jealousy. 
 
 Of all the virtues that lift the eyes of men to 
 the hills, patience is the least admired, has the least 
 to attract the attention and thus earn the encourage- 
 ment of others, and yet none is more certain of its 
 results. Never does it fail in putting forth its fruits 
 in due season, nor in accomplishing its perfect 
 work. But for the most part its growth is imper- 
 ceptible; it dots Dot shoot up like the aloe flower, 
 nor challenge attention from the brilliance of its 
 blossoming; ami. like the violet, it hides its lovely 
 fragrance, and those who observe carelessly and 
 without love arc usually quite unaware of its blos- 
 Boming. It trumpets forth no deeds of valour, it 
 fills the stage with no heroic attitudes and splendid 
 speeches; and only those who watch tenderly and 
 closely can see the growth of its sweet-smelling 
 purple. It was not a matter for wonder then that 
 Mrs. Fanshawe, eagerly intent on herself, interested 
 in her own grief and bereavement, and marvellously 
 anxious that others should be (if possible) equally 
 interested in them, should have observed nothing of 
 this modest flowering, not even now, when on this 
 languid April day Elizabeth's plot was thick with 
 the flowers of her silent gardening. Indeed, she was 
 disposed to blame her stepdaughter for many omis- 
 sions in her general conduct. There was much to be 
 desired in her that she did not get. When she 
 played to her, so to speak, Elizabeth was not al- 
 ways ready to dance; when she mourned Elizabeth 
 did not always weep. She took but a tepid interest
 
 * 
 
 APRIL EVENING 293 
 
 in Mrs. Fanshawe's brilliant and absorbing econo- 
 mies, and though she was always ready to go on 
 searching through Army Lists, she did not bring to 
 that employment the eager zeal which might have 
 been expected from one who had just lost so well- 
 beloved a father. Worse still, when Mrs. Fanshawe's 
 voice sometimes broke and her eyes filled with self- 
 pitying tears, as she read aloud to Elizabeth some 
 fresh and pathetic page of the memoir, describing 
 how her father had sat up till half-past three on 
 two consecutive nights so that his wife should 
 have her fill of dancing, Elizabeth seemed as hard 
 as adamant over this poignant recollection. In- 
 deed, Elizabeth had tried to persuade her (quite 
 unsuccessfully) to cut out from the preface the 
 concluding paragraph which began "Out of the 
 depths of my broken heart I wish to thank all those 
 friends whose sympathy has supported me in my 
 bereavement." 
 
 Indeed, Mrs. Fanshawe was afraid that she had 
 not been far astray when, on first marrying, she 
 had formed the conclusion that Elizabeth was a 
 selfish sort of girl. She had believed then that she 
 had a great affection for her father (who really 
 rather spoiled her) and had tried, the dear fellow, to 
 spoil his wife as well ; but now, so quietly did Eliza- 
 beth take her bereavement, she was afraid that, 
 after all, her affection for her father was not so 
 very deep. Otherwise she must have found the 
 writing of the memoir a work at which it was an 
 agonizing yet exquisite pleasure to assist. Other- 
 wise, again, Elizabeth could not have been so re- 
 markably industrious in her music; she could not, 
 within a couple of months of her father's death, 
 begin a course of instruction in the piano at the 
 Royal Institute. She would have been unable 
 to give her mind, as she was undoubtedly doing, to
 
 294 ARUNDEL 
 
 this very nice accomplishment of playing the piano, 
 but have immured herself in the privacy of Oakley 
 Street, and refused to see anybody but her step- 
 mother, to whom she must have been irresistibly 
 drawn by the bond of their common sorrow. Inci- 
 dentally, too, these music lessons seemed to Mrs. 
 Fanshawe very expensive for the gratification of a 
 mere luxurious whim, and the thought of them 
 often impelled her to distant economical expeditions, 
 implying a huge expense in taxi-cabs. It was on 
 one of these that she had gone out this afternoon, 
 the object being to purchase large quantities of 
 violet soap, so cheap if you bought a large box of 
 it, and other little things that would probably occur 
 to her, from a shop in High Holborn. Though the 
 distance was considerable, Elizabeth was surprised 
 she was not back by the time the servant brought 
 up tea; but since she might return any moment, 
 and be querulous over the fact that tea was not 
 made, she prepared it, risking the other possibility 
 that it might be cold when her stepmother returned, 
 who would then drink it with the air of a martyr, 
 or be compelled, though she hated extravagance and 
 unnecessary trouble to servants, to order a fresh 
 teapot. One of the two was likely, since, as has 
 been mentioned, the open space at the back of the 
 house had been for the last fortnight the horrid 
 little backyard. 
 
 But an agreeable surprise was in store. Mrs. 
 Fanshawe came in before long in the most excellent 
 spirits, full of affection and tenderness. 
 
 "And my dear little musical Cinderella has made 
 tea," she said, "all ready for her wicked stepmother! 
 Darling, you should have come out with me, it is 
 the loveliest day; you are too industrious. Per- 
 haps this evening you will play to me something 
 you have been so diligently practising."
 
 APRIL EVENING 295 
 
 Elizabeth poured out tea. 
 
 "I'm afraid I haven't been so very industrious, 
 mamma," she said. "I've been sitting in the win- 
 dow nearly an hour doing nothing." 
 
 "Ah, it is not doing nothing to enjoy this sweet 
 breeze and look at the daffodils in our sweet little 
 garden. My dear, what a good cup of tea! No- 
 body makes tea like you. I often say it." 
 
 She often did, though with quite a different 
 nuance. But clearly the days of the horrid little 
 backyard were over for the present. 
 
 "Such an afternoon as I have had, dear," she 
 continued. "You would never guess all the things 
 that have happened to me. Who should I meet, 
 for instance, in Isaacs and Redford's but your Aunt 
 Julia, so pleasant and full of welcome! And noth- 
 ing would content her but that I must promise to 
 bring you down to stay with her next Friday over 
 the Sunday. Her dear little Elizabeth, she called 
 you. We quite quarrelled over that. I said you 
 were my dear little Elizabeth. She has been so 
 busy, she said, since her return from Egypt in 
 February, getting things straight after her long ab- 
 sence or she would have asked me many times be- 
 fore. I never thought it odd, I am glad to say, 
 that she had not done so; I always refrained from 
 wondering at it, though, to be sure, three months 
 is a long time to take putting things straight after 
 an absence of two. But now she quite insists on 
 it; she simply would not let me go until I had 
 promised, and she will send her motor to the sta- 
 tion to meet whatever train we settle to travel by." 
 
 Here was a prospect that had long daunted Eliza- 
 beth to look forward to, yet of necessity it must 
 sometime come close to her. She had not so much 
 as seen Edward since he handed her the telegram 
 last August in Mrs. Hancock's drawing-room; he
 
 296 ARUNDEL 
 
 and she. tacitly contriving together in sundered co- 
 operation had averted that. Her heart leaped and 
 sank and leaped again; she shrank from seeing him, 
 and had not known till now, when in the natural 
 course of events she must sec him, how much she 
 longed to. On her side there was no reasonable 
 excuse' to urge against the plan, and had there been 
 she hardly knew whether she would have urged 
 it. On his side, he might escape the meeting, say 
 that he had arranged to take Edith away for the 
 Sunday, but she felt BUre that if he understood 
 that she had consented to go down to her aunt's he 
 would net absent himself. He waited, so she in- 
 stinctively knew, for a siirn that she was willing to 
 imet him. Otherwise he would l"im ago have been 
 to see her. She quite understood his absence and 
 his sileti' 
 
 Any sign of emotioD that might have escaped 
 her was certainly nut seen by her stepmother, who 
 was full of the wonders of this afternoon. But Eliza- 
 beth felt that something beyond this invitation to 
 Heathmoor had occurred to send Mis. Fanshawe's 
 mental barometer up t«> such exhilarated serenity 
 of fair weather, and she waited h-r it to be told her. 
 It did not come at once; she mentioned first the 
 other objects on which some ray had beamed which 
 gilded and transfigured them. 
 
 "Such a long and dear talk I had with her," she 
 went on, "and she begged, if it did not hurt me too 
 much, to bring down all the memoirs that I have 
 written to read to her quietly. After she had gone 
 I bought the soap and the other little things I 
 wanted, which were even cheaper than I had antici- 
 pated, and you never would guess, dear, how I came 
 back here. Perhaps you will scarcely believe it 
 when I tell you, for I got on the top of a 'bus, wdth 
 my great box of soap and my other parcels, and
 
 
 APRIL EVENING 297 
 
 came all the way right to the Chelsea Town Hall 
 for threepence, not counting the sixpence with 
 which I tipped the conductor, who was most oblig- 
 ing and helped me with my things. Really very 
 polite! In spite of my packages, he of course saw 
 I was not just a common woman like the rest of 
 the passengers, and I hesitated whether I ought to 
 have given him a shilling. But I have never en- 
 joyed making a little economy and denying myself 
 comforts more than I did when I got up on that 
 'bus." 
 
 No, it was not the 'bus ride, so thought Eliza- 
 beth, that had produced this exhilaration and pleas- 
 ure. She waited. 
 
 "But before I got up on to my 'bus I gave my- 
 self just a little treat," Mrs. Fanshawe proceeded, 
 "and went into one of those electric palaces, as they 
 call them, where you see the cinematograph. I 
 was not quite sure whether it was the sort of thing 
 that is thought respectable, and so I looked pretty 
 closely at the programme before I entered. But 
 I need not have been afraid ; I never saw anything 
 more refined, and you and I will go together one 
 of these days, dear. So cheap, too; only a shilling. 
 Why, you could go every day for a week and not 
 spend more than in one evening in the dress-circle 
 at the theatre." 
 
 Mrs. Fanshawe looked up at Elizabeth with that 
 glance of soft, shy helplessness which many men 
 found so provocatively feminine and pleading, and 
 called forth the instinct of protection in their some- 
 what unobservant minds. For, on the whole, no- 
 body was less in need of protection than she; she 
 was almost aggressively able to take care of her- 
 self. 
 
 "And I didn't have to carry my parcels after all," 
 she said, "from where the 'bus stopped, for whom
 
 298 ARUNDEL 
 
 should I see just coming out of the chemist's there 
 but that dear Sir Henry Meyrick, who was Com- 
 mander-in-Chief in India. Do you remember? He 
 came home only a couple of days ago on leave, and 
 will be here till January. He stayed with us once 
 at Peshawar, darling, in those happy, happy days!" 
 
 Mrs. Fanshawe took out her handkerchief and 
 dabbed the corners of her eyes. This was a piece 
 of ritual that had lost it- practical significance (for 
 there was Dot the semblance of moisture then 
 ami was merely the outward and visible Bign of an 
 inward grief. 
 
 "I stayed with him afterwards at Simla." she 
 said, "and L r "t. oh, bo fond of him! Et*was while 
 I was staying there, you know, that the news came 
 that caused my poor heart to break. My dear, he 
 was like a woman for tendei to me, and yet he 
 
 had the Strength of a man; and I can never. ne\ 
 forget what I owe dear Sir Henry. If it had not 
 
 been for him I am convinced I should quite have 
 
 broken down, 01 even made away with myself." 
 
 Elizabeth felt Bure that she had here the origin 
 of the wonderful rise in her Btepmothi :>irits. 
 And an idea, horrible to contemplate, came close 
 to her and stared her in the face. She resolutely 
 turned away from it. 
 
 "Yes, I remember him quite well," she said. "I 
 thought you found him rather foolish and ridicu- 
 lous." 
 
 "Foolish and ridiculou - id Mrs. Fanshawe, 
 with great energy. "I cannot imagine what you 
 mean, Elizabeth. You must be confusing him with 
 some one else." 
 
 "Perhaps I am," said the girl. "It is stupid of 
 me. How was he looking?" 
 
 Mrs. Fanshawe calmed down at once and became 
 softly pathetic again.
 
 APRIL EVENING 299 
 
 "Oh, so different to what he was when you saw 
 him," she said, "when he was so cheery and jolly, 
 and made all the women in Peshawar fall in love 
 with him. At least. I am sure that I did. He looked 
 so anxious and unhappy, Elizabeth, that my heart 
 quite went out to him, and I longed to comfort 
 him. And he brightened up so when he saw me; 
 he looked quite radiant again. And you will never 
 guess what a pretty welcome he gave me, though 
 of course it was very foolish of him. He said, 'My 
 dear little girl — my dear little girl!' twice over, just 
 like that. And he held out both his hands to me, 
 and dropped his umbrella in a puddle and never 
 seemed to notice it. And there was I with my 
 arms full of great heavy parcels. I declare for 
 a moment I was quite ashamed before so true a 
 gentleman as Sir Henry is. And he took all the 
 parcels from me — and oh, my dear, it was so won- 
 derful to me in my loneliness in the crowded streets 
 to be taken care of again like that! — and carried 
 them right up to the door, and gave them to Mary 
 when she opened it. He would not let me touch 
 them again myself." 
 
 Again the idea stood close to Elizabeth, hold- 
 ing her, so it seemed, not letting her turn her face 
 away. And the soft, childlike voice went on. 
 
 "He asked after you, too," she said, "so nicely 
 and affectionately. He would not come in then, 
 for he had some other appointment; and though he 
 w y anted to break it I did not let him. But he is 
 coming to dine here to-night. I shall not think of 
 making any extra preparation for him. He will like 
 it best just to see me in my quiet, modest little house 
 just naturally." 
 
 There was a moment's rather awkward pause, 
 for Mrs. Fanshawe had to consider how to rein- 
 troduce a topic that had been spoken of that morn-
 
 300 ARUNDEL 
 
 ing between her and Elizabeth in hours of the "hor- 
 rid little backyard." Elizabeth had wanted to go 
 to the Queen's Hall to attend a concert of the inost 
 ravishing character that was to be performed that 
 night, but had given up the idea owing to a marked 
 querulousness on her stepmother's part at the pros- 
 pect of passing a deserted evening. There had 
 even been pained wonder at the girl caring to go 
 out to an evening of pleasure so soon. But she was 
 not apt to be troubled at her own inconsistencies, 
 and the pause was not long. 
 
 "He will be sorry not to see you, I am sure, dar- 
 ling," she said, "but I think you told me you were 
 going to a concert at the Queen's Hall. Very likely 
 you will not be in till nearly eleven, and you may 
 be sure I shall have a nice cosy little supper ready 
 for you when you come back." 
 
 To Elizabeth this seemed but to confirm the idea 
 that had forced itself on her; it needed, at any 
 rate, little perspicacity to see that her stepmother, 
 with the prospect of dining alone with Sir Henry, 
 wanted her to keep the engagement which, in defer- 
 ence to her desire, she had abandoned. Nor was 
 she surprised at the tenderness that followed. Mrs. 
 Fanshawe rose in willowy fashion from her chair 
 and stood behind Elizabeth's, gently stroking her 
 hair. 
 
 "I want you to enjoy all the pleasures that I can 
 contrive for you, dear," she said. "He whom we 
 both miss so dreadfully, I know would wish us to 
 enjoy — 'richly to enjoy,' does not the Bible say? He 
 would have hated to think that we were going to 
 lose all our gaiety and happiness." 
 
 Elizabeth felt physically unable to bear the touch 
 of that insincere, caressing hand. She got up 
 quickly.
 
 *. 
 • 
 
 APRIL EVENING 301 
 
 "Yes, mamma," she said; "I am sure of that. I 
 have tried not to lose the joy of life." 
 
 "So right, darling!" said Mrs. Fanshawe, in a 
 dreadful little cooing voice. "And we have helped 
 each other, I hope, in that. I know you have helped 
 me. I will not let my life be spoiled and broken; 
 it would grieve him so." 
 
 She paused a moment with handkerchief-ritual, 
 and with her head a little on one side, spoke with 
 childlike timidity. 
 
 "It was lovely being taken care of again," she 
 said, "though only in a little matter like having a 
 parcel carried. Are you going now, dear? Enjoy 
 yourself, my sweetest, and stop till the very end 
 of your concert. I know what a treat music is to 
 you; I would not have you miss a note." 
 
 Elizabeth felt the need of air after this interview, 
 and having an hour yet to spare before she need 
 think of going to the concert, went down the broad, 
 quiet street and on to the Thames Embankment at 
 its lower end. She felt stifled by this atmosphere of 
 insincerity from which she had come; she choked 
 at the pitiful nauseating deception that she believed 
 almost deceived her stepmother and caused her to 
 refer to the duty of behaving as her late husband 
 would have had her behave, at all her little subter- 
 fuges for facilitating her own arrangements. The 
 falseness of it all was so blatant, so palpable that 
 it would not have deceived a baby, and yet Eliza- 
 beth was not wrong in thinking that it largely de- 
 ceived the very author of it. Her acting might not 
 appear at all life-like to her audience, but it seemed 
 real to herself. For years she had, while diligently 
 pursuing paths of complete selfishness, been em- 
 ployed, so to speak, on modelling a figure of her- 
 self, that was winning, child-like, and trustingly
 
 302 ARUNDEL 
 
 devoted to the love of others, and now regarding 
 that, with conscious approval, she had come to be- 
 lieve that it was the very image of herself. And 
 Elizabeth felt sure (and again was not mistaken) 
 that Mrs. Fanshawe was even now getting herself 
 into another graceful pose for the reception of Sir 
 Henry. To say that she was deliberately laying 
 herself out to attract him would have been the 
 coarsely true way of putting it, but things that were 
 coarse and things that were true were almost equally 
 abhorrent to Mrs. Fanshawe's mind. She told her- 
 self that she owed a great debt to Sir Henry for his 
 kindness and sympathy at her husband's death, a 
 debt that she would never be able to repay. She 
 was bound to treat him as an old friend, to confide 
 in him her plans for the future: to tell him how she 
 was "oh, so content" to live quietly here, devoting 
 her life to Elizabeth, who was so sweet to her. And 
 she would somehow make it appear that it was her 
 own sweetness, not Elizabeth's, that she was really 
 talking about. She would hint that she was a great 
 deal alone, but that it was by her own wish that 
 Elizabeth spent so many evenings enjoying herself 
 with hearing music. Elizabeth was right, "oh, so 
 right!" to do it. And Elizabeth, thinking over these 
 things, executed a few wild dance steps on a lonely 
 piece of the Embankment, from sheer irritation at 
 the thought. She wondered also whether her step- 
 mother would show Sir Henry the written chapters 
 of the Memoir. She rather thought not. 
 
 This little ebullition of temper passed, and she 
 let her mind quiet dow r n again as she leaned her 
 elbows on the stone balustrade and looked out over 
 the beautiful river, which brimmed and swirled just 
 below, for the tide, near to full flood, was pouring 
 up from the sea, still fresh and strong and un- 
 wearied by its journey. Barges were drifting up
 
 
 APRIL EVENING 303 
 
 with it in a comfortable, haphazard sort of fashion, 
 and a great company of sea-gulls hovered near, chid- 
 ing and wheeling together. The hour was a little 
 after sunset, and the whole sky was bright with 
 mackerel-markings of rosy cloud, and the tawny 
 river, reflecting these, was covered with glows and 
 gleams. Opposite, the trees in the park were dim 
 in the mist of fresh green that lay over them, blur- 
 ring the outlines which all the winter had stood 
 stark and clear-cut under cold, grey skies. And the 
 triumphant tide of springtime which flushed every- 
 thing with the tingle of new growth, unfolding the 
 bells of the tulips in the patches of riverside garden, 
 and making the sparrows busy with gathering sticks 
 and straws for their nestings, sent a sudden thrill 
 through Elizabeth's heart, and she was conscious 
 again, as she had not been for many weary weeks, 
 of the youth and glory of the world. From the 
 great sea of life came the vivifying wave, covering 
 for the moment the brown seaweed tangle of her 
 trouble that had lain dry and sun-baked so long, 
 flushing and freshening and uplifting it. 
 
 Relieved of its irritation, and refreshed by this 
 good moment of spring evening, her mind went back 
 to her stepmother. She felt sure that it was her 
 intention to marry that jolly old warrior, if it could 
 possibly be managed, and that she was going to 
 employ all her art in the shape of her artlessness 
 and simplicity to bring that about. It was but 
 eight months since her husband had died, but, after 
 all, what did that matter? The actual lapse of 
 time had very little to do with the question, and 
 she would be sure to have touching and convincing 
 reasons for such a step. It had seemed horrible 
 at first to Elizabeth, but where, after all, was the 
 horror? Of course, her dead husband would have 
 wished her to be happy. Elizabeth knew her father
 
 304 ARUNDEL 
 
 well enough to know that, and it was only horrible 
 that she should give (as she undoubtedly would) 
 as a reason for her marrying again what she knew 
 his wishes would be on the subject. Whether Sir 
 Henry would be brought up to the point was an- 
 other matter, and on this Elizabeth had no evidence 
 except her stepmother- account of their meeting. 
 But clearly Mrs. Fanshawe thought that things 
 promised well. 
 
 Elizabeth's eves suddenly filled with tears. Only 
 once had the grass sprung up on that far-distant 
 grave; Dot yet had the Memoir, so quickly taken in 
 hand, been completed. 
 
 "Daddy, daddy!'* she said aloud. 
 
 She turned from the rosy river, and set out to 
 walk down the Embankment to the next bridge, 
 from where she proposed to take the conveyance 
 that had thrilled her stepmother that afternoon with 
 
 a sense of incredible adventun The pavement 
 
 stretched empty and darkening in front of her, and 
 at the far end the lamplighter had started on his 
 
 luminous round. Some two hundred yards off a 
 
 figure was walking quickly towards her, and long 
 
 ae could distinguish face or feature, Eliza- 
 
 th, with heart in sudden tumult, saw who it was. 
 
 Almost at the same moment she saw him pause sud- 
 denly in his rapid progress, and halt as if undeter- 
 mined whether or no to turn and retrace his steps. 
 But he came on again, and soon they stood face 
 to face. All the tumult in her had died down again; 
 she held out her hand with the friendliest, most un- 
 embarrassed smile. 
 
 "At last, Edward!" she said. "And we shall meet 
 again soon. Aunt Julia has asked mamma and me 
 down for next Sunday." 
 
 He looked at her a moment without speaking.
 
 
 APRIL EVENING 305 
 
 She saw that his breath came quickly as if he had 
 been running. 
 
 "I know. She told me she was going to write," he 
 said. 
 
 "She met mamma this afternoon, and said it 
 instead." 
 
 "Must I go away?" he asked. "Of course I will 
 if you wish it. But — but mayn't I see you again?" 
 
 At his voice, at the entreaty in his eyes, all but 
 her love for him, unstained and bright-burning, van- 
 ished utterly. 
 
 "Yes, why not, if you want to?" she said. "But 
 I shall understand so well if you do not." 
 
 "I have wanted nothing else every day," he said. 
 
 All her heart went out to him. 
 
 "Aren't you happy, dear?'' she said. 
 
 "How can vou ask that?" 
 
 "I'm sorry," she said simply. "And Edith?" 
 
 "I don't know. I don't know anything about her. 
 I try to be kind and nice to her. In fact I am." 
 
 A wretched, quivering smile broke out on the 
 girl's face. 
 
 "Conceit!" she said. "I'm glad we have met, 
 Edward, for we had to get this over, you know. 
 Well it's over." 
 
 They stood in silence a moment. Then suddenly 
 he broke out — 
 
 "Why wouldn't you trust your own heart, Eliza- 
 beth, and let me trust mine? What good has come 
 of it all? What has come of it but wretchedness? 
 I don't ask if you are happy. I know you aren't." 
 
 "No. But you kept faith. That good has come 
 of it. Don't say those things. It isn't the best of 
 you that says them. And what are you doing here?" 
 
 "I often walk this way," he said. "Then I go up 
 Oakley Street. The evenings are getting light now. 
 Do you mind my doing that?" 

 
 30G ARUNDEL 
 
 Then something swelled in her throat forbidding 
 speech. 
 "I — I must go on," she said at length. 
 "May I walk with you a little?" 
 
 "To the corner. I shall take a 'bus there." 
 
 There was but a little way to go, and they stood 
 together, waiting for the 'bus, looking at the dark- 
 ling river, down which poured the wild west wind. 
 
 "Sea-gulls," she said to him, pointing. "Sea-gulls 
 and spring, Edward." 
 
 And she mounted quickly up the winding iron 
 stairs, not looking back. But as the 'bus swung 
 round a corner a little distance up the road she 
 could not resist turning round. He was still there 
 at the corner where -he had lift him, a minute speck 
 on the pavement that glowed in the rose-coloured 
 
 SUii-et. BO minute, so significant. It seemed to her 
 
 thai all of her essentia] -elf. her heart, her power 
 ni love, was Btanding there with him; that he gazed 
 but :tt an empty wraith of herself who sat on the 
 pounding, swaying "bus, while -he stood by his side 
 as the spring evening darkened and the sea-gulls 
 hovered ami wheeled.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 THE GRISLY KITTENS 
 
 Elizabeth, as requested by her stepmother, did not 
 leave her concert that night until the very last note 
 of all had died away. But it is doubtful whether 
 that request had very much to do with it: the proba- 
 bility is that she was really incapable of doing so. 
 Just as the hypnotized subject has his will taken 
 possession of by his controller, so thai all his wishes, 
 his intentions, his desires are for the time in abey- 
 ance and the independence of his own powers com- 
 pletely paralysed, so that night Elizabeth was taken 
 captive by the power of sound. Many times before 
 she had felt that she was penetrating into a new 
 kingdom, a fresh province of thought and feeling, 
 but to-night a more surprising adventure held her 
 bound. She penetrated into no fresh kingdoms, she 
 saw no new peaks upraise themselves or valleys 
 carve themselves at her feet. She was completely 
 in familiar places; only a fresh light, one that for 
 her had never lit sea or land, shone on them, which 
 transfigured them not by fantastic effects and the 
 sensationalism of musical limelights, but with the 
 dawning as of the everlasting day. 
 
 She was unconsciously prepared for this, as she 
 had never been before. She, or a hundred others 
 whose souls were steeped with the love of melody, 
 might have heard just what she heard that night, 
 and have had their tastes gratified, their emotions 
 roused, without being gripped in this manner so 
 supreme, so enlightening. New sensations might 
 
 307
 
 308 ARUNDEL 
 
 have flitted through her, new beauties been per- 
 ceived, new glories been manifested, without this 
 ethical perception being awakened. But with her 
 to-night, all the quiet patience of these past months, 
 of the succession of -lark and difficult days, to solve 
 the meaning of which she had applied herself with 
 efforts and strivings after the Light, bo unremitting, 
 so unnoticed, had rendered her capable of receiv- 
 ing the true illumination. Cell by cell, she had 
 Btored honey in the dark; now with the coming of 
 spring, the workers of her soul -wanned out with 
 rush of joyous wings into the light She was charged 
 to the brim with supersaturated waters; it wanted 
 
 but the one atom the more to DC added'that should 
 solidify all that had been put into her. all that by 
 the grace of God -he had gathered. Probably the 
 meeting with Edward gave her the last crystal of 
 
 the salt, took out from her love the grain of bitter- 
 ness that -till lurked there. That made her ready 
 
 to receive the ultimate gifl that music ha- to bring, 
 namely, the identification of it with all other noble 
 effort, the perception of its truth, which is one with 
 the truth i'\ everything that is beautiful, and is lit 
 by the 1 i lt 1 1 1 that illuminates the whole world, and 
 turns it into the garden of God. Never again in 
 those on whom one gleam of the light has shone can 
 it be wholly quenched. For the future they know 
 from their own Belves, from the recollection of the 
 one thing in the world which it is impossible to for- 
 get, that whatever storms of adversity, thunder- 
 clouds of trouble lower, there is no such thing any 
 more for them as a darkness quite untransfused, no 
 place so slippery that they can doubt whether their 
 feet are set on a rock and their goings ordered. 
 
 The hall was but half- filled, and Elizabeth, seated 
 at the back of the amphitheatre, saw she would be 
 uncumbered with the distraction of near neighbours.
 
 THE GRISLY KITTENS 309 
 
 The concert opened with the Third Symphony of 
 Brahms, and immediately she was carried into it. 
 Even as one who looks at some superb statue has 
 his mind modelled, as it were, into the image of 
 what he sees, so that his body can, faintly following, 
 unconsciously drop into a pose somewhat like it, so, 
 listening to this, she was made one with it, fused 
 into it, so that, while it sang its message to her, she 
 knew of no existence separate from it. Her mind, 
 her nature became part of it; she, like a sheet of 
 calm waters, burned with the glories of the melodi- 
 ous sky. She became godlike, as she inhaled that 
 ampler ether of glorified intellect through music, 
 which perhaps alone of the arts can make 1 wholly 
 visible to the spiritual eye the wonder and the 
 beauty of pure and abstract thought. Xo longer 
 did its melodies suggest images to her; her brain 
 strove not after similes to express, as it were, in 
 mere black and white the effect of the rainbow song; 
 it revealed itself, mind. 
 
 Then the hall swam into sight again; there was 
 applause. It sounded quite meaningless; you did 
 not clap your hands when daylight came. 
 
 There were but three items in the programme, and 
 for the second, the grand piano in front of the stage 
 was opened. The player was familiar enough to 
 her, he with his magical fingers and exuberant 
 youth, but just now he seemed a detached and im- 
 personal figure, as nameless as the viol-holding 
 cherubim in a canvas of Bellini, who make music 
 for the reverie of the saints and angels who stand 
 on either side of the Mother of God. But it was 
 no song of heavenly soul and sexless quires that he 
 was to sing ; he was the interpreter of the joy of life 
 and of love and of the myriad emotions that spring 
 like flow r ers from the fruitful earth. Brahms had 
 revealed what is possible to the wise mind of man,
 
 310 ARUNDEL 
 
 here in the great concerto Tschaikowsky poured out 
 the inspired tale of its emotions; the splendour of 
 their ahining, the tenderness of their reveries. In- 
 stantly in the presence of this more concrete, more 
 tVail and human music the images leaped and 
 danced again in Elizabeth's mind. The noonday 
 shone on the innumerable smile of a blue sea; high 
 above the Bultry plain were fixed the spear-heads of 
 ( 'luteal ; the dusk fell on the Indian garden with its 
 tangle of Peshawar roses. More personal yet grew 
 
 the appeal She walked with her father then*; she 
 
 showed him, as never ye1 had it been given her to 
 show him, how love had touched her, even as he 
 
 had said, with its enchantment, how the loyalty of 
 
 her renunciation of its material fulfilment had not 
 
 withered it- Stem, Init earned it to bloSSOm with a 
 
 rarer and more fragrant dowering. She told him 
 how the hitter waters had been Bweetened, how the 
 
 Sting had been sheathed, how through darkness love 
 had felt its way up to the day. With tender glance 
 at the pain of it that was passed they dwelt on it; 
 
 with smiles for her miscomprehension of its growth, 
 for her ignorance of where it led they traced its 
 
 springing tendrils, on which there were the traces of 
 healed sears where it had hied. Hut its bleeding was 
 over, and strong grew its shoots over unsightly 
 places. The whole world danced together, not men 
 and women only, not only boys and girls, but sun 
 and sea and sky, and the Qons in the desert and the 
 tigers burning bright in the jungle. The peaks and 
 ledges of untrodden snow danced in a whirling 
 magical maze of rhythmic movement. The angels 
 of God joined in it; the devils of hell would have 
 done so had there been such things as devils, or such 
 a place as hell. Again the music grew more per- 
 sonal. All she had ever known of joy, and that was 
 much, was marshalled round her, and through the
 
 THE GRISLY KITTENS 311 
 
 dancers, this crowd of earthly elements, came he 
 whom every nerve and agent of perception in her 
 body loved. Her human power of emotion leaped to 
 the supremest arc of that rainbow curve, and with 
 him stood there poised. By some divine right he 
 was hers, by a right no less divine he was separated 
 from her. Yet that separation was somehow one 
 with the union. 
 
 Then followed a pause of some ten minutes. But 
 no reaction came to her, for it was no mimic show 
 that was now over, no feigned dramatic presentment 
 that she had watched or listened to (she hardly 
 knew which), but something quite real, more real 
 than the rows of dark red stalls, than the shaded 
 scarlet lights, like huge inverted anemones, which 
 hung above the orchestra, more real even than the 
 actual music itself, which was but the husk or at 
 most the temporary embodiment of the truth that 
 underlay and illumined it. She had been shown 
 the vision of mind at its highest, of emotion in its 
 supremest degree. There was something still lack- 
 ing, which should bind them together, exhibit them, 
 as they truly were, parts of an infinite whole. She 
 knew what was coming, and with the tenseness of 
 an expectation that must be fulfilled, with a sus- 
 pense that was not the less for the certainty of its 
 coming resolution, she waited. 
 
 Half an hour later she came out into the mellow 
 spring night, that teemed with the promise of the 
 south-west wind. Just as the Brahms symphony 
 had summed up for her the glory of mind, and the 
 Tschaikowsky concerto had sung of the depth and 
 sunlit splendours of human emotion, so the Good 
 Friday music had bridged and connected the two, 
 and shown her whence came the light that shone on 
 them. But whereas the concerto had led her 
 through generalities to its culmination of the ap-
 
 312 ARUNDEL 
 
 peal to her own individual personality, and its needs 
 and longings, in this she was led across the dim 
 threshold of herself, so to speak, into the halls that 
 were full of light, into the house of many man- 
 sions. Vivid ami ecstatic at first had been the sense 
 of her own intense experience; she was bathed in 
 sun and sea, and then was opened to her a com- 
 munion of soul with those she Loved that trans- 
 cended all she had ever frit before. And yet. very 
 soon, that faded int<> nothingness, it passed off the 
 shield of her perception, as a breath is dispersed in 
 frosty air; soon she was no Longer the centre of her 
 consciousn< bs, but only an atom of infinite insignifi- 
 cance in it. It was n<> revelation of herself that was 
 thus manifested, yet inasmuch as she was part of the 
 
 vital essence of the love that crowned the human 
 
 understanding, the human passions, inasmuch as she 
 could give thanks for its great ^l<>ry. that glory was 
 
 part of her, her love part of it. One and indivisible 
 it stirred in her, even as it moved the sun and all 
 the stars. . . . 
 
 It was with no sense of interruptions or of a 
 broken mood that she came out into the jostling of 
 the populous streets, for truth is not a mood, and 
 they with their crowded pavements and whirring 
 roadways were part of it also, and knew her solemn 
 and joyful secret. Without doubt she would not 
 always be able to feel with the same vividness of 
 perception that the eternal peace encompassed her, 
 but. having once realized it, she knew that it would 
 be there always, a sure refuge, that it was the an- 
 swer to all the riddles and difficulties that life as- 
 suredly would continue to ply her with. Again and 
 again, she knew, they would puzzle and perplex her, 
 again and again she would be mist-blinded by them. 
 But she had seen an authentic glimpse, as from 
 Pisgah, of the kingdom to which led the royal roads.
 
 THE GRISLY KITTENS 313 
 
 They might wind over stony hill-sides, be packed 
 with sand, or clogged with resistant mire, but they 
 led to the promised land, to the kingdom that was 
 within, the gates of which stood open night and day, 
 for all who willed to enter. 
 
 It was late, already after eleven, when she dis- 
 mounted from the 'bus at the corner of Oakley 
 Street, and she half expected to find that her step- 
 mother had gone to bed. It must be allowed that 
 Elizabeth would not have been very sorry if this 
 proved to be the case, for she felt that she could give 
 but a vague attention to the voluble trivialities that 
 would otherwise await her. But not till she had 
 softly closed the street door behind her, did she 
 bring into focus the fact that Mrs. Fanshawe had 
 been dining alone with Sir Henry, or that the volu- 
 ble trivialities might be supplanted by news not 
 trivial at all. 
 
 The idea when first it had occurred to her had 
 repelled her, with the repulsion that a deep love 
 must naturally feel for any self-conscious and shal- 
 low affection. There was a sort of heait-breaking 
 jar in the thought that Mrs. Fanshawe, with her 
 pen still dipping for ink to write the Memoir, should 
 be thinking about re-marriage. But now the re- 
 pulsion had left her; she found herself less jealous 
 for her father's memory, more ready to let the im- 
 mortality of love look after itself, more capable of 
 sinking her personal feeling. It was not that the 
 idea had lost its sharp edges from her greater fa- 
 miliarity with it; she saw it as distinctly as ever; 
 only the sharp edges now failed to fret her. Be- 
 sides, how could the shallowness of her stepmother's 
 affections, the insincerity that in itself was of so 
 unreal a nature, affect anything that was real? 
 
 Mrs. Fanshawe had not gone to bed, but was sit- 
 ting in a very pretty pensive attitude (hastily as-
 
 314 ARUNDEL 
 
 sumed when she heard Elizabeth's step on the 
 stairs) over a brisk little fire, in front of which was 
 standing in the fender a small covered dish. She 
 had put on a white bedroom wrapper with little 
 black bows of ribbon; her long, abundant hair 
 streamed over her shoulders: there was never so 
 bewitching a little widow. She held out her arm 
 with a welcoming gesture as Elizabeth entered. 
 
 "Darling, how late you are!" she said. "But if 
 you have been enjoying yourself that is all I ask of 
 you. I could Dot bear to think that my little Eliza- 
 beth should conic in and find a silent house, with no 
 one to welcome her home." 
 
 She got up and gave Elizabeth a little butterfly 
 kiss. 
 
 "See, dear. I lit the fire for you with my own 
 hands, so that your Bupper might keep warm. There 
 is a napkin which I spread for a tablecloth, and a 
 little rack of toast, and some lemonade with plenty 
 of sugar in it. and just the wing of a chicken, which 
 I saved for you. and ate a [eg myself instead. And 
 a little bunch of grapes t<» follow and some ginger- 
 bread cake. And while you eat, dear, you shall tell 
 me all about your concert. Fancy if some day you 
 played at a concert at the Queen's Hall. How proud 
 I should be! And should I not burst my gloves in 
 applauding?" 
 
 To "tell all about the concert" was a somewhat 
 extensive suggestion, but there was no need for 
 Elizabeth to reply, as Mrs. Fanshawe went on with- 
 out pause. 
 
 "I could not attend to anything, dear," she said, 
 "until I had quite settled in my mind what would be 
 the nicest little supper I could think of for you. I 
 had quite a little squabble with Sir Henry about 
 eating a leg myself, though I assured him that all 
 epicures prefer the leg. And he helped me to light
 
 
 THE GRISLY KITTENS 315 
 
 the fire; I assure you, he was as zealous on your 
 behalf as I was. And he told me to be sure and 
 give you his love, if I did not think you would con- 
 sider that a liberty." 
 
 "Thank you, mamma," said the girl. "And it was 
 good of you to take so much thought for me. I 
 almost expected to find you had gone to bed; I am 
 so late. I suppose Sir Henry has been gone some 
 time?" 
 
 "A quarter of an hour ago perhaps. I had not 
 more than time to take off my dress and brush my 
 hair. But I could not go without a peep at you 
 when you returned. And I promised myself a little 
 cosy talk over the fire when you had finished your 
 supper." 
 
 Elizabeth left the table and sat down in a big 
 arm-chair near Mrs. Fanshawe. The latter took 
 Elizabeth's hand as it lay on the arm, and held it 
 in both of hers. 
 
 "I have been thinking of you so much, dear," 
 she said, "all the time dear Sir Henry was here. 
 You have been in my mind every minute. Such a 
 wise, kind man he is, and so full of sympathy and 
 tenderness for me. And he shows it with such won- 
 derful tact, not by dwelling on my great loss, but 
 by encouraging me and cheering me up. I declare 
 I laughed outright as I have not done for months 
 at some of his delicious, droll stories. He is the sort 
 of man to whom one can open one's heart com- 
 pletely. All kinds of things we talked about — about 
 old, dear, happy days, and about India, and oh, 
 Elizabeth, how I long to see dear India again! He 
 quoted something which I thought so true, about 
 hearing the East a-calling, and said it ought to be 
 'when you hear the East a-bawling.' Was not that 
 quaint of him? The East a-bawling! Yes. That is 
 just what it does. Dear, happy days in India, with
 
 316 ARUNDEL 
 
 all its pleasant parties and society and balls ! I miss 
 the gaiety of it all in our sad, secluded life here in 
 this little tiny house. Why, the drawing-room is 
 not much bigger than my bathroom was at Pesha- 
 war. I think that I am naturally of a gay and joy- 
 ous nature, dear. I was not made for sadness." 
 
 Apparently Mrs. Fanshawe was taking a rest 
 from thinking about Elizabeth all the evening. She 
 seemed to realize this and hurried back to her sub- 
 ject. 
 
 "And if it is sad for me, how much more sad it 
 must be for you. darling, for you used to enjoy your- 
 self so in India with your horses and dpgs. I am 
 sure you used to laugh fifty times a day out there, 
 for once that I hear you laugh now. But it is not 
 only of your loss of gaiety that I have been think- 
 ing so much. There arc things more important than 
 that, especially while you are young. The loss of 
 your father's care and thought for you makes such 
 a dreadful blank, and I. weighed down with all the 
 petty cares and economies which we have to prac- 
 tise, cannot look after you as constantly as I used. 
 My days are so full with the care of the house, and 
 with writing your dear father's Memoir, which all 
 these weeks has been to me nothing less than a 
 sacred duty. And even if I was quite free, it would 
 be impossible for me, a little weak, silly, helpless 
 woman, to supervise your growing up with the wis- 
 dom and large grasp of a man. I have been doing 
 my best, I think I can say that, but I know how 
 feeble and wanting my best has been." 
 
 There had been no opportunity, so continuous had 
 been the prattle of this monologue, for Elizabeth 
 to speak at all. For this she was grateful, for she 
 would have found it difficult enough to frame any 
 sincere reply to this endless tissue of insincerities 
 that were only half-conscious of themselves. Mrs.
 
 THE GRISLY KITTENS 317 
 
 Fanshawe had been so long accustomed to look 
 upon the utterly inaccurate picture of herself, of 
 which she was the artist, so long unaccustomed to 
 look on the actual origin of it, that she really had 
 got to confuse the two, or, rather, to obliterate the 
 one in favour of the imaginary portrait. But to- 
 night Elizabeth did not feel the smallest resentment 
 at this imposture; she regarded her mother as she 
 would have regarded some charade-acting child, and 
 was willing to encourage its belief in the reality of 
 its acting. For Mrs. Fanshawe, as for a child, this 
 dressing-up was real. And Elizabeth could almost 
 see her father listening with a smile that for all its 
 tenderness did not lack humour. He would have 
 been amused, surely, at it all. For all his own sim- 
 plicity and sincerity, he had never wanted to im- 
 prove and edify others. At the most he only en- 
 couraged them, like the beloved plants in his gar- 
 den, to grow and blossom. Besides, he had loved his 
 wife (for the life of her Elizabeth had never been 
 able to guess why), and that simple fact — a fact 
 which no one should try to explain away — took 
 precedence of everything else. 
 
 There was a pause for a few gentle applications 
 of a very small lace handkerchief, and it became in- 
 cumbent on Elizabeth to say something. She knew, 
 of course, perfectly well what her stepmother was 
 leading up to, and since she appeared to find it 
 difficult to come to the point, Elizabeth decided to 
 help her. 
 
 "And so you and Sir Henry " she began. 
 
 That was quite enough. Mrs. Fanshawe rose 
 swiftly from her chair, bent over her, and kissed 
 her. 
 
 "My darling, yes," she said. "And I am so glad 
 you have guessed. I was so afraid it would come 
 as a shock to you, that I only promised Henry that
 
 318 ARUNDEL 
 
 I would tell you to-night, if I could. I said he must 
 trust to my instinct, as to whether I should not only 
 begin to prepare you for it. I told him that he 
 could not know, as I knew, how deeply you loved 
 your father, and that I must judge whether to tell 
 you at once or not. I said I would Dot wound my 
 dear little Elizabeth's heart for anything. But now 
 you have guessed, how nice that is! And, oh, what 
 a true and wise friend and second father you will 
 find in him, Elizabeth] Do you wonder now, my 
 darling, that I said hew much I had been thinking 
 of you all this evening! 
 
 Suddenly it was borne in upon the girl that this 
 play-acting was really going too far. * It Beemed 
 impermissible to allow even a child to take its in- 
 ventions quite so seriously. It was as if the child 
 insisted od having real solid food and real cham- 
 pagne provided for its pasteboard banquet. Yet, 
 yet— was there any gain to any one in Baying, "Re- 
 member, you are only acting?" She knew well there 
 was not. Detection and exposure of even such 
 abominable insincerities as these never yet did any 
 good to the — the criminal. It only made her resent 
 the cruel perspicacity of their exposer, or possibly 
 exercise a little more ingenuity in their inventions. 
 She would be wiser to enter into the spirit of these 
 imaginative flights. But it was like seeing some- 
 body waving his arms, saying, "See, I am a bird; 
 how high I fly!" and pretending to look upwards 
 and be dazzled and made giddy by this reckless feat 
 of aviation. 
 
 "It was sweet of you to think of me as well," was 
 as much as could humanly be expected of the best 
 intentions. 
 
 That did not nearly satisfy Mrs. Fanshawe. 
 
 "My dear, my central thought was of you," she
 
 • 
 
 THE GRISLY KITTENS 319 
 
 declared. "Almost the first thing I said to Henry 
 when — when he would not let me go, for he has 
 such an affectionate nature, and oh, my darling, 
 how he loves me! — almost the first thing I said was, 
 'What about Elizabeth? You must not think that 
 I have said yes to you until you assure me that 
 you will be a father to Elizabeth.' And he said — 
 it was so like him — 'We'll offer her a grandfather, 
 anyhow, Birdie.' That was what he said he must 
 call me — his bright-eyed little Birdie — so foolish of 
 him." 
 
 The clock on the chimney-piece chimed twelve, 
 and Mrs. Fanshawe rose to an apex of surprising 
 fatuity. 
 
 "Gracious me, what an hour!" she said. "I be- 
 lieve I have not sat up till twelve this last two 
 months. We must go to bed, or Henry will find 
 a dull-eyed little Birdie when he comes back in 
 the morning, and will never love her any more. He 
 will think he has made a great mistake, and want 
 to marry Elizabeth instead. Dear Henry! I shall 
 tease him about that but only just for a minute. I 
 would not vex his big, loving heart for anything." 
 
 She looked at Elizabeth with an expression that 
 she was familiar with in her imaginary portraits of 
 herself, an expression which she called wistful. 
 
 "Of course I shall not dream of marrying until a 
 whole year has passed," she said, "nor, I am sure, 
 would my Henry wish me to. He knows what a 
 tender heart I have for my beloved memories. But 
 I think, dear, that I shall put the Memoir on one 
 side, or perhaps give it to your Aunt Julia to deal 
 with as she likes. I dare say she would be glad of 
 something to do in her poor, empty life. I will 
 take it down with me on Friday. Perhaps it has 
 done its work." 
 
 She did not explain exactly what this last sen-
 
 320 ARUNDEL 
 
 tence meant, and as thero was no explanation what- 
 ever of it, except that it seemed to finish up with 
 the Memoir in a vague and beautiful manner, it 
 would have been idle to attempt any. 
 
 "So sleep well, my precious!" she said, kissing 
 Elizabeth. "I think you will do that, won't you, 
 now that all our little anxieties are removed? He 
 is really immensely well-off. What a responsibility 
 that will lie for mel I hope I shall prove not quite 
 unworthy of it." 
 
 Mrs. Hancock had never Been much of her sister- 
 in-law, and perhaps she would not have been so 
 kindly disposed towards the task of making herself 
 
 better acquainted with her had she known that she 
 
 had been pitied for her poor, empty life. For "poor, 
 empty life" was indeed not a phrase that fitly de- 
 scribed lie' pj of a pilgrim of Mr. Martin's 
 -pel through this pleasant world. But Mrs. Han- 
 cock had no idea that BO BlanderoUB a thing had 
 been said of her. and she looked forward to her 
 sister-in-law's visit with considerable pleasure, 
 which was enhanced by the prospect of having 
 Elizabeth in the house again. She intended Eliza- 
 1 eth to be in the best <»f spirits, to play the piano 
 to her very loudly and brightly (Mrs. Hancock 
 knew she was just a little deaf and had seen four 
 eminent specialists on the subject, who implored 
 her, so she said, not to be in the least disquieted, 
 but to eat rather less meat, as her very slight dull- 
 ness of hearing was certainly gouty in origin), to 
 drive with her on Saturday afternoon, and to sit 
 constantly by her and admire her masterly methods 
 with the "King of Mexico," which had rendered 
 thrilling so many after-dinner hours in Egypt. Then 
 Mrs. Fanshawe should drive with her on Saturday 
 morning, and they would have a great deal of beau-
 
 THE GRISLY KITTENS 321 
 
 tiful talk about the Colonel. In her mind's eye she 
 saw her sister-in-law crying a little, and herself with 
 touches and caresses administering the gospel of 
 Mr. Martin, as through a fine hose, in the most 
 copious and refreshing abundance. When she was 
 quite refreshed and had been made to sec thai death 
 l- the gate into life, no doubt she would read her 
 part of the Memoir in which Mrs. Hancock took a 
 great interest, seeing that she had supplied so much 
 material for the chapter (or chapters, it was to be 
 hoped) on his early life. She expected to enjoy 
 the account of the early life very much, in the sort 
 of way that a mellow sunset may be imagined to 
 enjoy thinking over its own beautiful sunrise. And 
 if she found Mrs. Fanshawe very sympathetic and 
 understanding, she thought, she almost thought that 
 she would confide in her something that she had 
 never yet confided in anybody, and after making 
 clear to her what her own intentions in the matter 
 were, ask her advice, if it appeared probable that 
 it would turn out consonant with what she herself 
 had practically made up her mind to do. 
 
 These last six months had been crowded with in- 
 cident; Mrs. Hancock did not think any year in all 
 her tale of forty-eight summers had held so much, 
 except perhaps the one year when she had married 
 and Edith had been born. For now 7 Edith had mar- 
 ried. Mrs. Williams had had an operation for the 
 removal of a small tumour, her brother had died, 
 she had been to Egypt and had brought back scores 
 and scores of photographs, which she pasted at in- 
 tervals into large half-morocco scrap-books procured 
 at staggering expense from the stores. She had for- 
 gotten what precisely a good many of them repre- 
 sented, but Edith, with her wonderful memory, 
 usually knew, and if she did not, Mrs. Hancock, in 
 her exquisitely neat hand, wrote under them some
 
 822 ARUNDEL 
 
 non-committing title such as "Temple in Upper 
 Egypt," or "Nile in January" (which it certainly 
 was >. 
 
 All this was sensational enough, and Mrs. Han- 
 cock, had she read about a year so full of incident 
 in a novel, would have probably felt that fiction was 
 Btranger than truth, when she was asked to believe 
 that so many things happened really ''all together." 
 But with her another thing had happened fraught 
 with more potential significance than them all. For 
 
 the death of her brother, of whom she had seen 
 
 little for so many years, had not really strongly 
 moved her; Mrs. Williams had quite recovered and 
 
 Cooked just as well as ever; Edith still constantly 
 drove and Lunched with her, and agitating though 
 the pasting in of the photographs was (she had 
 
 pasted one in upside down, and Dot noticed it till 
 the next day when the paste was quite dry and 
 
 '■-tuck'" i, Bhe did not ever look at them again. Hut 
 one event Beemed likely to make a real difference 
 to her life, for while they were at Luxor. Mrs. Mar- 
 tin had been suddenly taken ill with pneumonia 
 and had died three days later. She had proved her- 
 self a charming travelling companion, and Mrs. 
 Hancock had been very much .-hocked and grieved 
 at bo Bad an incident marring their holiday. But 
 she did not break down under the bereavement; she 
 ordered a beautiful tomb-tone, though not expen- 
 sive (since she knew that Mr. Martin was not very 
 well off), and left Luxor as soon as possible, bring- 
 ing back with her a large photograph of the grave. 
 The widower, being what he was, behaved with the 
 most characteristic fortitude and faith, and she felt 
 that she had been permitted to be a wonderful help 
 and consolation to him since her return. Desolate 
 though he was, he had not let his work suffer. In- 
 deed, he added to his ordinary duties the super-
 
 THE GRISLY KITTENS 323 
 
 vision of the choir-practices which his wife had al- 
 ways managed, and after a suitable interval played 
 golf as regularly as ever. And only last Sunday he 
 had preached the most wonderful sermon that Mrs. 
 Hancock had ever heard on the text of "The wilder- 
 ness and the solitary place shall be glad for them." 
 Thankfulness and joy was the keynote of it, and 
 everybody understood that the wilderness was 
 Egypt. He showed how that in the midst of death 
 we are in life, and that joy cometh in the morn- 
 ing. He had lunched with Mrs. Hancock after- 
 wards, and she had settled that it must be printed 
 with a purple (not black) line round the cover, and 
 with "In Memoriam, January 4, 1913," printed on 
 the inner leaf. He did not go away till it was time 
 for him to take the children's service at four, but 
 before that he had asked her if, when his broken 
 heart was healed (it appeared to be making ex- 
 cellent progress), she would become in name as well 
 as in fact the partner of his joys and sorrows. She 
 rather thought she would, though there were a great 
 many things to be considered first, and she prom- 
 ised him his answer in a week's time. Mrs. Han- 
 cock had practically settled what that answer was 
 to be, and at present she had told nobody, nor asked 
 anybody's advice about it. She had, indeed, thought 
 of seeing how Edith received the idea, but on the 
 other hand she felt that she would not give her the 
 encouragement she wanted. Edith, indeed, had 
 been altogether rather discouraging for months past, 
 ever since the party met at Cairo, and did not give 
 the lively interest in and applause of her mother's 
 plans w 7 hich she would have liked. It was not that 
 she seemed unhappy (if she had Mrs. Hancock w r ould 
 have applied the cheerful gospel to her), she simply 
 appeared to be like a house shut up with blinds 
 down and shutters closed. No face looked out from
 
 324. ARUNDEL 
 
 it; it was also impossible to penetrate into it. Per- 
 haps, like a caretaker, Edward had the key, but 
 Mrs. Hancock, as already noticed, did not like to 
 pry into affairs that might possibly prove depress- 
 ing, and she had not asked for it. Besides, it was 
 difficult to imagine any cause of unhappiness that 
 could be hers. Edward always came home by the 
 train just before dinner; she expected a baby in 
 July; and, after a tremendous struggle with her- 
 self, Mrs. Hancock had let her have her own peer- 
 less kitchenmaid as a cook. 
 
 But she felt that she would like to tell somebody 
 who would probably agree with her what she con- 
 templated, and she had great hope that her sister- 
 in-law would prove sympathetic. It had been a 
 prepossessing trait to find her buying soap in High 
 Holborn, and she had received with touching grati- 
 tude all the stories about Mrs. Hancock which were 
 to go into her husband's Memoir. 
 
 But there had been a great deal to think about 
 before she made up her mind. She had a real 
 liking, a real admiration for her vicar, about which 
 there was, in spite of her eight and forty years, 
 something akin to romance. He was a very won- 
 derful and encouraging person, and certainly she had 
 needed encouragement in the lonely month after 
 Edith's marriage. Again, she felt sure that he would 
 be devoted to her comfort, and though the ecstasy of 
 youthful love might be denied them, she did not 
 know that she was sorry for that. She was perhaps 
 some five years older than he, but as youthful ardour 
 was not part of her programme, that little discrep- 
 ancy of years was but of small consequence. But 
 there were other considerations; she could not possi- 
 bly go to live at the vicarage, w r here the servants' 
 entrance was close under the dining-room windows, 
 and there was no garage. She could not also be
 
 THE GRISLY KITTENS 325 
 
 expected to help in parish work beyond the knitting 
 of thick mufflers, which went to warm deep-sea fish- 
 ermen. But his golf-playing presented no difficul- 
 ties at all. She could start rather earlier, drive him 
 to the club-house, and pick him up on her way 
 home. To be sure that would somewhat restrict her 
 drives, if she always had to start and come back by 
 the same road. Perhaps it would be better if Den- 
 ton took him there first, and she could call for him. 
 Then what was to happen to the present furniture in 
 the vicarage, for she did not want any more in her 
 own house? She did not intend that such difficul- 
 ties should be obstacles of magnitude, but her mind, 
 which so long had been completely taken up in 
 affairs of detail, the whole general course of it being 
 already marked out, could not resist the contempla- 
 tion of them. Here again a woman who went all 
 the way to High Holborn for soap might prove both 
 comprehending and enlightening. 
 
 Mrs. Fanshawe, who, with Elizabeth, was met on 
 the platform by Denton and by the car outside the 
 station, was an immediate success. After the crude 
 sort of harbourage in Oakley Street, with its small 
 rooms and its "dreadful backyard," with its parlour- 
 maid, who had a perennial cold and no notion of 
 cleaning silver, this perfectly ordered house, with its 
 smooth service and atmosphere of complete comfort, 
 was as cream to a cat that had been living on the 
 thinnest skim-milk. She admired, she appreciated 
 with a childlike sort of pleasure; ate two buns with 
 sugar on the top at tea, because they were so de- 
 licious ("Elizabeth, darling, you must eat one of 
 these lovely buns!") and made herself instantly 
 popular. All the time, in the depth of her heart, 
 she hugged the knowledge that she would so soon 
 be in a position of extreme affluence, and a ladyship, 
 and pitied Mrs. Hancock for her poor, empty life.
 
 326 ARUNDEL 
 
 Simultaneously, Mrs. Hancock felt what a treat it 
 must be for her sister-in-law to have a few days of 
 comfort and luxury, instead of going all the way to 
 High Holborn to gel Boap a little cheaper. Having 
 Been her brother's will in the paper, she know ex- 
 actly how much she and Elizabeth had to live upon 
 at five per cent. < ' the capital, ami. doubting 
 whether they L r <>t more *' an four, was warmed with 
 a sense of her own benevolei ce in saving them three 
 days of household hooks at tie cosl of a third-cL 
 tickel i -he felt sure they had gone third-class) to 
 Eeathmoor. It was dreadfully sad fur the poor 
 
 thing to he left a widow, and it was not to lie ex- 
 pected that she would find a second husband very 
 easily. But her cordial admiration of all she saw 
 was certainly prepossessing; Mi-. Hancock felt that 
 she would probably prove a worthy recipient of her 
 
 secret, ami give exactly the advice she wanted. 
 More metaphysically each of them felt drawn to the 
 other by the striking similarity between them in the 
 poinl of their lack of sincerity, and the success they 
 both achieved in deceiving themseh 
 
 The three dined alone that night, and soon after 
 her stepmother having discovered that her sweetest 
 Elizabeth looked tired, the two elder ladies were 
 left alone. 
 
 "And now. my dear." said Mrs. Hancock (they 
 had not to my-dearing each other before dinner was 
 half over ,"I so want to have a good talk to you. I 
 want to know all your plans, and all about the Me- 
 moir, which I am sure will be most interesting. Shall 
 I lay out a patience, while we talk? I can attend per- 
 fectly while I am playing one of the easier patiences. 
 Elizabeth, too. it is such a joy to see Elizabeth 
 again, after the sad. sad parting in the summer." 
 
 Mrs. Fanshawe put her head a little on one side 
 wistfully.
 
 THE GRISLY KITTENS 327 
 
 "Elizabeth can hardly talk of the happy weeks she 
 spent here," she said, "and I'm sure I don't wonder 
 at her enjoyment of them. My dear, how happy it 
 must make you to make everybody around you so 
 happy. I don't believe you ever think of yourself." 
 
 Mrs. Hancock smiled; a long-wanted red queen 
 had appeared. 
 
 "It does make one happy not to think of one- 
 self," she said, "and how the time goes when you 
 are thinking of other people. I am often astounded 
 when Sunday comes round again, for the weeks go 
 by in a flash. I take my dear Edith out for her 
 drives — it is so good to her to have plenty of fresh 
 aii — and she comes to lunch with me every day 
 almost, so that she shall not be alone in her house, 
 with her husband away all day, and it is Sunday 
 again, and I get what I call my weekly refresher 
 from our dear Mr. Martin. Such a beautiful ser- 
 mon he gave us last Sunday — ah, there is the ten 
 I wanted — on the subject of his sad bereavement. 
 His wife, you know. I took her out to Egypt with 
 me; it was most important that she should get out 
 of the winter fogs and damp of England, and she 
 died at Luxor after three days' illness. How glad 
 I was she had a friend with her — my dear, forgive 
 me, how thoughtless I am." 
 
 "No, not thoughtless, my dear," said Mrs. Fan- 
 shawe. "Not thoughtless. And Mr. Martin. Tell 
 me about Mr. Martin. I feel sure I should like Mr. 
 Martin." 
 
 Mrs. Hancock bundled her patience cards to- 
 gether. She had not left a patience unfinished, ex- 
 cept when the patience had finished her, for years. 
 Perfectly as she could attend when she was playing 
 it, she prepared now to be absolutely undistracted. 
 
 "Indeed, no one could help liking Mr. Martin," 
 she said. "He has the noblest of characters, and
 
 328 ARUNDEL 
 
 with it all not a touch of priggishness. To sec him 
 play golf, or to hear him laugh, talk, you would 
 never think he was a clergyman, but to hear him 
 preach you would think he was a bishop at least. I 
 know of nobody win 'in I admire more. Listen. 
 Was not that the front-door bell? How tiresome if 
 we are interrupted in our talk. Yes; I hear Lind 
 
 m.u r to open it. Now he has shut it again. Ah, 
 it is only a note Will you excuse me? Yea, from 
 Edward. Jusi to Bay he and Edith will come to 
 lunch to-morrow, as he is not going up to the City. 
 No answer, land." 
 
 Now Mrs. Fanshawe had not failed to mark the 
 expression of her sister-in-law's face when she spoke 
 of Mr. Martin. If Bhe had worn it herself she would 
 have called it a "rapt expression," but it was not so 
 admirable on the features of a woman who, to adopt 
 Mrs. Fanshawe's point of view, was already aground, 
 so to speak, on the shallows of advanced middle-age, 
 
 when- there is not sufficient youth to carry you over 
 those emotional hanks. Still, on a younger and 
 perhaps a more spiritual face, it would have been 
 
 rapt, and it occurred to her that in mind perhaps 
 her sister-in-law was not as old as she looked or as 
 she was. It would be very ridiculous if at that age 
 a woman was the prey of sentimental notions — but 
 then she had a very comfortable house, a delight- 
 ful retreat from the stuffy little kennel in Oakley 
 Street. 
 
 Mrs. Hancock waited till Lind had quite shut the 
 drawing-room door, and then turned to her sister- 
 in-law again. 
 
 "My dear, I want your advice," she said, "for you 
 are a woman of the world and I am sure are wise. 
 You see this spring, after poor Mrs. Martin's death, 
 I saw a great deal of the vicar, and I think I was 
 able to comfort and uphold him, so that he leans
 
 THE GRISLY KITTENS 329 
 
 a good deal on me now, though of course we have 
 been very great friends for years. Could you give 
 that footstool just a little kick this way? He feels 
 his loneliness very much ; he wants some one whom 
 he knows and trusts and, shall I say, admires?" 
 
 "Yes," said Mrs. Fanshawe. "Admires, I am 
 sure." 
 
 "How kind of you! Well, admires, to take the 
 place of her whom he has lost, and who was a very 
 good, sweet sort of woman indeed." 
 
 Mrs. Hancock leaned forward. 
 
 "He has told all this to me," she said, putting her 
 hand on Mrs. Fanshawe's arm. "Now you know 
 what I think of him. Do advise me — what am I to 
 say to him? Edith and Edward, you see, are both 
 so young. It would be a wonderful thing for them 
 to have a father to go to in those difficulties in 
 which a man is so much more competent to advise 
 them than a woman. Lind and Denton, too, there 
 is a great deal that a master of a house can do to 
 influence men-servants. What shall I say to him?" 
 
 Probably no more wholly original reason for 
 matrimony had ever been put forward than that it 
 would provide a man to look after the butler, but 
 one of the stories about the Colonel's early life had 
 shown that he had the highest opinion of his sister's 
 originality. To-day if never before that opinion was 
 justified. Mrs. Fanshawe did not remember the 
 story, nor did the delirious originality strike her 
 now. But she saw quite clearly what Mrs. Hancock, 
 the owner of this comfortable house, wanted her to 
 say. She got up from her chair and knelt on the 
 footstool which she had kicked a little. 
 
 "My dear, I envy you your beautiful, unselfish 
 nature," she said. "And let me be the first to con- 
 gratulate Mr. Martin." 
 
 "You shall be," said Mrs. Hancock, kissing her.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 heart's desire 
 
 Mrs. Hancock had made bo touching a talc of the 
 help she had been to Mr. Martin, and of Mr. Mar- 
 tin's devotion to her, and how the chief reason for 
 lice contemplated marriage was that he might exer- 
 cise a wise and fatherly care over Edwaid and Edith 
 and Denton and Lind, thai Mrs. Fanshawe lay 
 awake for quite a considerable time that night in 
 
 Spite of the extreme comfort of her lied, vividly 
 
 exercising her imagination to see how she might 
 paint with an even oobler brush the loves of Henry 
 and Birdie. She flattered herself that she had far 
 more promising material to work with, for what in 
 point of romance was a middle-aged country vicar 
 to compare with the Commander-in-Chief in India, 
 or what was the elderly Mrs. Hancock in compari- 
 son with her young and graceful sister-in-law? She 
 was slightly chagrined that Mrs. Hancock had al- 
 ready "bagged" as a motive for matrimony the care 
 of a fatherless daughter, but she had rendered it 
 ridiculous when it was thought over by the addi- 
 tion of a butler and a chauffeur. Besides, Edith w r as 
 already married, and no longer in the touching deso- 
 lation of a newly orphaned girl just growing up. 
 However, she found she had many very beautiful 
 things to say, and only hoped that Mrs. Hancock 
 would prove as zealous and absorbed a listener as 
 she herself had been. She had an opportunity of 
 testing this when they started on their drive next 
 
 330
 
 HEART'S DESIRE 331 
 
 morning. Mrs. Fanshawe was not quite ready when 
 the motor came round, but after a prolonged debate 
 it was decided to go round by the Old Mill just the 
 same, and put off lunch for five minutes. Her un- 
 punctuality, however, was quite forgiven her when 
 she explained that she and Elizabeth had been "so 
 wrapped up" in the tulips that she had no idea how 
 late it was. 
 
 Mrs. Fanshawe began preparing for her exquisite 
 revelation without loss of time. 
 
 "You've no idea how thrilled I was, dear, by what 
 you told me last night," she said. "I lay awake so 
 long thinking about it. And it is such a treat, oh 
 such a treat to be confided in. I feel we are quite 
 old friends already." 
 
 Mrs. Hancock beamed approval. 
 
 "We had a nice talk," she said, "and I should not 
 wonder if we saw Mr. Martin playing golf. In any 
 case you will see him — oh, what a jolt! That must 
 have been something big on the road. Do you think 
 we might have your window a little more down, 
 dear? I want you to profit by this lovely air. Yes, 
 just like that. I wonder how I shall tell Mrs. 
 Williams and Edith and them all about it. I shall 
 feel so nervous. Perhaps I had better leave it to 
 Mr. Martin. What do you think? Yes, if you look 
 out of this window you will see him there. That is 
 he hitting away with his golf-stick at that furze- 
 bush. How vigorous, is he not? Oh, did you see 
 his ball fly away then? He plays so beautifully! 
 Indeed, dear, I feel such old friends with you, too, 
 and to think that — there, he is talking to his part- 
 ner. Now they are quite out of sight." 
 
 Mrs. Fanshawe could not at once decline from 
 the high standard of sympathy and comprehension 
 she had set last night. 
 
 "And I only just caught a glimpse of him!" she
 
 332 ARUNDEL 
 
 said. "I shall have to curb my impatience till I 
 meet him at your house. But I warn you, my dear, 
 I shall be very critical of the man who is going to 
 take care of you. He will have to think about you 
 much more than you ever think about yourself." 
 
 Mrs. Hancock shook her head. 
 
 "No, quite the other way round, dear," she said. 
 "I shall have to take care of him. He wears himself 
 out with work. I have no doubt that after his name 
 to-day— lie plays golf really entirely for the sake of 
 
 the influence it gives him over the young men here, 
 
 and he introduces a spirit of earnestness among the 
 caddies — are they not called, who carry the -ticks? — 
 after In- game, I dare say he will go straight to his 
 Btudy and finish up his Bermon. There is the Great 
 Western Railway. Look! What a long hmgage- 
 train! I wonder what it contains. Perhaps the 
 new lawn-tennis net which I ordered from the stores 
 sterday. I know that when I have charge of Mr. 
 Martin 1 shall not let him wear himself out so. He 
 ought to have a curate, tor instance. I wonder how 
 much a good curate cost 
 
 Mrs. l'anshawe had no data on which to base this 
 calculation, and Mre. Hancock allowed the conver- 
 sation t<» veer a little in her direction. 
 
 "You are getting quite a colour in your cheeks, 
 dear, already." she said, "with our good air. You 
 must come here often and have plenty of it. I can't 
 tell you how often I have meant to ask you here 
 with dear Elizabeth, but I was determined to get 
 everything straight first after my long absence so 
 that you would be quite comfortable. And how 
 often my heart has bled for you in your loneliness! 
 I remember so well after my dear husband died I 
 thought I should never enjoy anything any more. 
 Even now sometimes I should feel dreadfully de- 
 pressed if I allowed myself to. But I have always
 
 HEARTS DESIRE 333 
 
 told myself what great causes I have for thankful- 
 ness. Mr. Martin " 
 
 Mrs. Fanshawe broke in, feeling that there was a 
 limit at which sympathy passes into drivel and com- 
 prehension into idiotic acquiescence. Besides, it was 
 only fair that she should have some sort of an inr 
 nings. 
 
 "I feel so much all that you say, dear," she said, 
 "especially about causes for thankfulness. I am 
 sure they are showered on me. And Bob was al- 
 ways so anxious and thoughtful for my happiness 
 that I should feel that I should be failing in my 
 duty to him if I lost any opportunity of securing it." 
 
 This sentence did not seem to come out exactly 
 as she had meant; it sounded as if the imputation 
 of selfishness might possibly be applied to it, which 
 she did not at all wish to incur. She continued 
 hastily — 
 
 "And happiness only lies, as you, dear, show so 
 well, in the making of others happy. I wish I had 
 more people to take care of and think about. At 
 present there has been only Elizabeth who has 
 needed me. I think I may say I have given myself 
 to Elizabeth, for I am sure I have thought of little 
 else but her and the Memoir since August last. I 
 have brought down the Memoir, as far as I have got. 
 You will like to see it. I might leave it with you 
 when I go away on Monday after my happy visit." 
 
 Mrs. Hancock rapidly considered whether she 
 wanted her new friend to stop till Tuesday. She 
 felt she could not make up her mind on the spur 
 of the moment. 
 
 "That will be a great treat!" she said. "Or per- 
 haps you would read some of it aloud to me. I am 
 sure you have written it beautifully, and I so much 
 like being read aloud to. The chapter on his early 
 life will bring back old times. Look, there are the
 
 334 ARUNDEL 
 
 towers of Windsor Castle. We can only see them 
 on a very clear day. Mr. Martin has wonderfully 
 long sight." 
 
 Mrs. Fanshawe wrenched the conversation back 
 again. She was going to set up another standard 
 for their joint admiration. 
 
 "But I want more to look after, more to take care 
 of," she said. "And would you think it very weak 
 of me if I said I wanted also to be a little taken 
 care of myself? I am so inexperienced, and I am 
 afraid Boh Bpoiled me and made me used to being 
 so lovingly looked after. And there is Bomebody, 
 dear, who wants, oh BO much, to be allowed to look 
 after me." 
 
 Mrs. Hancock was just about to remark that the 
 towers of Windsor ( lastle weir do Longer visible, but 
 this completely arrested her. She had a momentary 
 
 sense that Mrs. Fanshawe had taken a mean ad- 
 vantage of her in allowing anything to interfere with 
 the unique interest of her own situation. It came 
 
 into her mind also that any one who had married 
 her brother ought not to think of re-marriage for 
 years and years, if ever. But both these impres- 
 sions were over-cored by curiosity. She gave a little 
 
 excited scream. 
 
 "My dear, how you surprise me!" she said. "Yes, 
 pray tell me more. Who is it?" 
 
 Mrs. Fanshawe pulled out this ace of trumps. 
 
 "Sir Henry Meyrick," she said. "Commander-in- 
 Chief, you know, in India. Such devotion! I am 
 sure that if I had the hardest heart in the world, 
 instead of a very soft one, I should not be able to 
 let such devotion go unrewarded. And Elizabeth — 
 think how he will look after Elizabeth! He is so 
 devoted to her, I declare I should be quite jealous 
 if I did not know that it was just a fatherly affec- 
 tion."
 
 HEART'S DESIRE 335 
 
 This allusion to the daughter-motif seemed to 
 Mrs. Hancock rank plagiarism, and spoiled in the 
 stealing. Elizabeth was not Mrs. Fanshawe's daugh- 
 ter; she had no right at all to use that as a reason. 
 She made up her mind (if that dim mirror which 
 reflected fleeting emotions can be called a mind) 
 that Mrs. Fanshawe should go away on Monday. 
 Then immediately the mirror reflected another 
 image — it would be rather interesting to speak about 
 "my sister-in-law, Lady Meyrick." To be sure it 
 was a very short time since Colonel Fanshawe's 
 death . . . but then it was a much shorter time 
 sinoe Mrs, Martin's. 
 
 1 vapidly these evanescent images chased each 
 other over the field. And before the pause grew 
 uncordial she fixed on one of them, namely, "my 
 sister-in-law, Lady Meyrick." 
 
 "My dear, I am quite overcome with your news," 
 she said. "It is most interesting, and I am sure I 
 wish you happiness with all my heart. I have often 
 seen Sir Henry's name in the newspapers and won- 
 dered what he was like. And now to think that he 
 is to become so near a relation!" 
 
 By an effort of great magnanimity she decided 
 to pass over the plagiarism altogether. 
 
 "And what good fortune for Elizabeth," she said, 
 "whose welfare was always such a source of thought 
 and contriving to me. And what does she think 
 of it all? Why, we are at the Old Mill already! 
 If you could just reach that speaking-tube, dear, 
 and call to Denton to stop, so that we may enjoy 
 looking at it. Mr. Martin always calls it the most 
 picturesque corner in Middlesex. How swiftly the 
 water runs, does it not? Of course, you will not 
 think of being married for a long time to come. Is 
 it not a coincidence that our dear Bob should have 
 married twice, and now you are going to do the
 
 330 ARUNDEL 
 
 same, and Mr. Martin, too, and me? I declare I 
 never heard of such coincidences! You must be 
 sure and tell Sir Henry to come down to see me. 
 Mr. Martin and he must make friends. And who 
 knows that I shall not flap my wings a little further 
 yet and come out to Bee you in India? Where does 
 the Commander-in-Chief live? Look, there is the 
 miller fishing! I wonder if he has caught anything. 
 I am afraid we must turn, or we shall be late for 
 lunch, which would never do, afi we have postponed 
 it in order to be in time. And I hope you won't 
 dream of going away on Monday. You must stop 
 till Tuesday at the very least." 
 Mrs. Fanshawe was not perfectly satisfied, though 
 
 she felt she was being envied. She determined not 
 to be so easy of arc. 38. 
 
 "You must L r et Henry's leave for that," she said, 
 
 "for I promised him I would be hack on Monday. 
 I don't know what he would do if I broke my prom- 
 ise to him. And such a business as I had to allow 
 him to let me go away at all.'' 
 
 For the first time for many years Mrs. Hancock 
 found herself in the position of one who asked in- 
 stead of granted favours, 
 
 "Ah! I wonder if you could induce him to come 
 down here on Monday to take you back the next 
 day or the day after?" she said. 
 
 Mrs. Fanshawe greedily pursued her advantage 
 and assumed an air of odious superiority. 
 
 "But, dear, we should be taxing the capabilities 
 of your charming little house too much," she said, 
 feeling certain of her ground. "I should not wonder 
 if Henry was unable to go anywhere without his 
 secretary, as well as a servant. He must have to 
 keep in constant touch with the India Office. But 
 it is delightful of you to suggest it, only we must 
 not trespass on your good-nature."
 
 HEART'S DESIRE 337 
 
 "No difficulty at all!" cried Mrs. Hancock. 
 "There is the pink room and the best blue bedroom 
 and the lilac dressing-room next mine, into which 
 Elizabeth can go. The thing is done, dear, if you 
 will only say the word. And if Sir Henry plays golf, 
 there will be Mr. Martin delighted to lend him some 
 golf-sticks and go round with him, do they not call 
 it? It will be a pleasure to him; he has always had 
 such an admiration for soldiers, for, to be sure, as 
 he says sometimes, he is a soldier himself, fighting 
 battles continually. I will get up a little dinner- 
 party for Monday night, and Edward and Elizabeth 
 shall play afterwards, if Sir Henry likes music." 
 
 While this kittenish comedy was going on some- 
 thing younger and more tragical was in progress in 
 the two adjacent houses. Edward had been sitting 
 in his smoking-room after breakfast, with eyes that 
 wandered over his uncomprehended newspaper, con- 
 scious of an overmastering desire to slip across to the 
 house next door merely to see Elizabeth, to satisfy 
 the eyes that ached for her and, as he knew well, 
 but to render the more acute the aching of his heart. 
 His wife, as was often her custom, had come in after 
 she had attended to her household duties, and sat 
 in her usual seat by the window, speaking occa- 
 sionally to him, or replying in perfectly common- 
 place fashion, to his dropped observations. They 
 had spoken of their plans for the day, of the arrival 
 of Mrs. Fanshawe and Elizabeth, and now and then, 
 focusing his eyes but not his mind, he had men- 
 tioned some newspaper topic. Such half-hours they 
 had spent a hundred times before, but to-day each 
 was intensely conscious of something that, always 
 lying behind their intercourse and never spoken of 
 between them, had suddenly enveloped and en- 
 shadowed, like the gathering of a tropical storm, the 
 foreground of their life as well. He tried to imagine
 
 338 ARUNDEL 
 
 himself putting down his newspaper in a leisurely 
 way, and forming his voice to say, Lightly and casu- 
 ally, that he would stroll across to Mrs. Hancock's. 
 But he felt that, a- if intoxicated, his tongue would 
 stammer and stumble on the words. Once he laid 
 his paper down, ami saw that en the instant she 
 had started into attentive expectation, had fixed her 
 eyes on him ready for what she knew would come 
 from his lips, for she read, so he felt, his unspoken 
 sentence, blowing what tilled his mind. Hut still 
 he sat there, Unable to tell her what he ached to do, 
 while she waited. In all the mouths of their mar- 
 riage Elizabeth's name had been mentioned only 
 as the name of some indifferent cousin might have 
 been; never as one who held Kdward's heart in 
 the hollow of her hands. 
 
 lor herself, even as bees build up in walls of 
 impenetrable gluelike wax Borne intruder and enemy 
 
 to their hive, Edith had walled away from her life 
 all thought of her cousin. She had built her up into 
 a separate chamber of her brain, so that her worker- 
 bees, the conscious denizens of her mind, should 
 have no accesfl to her. Her love for Edward (that 
 nipped and unexpanded bud, which had never 
 Mown), which had claimed possession of him, in- 
 stead ^f giving him his liberty and seeking his hap- 
 piness at the cost of the last drop of her heart- 
 blood, had starved on its comfort le>s food, and the 
 leanness of her desire had entered into her soul. 
 For seven months she had been his wife, sharer in 
 name in all that nominally was his, recipient of his 
 unwearied kindness and affection, but never for a 
 single moment possessing his essential self. She 
 had no word or thought of complaint of him in his 
 conduct or in his feelings towards her; he gave all 
 that was his to give. She had demanded of him the 
 fulfilment of his bargain, and to the full extent of his
 
 HEART'S DESIRE 339 
 
 solvency, so to speak, he had paid it. But now she 
 knew that he was absolutely insolvent towards her 
 with regard to the coinage of the only true mint. 
 She had thought that her love with its hopeless 
 limitations could make his reef of gold hers. She 
 had thought that they could settle down into a 
 sham that would cheat both himself and her, that 
 the mask of his face would either be withdrawn or 
 would deceive her into the belief of its reality. 
 Neither had happened; he must always wear a mask 
 for her, and that mask would never grow so like 
 the human face below it (so little way below, and 
 
 t withdrawn into impenetrable depths) that it 
 would deceive her into believing in it. And now, 
 before long, she would bear a child to him, and it 
 seemed to her, in the enlightenment that these 
 smooth, prosperous months of misery had brought 
 her, that her baby would be no better than a bas- 
 tard. 
 
 It must not be supposed that this misery was 
 acute or the degree of enlightenment it brought clear 
 and cloudless. Her perceptions were not of the kind 
 that admit great poignancy either of wretchedness 
 or of bliss. Once only perhaps in all her life had the 
 engines of her being worked up to their full power, 
 and that was when she claimed the fulfilment of 
 Edward's promise. She had felt intensely and 
 acutely then the impossibility of giving him up, but 
 since that flash of deplorable intensity she had fallen 
 back on to her normal levels, where the ground, so 
 to speak, was solid and rather clayey, where there 
 were neither peaks nor precipices. But it declined 
 slowly and unintermittently into a place of feature- 
 less gloom. Yet, except to any one who was gifted 
 with the divine intuition of love towards her, there 
 were no signs in her normal behaviour of this in- 
 ward wretchedness, and for poor Edith there was
 
 340 ARUNDEL 
 
 nobody thus inspired. She had always been rather 
 reserved and silent, and even Mr. Martin, that 
 brilliant seeker after the joys and sorrows of others, 
 had neither missed in her the steady placidity that 
 he knew nor had detected any other change. As for 
 her mother, Edith's invariable punctuality, her quiet 
 recognition of objects of interest like the towers of 
 Windsor Castle and the trains on the Great Western 
 Railway, were sufficient evidence of contentment, 
 especially since Edward always got home by the din- 
 ner train and she was going to have a baby. Here 
 were adequate causes for thankfulness, and she was 
 sure that Edith, who had so strong a sense of duty, 
 appreciated them. 
 
 Edith's enlightenment was of the same order, no 
 noonday blaze, but only a diffused luminance that 
 came veiled through those clouds, not dispersing 
 them. But she no longer groped in darkness as she 
 had done when she decided that she could not volun- 
 tarily give Edward his liberty. She could see more 
 now. Not only could she see the utter unreality at 
 which she had grasped, but that there was in exist- 
 ence a real light different altogether from the phan- 
 tasmal will-o'-the-wisp which she had blindly fol- 
 lowed into the quagmire. She had sought her own, 
 thinking that it was love she followed. She would 
 have sought her own no longer, if it had been possi- 
 ble for her to make choice again. 
 
 Vaguely, as she sat this morning by the window, 
 these things passed before her mind, as the pictures 
 of some well-known and familiar book pass before 
 the eye of one who listlessly turns the leaves. At 
 the end of the book, she knew, there were pictures 
 she had not seen yet. It was as if Edward's finger 
 as well as hers was on the page, doubting whether 
 to turn on or not. Nearly an hour wore away thus, 
 outwardly like many other hours, but in reality an
 
 HEART'S DESIRE 341 
 
 hour of poise and expectancy. Then on the road 
 outside the gate she saw pass, as she had so often 
 seen, her mother's motor. Mrs. Fanshawe was with 
 her, and next door Elizabeth was alone. 
 
 "Mother going out for her drive," she said me- 
 chanically. 
 
 She did not look round, but heard the paper flut- 
 ter in Edward's fingers. 
 
 "Alone?" he asked. "Or with whom?" 
 
 "With Mrs. Fanshawe," said she. And again the 
 silence fell. 
 
 Suddenly a desire and a doubt came to her. She 
 did not know how they came, for the impulse that 
 prompted them seemed to have taken no part in her 
 thoughts. Apparently something behind that wall 
 of gluelike wax had stirred — stirred imperatively, 
 giving her quickness and decision. She rose. 
 
 "I shall go across and see Elizabeth," she said. "I 
 know you have been wanting to do that all morn- 
 ing, Edward. But you couldn't say it. I under- 
 stood." 
 
 He got up also. 
 
 "What do you mean?" he said. "What are you 
 saying?" 
 
 "Something perfectly simple. Of course you want 
 to see Elizabeth, and of course you find a difficulty 
 in telling me so. Do you know that we haven't 
 mentioned Elizabeth's name, except as a stranger 
 might mention it, ever since our marriage, ever since 
 the night, in fact, that — that I settled to marry 
 you." 
 
 "No; and that was natural, wasn't it?" 
 
 Certainly something stirred behind the sealed-up 
 partition. The bees themselves, the thoughts and 
 workers in Edith's mind, were tearing the partition 
 away. 
 
 "I suppose it was," she said. "But I want to see
 
 342 ARUNDEL 
 
 Elizabeth now. That is natural, too, because I was 
 always fond of Elizabeth, and I don't l>lame her be- 
 cause you loved her. You see, she never loved you ; 
 she told me that herself." 
 
 He came close to her. 
 
 "\\ "liy do you speak of Elizabeth now," he said, 
 "after all these months of Bilence?" 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "I don't know. Why does one do anything? It 
 occurred to me, 1 suppose, to speak of Elizabeth 
 because she is here, and because I was going across 
 
 to see her. She never loved you, Kdward." 
 
 "No. You told me that." 
 
 Be spoke quietly and reassuringly, birt it occurred 
 to him thai for some reason Edith was beginning to 
 doubt that, for she looked at him, so it seemed, with 
 a certain question and challenge in her eve. It was 
 as if >lie weighed Ins answer, or took it, like a doubt- 
 ful coin, and rang it to test its genuineness. 
 
 1 shall L r " dow," she said, still lingering. "Or do 
 you not wish me to go?" 
 
 She paused a moment. 
 
 "Why do you not wish me to go, Edward?" she 
 said. 
 
 "I want you to do just as you wish, dear," he said. 
 
 For the moment a certain cloud of trouble and 
 restlessness, quite alien to her normal reasoning, had 
 seemed to disturb her. But it cleared, and she spoke 
 naturally again. 
 
 "We lunch there, do we not?" she said. "I dare 
 say I shall not come again before that. Till lunch- 
 time, then." 
 
 She traversed the hall, hesitated as to whether she 
 should take a hat, decided against it, and went out 
 into the cool spring sunshine. The gate of com- 
 munication between the two gardens (Mrs. Han- 
 cock had eventually decided that since Edith and
 
 HEART'S DESIRE 343 
 
 Edward used it so much more than she did it was 
 only reasonable that he should pay for half of it) 
 had been made, and she went through it, leaving it 
 aswing, with a tinkling latch. As she had said to 
 Edward, she scarcely knew why the idea of Eliza- 
 beth and the desire to see her had taken hold of her 
 mind. All these months she had deliberately and of 
 set purpose put the idea of Elizabeth from her, con- 
 sciously segregating it, refusing it admittance into 
 the current of her thoughts. That had been natural 
 enough, for it was on the elimination of Elizabeth 
 from their joint lives that the success of their mar- 
 riage, she had seen, must depend. And to-day she 
 had registered, had contemplated and admitted the 
 fact of its failure. Elizabeth had not been elimi- 
 nated from their lives; when just now Edith had 
 alluded, casually almost, to the fact of Edward's 
 being in love with her, saying she did not blame 
 Elizabeth for that, he had let that pass without chal- 
 lenge. It had not occurred to him, however lamely, 
 to take exception to it. That had shown with a 
 convincingness that she had not known before how 
 her cousin was knitted into Edward's heart. It 
 would have to be cut to bits before she could be dis- 
 entangled from it. 
 
 Quietly, insensibly, throughout those months that 
 conviction had been growing on her. It had been 
 like some bulb buried in the earth; she had known 
 in her inner consciousness, though there was no out- 
 ward evidence of the fact, that it was growing. To- 
 day the green, vigorous horn of its sprouting showed 
 above the ground. It was not a shock to her any 
 more than is a letter that confirms the bad news 
 conveyed in a telegram. But its authenticity now 
 was quite beyond dispute. In those seven months 
 of their marriage Elizabeth's spell had lost none of 
 its potency, and Edith stood between them just as
 
 344 ARUNDEL 
 
 she had done on the day when she had decided she 
 could not give him up, holding them apart. 
 
 To-day, too, a definite doubt had come into her 
 mind, and she knew that her desire to see Elizabeth 
 was connected with its possible resolution. Months 
 ago Elizabeth had told her that no idea of love for 
 Edward had ever been hers; that she had never 
 thought of him in such a light. To-day, for no defi- 
 nite reason, but by process probably of the general 
 enlightenment that her misery had brought her, she 
 wondered if that was true. At first when Elizabeth 
 had told her that, she had implicitly believed it. 
 Now she wondered whether Elizabeth had not said 
 that for her sake; whether, seeing tha,t she herself 
 was determined not to give Edward up, Elizabeth 
 had not splendidly lied. Certainly that statement, 
 true or not. had had the effect of making Edith 
 quite comfortable, as her mother would say. A 
 dozen and a hundred dozen times she had told her- 
 self, relying on that, that Edward would have been 
 no nearer his happiness if she had given him up. 
 But Edith did not so far deceive herself as to say 
 that it would have made any difference to her de- 
 cision, even if Elizabeth had loved him. She knew 
 herself but poorly, but she knew herself sufficiently 
 well to be aware that nothing in the world just then 
 would have induced her voluntarily to give him his 
 freedom. It had been open to him to break his 
 word, and not marry her, but it had not seemed 
 morally possible for her to let him go. 
 
 Elizabeth was just coming out of the long win- 
 dow of the drawing-room when Edith passed 
 through the gate, and the two cousins met on the 
 croquet-lawn. These warm days of May had made 
 it possible to play already, and Edward, at his wife's 
 wish, had had several games in preparation for the 
 Heathmoor Tournament. Ellis this morning had
 
 HEART'S DESIRE 345 
 
 moved several seats out of the summer-house on to 
 the grass, and the "Croquet set No. 1, complete in 
 tin-lined box" (the most expensive set of all that 
 could be bought at the stores), which had been Mrs. 
 Hancock's wedding-present to Edward, stood open 
 in case anybody wished to play. Just a year ago, 
 as it now occurred to Edith, she had sat here when 
 Elizabeth on the morning after her arrival from 
 India had come out. She remembered how almost 
 on the first mention of Edward's name, Elizabeth 
 had guessed their engagement. 
 
 Edith greeted her with her usual precise and re- 
 strained manner. 
 
 "I heard you and Mrs. Fanshawe arrived yester- 
 day," she said. "Mother was looking forward to 
 your coming." 
 
 Elizabeth kissed her. 
 
 "I was glad to come," she said. "I was beginning 
 to be afraid I should never see Heathmoor again." 
 
 Edith looked at her a moment in silence. 
 
 "Did you want to?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes. I wanted to see you, too, Edith. I — I 
 hope you are happy." 
 
 Edith laughed a wretched little jangle of a laugh. 
 
 "I am very comfortable, mother will tell you," she 
 said. "Edward is always very kind to me. He has 
 made a great deal of money this year. He comes 
 back from town every evening by the dinner train. 
 And I am going to have a baby." 
 
 The semblance of ordinary conversation had to be 
 kept up as long as Edith chose. If the talk was 
 going to get more intimate, the deepening of it had 
 to come from her. Quite suddenly it came. 
 
 "I am very unhappy, Elizabeth," she said. "I 
 have not had a single happy moment since I mar- 
 ried. It has all turned out different to what I ex- 
 pected. I wanted Edward so much that I could not
 
 340 ARUNDEL 
 
 give him up, and I thought that by degrees he would 
 turn tn me, and — and love me. He never loved me. 
 He proposed to me and I accepted him because we 
 both thought that we Bhould be very comfortable 
 together. So we should have been if he had not — 
 had Dot fallen in love with you." 
 
 Elizabeth laid her hand on Edith's knee. 
 
 "My deal', is there any Deed to speak of that?" 
 she -aid. 
 
 I lith turned quickly on her. All her secret self, 
 suppressed through these months which by rights 
 Bhould have been months of sueh wonderful and 
 magical expansion, fell on her. struggling to be al- 
 lowed utterance. When she came bere, with no 
 more than her vague deairt Elizabeth, she had 
 
 net guessed how like highwaymen with cudgels and 
 bludgeons h< r secret walled-up life would attack her, 
 fighting to express itself. 
 
 "] think there is Deed to speak of it," she said, 
 
 "and I have no One whom 1 can speak to but you. 
 If I told mother, she would- -lie would recommend 
 me to see Mi-. Martin; if I told Edward, he would 
 only try to he kinder to me. Elizabeth, his kind- 
 
 ss chokes me. I can't breathe in it. It has all 
 been an utter, utter failure. I thought that he would 
 L r et to love mi-, bo that it would be enough for me 
 to he with him always; I thought I should be satis- 
 fied to be his wife. I thought, too, that he would 
 be happy as well as I. for I was not. so I thought 
 then, entirely selfish. I should not have refused to 
 give him up, if I had thought that it would turn 
 out so hopcle-sly. Then there was this as well; you 
 did not love him. and so I was not standing in the 
 way of his happiness." 
 
 Elizabeth felt her face go suddenly white. Had 
 she, too, made an awful, a lifelong, mistake? She 
 knew the integrity of her purpose, when she had
 
 HEARTS DESIRE 347 
 
 told Edith she did not love him, how she had said 
 that simply and solely for Edith's sake, so that hav- 
 ing definitely and irrevocably chosen not to give 
 Edward up she might not be the prey of back- 
 thoughts and gnawings. But what if all this misery, 
 all this hunger, this unslaked thirst could have been 
 avoided? What if she had rejected her great re- 
 nunciation, had avowed her love for Edward, had 
 given rein to the steeds of desire? Had her re- 
 nunciation been no more than some savage heathen 
 rite, some mutilation of herself and him? For a mo- 
 ment the very foundations of her world seemed to 
 sway, and all its noble superstructure to totter. But 
 Edith did not notice the blanching of her face, nor 
 saw her quivering eyelids. She was looking fixedly 
 at the spot in the lawn in front of her with an in- 
 tent and absent air, and went on speaking in the 
 same unemotional voice. 
 
 "I may as well be honest," she said, "because 
 there does not seem to be much else left. As a mat- 
 ter of fact, I should not have done differently even 
 if you had loved him. I did not care two straws for 
 your happiness, nor for his, but only for my own. 
 And yet I did love him ; I was passionately fond of 
 him. I thought I could make him love me, or at 
 any rate that he would forget you. I told myself 
 anyhow that it was but a sudden wild fancy he had 
 for you, that he had fallen in love with your music. 
 I did not care what I told myself, so long as I got 
 him. And now at this present moment, I would 
 give anything in the world if it could be made possi- 
 ble that I should still love him. I don't love him 
 any more. I am not even jealous that he loves you. 
 He may do as he likes, if only he could cease being 
 kind to me. If only I could go right out of his life, 
 and never see him again. But that's impossible. 
 Soon I shall be the mother of his child. And, be-
 
 348 ARUXDEL 
 
 sides, mother would think it so odd. So would Mr. 
 Martin. They would call me wicked, but I think it 
 is really much wickeder t<» <r<> OD living with him. 
 Yes, all the time that I was trying to get his love I 
 was only poisoning my own. I was poisoning that 
 which was dearer to me than anything in the world. 
 I am sorry for it uow. It lies before me quite dead, 
 
 killed by me. Well, I ran Bay truthfully that I am 
 
 sorry. Win a you have committed a crime like that, 
 the only possible palliation is that you are >"vry. 
 
 But I did love him; even when I gave my love that 
 first dose of poison in refusing to let him go, I loved 
 him." 
 She got up in agitation. 
 
 "Let no one sav I did not love him!'* she cried 
 
 in a voice suddenly Btraxned and shrill. 
 Elizabeth L r ot up also, forcing down her terror at 
 
 this tragic figure suddenly revealed to her. and full 
 
 of growing pity. 
 
 "Edith, dear, you are talking wildly." she said. 
 "You don't know what you air saying 
 
 Edith put up both hands t.» her head. 
 
 "It is n-'t wild talk," she said, ''it is sober truth. 
 But I express it badly; I get confused. And there 
 was something I wanted to ask you. Was it really 
 true what you told me?" 
 
 Then her face changed. The hardness and 
 restraint faded from it; it became humanized again 
 by Buffering. 
 
 "Elizabeth, I feel so ill." she said. "I am in pain, 
 in great pain!" 
 
 Elizabeth was sitting in the window of Edward's 
 smoking-room where two mornings ago he and Edith 
 had sat talking and reading before she came over 
 to the house next door. Late that night her baby, a 
 seven-months child, had been born, flickering faintly
 
 HEART'S DESIRE 349 
 
 into life and out again, and now in the room over- 
 head Edith lay dying. An hour ago she had asked 
 to see Elizabeth, but had passed into a state of un- 
 consciousness before the girl could come to her. So 
 now Elizabeth waited near at hand in case her 
 cousin rallied again and again wished to see her. 
 Edward, in the room upstairs, had promised to call 
 her at once; Mrs. Hancock watched with him. 
 
 The house was very still with that curious still- 
 ness that comes with such a waiting. Outside the 
 warm May wind blew in at the window laden with 
 the scent of the wallflowers that grew just outside, 
 and the air was full of the fragrance and chirrup- 
 ings of spring. At the gate stood Mrs. Hancock's 
 motor, which had just brought down a doctor from 
 London, who at this moment was holding a con- 
 sultation with Edith's doctor in the dining-room. 
 Elizabeth had propped open the door of the room 
 where she sat, so that she might hear him come out, 
 and get a word with him, but she had been told 
 there was no hope that her cousin would live. 
 Above her head, from the room where Edith lay, 
 came an occasional footstep, sounding dim and 
 muffled, and she could hear the slow tick of the 
 clock in the hall outside. She guessed, she believed 
 with certainty, what it was Edith wanted to say 
 to her, namely, to repeat the question that had been 
 cut short by the coming of her pains two days be- 
 fore. And Elizabeth knew how she would answer 
 it. 
 
 She sat there long in silence, alert for any noise 
 that should come from the house. Then the dining- 
 room door, where the physicians were consulting, 
 opened, and she went out to meet them in the hall. 
 A couple of sentences told her all, and the London 
 specialist walked out to the motor waiting for him, 
 while the other went upstairs again to the silent
 
 .350 ARUNDEL 
 
 room. From outside came the whirr of the engines 
 as Denton started them again. 
 
 Elizabeth sat down on the bottom step of the 
 stairs, her mind quite still ami inactive. Occasion- 
 ally, like a cloud taking substance suddenly in a 
 serene sky, some remembered Bcene, some sentence, 
 some trivial happening connected with Edith, ap- 
 peared there, forming itself and vanishing again, 
 and more than once Edith's voice sounded in her 
 car- al Bhe said. "Let no one Bay that I did not love 
 him." But for the most part the imminence of the 
 great silent event that they were all waiting for 
 kept her mind vacant. In that presence she could 
 not think of anything else; those little things that 
 kept occurring to her Beemed to come from outside. 
 
 Then she heard a stir above her, the click of an 
 opened door, and. looking round and up, she saw 
 Edward beckoning to her. 
 
 "She has asked for yon.'" he said, as -lie entered. 
 
 Edith was lying on her lied, looking with wide- 
 open eyes at the ceiling. She did not seem to notice 
 Elizabeth's entrance, but the doctor beckoned to 
 her, and she knelt down at the right of the bed. 
 Then he went back and stood some little distance 
 off by the window. The breeze streamed in through 
 the open sash, making the blind tassel rattle and 
 tap against the wall, but otherwise there was dead 
 silence. 
 
 Then suddenly Edith spoke. 
 
 "I want to see Elizabeth," she said. "Will not 
 Elizabeth come?" 
 
 Elizabeth got up. 
 
 "I am here, Edith," she said. 
 
 "I want to speak to you alone," she said. "No- 
 body else must hear." 
 
 She had turned her eyes to the girl as she bent 
 over her, and waited, looking at her with a fixed,
 
 HEART'S DESIRE 351 
 
 anxious expression, till the others had gone into the 
 dressing-room adjoining. 
 
 "We are alone?" she asked. "Then tell me. Did 
 you love him?" 
 
 Elizabeth bent lower over her and kissed her. 
 
 "Yes, dear Edith," she said. "I always loved 
 him." 
 
 "Then — then you must get him to forgive me. 
 Perhaps he will forgive me? Do you think he will?" 
 
 Elizabeth took hold of the white, wet hand that 
 lay outside the coverlet. 
 
 "Oh, my dear!" she said. 
 
 "Ask him to come, then," said Edith faintly. 
 "Quickly, quickly!" 
 
 Next moment they stood together by the bed. 
 Her lips moved once, but no sound came from them. 
 Only her eyes, over which lay the deepening 
 shadow, looked from one to the other and back 
 again. 
 
 EA
 
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