I 
 
 na
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN
 
 But in the mirror he came towards her, and she 
 turned round to meet him shyly (page 70)
 
 THE 
 WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 A NOVEL, 
 
 BY 
 
 RINA RAMSAY 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY 
 
 J. VAUGHN McFALL 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 
 1911
 
 Copyright 1911 
 BY DODD, MEAD & Co. 
 
 Published March, 1911
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF 
 
 MY FATHER 
 
 2137345
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 But in the mirror he came towards her, 
 and she turned round to meet him 
 shyly (page 70) Frontispiece 
 
 "Tell me who you are," she panted hys- 
 terically Facing page 26 
 
 "Did you tell him you are not my wife?" 
 
 he said " "162 
 
 "Go on; go on. I'm mad with curiosity! 
 
 I am dying to hear it all" ... " " 258
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 SHE lay without moving. It seemed as if there 
 were nothing of her but the long black hair 
 covering the pillow. Looking closer you saw 
 that her hands were clenched tight against her 
 breast as if to keep her heart quiet. 
 
 The door in the partition rattled but stayed 
 shut, although bursts of noise shook it from 
 time to time. In the bar M'Kune's Tragedy 
 Company was assembled. The night wind had 
 blown them together like drifted leaves. And 
 the stranded actors were all beside themselves 
 with joy because the midnight train was to 
 carry them out of this nightmare town. They 
 had made up their fares at last. 
 
 How fast the minutes went. It must be 
 nearly train time. And surely there was a vast 
 thing pulsing, pulsing like an engine far away 
 in the night. . . . She could hear the hub- 
 bub of voices but not the dread of silence. Was 
 it quite impossible to rise up and struggle to 
 them and reach a human face? . . . Sud- 
 denly she took a panting breath, short like a 
 sob, still gazing.
 
 2 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 The door had opened at last and a woman 
 looked in hastily and, flinging a word over her 
 shoulder to the rest, stepped forward, shutting 
 out the brief streak of light and the voices in 
 the bar. Then she paused, irresolute. It was 
 so dim in here, the atmosphere was so anxious 
 . . . and nothing stirring . . . just a 
 glimmer of wild black hair. 
 
 "You poor little thing I" she said. 
 
 Her voice was warm with the cheap kindness 
 of a nature tuned to play with emotion but in- 
 capable of feeling it from within. Her sym- 
 pathy smacked of the stage, but as far as it 
 went was ready to proffer easy help. 
 
 "Like the flight out of Egypt, isn't it?" she 
 said. "It's a shame to leave you behind. If 
 M'Kune would hear reason and any of us had 
 a cent to spare I'd make a bundle of you and 
 carry you on to the train myself. But it won't 
 run to it. I asked him. We're nothing but 
 ranting beggars. . . . You'd better write 
 to your friends." 
 
 The girl on the bed laughed. 
 
 So much of despair betrayed itself in that 
 tragic note that the woman was startled. She 
 came a little nearer. 
 
 "You don't mean it's as bad as that?" she 
 said, lower. "All dead? Well, I might have 
 known it. They wouldn't have let a young
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 3 
 
 thing like you fling about in the world with us. 
 But you'll be all right; you'll rub along some- 
 how. We all do. . . . And that man who 
 was once a doctor " 
 
 But at her words a quick terror came to 
 drive out the girl's submission to despair. She 
 threw out her hands, clutching at the other 
 woman's dress. 
 
 "What?" said she, comprehending. "Then 
 the brute's charity and promising to M'Kune 
 Oh, Lord, what a horrible place it is !" 
 
 ' ' Don 't go ! " The girl 's yoice was a choking 
 cry. 
 
 The woman swung round and listened. Were 
 the rest starting already? Her fine eyes dark- 
 ened. She was wrapped up for the night 
 journey in a faded crimson cloak, her usual 
 wear in tragedy, alike as empress and vil- 
 lainess. Its dull glow warmed a beauty that 
 was, like her soul, not quite real. Perhaps she 
 was repenting the hasty impulse that had 
 brought her in. But she could not pull herself 
 loose from that piteous hold. 
 
 The younger one looked up beseechingly in 
 her face. Her spirit failed her; she hardly 
 knew what an impracticable thing she was ask- 
 ing, how uselessly she was clinging, in her hor- 
 ror of friendlessness. 
 
 "I'm so frightened . . . I'm so fright-
 
 4 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 ened . . ." she whispered, panting because 
 the effort hurt her ; her lips were pale, and her 
 forehead was damp with pain. 
 
 Suddenly the woman clapped her hands. 
 
 "I've got it!" she said. Her face cleared, 
 and she began to laugh like one whose mind 
 was rid of a burden. Twisting a ring off her 
 finger, she caught the little desperate hand still 
 clutching at her skirt, and thrust the ring on. 
 
 "There!" she said. " Change with me." 
 
 "I can't understand," said the girl faintly. 
 The other woman burst into vehement explana- 
 tion. 
 
 "It's Providence!" she said. "Never tell 
 me ! I'm used to this life with its ups and 
 downs, and its glitter of luck ahead. It's in 
 my bones; the restlessness, and all that. I 
 couldn't give it up. I wouldn't. But you ! 
 You didn't guess there was a lawyer tracking 
 me, did you? that I'm a widow? that I'm 
 wanted to go and live in England with his 
 mother. Perhaps she'd have to pay somebody 
 if I hadn't a sense of duty. . . . Me pick- 
 ing up stitches in her knitting, yawning in a 
 parlour with a parrot! But you'd be safe 
 there, you child !" 
 
 She paused for breath, triumphant. 
 
 "I'll tell him to fetch you," she said. "The 
 lawyer. Wait a minute I have his letter;
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 5 
 
 warning me that there is no money in it no 
 settlements, as he calls it. I'd be depending 
 on the old woman's charity, like any stray cat.'* 
 
 She went down immediately on her knees, 
 and plunged into a kit-bag that she had slung 
 on her arm, turning out its miscellaneous load. 
 There was a shiver of glass as she fumbled, 
 spilling things right and left; and the stale air 
 was scented with heliotrope. 
 
 "That's all you want," she said, throwing 
 a heap of papers on the bed. "Here's his 
 photograph. You can have it. I can't tell you 
 much about him, but you'll find the clues in 
 there. He was good-looking, too, poor fellow; 
 a great gawk of a good-for-nothing working 
 with his hands. John Barnabas Hill the boys 
 called him Lord John among themselves, and 
 persuaded me he was incognito. But when I 
 asked him after the wedding if I was now my 
 lady, he just laughed and laughed; and I went 
 right off in a passion and never saw him again. 
 It wasn't his fault. I was just too eager ; that's 
 all there was to it. And I'll tell the lawyer 
 I've left you ill in this wilderness. He'll rush 
 to your side, and take it for granted that you 
 are me. Don't look so scared. What's the 
 matter?" 
 
 "I can't do it," the girl panted, staring witk 
 a dizzy wonder at the casual Samaritan on her
 
 6 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 knees. Surely the lamp was sinking, the dark- 
 ness seemed dangerously near, the kneeling 
 figure brilliant in a blur. She tried to keep a 
 picture of that kind human face wherewith to 
 fill the darkness, while instinctively repudia- 
 ting her mad suggestion. 
 
 "Bubbish!" said the woman. "It's the 
 simplest thing. You do nothing. And you're 
 an actress." 
 
 "But I cannot," the girl said over and over 
 again, holding fast. 
 
 "You'll hurt nobody," urged the woman, at- 
 taining to some imperfect apprehension of an 
 attitude of mind that would not, even in ex- 
 tremity, buy help with falsehood. "If I'm 
 willing to have you stand in my shoes, who else 
 has a right to grumble? It's perfectly fair all 
 round. Look! I'm stuffing these papers under 
 your pillow. I'll tell them all outside that an 
 English lawyer is coming for you, and that'll 
 make things easy. Don't hinder me leaving 
 you with a clear conscience. I've been your 
 friend, haven't I? Hush, hush ! I tell you you 
 must. . . . I'll not let you die in this den. 
 I'll not be haunted!" 
 
 There was a tramping in the bar without. 
 They were going. She tumbled her belongings 
 into the bag, and clapped it shut. The rest of 
 them were calling her.
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 7 
 
 "Luck!" she said, "and good-bye." 
 
 Her eyes dimmed unexpectedly, and she bent 
 in a shamefaced hurry, printing a kiss on the 
 girl's cheek . . . and fled. 
 
 The door closed. In imagination one might 
 see the midnight train thundering towards the 
 watchers hear the grinding of the brakes. 
 To the bustle had succeeded a dreadful still- 
 ness. They had all gone like shadows, and the 
 listener was deserted. 
 
 "I can't . . . I can't . . . I can't!" 
 she reiterated in a sobbing whisper, casting the 
 strange chance from her with a last effort of 
 consciousness. The lamp was dying, and the 
 world seemed to be turning round. In that un- 
 friended darkness the ring on her finger was 
 glittering like a charm.
 
 CHAPTER H 
 
 THE day's hunting was over. 
 
 Of the hundreds who had jostled each other 
 in the first run, a disreputable few survived, 
 pulling up after that last gallop. They grinned 
 contentedly, drawing out their watches. 
 Thirty-five minutes from the wood; a straight 
 fox and elbow-room. It had been worth stop- 
 ping out for, though now the dusk was thicken- 
 ing fast, and the huntsman was calling off his 
 hounds. 
 
 " Where's Rackham?" asked one man, peer- 
 ing into the hollow. 
 
 "Gone home. I saw his back as we came 
 through Pickwell." 
 
 "That wasn't Eackham. That was Bond, 
 hurrying home to tea." 
 
 "He's probably come to grief. His horse 
 had had about enough when I lost him." 
 
 Another man popped his head over the hedge 
 that had worsted him. His hat was stove in, 
 and his tired animal was blowing on the farther 
 side. 
 
 "He's all right," he said. "The devil looks 
 after his own. I turned the most horrible 
 somersault back yonder, through my horse 
 
 8
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 9 
 
 catching his leg in a binder ; and before I could 
 pick myself up, over shoots Eackham, practio- 
 ally on the top of us. If he'd even given me 
 time to roll into the ditch! Down he went to 
 the water. ... I wish I could think he was 
 swimming in it." 
 
 ''He's not far, anyhow. Hark to him. I'd! 
 know that laugh of his a mile off. There he 
 goes 'Haw, haw, haw!' all by himself, in the 
 valley." 
 
 They turned their heads to listen, with a 
 broadening and sympathetic grin, as the dim 
 outline of a horseman took shape in the semi- 
 obscurity, travelling upwards. It wasn't at 
 all unlike Eackham to turn up like that, though 
 there hadn't been a sign of him till they heard 
 his laughter. The wonder would have been if 
 he had let himself be beaten altogether. What 
 obstinacy had kept him going was explained by 
 the spur marks on his horse's sides as he 
 brushed through a gap and took stock of the 
 diminished party, the handful that had, by a 
 minute or two, outstripped him. 
 
 "Only the tough 'uns in it," he said. "It 
 wasn't bad. Has the fox dipped into the sun- 
 set and left you staring! Where are we? We 
 must feel our way home, or let the horses smell 
 it out." 
 
 "He's run into a drain. The usual end.
 
 10 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 What was the joke?" asked the nearest man. 
 Eackham pulled out his yellow silk handker- 
 chief, and twisted it round his throat. He was 
 hot, and the air was clammy. With that, and 
 his wild eyes, and his sandy moustache, he 
 looked like a handsome bandit. 
 
 "It's turning cold," he said. "What? 
 Didn't you hear the plaintive toot of a motor 
 lying in wait for the man who sells pills? I'm 
 morally certain the millionaire is feebly chasing 
 his hunter round and round that big field with 
 the mole-hills in it, miles and miles behind. I 
 suppose the chauffeur had his orders; but it 
 would be a charity to hint that following 
 hounds is the worst way to pick up his master." 
 
 "Didn't somebody catch his horse?" 
 
 "Oh, I did, and chucked him the reins; but 
 I didn't see him get on to him. I'll bet the 
 idiot let him go." 
 
 "Do him good. He'll probably sit on a gate 
 and pass the time inventing another pill." 
 
 "Awful if he's benighted, and all the ghosts 
 of all who swallowed the other pills pop up 
 screeching !" 
 
 "Poor devil; he will have a time of it, with 
 the mole-hills and the thistles, and all those 
 ghosts." 
 
 The picture called up was upsetting to the 
 general gravity, and they dispersed, chuckling
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 11 
 
 in the increasing twilight. A division made for 
 the turnpike, with here and there an individual 
 branching courageously into a bridle road ; and 
 the larger half halted under a sign-post that 
 stretched illegible arms east and west in the 
 lane. It was pleasant to linger a minute or 
 two, lighting up, guessing at their direction. 
 But Eackham kept on. 
 
 "That's not your way, Eackham," one man 
 called after him. 
 
 The match flickered at his cigar, and went 
 out as he threw it in the road. His horse was 
 walking on with his head down, guided by the 
 rider's knees. 
 
 "Eight," he shouted back. "It isn't. Is 
 that you, Parsley? I nearly jumped on you, 
 didn't I?" 
 
 "You did," said one of the dawdling group. 
 "He has been complaining." 
 
 "Well, if a fellow will sit down unexpectedly 
 before you, like a hen under a motor, how can 
 you dodge him? Teach that lazy brute of 
 yours to lift up his hind legs, Parsley. Do you 
 never hit him?" 
 
 "I say," called the first man. "Come back. 
 Where are you going?" But Eackham pur- 
 sued his wrong road untroubled. 
 
 "He can make Melton that way, if he likes," 
 said one of those who were looking after him.
 
 12 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 "I daresay he means to call in on Lady Hen- 
 rietta. He told me he had a message from her, 
 asking him to come over, but he wasn't going 
 to miss a day's hunting to see what she was 
 up to." 
 
 "I thought they were at daggers drawn." 
 
 "In a manner of speaking," said the first, 
 dropping his voice a little; "but outwardly 
 they are civil. Of course, she hates him com- 
 ing in for poor Barnaby 's property, and I 
 know he was at the bottom of that row that 
 made Barnaby rush abroad." 
 
 "Ah, I remember, Eackham flirted furiously 
 with Julia " 
 
 They edged instinctively nearer to each 
 other, snatching at an enlivening bit of gossip 
 as they jogged on together with the bats swoop- 
 ing overhead. 
 
 "No mistake about that. And she let 
 Barnaby see plainly that she was ready to drop 
 her bone for his cousin. Of course, Eackham 
 is a bigger match. She's one of these women 
 who can't perceive that titles are getting 
 vulgar." 
 
 "Eum chap, Eackham. I can't quite make 
 him out. What did he do it for?" 
 
 "He owed Barnaby one, perhaps. I don't 
 think he was fond of Julia. Anyhow, he didn't
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 13 
 
 rise to her expectations; and so she relapsed, 
 and repented, and trails about now like a 
 mourning bride. Poor old Barnaby; he'll be 
 missed. . . . And we'll never hear what 
 wild things he did out there." 
 
 "Desperate sort of cure, to disappear in the 
 backwoods, and never call on his bankers. 
 Just like him though. But he shouldn't have 
 got himself killed in a scuffle in some outland- 
 ish quarter, and spoilt the yarn.'* 
 
 The man next him grunted. 
 
 "Who started the rumour that it wasn't an 
 accident," he inquired; "but that life without 
 Julia wasn't worth tuppence to him, and so 
 and so ?" 
 
 "Shut up, Parsley. Don't you circulate it," 
 put in his neighbour hastily. "Heaven send 
 Lady Henrietta hasn't got hold of that." 
 
 "By George, if the tale came to her 
 ears !" 
 
 The last man mended his pace. He had 
 hung back a little. 
 
 "Eackham's bearing to the right," he struck 
 in. "You can hear the horse trotting on the 
 hill. He must be turning in to see Lady Hen- 
 rietta. I wonder what on earth she wants him 
 for. It was a rather portentous message." 
 
 They had reached a rougher bit of road and
 
 14 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 their voices grew indistinct, drowned in a tired 
 clatter of horses' hoofs, and died away in the 
 distance. 
 
 Rackham himself could not guess the reason 
 for Lady Henrietta's summons. Latterly there 
 had been war between him and his aunt. 
 Something must have happened to mitigate 
 the rigour of her ban, but he rather fancied the 
 circumstances must be uncommon that could 
 accomplish that. He was curious, and not the 
 less so when, having left his horse to a bucket 
 of gruel, he walked stiffly across from the 
 stables, and letting himself in at the hall door, 
 found himself face to face with another vis- 
 itor, who had just arrived and was slipping off 
 her furs. 
 
 11 Julia!'* he said, taken aback at her pres- 
 ence in this house. She acknowledged his 
 amazement with a trickling laugh. Her voice 
 had a note of melancholy importance. 
 
 1 'Is it so unnatural," she said reproachfully, 
 "that you should find me here?" 
 
 The man bit his lip, looking at her. To 
 ihim there was humour in her romantic 
 pose. 
 
 They had once been so well acquainted 
 though lately she had affected short-sighted- 
 ness when she saw him that he imagined he
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 15 
 
 understood her. He rather admired an in- 
 vincible vanity that had ignored disappoint- 
 ment and defied scoffing tongues by making 
 this bid for public sympathy. It was a 
 brilliant move, but he had never thought it 
 would impose on Lady Henrietta, that worldly 
 woman with a hot corner in her heart for any- 
 body who could squeeze in, but an implacable 
 spirit. She had held out stubbornly up 
 to now. 
 
 ''Well I don't know," he said, hesitating, 
 swallowing his amusement. 
 
 Julia lifted her tragic eyes to his. Perhaps 
 she was not sorry he should witness her 
 recognition in this house. The trailing black 
 garments that she was wearing for Barnaby 
 lent a majestic sweep to her full outlines, and 
 there was a kind of bloom on her cheeks. She 
 reminded one of a big purple pansy. 
 
 The butler, an old family servant, one of 
 those that know too much, had closed the 
 great door, shutting out the wind and the 
 stormy sky, already night-ridden ; and was now 
 waiting discreetly in the background. Kack- 
 ham nodding to him, remarked a curious 
 twinkle on his face, but when he looked again 
 it was wooden. 
 
 "I knew she would send for me at last," 
 crowed Julia. "People called her selfish and
 
 16 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 cruel, but I told everybody I understood. I 
 told them to give her time. It must be so dif- 
 ficult for her to realise that someone else was 
 closer to poor Barnaby than even she. How 
 could she help feeling, at first, a little jealousy 
 of my grief!" 
 
 "I was sent for, too," said Eackham bluntly. 
 "She said she had something to show me." 
 
 "Poor dear!" said Julia. "How touching 
 that she should think of it. You were his 
 cousin, and she wants you to witness her do 
 me justice." 
 
 The man smiled to himself at her manner 
 of glancing backwards at their fellowship in 
 disgrace. Was it possible that his aunt had 
 really made up her mind to forget and forgive, 
 and fall upon Julia's neck? He felt a twinge 
 of something like shame. 
 
 "We mustn't keep her waiting," said Julia. 
 "Is she in the library, Macdonald? That is 
 where she used to sit. . . ." 
 
 Already she was assuming her ancient inti- 
 macy with the ways of the house, and the serv- 
 ant made way for her as she passed him, 
 traversing the hall with a mournful swagger. 
 
 Lady Henrietta was knitting hard. 
 
 She sat in a deep sofa by the fire, turned
 
 THE ,WAY OF A WOMAN 17 
 
 so that it faced the hangings that screened off 
 the outer hall. The library was so big that 
 it seemed to reach at either end into darkness, 
 and the lamps made little islands of brilliance 
 here and there in the prevailing gloom. Be- 
 hind, with the books, there was another fire- 
 place, a red and glimmering hearth where two 
 or three dogs lay, warm and sleepy, dreaming of 
 winter tramps and a man calling them to heel. 
 One, a terrier with a bitten ear, had started 
 half -awake on a run down the room, but she 
 could not settle on the other rug, and came 
 back restlessly to her post on the shabbier tiger- 
 skin. 
 
 Barnaby's mother had a thin, hard, eager 
 face, with a flick of colour high on her cheek- 
 bones. Not an unkind woman, but one 
 possessed by some passion that had tempered 
 a frivolous, careless nature to a mood of iron. 
 Her rings glittered as she knitted, and the wires 
 clicked faster and faster, as if it were impos- 
 sible that her fingers could be for a minute 
 still. She was knitting a man's grey-green 
 shooting stocking. 
 
 Occasionally her eyes, with a strange spark 
 in them, lit on a girl sitting opposite, gazing 
 into the fire. The girl was young and quiet; 
 her head shone dark in the ring of light; her
 
 18 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 cheek was pale, but her short upper lip showed 
 courage. Lady Henrietta watched her with a 
 fierce joy that was not yet liking. 
 
 "You're not at all what I expected/' she 
 said abruptly. "I was afraid of what I would 
 see, and I didn't dare to look at you when you 
 arrived last night; but twenty times I turned 
 the handle of your bedroom door. At last, I 
 poked my head in when you were asleep, 
 just to know the worst. I nearly dropped the 
 candle when I saw your little head on the pil- 
 low." 
 
 "What did you expect?" the girl said faintly. 
 
 "A great, coarse, fine woman, snoring," said 
 Lady Henrietta. 
 
 All at once she bent forward, putting her 
 knitting into the girl's hands. There was sig- 
 nificance in the gesture. 
 
 "Pick up that stitch for me," she said. "He 
 never liked ladders in his stockings." 
 
 There was no shake in the hard jauntiness 
 of her voice, but the girl, searching with bent 
 head for the dropped stitch, felt her fingers 
 tremble as they touched the rough worsted 
 felt something pluck at her heart. Barnaby 
 was dead, and she had never known him; but 
 he was the one real person walking through a 
 dream in which she had lost herself. 
 
 She was not strong yet. She still had a
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 19 
 
 trick of putting out her hand to some steady 
 object when she stood up alone. And at first 
 she had not understood too ill to question, not 
 wondering. It was as if she had died one night 
 and awakened to a consciousness of protection, 
 a mystery of care and kindness, of strangers 
 who took charge of her, treating her like a 
 precious doll. When she at last knew the rea- 
 son, she had felt like one who, falling from a 
 precipice, found herself clinging, the dizzy hor- 
 ror stopped by a branch; she could not let 
 it go. 
 
 So they had found her, and brought her over 
 the sea, and put her to bed in a great, com- 
 fortable room, in a house that was haunted. 
 It was Barnaby's house, and it was for Bar- 
 naby's sake that people were kind to her. 
 Somehow they were all shadows to her beside 
 the thought of him. His name had been in- 
 voked to shelter her; it had been enough to 
 lift her out of despair. She had begun to feel 
 safe in a confused assurance that she belonged 
 to him. 
 
 She remembered last night. She remem- 
 bered the door sliding softly, and a rustle in 
 the room, and how she had lain quite still, shut- 
 ting her eyes, holding her breath, startled out 
 of sleep. Someone was smoothing the bed- 
 clothes under her chin. She longed to cover
 
 20 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 her face, but could not. It was not a ghost, 
 for mortal fingers had touched her cheek. 
 Soon the rustle had withdrawn from her bed- 
 side, and she had heard a little sound that 
 might have been a sigh. Afterwards the door 
 had closed, and the room was empty. 
 
 Seized by an unaccountable impulse, she had 
 put her foot to the floor, and crossed the wide 
 carpet to the fireplace, where the visitor had 
 gone from her side. The fire had fallen in, 
 flaring high in a quivering blaze, and by its 
 light she had seen that over the chimney- 
 piece hung the picture of a man. Instinct had 
 told her who it was, and she stared at him, fas- 
 cinated. 
 
 The other woman had left her the wrong 
 photograph in her hurry. This was no weak 
 boy with a foolish mouth, bundled over-seas by 
 his people. This was a man with a steady face 
 that betrayed nothing of himself, and eyes that 
 held her startled gaze. Blue eyes, audacious 
 and understanding. Her heart beat strangely. 
 For this must be Barnaby the reckless, who 
 had married a wife and got himself killed 
 . . . and she, poor fool, was calling herself 
 his widow. 
 
 She clung to the chimney-piece, shivering 
 with excitement, a quaint, slight figure in her 
 white night-dress.
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 21 
 
 "I'll hurt nobody. ... I'll hurt no- 
 body!" she was explaining to him in an implor- 
 ing whisper ; and it seemed to her that the man 
 in the picture smiled. 
 
 " There, give it back to me," said Lady 
 Henrietta jealously, and her voice scattered 
 mists of imagination. "You don't think I'm 
 crazy, do you? You know why it is I can't 
 stop knitting his stockings. We'll not talk 
 about him, Susan. You and I have each our 
 own memories, and we can't share them. I 
 don't want yours. But we'll fight for him to- 
 gether; since he belongs to us." 
 
 Her manner took on a sudden fierceness. 
 
 "I've not told anybody about you yet," she 
 said. "I've been hugging the secret for pur- 
 poses of my own. I am a wicked woman, 
 Susan. Upon my honour, if you hadn 't existed, 
 I'd have been obliged to invent you. If you 
 hadn't come to me, I'd have searched the world 
 for an imitation, from end to end. How he 
 would laugh at me! But we'll not talk about 
 him we couldn't bear it. Only we'll fight for 
 him, as I said. We'll not let his enemies 
 triumph and pretend that they broke his 
 heart. ' ' 
 
 Her voice was quicker, charged with a pas- 
 sionate haste that hurried the words out before 
 she could close her lips.
 
 22 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 "You little pale thing," she said. "I am 
 not a kissing woman . . . but . . . 
 oh, you don't know what you are to me. Wait. 
 I'll make you understand. There's a creature 
 here who behaved shamefully to my boy . . . 
 to him. And now he is dead she goes about 
 boasting, claiming him as her victim, hinting 
 to all who will listen that he killed himself for 
 love of her. It's not true. . . . You'll 
 teach them it is not true ! ' ' 
 
 She stopped, controlling herself. In the hall 
 outside there was the slight bustle of an arrival, 
 and voices, muffled by distance, came faintly 
 through. As suddenly as she had spoken, she 
 checked her outburst of confidence, and picked 
 up her knitting with a terrible little smile. 
 
 "I know who it is that's coming," she said 
 grimly. "A woman, Susan a woman who 
 dresses in black, and prates of a misunder- 
 standing. ' ' 
 
 They came in together, the man blinking a 
 little after his ride in the twilight, approach- 
 ing with a stiff gait and clinking spurs; 
 the woman swimming triumphantly up the 
 room. 
 
 "Dear Lady Henrietta!" she murmured, a 
 ready quiver in her emotional Irish voice. 
 
 "How do you do, Julia?" said Lady Hen- 
 rietta. She had recovered an extraordinary
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 23 
 
 calm. "Did you and Eackham meet on the 
 doorstep! I am pleased to see you both." 
 
 Her ominous quietness struck the man, more 
 observant. His instinct had not disappointed 
 him, that was clear; he marked her attitude 
 with an inward chuckle. Something tremen- 
 dous was toward. 
 
 "You are looking well, Aunt Henrietta," he 
 said politely. "Do you mind my smoking? 
 We had a tiring day, and I missed my only 
 sandwich. ' ' 
 
 "Macdonald will look after you," she said. 
 "Make him get you anything you want." 
 
 ' ' Thanks, ' ' said Eackham. ' * I '11 have some- 
 thing before I go. I meant to ask him for a 
 whisky and soda, but he shot us in here. I 
 thought the old chap seemed a bit excited. ' ' 
 
 "Yes," said Lady Henrietta. "They were 
 all so devoted to Barnaby. Naturally they 
 share my feelings " She paused signifi- 
 cantly, and he could see that she was watching 
 Julia. "My son has given me a legacy. . . . 
 He has left me his wife." 
 
 ' ' How sVeet of you to put it like that I ' ' said 
 Julia. 
 
 She had established herself on the sofa with- 
 out an instant's delay, taking figurative pos- 
 session, too self-absorbed to appreciate any 
 by-play. Her head was full of the tardy capitu-
 
 24 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 lation of her fellow-mourner, and she, in her 
 own eyes, was the principal figure here. But 
 Eackham, looking on, all but shouted. 
 
 "What?" he said. "Poor old Barnaby! 
 Married? Good Lord! how did it come 
 about?" 
 
 Julia turned round and stared at him. 
 
 "Lord Eackham!" she said. "Are you 
 mad?" 
 
 Lady Henrietta made a motion with her hand 
 towards the girl sitting in the background. 
 She could not trust herself to speak to the 
 woman whose outrageous complacency had sur- 
 vived her blow. 
 
 "My dear," she said, "this is your hus- 
 band's cousin. He gets everything when I die 
 things are so wickedly entailed in this family 
 except a pittance I mean to scrape up for 
 you. You know I don't chatter, Eackham. 
 You can understand I didn't care to set the 
 neighbourhood talking until I had Susan 
 here. ' ' 
 
 There was no mistaking the triumphant note 
 in her proclamation. 
 
 The girl coloured faintly. They were all 
 looking at her now; the strange woman with a 
 startled face, the man curiously. Some like- 
 ness in him to the picture that hung upstairs 
 troubled her. So Barnaby might have looked,
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 25 
 
 his dare-devil glance falling on her with a quiz- 
 zical compassion. 
 
 Backhands wits were not slow. He crossed 
 over to her side, and took up his station on the 
 hearthrug, so close to her that his splashed 
 scarlet coat almost brushed her black sleeve. 
 Barnaby had been dressed like him in the pic- 
 ture, gallant in hunting clothes. Would Bar- 
 naby have stood by her? For she understood 
 the significance of his action. This man wanted 
 to be her friend. She trembled a little, won- 
 dering why. 
 
 Lady Henrietta took no more notice of him 
 than if he had been a vexing shadow put in his 
 place. His strategic movement was lost on 
 her. Barnaby 's mother, in her thirst to pun- 
 ish, her eagerness in striking for the sake of 
 her son, had not time to consider that the sword 
 in her hand was his wife. Her eyes were shin- 
 ing with the fire that had burnt up her tears, 
 and they were fixed on the enchantress who 
 had wrecked Barnaby 's life, and was trading 
 on his old infatuation, making a bid for public 
 sympathy by flaunting her forfeited hold on 
 him. 
 
 "I can't understand," said Julia, with a 
 gasp. " Barnaby was not married. . . ." 
 
 But she was shaken. Her blank amazement 
 was turning visibly to dismay. This stroke
 
 26 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 was so sharp, so inconceivable, that she lost her 
 head, refusing to believe in the humbling reve- 
 lation. 
 
 "It's a plot!" she cried all at once. ''A plot 
 against me. What have I done to be treated 
 like this? Why should I be insulted? Every- 
 body knows that Barnaby and I " 
 
 "Don't be an idiot, Julia," said Eackharn 
 softly, but it was not his interruption that 
 stopped her passionate surrender to the Irish- 
 woman's instinct to have it out with the 
 world. 
 
 Perhaps the actress was uppermost in Susan, 
 or perhaps an odd impulse of loyalty to the 
 dead man whose ring she wore carried her out 
 of herself. Her heart was hot against the 
 woman who had played fast and loose with 
 him, and it taught her how one who belonged 
 to Barnaby would have faced this moment. 
 His wife would not be a coward, would not sit, 
 a piteous listener, in the background; she had 
 his memory to uphold. And so she found her- 
 self standing up, confronting the stranger in a 
 proud silence that was more eloquent than re- 
 proach. Slowly, without a word, she moved 
 onwards to leave the room. 
 
 "Gad!" said Eackham, under his breath. 
 He liked that. 
 
 Something like awe had smitten Julia. She
 
 " Tell me who you are," she panted hysterically
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 27 
 
 remained a moment transfixed, staring after 
 her, all exclamation hushed on her reckless lips. 
 Then, all at once, she followed. 
 
 "Tell me who you are," she panted hysteric- 
 ally. "It's all nonsense, isn't it? It's a 
 sham?" 
 
 Lady Henrietta was watching the scene from 
 her sofa, and so was Eackham, standing with 
 his back to the fire. They were both far off. 
 It was a swift and dramatic minute. 
 
 "His mother hates me," said Julia, half to 
 herself; her hold tightened on the girl's arm. 
 "She's capable of anything. She What 
 colour were his eyes?" 
 
 The question was flung at her without warn- 
 ing. But a man's face stood out distinct in 
 the girl's imagination, haunting her with a 
 clearness none of these other faces had; smil- 
 ing whimsically down from his picture all this 
 while she was letting people proclaim her his. 
 . . . Somehow she was defending him, cov- 
 ering his hurt. 
 
 Without thinking, without a pause 
 
 "Blue," she said. 
 
 The other woman's hand dropped. She let 
 her go. 
 
 Susan let the velvet hangings fall heavily 
 behind her as she came through. A kind of 
 wonder at herself possessed her, and her knees
 
 28 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 trembled. Mechanically she traversed the hall, 
 and began to climb the wide staircase, lean- 
 ing a little as she went, on the solid oak bal- 
 ustrade. 
 
 On the first landing a window faced the stair, 
 and right and left ran corridors, interminable, 
 and equally mysterious to the stranger, who 
 was, in a manner, lost in this unknown house. 
 She sank down on the window-seat, set deep 
 in the thickness of the wall. 
 
 Outside, the sky was dark with a strange red, 
 as of furnaces under the horizon, glimmering 
 in the west. She could just distinguish the 
 jutting corner of the more antique part of the 
 house, built as it was in different centuries, bit 
 by bit. That side was strangely ornamented 
 with mediaeval figures the images of ancient 
 warriors, all battered and weather-stained. 
 And the land they had won was quiet, lying half 
 asleep; only the trees still restless as night 
 came on. 
 
 She turned her face. In front of her 
 gleamed the shallow stair, running straight into 
 the hall below, and all the way down hung 
 pictures, men and women who had lived in this 
 house, and trod the stairs, hurrying, lagging, 
 or perhaps clinging, as she had in her weakness 
 clung to the balustrade. Some were ill-painted,
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 29 
 
 some stared wickedly; but all of them were 
 watching. There was history in their eyes. 
 
 The girl felt a queer fellowship with the 
 still procession; she, whose only title among 
 them was make-believe. Perhaps, in forgotten 
 times, her own people had fought and loved 
 and ridden side by side with these, and their 
 descendant had come back to a friend's house. 
 
 How good it would be to let the world go on, 
 to walk in a dream always, and not struggle 
 any more. 
 
 She thought, with a remote disdain, of the 
 scene downstairs. Her heart was still beating 
 quickly; but that gripping sense of the theatre 
 had left her. And she knew she had conquered. 
 Barnaby's memory was safe from the woman 
 his mother hated. One could imagine her 
 claim collapsing, one could hear her voluble 
 excuse, pleading bewilderment, accepting the 
 situation with perhaps a plaintive expression 
 of her relief in knowing she was, after all, not 
 as guilty as gossip said had Lady Henrietta 
 heard the dreadful rumours? And Barnaby's 
 mother would smile at the thrust with victory 
 in her soul, while the man, his cousin, would 
 look on, smothering his chuckle, with his head 
 on one side like a magpie, and a splash of mud 
 that had dried on his cheek.
 
 30 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 It was his step she heard first as they came 
 out into the hall. He and Julia were leaving 
 together, she talking fast. Her voice, charged 
 with subdued excitement, rose and fell on 
 a singing note. What she was saying did not 
 reach up the stairs; only its contralto music. 
 The sound of it awakened Susan in her mood 
 of overwrought exultation. Reality came back 
 to her with a shock. She remembered another 
 yoice as warm, as emotional, with the same 
 theatrical tune of tears; and she remembered 
 the dangerous charity that had mocked her 
 opposition. Stripped of its fantastic mist of 
 adventure, she looked at her own story, and 
 was ashamed. Her very scorn of the woman 
 against whom she had been pitted turned on 
 herself and scorched her, ranking her as low. 
 She and Julia no, she could not bear to be 
 judged with Julia. The romantic sophistry 
 that had comforted her was gone, and nothing 
 could stay her desperate longing to be honest. 
 
 They passed underneath. Eackham was 
 helping Julia into her furs, was hunting for 
 her muff, with his face to the stair. The girl 
 above held her breath. His nearness affected 
 her with a kind of panic. 
 
 She had an intuition that he was the kind of 
 man who would guess. She thought of his
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 31 
 
 quick movement to her side, his presumptuous 
 readiness to stand by her, unspoken but un- 
 mistakable, with an unexplained alarm. Would 
 they never go I Why did he loiter, looking up- 
 wards with that inexplicable smile? 
 
 As the great door shut, at last, on a silence, 
 she sprang up and went downstairs. It was 
 a pity she was not stronger. One should not 
 go to be judged with a tottering step. And 
 she would want all her courage. Knowing the 
 spirit in which Barnaby's mother had dealt 
 with Julia, she did not look for mercy. 
 
 But Lady Henrietta was not sitting upright 
 and watchful, with that look of ruthlessness 
 stamped on her thin, hard, pretty face. She 
 had thrown herself across the sofa, her fast- 
 knitting fingers idle, the half -finished stocking 
 that would never be worn fallen from her hand 
 to the floor. She lay like a broken reed; de- 
 prived of the motive that had sustained her 
 and she was crying. 
 
 That sight stirred all the heart in Susan. 
 She ran to her blindly, only conscious of a great 
 compassion that shamed her selfish terror of 
 the weight of a lie. She could not tell her 
 . . . now. 
 
 And Barnaby's mother looked up at her ap- 
 proach. Something of the old defiant jaunti-
 
 32 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 ness came back to her for a minute. She tried 
 to laugh. 
 
 "Come here and kiss me," she called. There 
 was a fierce tenderness in her cry "you 
 darling I"
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 SUSAN had flung from her with both hands the 
 imprudent longing to cry out her story. 
 
 Somehow she felt that if she spoke now she 
 would be a traitor. It was too late to look 
 back; for good or ill she had changed places 
 with the other woman who would not come. 
 To fail now would not be to clear her honour, 
 it would be to desert her post. 
 
 When Lady Henrietta, having triumphed, 
 had given way at last, and had clung to Susan, 
 the girl, gathered in that fierce clasp, had 
 known that Barnaby's mother took passionate 
 comfort in her only because the stranger was 
 something that had belonged to him. To 
 deny her that comfort would be to rob one 
 who had nothing left. Could she, by a wistful 
 life of devotion, justify herself, not in the 
 sight of man, not to hard judges but perhaps 
 to this Barnaby who was dead, and who would 
 surely understand! Keeping silent, she prom- 
 ised him that she would. 
 
 Day after day passed over her head, building 
 an unsteady wall between her and that pitiless 
 outside world in which she had been like a 
 driven leaf, without hope or foothold. She be- 
 
 33
 
 34= THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 came accustomed to the lazy peace of the house, 
 to the watchful offices of the old servants, who 
 seemed, like Lady Henrietta herself, curiously 
 proud of her. 
 
 Slowly she grew stronger; her thin cheek 
 rounded, still pale, but touched with a faint 
 promise of colour. 
 
 One afternoon she was taking her solitary 
 walk in the park, and had wandered further 
 than she had been. The dogs had left her, 
 scurrying after rabbits, and she leaned on a 
 stile that offered a resting-place, a little tired 
 and wistful, gazing at the sinking fire in the 
 west. 
 
 Suddenly the air was quick with galloping, 
 and all around her were jumping horses. 
 Startled, but unafraid, she watched them com- 
 ing over the hedge, imagining that as they came 
 they would vanish. 
 
 "You shouldn't stay there, you might get 
 hurt," called someone, pulling up at her side. 
 "How are you!" 
 
 She had been looking on, as one would look 
 at a gallant picture, not realising that she was 
 in its midst. Instinctively she drew back. All 
 had stopped, and hounds were clustering in 
 the bottom, where the huntsman had dis- 
 mounted, and was peering into a drain. Many 
 heads were turned, with a rough kindness that
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 35 
 
 excused curiosity, in her direction. Perhaps 
 they were all Barnaby's comrades, who missed 
 him, and saw in the pathetic figure one who 
 was missing him more than they. . . . 
 
 But the man who had drawn up beside her 
 was leaning down to her like an old friend, 
 barring out the rest with his shoulder. His 
 horse, still excited, jerked at his bit, and flung 
 a white flick of lather on her black dress. 
 Without thinking, she stretched out her hand 
 to his muzzle. 
 
 "Take care. He's an uncertain brute," said 
 Eackham. "You like horses?" 
 
 "I used to ride," she said. 
 
 Something awoke in her at that velvet touch, 
 and she could not finish, thinking of other 
 horses. 
 
 "Good," he said quickly. "Tell you what. 
 I have a mare that would carry you. I'll come 
 and talk it over if my aunt will let me in. ' ' 
 
 He laughed a little under his breath at that. 
 "How do you get on with her?" he asked. 
 "She's a warrior !" 
 
 Susan lifted her eyes to his face. His ab- 
 rupt friendliness could not entirely conquer the 
 fluttering apprehension of danger in his good- 
 nature that made her unaccountably shy of 
 him. There was commiseration in his look 
 and admiration.
 
 36 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 ''Look here," he said; ''we're cousins by 
 marriage. I've some warrant to be officious 
 and you're alone in a strange land, aren't you? 
 and all that." 
 
 Was it her imagination, or did he drop his 
 voice significantly? Perhaps he was glancing 
 at their first meeting, pitying her as a reed 
 bruised in Lady Henrietta's warlike hands. 
 Perhaps no, she could not read his expres- 
 sion. 
 
 The huntsman straightened his back, and 
 walked stiffly towards his horse. A man who 
 was giving up passed by and gravely took off 
 his hat ; she watched him hooking with his whip 
 at the bridle gate. She was afraid that they 
 would all ride off and leave her with Barnaby's 
 kinsman, and his penetrating smile. 
 
 "Anyhow," said Kackham, "I'm here if you 
 want backing. . . . Just let me know if you 
 need any kind of help." 
 
 A scream on the hidden side of the spinney 
 beneath them linked up the field, believing in 
 one of the glorious surprises that light up the 
 dragging end of the day. The huntsman 
 pushed right through the misty tangle, calling 
 on his hounds, and the riders disappeared like 
 a swirling river. A minute and they were 
 gone. 
 
 The girl listened breathlessly to the thudding
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 37 
 
 of distant hoofs. Her heart beat a little too 
 fast, disturbed by that brief interlude of ex- 
 citement. She stood quite still until the last 
 gleam of scarlet faded, and the galloping died 
 away, leaving a tremendous quiet. There was 
 no sound at last but the wildfowl, far away on 
 the lake, beginning their sunset chaunt. 
 
 Half the household Jiad rushed out to look 
 for hounds, and were returning singly, more 
 or less out of breath, as the girl came home. 
 It was astonishing what a commotion the hunt^ 
 in its passing, had awakened in that sad house- 
 hold. Lady Henrietta herself, with a shawl on 
 her head, was in the garden, peering. Her 
 sporting instincts were struggling in her with 
 a kind of rage. 
 
 "Tell me who were out," she said. "Oh, 
 of course you can't. But they would know who 
 you are. I am glad they saw you. It would 
 remind some of them a man is so soon for- 
 gotten! To think of them all hunting and 
 fooling just as they used ; with him left out ! 
 Did they run from Tilton? I don't suppose a 
 man of them wasted a thought on him till they 
 saw you there. Did they change foxes, 
 Susan?" 
 
 She talked on eagerly, answering herself 
 with conjecture as she hurried the girl into the 
 warm house, out of the gathering rain. Mac-
 
 38 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 donald, the butler, was better informed than 
 she, and his mistress seized on him as he slipped 
 in, wiping his brow, short-winded but tri- 
 umphant. He it was who had halloaed the fox 
 away. 
 
 "Come here and tell me all about it," said 
 Lady Henrietta sharply. " At your age, 
 Macdonald !" 
 
 He approached with solemnity, remembering 
 his dignity, and his rheumatism, an inextin- 
 guishable light in his eye. 
 
 "They ran from Owston, my lady, and lost 
 the fox on yon side of our bottom spinney. 
 He must have been about done, by the way 
 scent failed, and they couldn't pick him up 
 again for the gentlemen crowding forrard. 
 No, my lady, there was two sticks crossed in 
 the earth and the drainpipe clogged. But 
 we found 'em one that'll take them a sight 
 farther than some of them care to go. A real 
 fine fox that was!" He wound up with real 
 pride. 
 
 "And who was that on the bay?" asked 
 Lady Henrietta. "He took the fence well, 
 Macdonald. ' ' 
 
 "That was his Lordship," allowed Mac- 
 donald, but grudgingly. "Ah, my lady, I seen 
 Mr. Barnaby take that very jump that day they
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 39 
 
 killed their fox in the park. Clean and fine he 
 went up, and lighted; he never smashed no top 
 rail!" 
 
 "I know I know," said Lady Henrietta. 
 "The day he put out his shoulder." 
 
 "That was a rabbit hole," said Macdonald 
 jealously. "Ah, my lady, his Lordship will 
 never go like him ! ' ' 
 
 Dismissing Rackham with the scorn of an old 
 servant staunch to his master, he shook his head 
 mournfully and retreated. Lady Henrietta 
 had turned abruptly from her cross-examina- 
 tion, and held out her hands to the fire. 
 
 The incident, slight as it was, and brief, 
 coloured all their evening. Afterwards, Lady 
 Henrietta returned to the subject, amusing her- 
 self with surmises. Had Susan noticed a man 
 with a grizzled moustache and a furtive eye? 
 and another who had a trick of jerking out 
 his elbow? and one who rode like a jack-in- 
 the-box, starting up continually in his stirrups 1 
 And had she seen a woman in brown, who 
 usually backed in under the hedge at a check, 
 talking secrets with a lank man, her shadow, 
 and all unwitting that there were two sides 
 to hedges, and that voices filtered through? 
 Insensibly, she branched into reminiscence, tell- 
 ing caustic histories of these Leicestershire un-
 
 40 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 worthies, who were all unknown to Susan ; and 
 the girl hardly listened, sitting with her cheek 
 on her hand and a dreaming brow. 
 
 The short interlude had impressed her. But 
 in imagination she saw, not the splendid figure 
 that had crashed over the hedge down yonder, 
 but another, one silently haunting the dim 
 pastures where he had ridden once, sweeping 
 out of the dusk, and passing into the dusk 
 again. The swift scene came back to her, with 
 its wild rush of life, hounds, and horsemen, 
 only, instead of his cousin, she pictured Bar- 
 naby, to whose memory she had dedicated her- 
 self. 
 
 It was wearing late. Soon Lady Henrietta 
 would interrupt herself, breaking off with a re- 
 morseful brusqueness, and order her off to 
 bed. How quiet it was in the library, that 
 vast, comfortable room! How safe she felt, 
 and how sleepy, only dreaming, not thinking 
 of anything. 
 
 The white fox-terrier with the bitten ear 
 had stolen down to her and lay on her skirt. 
 There was a kind of fellowship between her 
 and the dog. When it jumped up all at once 
 with a shiver she stroked its back softly, won- 
 dering why it alone was excited by the wind 
 whistling outside the house. And it looked up
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 41 
 
 in her face and scuttled like a thing possessed 
 down the room. 
 
 ''What's the matter with Kit?" said Lady 
 Henrietta, pausing. "I daresay she heard 
 Macdonald shutting up in the hall. ' ' And she 
 went on talking. 
 
 Far down the room the heavy curtain swung 
 hastily, and fell back. It was Susan who, with- 
 out warning, lifted her eyes and saw somebody 
 standing there. 
 
 He had walked right in out of the wind and 
 rain, had flung off his dripping cap, but had 
 not waited to unbutton his greatcoat; and he 
 looked as he had looked in his picture, but no 
 ghost real, with dreadful blue eyes, and 
 a smiling mouth. 
 
 The girl started to her feet. One wild mo- 
 ment she stared at him. Her own cry sounded 
 strange in her ears, very far off ... and 
 then the world went round. 
 
 Slowly she drifted back into consciousness, 
 and she was lying on her bed, surrounded by 
 fluttered women, whose amazed whispering 
 reached her like the dim clamour in a dream. 
 
 "Poor thing; poor thing it was too much 
 for her." "It was wicked of Mr. Barnaby to 
 startle her like that. But how like him !"
 
 42 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 "Lord, Lord! his face as she lay on the 
 floor! and his mother rating him as if he'd 
 never been dead an hour ! ' ' 
 
 " 'You've killed her!' said she. 'You've 
 killed her!' " 
 
 "Like as not she'll go out of her mind, poor 
 lamb!" 
 
 The quavering excitement hushed suddenly 
 as she stirred. 
 
 "Hold your noise, you!" the old house- 
 keeper adjured the others, pushing them on 
 one side, and patting her anxiously, promising 
 something in a voice that shook, tremulous and 
 coaxing, as one might dangle the moon to 
 quiet a frantic child. 
 
 Up the long corridor came a man's step, and 
 the pattering of a dog. The housekeeper 
 jumped, and ran from the bedside, and the 
 maids clung hysterically together, looking with 
 a scared eagerness at the door. A supersti- 
 tious terror was still painted on their faces. 
 
 Barnaby was not dead. The whole dreadful 
 comedy was scarcely clear to the girl, so dizzy 
 was she with this one miracle, the thing that 
 was impossible, and was true. Shame had not 
 yet burnt up wonder. She lay motionless, 
 with her hands on her heart, listening to his 
 step, and waiting for the sound of a voice 
 that she had never heard.
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 43 
 
 "How is she?" 
 
 Oh strange, kind voice, asking that! Susan 
 caught her breath, remembering who she was 
 not. 
 
 The housekeeper, running out, had closed 
 the door nervously, and was posted with her 
 back against it, half in a rapture, and half 
 reproachful. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Barnaby ! Oh, my gracious!" 
 
 Collecting herself, she went on in a trem- 
 bling hurry. 
 
 "She's come round at last; she's come to 
 herself; but the doctor says we must keep 
 her quiet. You can't come in, sir! It might 
 do harm. He said so before he went to my 
 lady. ... I daren't let you in, Mr. Bar- 
 naby. . . . Please! . . . I've told her 
 you'll come to her in the morning. . . . 
 and I was to give you her love." 
 
 The girl started up, horror-stricken, and fell 
 back on the bed, covering her face. Would 
 nothing silence that foolish tongue, inspired 
 by its ill-judged haste to pacify the presumed 
 impatience of the man who had done the mis- 
 chief? Through the guarded door, through her 
 shut eyes, Susan had a scorching vision of 
 Barnaby, the stranger, listening to that brazen 
 message. And between her convulsive fingers 
 she heard the old servant babbling on. . . .
 
 44 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 No, after that, she could not bear to look him 
 in the face ! 
 
 Panic seized her. It grew upon her as she 
 lay quiescent, enduring the ministrations of 
 sympathisers who would have scorned to touch 
 her if they had known. Barnaby had not 
 spoken. He had not said to them, "She is an 
 impostor. ' ' He was letting them pity her, han- 
 dle her gently . . . till to-morrow. 
 
 They had given her something to make her 
 sleep, but the draught was impotent; instead 
 of soothing, it was exciting a strange confusion 
 in her head. She got out of bed at last, hearing 
 nothing but somewhere in her room the heavy 
 breathing of a dozing watcher. Slowly at first, 
 and then quicker, as the impulse took hold of 
 her, she began struggling into her clothes. 
 She must go, she must go; she could not stay 
 in this house. 
 
 Driven by her panic, that could not think, 
 could not reason, she set her desperate foot 
 on the stair. 
 
 The lights were not out in the hall below; 
 they shimmered faintly as she passed like a 
 shadow towards the door. If someone should 
 come ! Feverishly she tried to undo the 
 bar; the latch was very heavy. Her heart 
 beat so loud that she was deaf to all other 
 noises.
 
 45 
 
 She did not know that she was not alone till 
 a hand was laid on her shoulder. 
 
 She turned round, shaking from head to 
 foot, leaning against the door. 
 
 "Oh, let me go!" she cried. 
 
 He looked at her gravely. 
 
 "I'm afraid we're neither of us real," he 
 said. "Let's try not to scare each other. 
 . . . They tell me that you're my widow." 
 
 She turned her face from him. 
 
 "Don't look at me. Oh, don't look at me! 
 Let me go," she repeated wildly. 
 
 His fingers closed over hers, still fumbling 
 at the bar. 
 
 "I don't think I can do that," he said. 
 "The doctor blames me for frightening you 
 out of your life. He'd hold me responsible if 
 I let you rush out of my house in the middle 
 of the night like this. If you don't mind I'll 
 ask you not to make me out a worse fool than 
 I've been already. And you aren't going to 
 faint again, are you? Sit down a minute " 
 
 His arm went round her quickly; he had 
 unloosed her hands from the door, and put her 
 into a chair by the fire, before she was sure 
 that she had not fainted. She leant her whirl- 
 ing head against the packed red cushions. 
 
 "They gave me something to make me 
 sleep. . . ." she murmured.
 
 46 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 He stood a little way off on the hearthrug, 
 watching her. Kit, the terrier, lay down 
 suddenly between them, as if it had him safe. 
 
 "How did you know mel" he said abruptly. 
 
 "There is a picture of you," she said; 
 "and I thought of you so often." 
 
 The man who had been dismissed so lightly 
 from his world looked down with a queer 
 expression. He could not doubt the utter 
 unconsciousness in the tired young voice. She 
 had nothing to hope for. She was being 
 judged. 
 
 "In the name of Heaven, why ?" he burst 
 out, checking himself too late, for the girl stood 
 up and faced him, calling up all her courage. 
 
 "Because I am a shameless wretch," she 
 cried unsteadily. "A liar and an impostor. 
 . . . You don't ask a thief why he has 
 robbed you. You send him to prison. . . . 
 You don't laugh at him. . . ." 
 
 "You child!" said Barnaby. 
 
 The strange, kind note in his voice broke 
 down her desperation. Somehow, she found 
 herself stammering out the story of her 
 Southern childhood; the brave old family 
 ruined by the war; the last of them dying,. the 
 last friend gone, and she left undefended, 
 to fight for herself in the world. Not strong 
 enough to nurse the sick, not hard enough
 
 47 
 
 to win her way in business; driven to try 
 if she could live by her one poor gift of 
 acting; what could she do but catch at the 
 happy-go-lucky kindness that had flung salva- 
 tion to her? 
 
 "I could have died . . ." she said, scorn- 
 ing herself; "but I ... came." 
 
 "Hush!" said the man softly, all at once, 
 turning round to meet interruption. The 
 doctor was coming downstairs, deliberately, as 
 became an all-wise and elderly dictator, peer- 
 ing short-sightedly into the hall below. 
 
 "Bless my soul!" he said. "Barnaby, you 
 villain, she's not fit to be talking to you. 
 I warned the servants it was as much as their 
 lives were worth to let you go near her ; and 
 look at this!" 
 
 He shook his head at them both, but relented, 
 with his fingers on Susan's pulse. His pro- 
 fessional knowledge of woman mitigated his- 
 surprise at her quick recovery. Some women 
 could bear anything, after the first shock of 
 pain or joy. 
 
 "Good," he said. "Since you're awake r 
 and in your right mind, which I had hardly 
 dared to hope for, I'll send you up to Lady 
 Henrietta. She has been calling for you. Just 
 sit beside her, and tell her very quietly, over 
 and over again, how Barnaby looks, and all
 
 48 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 that. I can't risk her seeing him yet; her 
 age isn't so elastic, and nothing will satisfy 
 her but you." 
 
 Instinctively the girl moved to obey, and 
 stopped. Would Barnaby let her go to his 
 mother? As far as she could understand it 
 was still stranger than a dream he had not 
 yet proclaimed her an impostor. But surely 
 the time was come. 
 
 ''Oh," said the doctor, following her look; 
 "your husband must do without you." 
 
 And then Barnaby spoke. 
 
 " You 're a bit hard on us, doctor," he said. 
 "We had a lot to say to each other. But my 
 wife and I can finish our talk to-morrow." 
 His voice, as he turned to her, lost its 
 humorous note and became grave. "Go up 
 to my mother, please." 
 
 She went. The doctor watched her go, and, 
 shaking off a certain perplexity, addressed him- 
 self to the younger man. Old friend of the 
 family that he was, his gruff manner poorly 
 hid his emotion. 
 
 "Good heavens, man!" he said. "I can't 
 get accustomed to you. Shake hands again, 
 will you? I want to feel positive you are not 
 a spook." 
 
 "What about my mother?" asked Barnaby.
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 49 
 
 He too had been watching the girl go slowly 
 up the stairs. 
 
 "She'll be all right, if we can keep her 
 quiet," said the doctor cheerfully. "But 
 she can't afford to have any more shocks. Her 
 heart is bad. You didn't know that, of course. 
 She is a courageous lady, and has taken all your 
 vagaries gallantly up to now, but this has been 
 a bit too sudden. If it hadn't been for your 
 wife's collapse distracting her attention for 
 the moment, taking her mind off the greater 
 shock " 
 
 He broke off there. 
 
 " How the devil was I to know?" burst out 
 the other man. "I had no notion that I was 
 dead." 
 
 "Hadn't you heard ?" 
 
 "How should I? Look here, doctor, I 
 haven't been sulking in civilisation; racketing 
 in cities. I've been roughing it, going up and 
 down in the earth. There wasn't much use 
 in writing letters. I told my mother I would 
 turn up again some day, and she wasn't to be 
 surprised. I did send her a line, now and then, 
 the last of them a greasy scrawl in a mining 
 camp, where there was one bit of paper among 
 the lot of us, and I won it. She can't have 
 got that. . . . When I had worked the mad-
 
 50 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 ness out of my blood some fellows can't 
 manage that, it takes them all their lives I 
 had a fancy to come home and walk into the old 
 place as if I had never left it. ... It's 
 simple enough I" 
 
 He was bending forward, stammering a little 
 in his excitement. Suddenly he laughed. 
 
 "By George!" he said. "So that was 
 why the porters fled from me at John o' 
 Gaunt!" 
 
 The old man surveyed him anxiously, wiping 
 his glasses. 
 
 Often one heard of men who, seized by a 
 thirst for adventure in the rough, or unbalanced 
 by passion and disappointment, had thrown 
 up everything familiar and dropped out, to 
 savour the hard realities of life. Sometimes 
 they reappeared, sometimes only peculiar 
 stories drifted to their old set about them, and 
 those who might know were dumb. He felt a 
 most irrational alarm, an impulse to hold fast 
 to this prodigal. 
 
 "You'll not vanish again?" he said hastily. 
 "You won't want to roam in search of ad- 
 ventures now you have a wife to take care 
 of." 
 
 Barnaby stretched out for a cigarette and lit 
 it. There had always been a box of them 
 in one corner of the chimney-piece. It did not
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 51 
 
 strike him as odd that he should find them 
 there. 
 
 ''Have a smoke, doctor," he said. "It'll 
 steady your nerves a bit. . . . Yes, I'm 
 sobered. ' ' 
 
 He halted a minute, and the terrier at his 
 feet, remembering an old trick he had taught 
 her, sprang up and blew out the match. As he 
 stooped to caress her, she began licking him 
 furiously. There had been some other trick, 
 but she had forgotten that. She made a 
 clumsy effort to keep his attention by crossing 
 her paws and waving them, which was how it 
 had begun. . . . 
 
 "Good dog," he said, and she dropped at 
 his feet, proud of her cleverness, though 
 grudging his notice to the doctor. 
 
 "You're right there," he went on, as if the 
 thought amused him. "A man is a fool to go 
 tramping over the world, searching for adven- 
 tures, when they come to him on his own 
 hearth. ' ' 
 
 Lady Henrietta lay propped high with 
 pillows, talking fast. 
 
 "I want Susan!" she complained. "Bring 
 me Susan. The doctor shan't put me off with 
 his opiates. I can't trust any of you but 
 Susan. ' '
 
 52 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 And the girl came faltering into the room. 
 
 Lady Henrietta caught her hand, nipping it 
 tight in hers. 
 
 "Susan, my child/' she said. "What a 
 little cold hand you've got! They're hushing 
 me as if I was a lunatic, humouring me with 
 tales. And my heart's so funny. I can feel it 
 misbehaving. ... I shall certainly die if 
 they make me angry. Come here, closer. I 
 want to ask you you won't tell me comfortable 
 lies. Has Barnaby come back?" 
 
 "He has come back," said Susan. 
 
 "Are you deceiving me?" whispered Lady 
 Henrietta. "Are you in league with the doc- 
 tor? I sent old Dawson out there, you know, 
 and he said the report was true. . . . He 
 saw the boy's grave. He put up a stone. 
 . . . And the lawyers came croaking to- 
 gether like ravens, and swore there wasn't a 
 scrap of doubt. . . . And Eackham stepped 
 into his shoes, and I made them search for you 
 high and low! Oh! no, it's not true! I am 
 wandering in my mind. Look at me. You and 
 I couldn't cheat each other. Let me see it in 
 your face!" 
 
 But Susan could not. She dropped her head 
 over the hand clasping hers so fiercely, and 
 her unstrung nerves gave way; she could not 
 keep from sobbing.
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 53 
 
 Strangely enough, her crying seemed to 
 soothe Lady Henrietta. 
 
 "Ah, you never used to cry like that!" she 
 said. "He has come." She stroked the girl's 
 hair with her other hand. 
 
 "I suppose they'll let me see him in the 
 morning," she said rationally. "He will be 
 asleep now, poor boy. He shall come up to 
 me when he has had his breakfast, and pour 
 out his ridiculous adventures. They must 
 give him devilled bacon. Margaret, Margaret, 
 stop snivelling, and remind them to give him 
 devilled bacon. Keep holding my hand, Susan, 
 and don't cry so. We have got him back."
 
 CHAPTEE IV 
 
 THE dim light was already struggling in 
 through the curtains before Lady Henrietta 
 dropped off to sleep, quieted. Susan dared 
 not withdraw her hand. Her arm grew stiff, 
 ached awhile, and was numb; her head slid 
 against the pillow, and her eyes shut at last. 
 
 She awakened with a start to hear Lady Hen- 
 rietta 's laugh, weak but natural, and a man's 
 exclamation, sharp and pitiful, above her. 
 
 "Take her away, Barnaby, and give her her 
 breakfast," his mother was ordering. "Didn't 
 you see her? The poor child has been sitting 
 up holding my hand like that the livelong night. 
 I was clean off my head. ... I might 
 have known you'd behave like this. Oh, I can 
 bear the sight of you now; don't be nervous; 
 I'm not one of those sentimental mothers ! 
 But since I've taken to heart attacks I have 
 to be treated with circumspection" she de- 
 sisted a minute in her rapid effort to disguise 
 emotion: "Barnaby, I am obliged to you for 
 for her." 
 
 "You're fond of her, are you, mother?" said 
 Barnaby. 
 
 54
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 55 
 
 Lady Henrietta laughed at him, amused at 
 his queer intonation. 
 
 "Fond?" she cried. "I adore her. The 
 first minute I saw her, a little pale wisp in her 
 widow's weeds, I adored her. She isn't your 
 style at all, you puzzle. You used to admire 
 a more lavish figure. ... I can't under- 
 stand it in the least; but I'm thankful. And 
 that reminds me you must take her up to Lon- 
 don immediately, and have her put into proper 
 clothes." 
 
 "Oh, I say " Barnaby was beginning. She 
 took the words out of his mouth. 
 
 "Yes, it's your business," she said. "We 
 can't have her going about in black; it denies 
 your existence ! and you look like a battered 
 scamp yourself. You'll have to go to your 
 tailor. If you want any money I'll write you 
 a cheque. . . . They won't honour yours 
 while you're dead. . . . Wake her up now, 
 and take her away to breakfast and take care 
 of her if you can!" 
 
 He bent down and touched her arm, and she 
 lifted her head, still dazed, and stood up from 
 her cramped position. 
 
 "Run away," said Lady Henrietta. "Run 
 away, you two. I am going to wash my face." 
 
 She kissed her hand to them as they went 
 through the door, and, in spite of herself, her
 
 56 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 lip quivered. She lay quite still for a minute, 
 raging at herself. 
 
 "Quiet!" she muttered. "Quiet! It's 
 nothing to die about, stupid heart!" 
 
 Downstairs the servants were all hovering, 
 lying in wait, and watching for a glimpse of 
 the master. Macdonald himself had drawn 
 two arm-chairs beside a small table by the fire, 
 and unwillingly, but discreetly, took himself 
 off and closed the door behind him. 
 
 "Sit down," said Barnaby gently. "I'll 
 pour out your tea. You must want it." 
 
 She let him do as he would, accepting her 
 cup at his hands, drinking obediently, trying to 
 eat; patient, but not at all understanding him. 
 The winter sun streamed in red, shining in 
 her hair, making lights in its curling darkness ; 
 it even lent a fictitious pink to her cheek as she 
 sat, so soberly, facing the man in whose house 
 she was, whose ring was on her finger. When 
 she turned her head a little the glimmer died. 
 Irrelevantly why should the thing strike him 
 then? he likened her paleness to the creamy 
 tint of the hawthorn blossom, warm, and 
 smoother than the wintry white of the sloe. 
 She had been ill, too ; she was very fragile. 
 
 All the while she dared hardly glance at him, 
 though she knew that he was regarding her, not 
 with the righteous wrath of a swindled Briton
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 57 
 
 whose house was his castle, but with a strange 
 expression that, less comprehensible, was little 
 less alarming. The situation seemed to amuse 
 him. . . . And it was like a scene in a 
 play ; intimate, domestic, and yet unreal. They 
 were obliged to sit so close at the confidential 
 little table, with its clinking china, and its 
 neighbouring row of silver dishes keeping warm 
 in the fender. . . . She had a wild fancy 
 that if she thrust her hand in that fire that 
 leapt and crackled so naturally it would not 
 burn. 
 
 "Well," he said suddenly. "What's to be 
 done?" 
 
 He had risen and come round to her side; 
 the little delay was over. They had finished 
 breakfast. . . . 
 
 "I don't know," she said. "I am at your 
 mercy. ' ' 
 
 "Do you mind if I smoke?" 
 
 His matter-of-fact politeness, as he waited 
 with the cigarette unlit between his fingers, 
 provoked in her a fugitive smile. 
 
 "There!" he said. "You are beginning to 
 see the funny side of it too, as I do. A man 
 who has knocked about the world as I have 
 doesn't bluster like a Pharisee and a brute, un- 
 less he is mad, or angry. What on earth 
 could I do" to you?"
 
 58 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 "Are you not angry?" she asked faintly. 
 
 4 'Not exactly," said Barnaby. "I am rather 
 astonished at your pluck. Of course, it was 
 frightfully dangerous, and you have got us 
 both into a hole. I'm not going to preach at 
 you " 
 
 He hesitated a little. 
 
 1 1 You know, ' ' he said. ' ' I 'm an awfully pru- 
 dent chap, but once or twice in my life I have 
 lost my head. When I went to America three 
 years ago, I was only fit to be clapped into a 
 strait-waistcoat. Of course, I did the first mad 
 thing that came into my head." 
 
 There was a touch of some old bitterness in 
 his voice then, and a sort of retrospective 
 contempt. 
 
 "It's a grim fact, that," he said. "It can't 
 be got over. I don't know what possessed me; 
 but there was a marriage." 
 
 "She is very beautiful," said Susan, uttering 
 her own wandering thought. She did not know 
 why. 
 
 "Who?" said Barnaby. "Oh, yes. She 
 was like somebody I knew." 
 
 There was silence between them. Then the 
 man laughed. 
 
 "It was one of those unaccountable acts of 
 temporary madness," he said. "We're all 
 guilty of such at times. Did she tell you why
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 59 
 
 we fell out? How she mistook me for a sort 
 of prince in disguise, and turned on me after- 
 wards, as furious as I was disillusioned! 
 Don't let's talk about that. We have our own 
 problem to consider." 
 
 "Yes," said the girl, catching her breath. 
 
 "I am afraid," he said gravely, "we must 
 keep it up for a bit." 
 
 "I don't understand," she said. 
 
 "It's the only thing to do," he said. "Look 
 at it fairly. Since the lady who married me 
 sent you over as her substitute, she can't com- 
 plain if I should acknowledge you as my wife. 
 It injures nobody. Don't mistake me!" 
 
 For the girl had sprung to her feet, and was 
 gazing at him with horror in her eyes. 
 
 "Wait!" he said. "I'm not one of these 
 talking fellows. Perhaps I'm not putting it 
 clearly. As far as I can make out, the doctor 
 believes another shock on the top of this one 
 might possibly kill my mother. She's not to be 
 worried or contradicted. I can't go to her 
 and tell her, 'That girl you are so fond of is 
 an impostor. I've turned her out of the house/ 
 seriously, how could I? And do you imagine 
 she'd be contented with any excuse I could 
 make to her for your disappearance? I can't 
 risk it. You wouldn't want me to risk it. 
 Come, you owe her a little consideration !"
 
 60 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 "Oh !" she cried. "Yes" but still she 
 trembled. 
 
 Barnaby smiled down on her encouragingly. 
 Apparently, after that one quick word that 
 had hushed her outcry, he was unconscious 
 of misconstruction. 
 
 " Besides," he said, "there will be row 
 enough in the papers over my reappearance. 
 I couldn't stand them getting hold of this. 
 Good Lord! It would make us a laughing- 
 stock." 
 
 "I am sorry," she said, in a broken voice. 
 Barnaby dropped his own. 
 
 "Don't be sorry," he said. "Be a brave 
 girl, and let's keep it to ourselves." 
 
 Her heart jumped and stood still. She 
 looked at him like some wild thing caught 
 in a trap, without hope or help, crying its utter- 
 most defiance. 
 
 And the man understood. His eyes looked 
 straight into hers, blue and earnest, no longer 
 careless. 
 
 "If I trust you," he said, "you must trust 
 my honour. Please understand that I am 
 a gentleman. We'll play our farce to stalls 
 and the gallery, and when the curtain is down 
 we'll treat each other with the most pro- 
 found respect."
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 61 
 
 She tried to speak and could not. His voice 
 softened. 
 
 "There's nothing else to be done," he said. 
 "It won't be so hard on you; you're an ac- 
 tress. And we'll find a way out, somehow. 
 Perhaps, in a month or two, I can manage to 
 have important business in America " 
 
 She caught at that. 
 
 "And take me with you and drop me some- 
 where ?" she suggested. 
 
 "Take you with me and drop you some- 
 where?" he repeated. "Exactly. We must 
 think it over." 
 
 "I could get killed in a railway accident 
 anything!" she said, in an eager, breathless 
 voice. 
 
 "Of course you could," he said kindly, not 
 smiling, "There, that's settled. To my 
 mother, and all outsiders, we'll be the most 
 ordinary couple; but in private it shall be Sir 
 and Madam. Shake hands on it, and promise 
 me you'll play up." 
 
 He took her hands, the one with his ring on, 
 the other bare. And Susan looked up at him, 
 and was not afraid any more. She felt safe, 
 and yet reckless ; almost as if she did not care 
 at all how it ended, as if nothing were too dan- 
 gerous, too adventurous for her to promise 
 him.
 
 62 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 "Eight," he said. "And it's comedy, not 
 tragedy, we're playing. We mustn't forget 
 that." 
 
 "No," she said uncertainly; but she was 
 not so sure. 
 
 "And now I'm going round to the stables," 
 he said, changing his tone. But he turned back 
 again on his way to the door. 
 
 "What am I to call you?" he asked. "The 
 other lady had a string of fine-sounding names. 
 Which of them do you go by 1 " 
 
 She coloured. His question smote her with 
 the strangeness of their compact. 
 
 "Only one," she said, "and that was my 
 own. I asked your mother to call me Susan." 
 
 "Susan," he said to himself. "Susan. 
 . . . I'll remember. I didn't know what to 
 do about that last night." 
 
 She took one impetuous step towards him 
 as he was going out. 
 
 "How good you are to me," she cried un- 
 steadily. "Oh, how good you are!" 
 
 But Barnaby shook his head. 
 
 "Poor child," he said briefly. "I hope 
 you'll always think I was good to you." 
 
 And he went out of the house whistling to 
 himself. 
 
 "What shocking writing!" said Lady Hen-
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 63 
 
 rietta, "and how blotted! Who's your illiter- 
 ate correspondent?" 
 
 Barnaby had stuffed his letter into his breast- 
 pocket as he walked across the room. 
 
 "Julia," he said shortly. 
 
 As if upon second thoughts, he felt for it 
 again, pulled it out, and tossed it into the fire. 
 Its agitated, irregular lines started out black 
 on the burning pages. Susan, who was sitting 
 on the velvet curb, turned away her face that 
 she might not read. 
 
 Lady Henrietta, frail but indomitable, 
 throned upon her sofa, eyed her son jealously. 
 
 "How did she know so quickly?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "She heard it from somebody, I suppose," 
 said Barnaby. "Why, mother, do you imagine 
 a real live ghost can visit Leicestershire with- 
 out the whole country hearing? . . . She 
 wants me to go over and show myself." 
 
 "You're not going?" her tone was sharp. 
 
 "No," he said. "I'll tell her I am under 
 contract to exhibit myself exclusively at a mu- 
 sic-hall. And besides, I have to run up to Lon- 
 don. I want to give old Dawson the fright he 
 deserves. He must have been in a frantic 
 hurry to wipe me out of his books. What on 
 earth made you choose him to hunt for 
 me?"
 
 64 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 "Take Susan with you/' said Lady Hen- 
 rietta. "Go with him, my child, and don't let 
 him out of your sight." 
 
 "I don't think she would like it," said 
 Barnaby, doubtfully, but his mother was not 
 to be gainsaid. It was almost as if the mention 
 of Julia had revived a vague apprehension in 
 her, as if she were afraid to let him go by him- 
 self. He submitted, laughing. 
 
 "Well," he said, "if you'll lend her your fur 
 coat I'll wrap her in that and take her. We'll 
 go up in the morning and come down at five ; 
 and she can amuse herself getting clothes." 
 
 He bent down to Susan. 
 
 "If you don't mind," he said, half in a 
 whisper; his tone was apologetic. "I think 
 you had better come." 
 
 And so they went up together. 
 
 In the train he supplied her with an armful 
 of picture papers, and she studied them 
 gravely, hidden from him behind their out- 
 stretched pages, till they reached London, when 
 she had to put down her screen. Once only he 
 interrupted her. 
 
 "Look at that," he said. 
 
 The train was swinging on, making up time 
 between Kettering and Luton; the letters 
 danced as he held out his open newspaper,
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 65 
 
 with a finger on the place. Its heading stared 
 at her "A LEICESTEESHIKE BOMANCE." 
 
 "That," said Barnaby, and his eyes twinkled 
 he had put away seriousness "is all about 
 you and me." 
 
 She did not see any more pictures after that, 
 only bits of what she had read before he took 
 back his paper and, turning over the crackling 
 sheet, settled into his corner. Whatever she 
 tried to look at, she saw only the printed 
 column proclaiming the dramatic return of a 
 well-known sportsman supposed to be dead; 
 and at the bottom, where his thumb had 
 pressed the paper, a touching reference to the 
 subject's beautiful American wife. . . . 
 
 At St. Pancras he put her carefully into a 
 hansom and got in beside her. 
 
 "Now," he said, "this is our dress rehearsal. 
 First, we must see about your theatrical ward- 
 robe; that's the expression, isn't it? I'm 
 going to take you to the woman my mother 
 goes to, and while she is rigging you out I'll cut 
 away to my lawyers, and see my own tailor; 
 and then I shall fetch you and we'll have lunch. 
 We shall have to get accustomed to each 
 other." 
 
 Driving through the streets with him was cu- 
 riously exhilarating. Perhaps her spirit was 
 responsive to a reaction. After all, she was
 
 66 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 young. ... If Barnaby knew, and did not 
 condemn her, might she not for a short while 
 dare to be light-hearted leave the weight of 
 it on his shoulders? 
 
 London had become a city of enchantment. 
 She had passed through in the care of Lady 
 Henrietta's messenger, at the end of her 
 journey over the sea ; and then she had felt tired 
 and frightened, and she had looked listlessly 
 out of the cab windows, thinking that if Fate 
 betrayed her, she might find herself wandering 
 friendless in these very streets. Now the dark 
 ways were gilded. . . . 
 
 "Here we are," said Barnaby, jumping out. 
 "Melisande. She's a great friend of ours, but 
 she ruined herself racing, and started the shop 
 as a different kind of gamble. Let's go up." 
 
 In the show-room upstairs two or three 
 haughty ladies were trailing up and down, 
 on view. The customers were not allowed to 
 touch them; these sat round the room on the 
 sun-faded yellow cushions, gazing at the 
 models as if they were made of wax. 
 
 "Melisande is uncommonly sharp," said 
 Barnaby. He had walked in boldly and given 
 his name to the presiding genius, who had sim- 
 ply glanced and vanished. "Do you see these 
 creatures sweeping to and fro?" 
 
 "Yes," said the girl. "Poor things; they
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 67 
 
 look very cross. I suppose they are dreadfully 
 ill paid?" 
 
 Barnaby smothered an irreverent laugh. 
 
 "Paid?" he said. "Not a farthing. She in- 
 troduces them in the season, and, in return, 
 they have to act as dummies. They hate it; 
 but she knows how to drive a bargain. It's 
 a fine advertisement. Half the world comes 
 to stare at the beauties it's funnier than a 
 picture gallery. And, of course, the pull of 
 being taken up by Melisande in her society 
 capacity is enormous." 
 
 "Who are they?" asked Susan, puzzled. 
 
 "Oh, heiresses, of sorts. They used to be 
 whisked away in their own motors at six 
 o'clock. I daresay they are still," said Bar- 
 naby. "Here she is." 
 
 An inner door flew open, and a stout woman 
 with dark hair and clever, tired eyes, artistic- 
 ally blacked, appeared. She ran up to Bar- 
 naby and shook him, then let him go, and in- 
 spected him at all angles, with her head on one 
 side as if he were a Paris model. 
 
 "Barnaby!" she screamed. "It is really 
 Barnaby. You lunatic, I thought you were 
 dead and buried." 
 
 "They all thought that," said Barnaby. 
 "It's a bit rough on me." 
 
 "Let me pinch you again!" she said. "I
 
 68 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 can't have you in here if you're not alive. It's 
 against all my rules, and customers are so 
 timid. Of course, as a ghost you might be very 
 useful. Make the brutes pay up!" 
 
 ''What an eye to business I" he said, endur- 
 ing her inspection. 
 
 "My dear man, I am in the workhouse! My 
 friends insist on patronising me, and ordering 
 all kinds of magnificence, and then they go away 
 imagining they have done me a kindness. I 
 never dine out without meeting at least one 
 frock that's a bad debt, and you can't be bril- 
 liant when you are being eclipsed by a wretch 
 opposite out of your own pocket. But what 
 do you want? I can't come out to lunch. 
 I am rushed to death. There's an awful old 
 Eussian princess in there I can't get rid of. 
 She says she wants to learn the trade, and I 
 daren't leave her with my designs. I can't 
 make out whether she's only a Nihilist or a 
 kleptomaniac. ' ' 
 
 "I want to put my wife in your hands," said 
 Barnaby. "I'll come for her at two. Can 
 you burn all that crape, and dress her in some- 
 thing sensible?" 
 
 Melisande screamed again, fixing her eyes 
 for the first time on Susan. 
 
 "Is it a joke," she said, "or have you been 
 playing fast and loose with other people?"
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 69 
 
 "I don't know what you mean," said 
 Barnaby, but his eyes hardened. She glanced 
 at his face, subduing her voice a little. 
 
 "I have never been paid," she said, "for 
 an outfit of the most expensive mourning. 
 The day after we read of your departure in 
 the papers, Julia Kelly came in here and asked 
 what was the proper thing to wear when you 
 lost your love. I told her it varied. If the 
 man hadn't proposed black would look like an 
 affectation. I suggested mauve as harmlessly- 
 sentimental. And she said, 'But if he were 
 practically your husband?' and I said, of 
 course, practically widow's mourning, but not 
 a cap. And she wore it. . . ." 
 
 He moved restlessly under her detaining 
 hand on his sleeve. "I'm betraying no con- 
 fidences," she said. "It's a matter of common 
 knowledge. How long, in the name of good- 
 ness, have you been married! Who is sheT y 
 
 "Two or three years," he said. She was 
 still holding on to his coat. 
 
 "Wait," she said. "Wait. Oh, you are as% 
 mad as ever. How do you want her dressed 1 ?' 
 She looks awfully young, poor child." 
 
 But Barnaby had made his escape. 
 
 An hour later Susan looked at herself in the 
 long mirrors that were all round her, and did
 
 70 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 not know herself any longer, she was so 
 changed. 
 
 She had grown used to the deep black gar- 
 ments that seemed a part of her life. Far off 
 and dimly she remembered the old family law- 
 yer in shocked consultation with her nurses, 
 his old-fashioned anxiety that when she was 
 strong enough to travel she should be fittingly 
 attired, and do honour to her sad estate. . . . 
 
 A door opened at the other end of the room, 
 and she saw Barnaby in the mirror, saw him 
 standing petrified on the threshold till Meli- 
 sande's laugh called him to his senses. 
 
 "Do you like her?" said she. Susan did not 
 hear what he said. But in the mirror he came 
 towards her, and she turned round to meet 
 him shyly. 
 
 "Take her away, then," said Melisande. 
 "Buy a shilling's-worth of violets and stick 
 them in her coat; it's all that's lacking. I'll 
 send down a trunk full of oddments with you 
 to-night. And give my compliments to Julia 
 when you see her. 'To account rendered,' you 
 can murmur in her ear. ' ' 
 
 Her malicious laugh pursued them a little 
 way down the stairs. They came out into the 
 street and walked along side by side. 
 
 "I went to see Dawson," said Barnaby 
 suddenly. "Burst into his office, meaning
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 71 
 
 to scare the old jackass out of his wits. He 
 he turned the tables on me. Made me feel a 
 brute. ' ' 
 
 "How!" asked Susan. 
 
 He did not explain at once, engaged in mak- 
 ing a way for her on the pavement. Then he 
 answered briefly. 
 
 ' i He told me how he had found you. ' ' 
 
 His tone, angry as it was, warmed her 
 soul. 
 
 "But, it was not your business, " she said, 
 in a low voice. "It had nothing to do with 
 you. ' ' 
 
 "I couldn't tell him that," said Barnaby. 
 "Lord, how he went for me, poor old chap ! 
 Spared me nothing. Said I could never make it 
 up to you. . . . It's ridiculous, isn't it? 
 But if you'd heard him attacking me! I had 
 to promise him I would try." 
 
 He was walking on beside her, so close that 
 his arm brushed hers, his long strides falling 
 in with her little steps. And he was looking 
 down on her with a sort of raging kindness. 
 
 "You poor little girl!" he said. 
 
 They went on for awhile in silence, and then 
 Barnaby stopped in his absent-minded prog- 
 ress. His good-humour was back, and the joke 
 of this expedition was again uppermost in his 
 head. He pointed with his stick at a strange
 
 72 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 and wonderful work of art in a milliner's win- 
 dow. 
 
 "Let's go in here and buy some of these 
 hats," he said. 
 
 All her life Susan remembered that day with 
 him. It was all so absurd, so simple. That 
 strange town, London, was always to her the 
 place where he and she made acquaintance, 
 playing to ignorant audiences their game of 
 Let's Pretend. She began to know him; the 
 way he walked, swinging his shoulders, stopping 
 short when a sight amused him; his whimsical 
 earnestness over little things, and the lines that 
 came round his mouth when he smiled. . . . 
 
 There were horses being put into the train 
 when they arrived at St. Pancras. The grooms 
 in charge of them were leading them gingerly 
 through the people, past the lighted bookstall, 
 persuading them up the gangways into their 
 boxes. There was a small commotion as one 
 of them, snorting, refused to step on the 
 slanting boards. Tugging and shouting at him 
 made him worse; he began to plunge, scatter- 
 ing the onlookers and the porters smiting his 
 flanks. 
 
 "Hi! you infernal idiots . . ." said Bar- 
 naby. "Back him in." 
 
 He went over to the horse himself, and took 
 hold of his bridle, turned him round, and
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 73 
 
 walked him in like a lamb. .Then, as the porters 
 clapped shut the side of the horse-box, he 
 waited to ask whose hunters were going down. 
 
 Susan, lingering a little way apart, saw a big 
 man with a cigar in his mouth spin round and 
 seize him. Two or three more shot out of 
 the throng and hurled themselves upon him, 
 wringing his hand. 
 
 "It's Barnaby himself," they shouted. 
 "Barnaby himself!" 
 
 They crowded him up the platform, a noisy 
 escort, hiding their feelings under boisterous 
 chaff; Meltonians, old acquaintances. . . . 
 They passed by Susan, gossiping hard. 
 
 All at once Barnaby broke loose from them, 
 turning back. "Great Joseph!" he said. 
 "I've lost my wife!" 
 
 What if he had? What if she had cut the 
 tangle, had slipped when his back was turned 
 into one of these moving trains, and passed out 
 of his life, out of the bustle into the throbbing 
 darkness, like a match that had been lit and 
 extinguished, leaving no trace? 
 
 She watched him hurrying back, looking for 
 her; saw his quick glance along a glimmering 
 line of carriages passing him on his left, and 
 guessed his apprehension. Soon he was bear- 
 ing down on her, charging through the press, 
 and had pulled her hand through his arm.
 
 74 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 "It was too bad, wasn't it?" he said. "I'm 
 awfully sorry, Susan." 
 
 There was a real relief in his voice. She 
 felt it, wondering. Was he so glad to find her 
 still his prisoner, his accomplice? 
 
 "Did you think," she said, and in her own 
 voice laughter struggled with a strange in- 
 clination to tears, * ' that I had run away ? ' ' 
 
 "Come on," he said cheerfully, not replying. 
 "Hold on to me. Those chaps are looking at 
 us." 
 
 He marched her to his friends, who had 
 halted in a body when he dashed back, and 
 waited, grinning sympathetically, for his re- 
 turn. 
 
 "Here is my wife," he said. "I brought her 
 up to town to get rid of her widow's weeds." 
 
 They shook hands with her solemnly, a kind 
 gravity in their manner to her subduing them 
 for a minute; and then, as Barnaby settled her 
 in the Melton slip, they hung round the 
 carriage door, and their tongues were loosened. 
 
 "Where did you pick up these horses? 
 Are they part of your baggage from another 
 world?" 
 
 Barnaby laughed. 
 
 "They aren't mine," he said. "I brought 
 nothing back with me, not even a collar-stud. 
 Why, I pawned my watch in the States ! ' '
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 75 
 
 " Wouldn't the ferryman let you return on 
 tick? But you were mixed up with them, 
 Barnaby, when I saw you. I'd know your 
 voice anywhere, shouting Woa!" 
 
 "He's bound to get mixed up with horses, 
 alive or dead," said the big man. "I tried 
 to find out myself whose cattle they are, but 
 the name is unintelligible. They can't pro- 
 nounce it down there; not all the sneezing and 
 snarling in the station can do it. I'll bet its 
 another of these wild Austrians." 
 
 "D'you remember the three counts who set 
 out on a slippery day to ride to the meet at 
 Scalford; and were fetched back to the Har- 
 boro', the three of them, half an hour after- 
 wards, in a cart?" 
 
 "Broken ribs, wasn't it?" said Barnaby. 
 
 "Cracked heads, I fancy. I'll never forget 
 the sight it was; all you could see of 'em was 
 the three shiny top hats, stove in." 
 
 The lights were flickering in the station; 
 only the great yellow clock-face shone un- 
 changeable, with its minute hand creeping up. 
 Down below on the platforms scurrying pas- 
 sengers went their ways, gathering in thickening 
 groups and eddying here and there round a pile 
 of luggage. Everywhere there was restless- 
 ness. 
 
 Susan leant back in her corner. Their end
 
 76 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 of the platform was a little dim, and it was less 
 frequented. She noticed a woman's figure 
 passing along the train. 
 
 Barnaby was loitering, half in, half out of 
 the door, absorbed in chatter. They were ask- 
 ing him if he were coming out with the Quorn, 
 offering to lend him a crock to-morrow; relat- 
 ing the current news about men and horses. 
 Once the big man turned his head casually as 
 the figure that Susan had noticed passed. His 
 mouth shaped itself in a whistle, but he made 
 no remark. Only his broad back seemed to 
 block out a little more of the view. 
 
 "It's about time we started," he said. 
 
 "What's the matter down there?" asked 
 Barnaby. 
 
 "Oh, I fancied I saw a customer," he said 
 promptly. "Did you take your wife to the 
 grasping Melisande? You might have patron- 
 ised another old friend in me. There's a hat 
 in the window I trimmed myself." 
 
 "What?" said Barnaby. 
 
 The big man chuckled heavily. 
 
 "You didn't know I'd gone in for millinery 1 ?" 
 he said. "If you had had your eyes about you 
 you'd have seen my establishment. There's a 
 business that women never will understand! 
 They haven't got bold ideas; they are too fond 
 of twisting. It was an accident, really. I was
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 77 
 
 financing an aunt of mine, Clara Lady Kilgour, 
 and the thing was going bankrupt. I strolled 
 into the shop one morning and found Clara 
 weeping, and the Frenchy who had lured her 
 into it sniffing like a noxious weed in a bed of 
 artificial roses. Just by way of cheering her 
 up a bit, I snatched up an affair the serpent was 
 working at a muddle of feathers and scraps of 
 lace. * You '11 ruin that ! ' they wailed. But hey, 
 presto! I had found my vocation. I kicked 
 out the bailiffs and took it over. And now I 
 am running it as 'The Earl of Kilgour, late 
 Fleur-de-lis.' " 
 
 The guard came down the train, shutting 
 doors. Barnaby's friends dropped off, tum- 
 bling into the smoker behind. The whistle 
 shrilled. 
 
 "Wouldn't you rather get in with them?" 
 said Susan, in sudden shyness. 
 
 "What? that would never do," explained 
 Barnaby, pulling up the window. "The poor 
 dear fellows have left us religiously to our- 
 selves." 
 
 He threw a Westminster on her knee and took 
 off his hat. 
 
 "What was Kilgour staring at, do yon 
 know?" he asked. "He seemed rather dis- 
 turbed; didn't want us to notice." 
 
 "I don't know," she said.
 
 78 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 Barnaby laughed out loud. 
 
 ' ' We got on famously, ' ' he declared. ' ' We 'd 
 pass muster anywhere. But you are tired out, 
 aren't you? Lean back in your corner and go 
 to sleep." 
 
 The slip carriage was rocking from side to 
 side, and her head ached from the strain and 
 excitement of the day. The same shyness that 
 had smitten her as his friends left them made 
 her shut her eyes under his regard. She rested 
 her head on the stiff padding, listening to the 
 thrum of the engine, wandering in dreams that 
 could not match the fantastic unlikeliness of 
 what had befallen ; and all the while feeling his 
 gaze on her. 
 
 She was roused by the jar as the train 
 stopped at Bedford. The carriage door was 
 opened and closed; they were no longer by 
 themselves. 
 
 "Barnaby!" 
 
 Tears were imminent in the emotional Irish 
 voice. 
 
 "How do you do, Julia." The man's tone 
 was firm and hard. 
 
 "I knew you were in the train. . . . But 
 with these gossiping wretches all round you ! 
 I could not bear to meet you with them. . . . " 
 
 "Don't waken my wife. She's tired."
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 79 
 
 His warning struck abruptly on her impulsive 
 murmur. She sat down, rustling, unfastening 
 the furs at her throat. The train had started 
 again, and was speeding on. 
 
 In her far corner Susan stirred. This was 
 the figure she had seen in the distance, the figure 
 that Barnaby's friend had tried to block out 
 from his attention. All Barnaby's friends must 
 guess how hard it would be for him to meet 
 her again, since he had once worshipped her. 
 . . . Looking straight into the flying dark- 
 ness, Susan tried not to see his profile reflected 
 in it, tried not to watch his expression, inscru- 
 table as it was. 
 
 "What fools we were!" sighed Julia. 
 
 "Regular fools," he said. 
 
 The girl drew a quick breath. She had 
 thought she was beginning to know him, and 
 still she could not guess if he spoke in irony 
 or despair. She raised her head ; fluttered the 
 paper on her knee. They must not think that 
 she was asleep. And Barnaby looked at her. 
 
 "This is an old friend of mine, Susan," he 
 said sedately. Julia presented a pale face and 
 shining eyes. 
 
 "Mrs. Hill must be quite accustomed to the 
 enthusiasm of your friends," she said. "7 
 have been lingering at St. Pancras since three
 
 80 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 o'clock, somebody told me you had been seen 
 in a restaurant for the sake of travelling back 
 with you." 
 
 "How good of you," said Barnaby, in the 
 same constrained way. "We didn't know, did 
 we, Susan, that we had been spotted?" 
 
 Julia turned to him again ; her speaking eyes 
 hardly left him. "Not good," she said, "only 
 human. ' ' 
 
 The train rocked on, filling the inevitable 
 pause with its throbbing. Then Barnaby 's 
 voice cut into the silence. 
 
 "We don't mind indulging your human curi- 
 osity, Julia," he said, "but why stare at us so 
 hard? We, too, are only human, aren't we, 
 Susan?" 
 
 "It is so strange," said Julia, "to think of 
 you with a wife. ' ' 
 
 Barnaby bit his lip. He reddened. Perhaps 
 the sight of her had shaken him, had hit him 
 deeper than he was willing to betray. Her 
 emotion at meeting the man whom she had 
 mourned as dead was visible; she made no 
 attempt to hide it. Perhaps his own was the 
 greater for being stifled by his determined 
 effort at self-control. He got up, fiddling with 
 the window-sash. 
 
 "Would you like this a bit down?" he said, 
 addressing Susan. "How is your headache?"
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 81 
 
 Did he know that her head ached, or had he 
 addressed her at random! The girl felt an 
 unreasonable anger at his ostentatious solici- 
 tude. Was he playing her off against his old 
 love? Did such bitterness wait behind their 
 compact? For the first time, his kindness hurt 
 her. All a farce, all a blind, and a make-be- 
 lieve.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 IN the morning Barnaby went out hunting. 
 He started gaily, in old clothes, on a borrowed 
 horse. 
 
 "Next time I die," he said, "and they put 
 away my relics, I beg you all not to scatter 
 infernal white knobs of poison among them to 
 keep away the moths. I call it irreverent. 
 And unless this horrible smell wears off I'll 
 have to keep to leeward. A single whiff of it 
 would kill the scent. ' ' 
 
 He came in at dusk, stiff and splashed, but 
 contented, calling for tea, and waking up the 
 house. It was extraordinary what a difference 
 his presence made as he limped into the hall 
 and hung up his whip. Life and vigour seemed 
 to blow in with him ; the terriers rushed at him 
 dancing, barking, pattering into the library at 
 his heels. Lady Henrietta, propped on her 
 sofa, gave a little sharp sigh. 
 
 "Give him his tea, Susan, " she said briskly. 
 "How did he carry you, Barnaby? "Who was 
 out?" 
 
 "Oh, all the world and his wife," he said. 
 "Carry me? He wouldn't have carried a 
 grasshopper. But I changed on to a chestnut 
 
 82
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 83 
 
 that Kivington wants to sell. I've bought him. 
 Not much to look at, but he goes well enough, 
 and I was so pleased to feel a real galloper 
 under me, I'd have given him any price. . . . 
 It's good to be here again. Though my boots 
 are as hard as iron. I believe I am lamed for 
 life. By the bye, Susan, I've let you in for one 
 thing. I couldn't help it." 
 
 She looked up, startled, from her place by 
 the fire. 
 
 "It's only to dine out with some people to- 
 morrow night," he said, noticing her alarm. 
 "I couldn't get out of it, really; they mobbed 
 me so." 
 
 "Who is it?" asked Lady Henrietta. 
 
 "Only the Drakes," said Barnaby. 
 
 His mother nodded. "Yes; show her off to 
 your friends ! ' ' she said. 
 
 She was in and out of Susan's room next 
 evening all the while she was dressing, and 
 when the girl's toilet was finished she came 
 with her hands full of jewel-cases. 
 
 "You can't wear much to-night," she said. 
 "It would look dressed up. But a few pins, 
 and a star or two to give you confidence in 
 yourself. . . . My dear, you don't know 
 what a help it is! And all the women you'll 
 meet have been at one time or another in love 
 with Barnaby. Hold up your head, and don't
 
 84 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 let them make you wretched. Is that you, 
 Barnaby? I want you." 
 
 Barnaby passed by on his way from his own 
 room, and her shrill call stopped him. His step 
 outside sent the colour into Susan's cheek, and 
 his voice came doubtfully through the door. 
 
 1 'Yes, mother?" 
 
 "Come in; come in. How shy you are!" 
 said she, and the handle turned. 
 
 "You will tire yourself," he said, but she 
 brushed aside his remonstrance. 
 
 "Bubbish!" she said. "I have the whole 
 evening to lie up and swallow physic. Come 
 here and stick these in for me, will you? 
 Margaret is so clumsy." 
 
 "I beg your pardon," he said, under his 
 breath, as he bent down, fulfilling his office. 
 "The exigencies of the piece must excuse me." 
 
 "What a queer way of apologising for run- 
 ning a pin into your wife!" said his mother 
 sharply. She might have been trusted to over- 
 hear. He had straightened himself, and was 
 withdrawing rather precipitately, when his eyes 
 fell on his own picture above the chimney-piece. 
 "What is that thing doing here?" he asked, 
 off his guard. 
 
 Lady Henrietta desisted from her pleased 
 contemplation of Susan decked out with 
 jewels.
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 85 
 
 "Well!" she said. "Of all things! Do 
 you mean to say ? It has been there ever since 
 she came. I had it hung there myself to be 
 company for your heart-broken widow. ' ' 
 
 "Anyhow, we'll have it down now," he said 
 hastily. ' ' You 'd rather not have the daub glar- 
 ing at you, wouldn't you, Susan?" 
 
 Lady Henrietta turned her back on him. 
 
 "Don't mind him, my dear," she said. 
 "We'll keep it." 
 
 There was warmth in her tone. She 
 squeezed the girl's arm, bidding her remember 
 that none of Barnaby's old flames could hold 
 a candle to her. Somehow or other he had 
 fallen under her displeasure. 
 
 "I'm afraid my acting doesn't come up to 
 yours," he said, when they were shut into the 
 motor. "My mother thinks I am too un- 
 demonstrative . . . that I am unworthy of 
 my good luck." 
 
 "Don't!" she said. 
 
 He laid his hand comfortingly on hers. 
 
 "Look here, little girl," he said. "It's no 
 use taking things hard. We have to make the 
 best of it. It won't last forever. . . . We 
 must look at the funny side of it. That's the 
 bargain. ' ' 
 
 The swift drive through the night was al- 
 iready over. Three men, pushing aside the
 
 86 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 servants, were slapping Barnaby on the back. 
 They bore a family likeness to each other, big 
 men, with creased red necks, and short, rumpled 
 sandy hair. 
 
 "Come along in," they cried heartily. 
 "The house is full of old friends wanting to 
 get at you, and nothing but odds and ends 
 for dinner." 
 
 But one of them managed to lower his hearty 
 voice a trifle. "You won't mind meeting Julia 
 Kelly? She has asked herself for the night." 
 
 "Who else?" said Barnaby, in his ordinary 
 tones. 
 
 "Kilgour and the Slaters and Eackham and 
 the Duchess; and a few more," reeled off 
 his host, thankfully dropping the awkward 
 subject now he had got out his warning. He 
 rushed them into the house, and Susan was 
 bewildered by the tumult that greeted them, 
 the sea of unknown faces. Men and women 
 alike were seizing on Barnaby and exclaiming. 
 She hardly realised that they were at the same 
 time taking stock of her. The three Drakes 
 stood near her like a bodyguard, kind and 
 stolid, settling into their usual phlegmatic form ; 
 and she felt glad of them. 
 
 "Getting on all right?" said Barnaby, as 
 she passed him on her way in to dinner, and 
 she smiled back at him.
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 87 
 
 He and she were not near each other; but 
 once or twice he looked her way, bending his 
 head and slewing half round to catch a glimpse 
 of her; that or else Lady Henrietta's stars, 
 kept up her courage. She listened politely, 
 not understanding much, to the local gossip 
 running along the table. 
 
 "Have you picked up any horses yet, 
 Barnaby? Sims has one or two going up on 
 Saturday, at Leicester." 
 
 "I can let you have a bay, a capital 
 fencer " 
 
 "Oh, you don't palm off your roarers on me. 
 I heard him to-day," said Barnaby. 
 
 "Well, I don't deny that he makes a 
 noise " 
 
 "I suppose you think I've been in the wilds 
 so long I don't know a horse from a hedgehog!" 
 said Barnaby. "Can anyone tell me what 
 became of a black mare I had four seasons 
 ago?" 
 
 "Do you mean Black Bose?" said Kilgour. 
 
 "That's the one. Do you know who has 
 her?" 
 
 "I have," said Kilgour. "I took her from 
 Peters. The fellow couldn't ride her. You 
 can have her back if you want her, Barnaby; 
 she isn't up to my weight. I remember you 
 rode her at Croxton Park."
 
 88 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 "And won," said Barnaby. ''Want her? 
 Bather." 
 
 Kilgour chuckled heavily. 
 
 "She isn't as young as she was, mind," he 
 said. "But she can go still. I suppose you're 
 not as keen as you used to be on breaking your 
 neck?" 
 
 "As keen as ever," said Barnaby, with con- 
 viction. 
 
 "Does your wife ride?" 
 
 The question sounded maladroit; it was 
 inconceivable that Barnaby should have mar- 
 ried a wife who did not. His hesitation was 
 singular in their eyes ; they all stopped to listen. 
 
 "I really don't know," he said. 
 
 In the general burst of laughter Susan 
 caught his glance of amused consternation. 
 In that hard-riding company his ignorance was 
 incredible. Men, having a curious predilection 
 towards the unsuitable in wives, he might, after 
 all, have committed that inconceivable piece of 
 folly. Barnaby 's wife might lamentably turn 
 out incapable of sitting on a horse. But that 
 Barnaby should not know ! 
 
 It was while they were all laughing at him 
 that Susan became aware of Julia Kelly. 
 
 She was on the same side of the table as 
 herself, placed far from the lion of the occa- 
 sion; and was leaning her elbows on the table,
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 89 
 
 looking full at Susan. The man between them 
 was sitting back in his chair roaring helplessly 
 at the joke. 
 
 "What an ignorant husband, Mrs. Hill," said 
 Julia, and her musical voice vibrated through 
 the laughter. "Do you ride?" 
 
 "I have ridden," said Susan quietly. It was 
 difficult for her to blot the memory of an en- 
 counter that the other woman ignored. 
 
 "But not with him f" 
 
 Mrs. Drake, springing up, made diversion. 
 
 "Why not have a steeplechase?" she cried. 
 
 She was one of these little women, all skin 
 and bone, who cannot bear inaction, and whose 
 wishes are carried out. 
 
 "Cross country," she said, silencing a growl 
 from her husband. "You can ride the point- 
 to-point course. We'll send round and tell 
 everybody, and get them all here by twelve. 
 And we'll put grooms with lanterns to mark 
 the jumps." 
 
 The men jumped up, enthusiastic. The idea 
 was just mad enough to appeal to their sporting 
 instincts. In about three minutes the dining- 
 room was deserted, and five motors were hum- 
 ming into the darkness to apprise and rally all 
 who were reckless enough to join. In a neigh- 
 bourhood always ready for a frolic there was no 
 danger of the inspiration falling flat.
 
 90 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 Barnaby himself was in the thick of it, 
 mapping out preliminaries with the other men 
 in the hall. The women clustered together, 
 almost hysterical with excitement. And Susan 
 drifted apart from the chattering circle, feel- 
 ing outside it all. 
 
 She heard a gruff voice in her ear, and 
 started. The tall, gaunt, hard-faced Duchess 
 was standing over her. 
 
 "How are you getting on?" she said. 
 
 "It is a little strange to me," said Susan. 
 
 "But you are not moping," said the Duchess. 
 "I can see you are made of better stuff. They 
 are all mad, of course, but nobody will get hurt, 
 if that is what you are afraid of." 
 
 Yes, that must be what she was afraid of, 
 what inspired her with an undefined wretched- 
 ness.' If she had been what they thought her, 
 surely she would be feeling nervous. She was 
 glad she had not made the mistake of pretend- 
 ing to be gay. 
 
 "I am an old friend of your husband's," 
 said the Duchess, " and he has asked me to 
 be kind to you. I shan't warn you to beware 
 of Julia ; all the rest of them will, if they haven't 
 already; but I don't call that kindness." 
 
 "Barnaby asked you to be kind to me?" re- 
 peated Susan; she could not keep the wistful-
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 91 
 
 ness out of her voice; she had been thinking 
 herself so utterly forgotten. 
 
 " Yes. It isn't the fashion here for husbands 
 to worry about their wives, but he is a bit old- 
 fashioned. I told him I'd come and talk to the 
 little fish out of water. It is just a strange 
 pond, my dear, and you'll soon begin swim- 
 ming." 
 
 The clash of voices grew more uproarious in 
 the hall. A man put his head in and vanished, 
 looking for somebody. His brief appearance 
 made the contrast between the excitement out 
 there and this empty room more emphatic. 
 
 "I must get out of this," said the Duchess, 
 switching her train as she rose from the sofa. 
 " Kitty will have to lend me a habit and one 
 of her husband's coats. I shall ride. There's 
 a brook jump where there'll be trouble, and 
 I want to see the fun. You had better drive 
 with Kitty. I'll see to it. Have you anything 
 warm to put on?" 
 
 Her caution was hardly equal to her good 
 nature, and the clamour in the hall hardly 
 drowned her indignant voice as she seized on 
 a confidant in the doorway. 
 
 "I like her pluck. She's terrified to death, 
 of course, but she doesn't look woe-begone. 
 [We must seem a pack of dangerous lunatics..
 
 92 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 . . . Where do these Americans get their 
 spirit?" 
 "You don't read history, do you, Duchess!" 
 
 The man she had seized laughed shortly, 
 amused at her bewildered face. 
 
 "Oh," he said, "we English are frightfully 
 cock-a-hoop over our pedigrees. We don't 
 remember it's they who are condescending to 
 us. There's bluer and better blood across the 
 Atlantic than any of ours, and it isn't smirched. 
 They don't boast. They don't remind us of 
 our blotted scutcheons. We to talk of race!" 
 
 "What on earth do you mean, Kilgour?" 
 said the Duchess. "Half of them are Huns 
 and Finns, and the scum of Europe." 
 
 The big man was leaning against the door- 
 post; his bantering tongue took on a sudden 
 heat. 
 
 "A few," he said. "But the rest ! Scum, 
 Duchess? We're the dregs. There's not one 
 of our great families that isn't mixed with the 
 blood of traitors; that hasn't at one time or 
 another sold its honour or stained its sword. 
 Scots and English, all that was best of us once, 
 are there, handing their valour down. After 
 Culloden the country was drained of its gentle- 
 men. Why, you can still hear the Highland
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 93 
 
 tongue in South Carolina. . . . They went 
 into exile while we hugged our estates and 
 truckled to an usurper. And the soul of a 
 country is the soul of its heroes. . . . Oh, 
 I believe in race! Let the rest of us take a 
 pride in our tarnished titles and wonder at the 
 fineness of strangers who are descended from 
 the men who lost all for the sake of honour 
 and loyalty to their King!" 
 
 The Duchess dropped her blunt voice into 
 a lower key. 
 
 "Poor old Kilgour," she said. " You 're 
 thinking of that little brute Tillinghame and 
 his dollar princess." 
 
 "Well!" he said, between his teeth. 
 "You've only to look at them! And his peo- 
 ple sneer at her for aspiring to bear an illustri- 
 ous title that began in dishonour, and has been 
 dragged a few hundred years in the mud !" 
 
 The Duchess moved away from the door; 
 she had remembered Susan. 
 
 "I wish you'd capture Barnaby and send 
 him in to his wife," she said. "He has for- 
 gotten that she exists. . . . I've had to 
 make up a message. ... I couldn't stand 
 the dumb wistfulness in her face. It's a fool- 
 hardy business." 
 
 "I've just sent for Black Eose," said Kil-
 
 94 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 gour, in his ordinary tone. "He was keen to 
 ride her." He raised his voice. " Here, 
 Barnaby, you're wanted!" 
 
 But the messengers were returning already, 
 and strange cars were dashing up. The hub- 
 bub was at its height. It was impossible to 
 win Barnaby 's attention. He turned his head 
 impatiently as Kilgour made a grab at him. 
 
 "What is it now!" he said. "Oh, don't 
 bother me, there's a good fellow. They want 
 to settle how Jim, Jim, is that you? Have 
 you brought the horses?" 
 
 He ran down the steps. 
 
 A clatter of hoofs was audible in the dark- 
 ness, and a groom, riding one horse and leading 
 another pulled up below the steps, steadying 
 his charges as they flung up their bewildered 
 heads, blinking, kicking up the gravel. 
 
 "Ah, my beauty!" said Barnaby, in the voice 
 of a lover. "Did you think I was dead?" 
 
 "Is that Black Eose?" called one of the men 
 crowding to the door. "Wasn't she sold?" 
 
 "She was. But I'll have her back," he 
 shouted up to them, rubbing the mare's dark 
 head. "To the half of my kingdom I'll buy 
 her back!" 
 
 The women, wrapped thickly, and disguised 
 in furs, were streaming into the hall. Julia 
 Kelly, who had lingered to the last, and was
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 95 
 
 not yet ready, rushed down impulsively to his 
 side. 
 
 "Oh, Barnaby, is that Black Eose? Dear 
 thing, is she there! Oh, Barnaby !" 
 
 Her voice thrilled and sank; she stretched 
 out her hand, patting the mare's neck, rejoicing 
 with him. 
 
 "It's like old times, isn't it?" he said. 
 
 The night wind ruffled his bare head, kissed 
 a wisp of Julia's lace and blew it against him. 
 She might have been forgiven for thinking his 
 thick utterance was for her. The little scene, 
 to all present who knew their tale, was ro- 
 mantic. 
 
 Kitty Drake looked over her shoulder in 
 a funny, conscience-stricken way; the Duchess 
 was poking her in the back, and at the same 
 time interposing her rugged presence between 
 romance and Susan. In a minute the girl was 
 shielded by an oddly-sympathising bevy of 
 women, fussing over her in a transparent hurry 
 to see that she was wrapped up warm. 
 
 The stable clock behind the house was be- 
 ginning to strike, and the men who had been 
 dining there had disappeared to change. 
 Nobody was measuring the length of that 
 interview. ... At last Barnaby came in 
 three steps at a time, a portmanteau in his 
 arms.
 
 96 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 "I say, Kitty; where can I go and 
 dress?" 
 
 She looked at him severely over Susan's 
 head. 
 
 "Bun in anywhere," she said, and he pur- 
 sued his impetuous way upstairs. Julia reap- 
 peared by herself, on her face what Kitty Drake 
 stigmatised as a maddening consciousness. 
 
 "They say they are going to ride in their 
 shirt-sleeves," she said, "but that will hardly 
 make them visible. It's nearly pitch dark 
 outside. ' ' 
 
 "They are idiots," said Kitty Drake. 
 "Fancy Gregory calling to us when we were 
 upstairs to know if we would lend them our 
 night-dresses. I told him I was too thrifty." 
 
 < Why not f ' ' said Julia. ' ' Barnaby can have 
 mine." 
 
 A blank pause saluted her speech, and then, 
 with one accord, the women began to acclaim 
 the notion as if it were the most ordinary 
 thing in the world. Even Kitty, in her haste 
 to dissipate the impression that Julia's declara- 
 tion might make on the girl beside her, caught 
 up the idea and made it hers. She flew up and 
 down arranging. 
 
 "A bit mediaeval, isn't it?" said Kilgour, 
 watching the riders as they struggled with gos- 
 samer raiment that sometimes flopped over
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 97 
 
 their heads unassisted, and sometimes clung, 
 entangling them in cobwebs. "In the days of 
 knighthood we all wore bits of our ladies ' cloth- 
 ing." 
 
 The Duchess grumbled. 
 
 "Pity we can't revive other habits," she said. 
 "There was a useful practice of wringing ob- 
 noxious people's necks." 
 
 1 ' Poor Julia, ' ' said Kilgour. ' * Don 't grudge 
 her her little triumph. She only wants to pub- 
 lish it abroad that it was her own fault she was 
 forsaken." 
 
 But the Duchess's brow was grim. 
 
 The night was black and starless, and had 
 been still. The villages they passed gave back 
 startled echoes, awakened out of sleep by the 
 rattling of the cavalcade. Susan was tucked 
 in between Kitty Drake and the Duchess, who 
 intended to change to her horse when the race 
 began, and in the meantime was driving them 
 at a smacking pace. She kept her buggy at 
 the head of the procession, and was the first 
 to whisk round a perilously sudden turning that 
 led off the turnpike, and sent them bumping 
 into a field. 
 
 In front of them stretched a dim line of 
 country that had darkened into strangeness, 
 puzzling the most familiar eyes. Here and 
 there were flickering lights, like will-o'-the-
 
 98 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 wisps, luring and warning, indicating danger. 
 And the men were to ride there. . . . 
 
 Susan stood up in the buggy, supported by 
 Kitty's arm, straining her eyes to watch the 
 start. She could make out a little; by dint of 
 hard gazing she learnt to distinguish the figures 
 that moved yonder. In the middle of the field 
 an indistinct line of riders were drawn up, wait- 
 ing. 
 
 A man shouted back to the watchers, and 
 their prattle hushed. There was an instant of 
 absolute silence, suspended breath; and then 
 somebody swung a lantern. 
 
 "Go!" he cried. 
 
 Leaping into the darkness the line of horses 
 broke like a wave and went, their limbs gleam- 
 ing. Already they were blundering into the 
 first hedge, and there was a crash, relieved by 
 laughter as the first spill resulted in one man 
 picking himself up unhurt. The rest were 
 swinging on ; rising again, more warily, a little 
 further ; and just visible, for the last time, black 
 objects against the sky. 
 
 The Duchess set her foot in the stirrup and 
 galloped off. Susan rocked as she stood, and 
 was nearly flung out as the buggy started 
 forward, and the whole cavalcade whirled 
 blindly into a lane that was all ruts and stones 
 and turf.
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 99 
 
 Strange what an unimagined wildness dark- 
 ness and ignorance lent to that plain strip of 
 country. The fields that slanted were dreadful 
 hills sinking into unknown abysses, the brooks 
 rushed like rivers, the hedges lifted themselves 
 gigantic. Many who had ridden over the 
 ground by daylight times without number ex- 
 claimed, and wished the night at an end. 
 
 Kitty Drake, however, was screaming with 
 delight. 
 
 "Here they come!" she shrilled. "Oh, shut 
 up, you people. You'll scare the horses. I 
 know it's awfully weird, but still ! That's 
 Dicky, of course. I'd know Nanny's frills any- 
 where; he looks like a mad pierrot. Oh, and 
 Colonel Birch, with Mrs. Uffington's chiffon 
 scarf tied on to him. Mrs. Uffington, it was 
 base of you not to risk it. My best garment 
 is floating there, being torn to ribbons by 
 Gregory's spurs." 
 
 "Sit down, Kitty!" cried somebody at her 
 elbow. "You can't see anything yet; it's all 
 imagination. ' ' 
 
 "I see it with my mind's eye," she declared; 
 but subsided. 
 
 A few men on horseback scampered out of 
 the nothingness and drew up beside them. 
 This was the place to watch the riders jump 
 the water. They pressed close in a peering
 
 100 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 bunch, the cigars in their mouths making red 
 points in the gloom. The Duchess halted by 
 the buggy, a curious figure in Gregory Drake's 
 greatcoat, with the sleeves turned up. 
 
 "All right, so far," she said, in her gruff 
 voice, cheerily. "They have been signalling 
 with the lanterns. Queer how the darkness 
 seems to swallow 'em up alive ! ' ' 
 
 As she spoke they all heard a distant thud- 
 ding. There was something terrifying in this 
 invisible approach; it seemed to promise catas- 
 trophe. Surely some sudden end would come 
 to that beating of horses' hoofs ! Nearer 
 and nearer the unseen racers came, until they 
 were almost on the top of the watching throng. 
 Then there was a glimpse of great beasts rising 
 in the air. 
 
 The first horse came down short of the land- 
 ing-place, plunging into the hidden water that 
 ran beneath. His splash was followed by an- 
 other as the next man faltered and went in 
 deep. Then a third went up. 
 
 Someone had an acetylene motor lamp, and 
 held it suddenly on high. It made a vivid 
 glare, illuminating that rider's face, his eyes 
 staring ahead, his mouth shut and smiling 
 
 "Turn out that lamp. You'll dazzle 'em, you 
 damned idiot!" yelled Kilgour. "It isn't a 
 pantomime!"
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 101 
 
 The next horse had taken fright. There 
 was stamping and swearing ; and then the blind- 
 ing flare was extinguished, leaving the scene 
 darker. The faces that had shone pale and un- 
 earthly in that brief wave of limelight could 
 not longer be recognised. 
 
 Susan shivered with excitement. That was 
 Barnaby she had seen. . . . 
 
 No woman was in his head just then; his 
 spirit was intent on the splendid peril of that 
 night ride. Something in herself understood 
 him. She felt proud of him, reckless with him, 
 afraid of nothing. But he had landed and was 
 away on the further side. 
 
 Now they were all in or over, and the water 
 jump was deserted. The last who had failed 
 to clear it had struggled up the bank and swung 
 dripping into his saddle, feeling for his reins. 
 They were laughing at him because he had let 
 go and tried to swim, not at first realising that 
 it wasn't up to his knees. . . . 
 
 But he had lost his head in the dark. 
 
 There was time, if they hurried, to reach the 
 hillside at the back of the intervening dip, full 
 of pitfalls, and gain a place of vantage to wit- 
 ness what they might of the finish. Kilgour, 
 who knew the country blindfold, pushed on. 
 ahead, guiding them; and the rest trusted to 
 his instinct. He unlatched a gate, flinging it
 
 102 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 wide for the others to scramble through, cut 
 along close under the branching side of a 
 spinney, forded a water-course, and spun up a 
 cart track; emerging suddenly on the side of 
 the hill. Behind him pressed a clattering, jolt- 
 ing troop, that stopped dead as he threw up 
 his arm and listened. 
 
 The riders had to make a circuit, but they 
 should be near. What was the meaning of this 
 long pause ? of the utter silence ? For the first 
 time the women betrayed a nervous thrill that 
 was not pure excitement. The waiting dashed 
 their spirits. They tried to laugh, and their 
 laughter sounded strange. 
 
 ' l There 's bound to be some misfortune, ' ' mut- 
 tered someone, as a night bird croaked in the 
 trees. And above the hush a woman's voice 
 pealed, hysterical, calling on heaven to witnesg 
 that she had dissuaded Billy 
 
 "Hush!" 
 
 The men who were judging talked in whis- 
 pers as they sat quietly on their horses, motion- 
 less, save for an occasional jingling bit, under 
 the clump of firs that was the winning-post. 
 Their ears were on the alert, but all the queer 
 noises of the night were treacherously alike, 
 and that might be nothing but running water 
 that seemed a distant galloping. One man 
 looked at his watch.
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 103 
 
 ''They're due," he said. "Bar accidents. 
 Can't you hear 'em?" 
 
 Then at last, clear in the distance, the gallop 
 came. 
 
 Far in that mysterious valley the lanterns 
 twinkled, making the darkness visible. Where 
 the lights glimmered there was danger. 
 
 "D'you see that?" said Kilgour in the ear 
 of his neighbour. A spark dipped suddenly. 
 "One man down." 
 
 At the next jump another light went out. 
 
 "A bit weird, these signals," said Kilgour 's 
 neighbour. "I don't like 'em; it's too in- 
 fernally suggestive. Where are they now?" 
 
 The watchers herded together, all standing 
 up, all staring; trying to pierce the gloom, as 
 the unseen horses came thundering up the rise. 
 Singly they ran in. 
 
 Susan was sure that Barnaby would win. 
 She could not understand why her heart beat 
 so loud. 
 
 < < One two three ! ' ' 
 
 They were all frantically counting. Five 
 men still up ; but not yet near enough to dis- 
 tinguish faces. 
 
 "If Barnaby isn't in the first three he's 
 down. ' ' 
 
 Who said that? She gave one shudder and 
 was quite still.
 
 104 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 "Oh, God, don't let him be killed. Don't let 
 him be killed ! ' ' she was crying to herself. 
 
 The fir trees spread their dark plumes over- 
 head; in the boughs there was a strange sigh- 
 ing. . . . If he was not in the first three, 
 if he was missing her one friend in a land of 
 strangers, lying there crushed and lifeless in 
 the dark : 
 
 "Oh, God !" she cried under her breath. 
 
 And then out of the blackness shot a head- 
 long figure, cleaving it like an arrow. That 
 blur beneath was the final jump, the last hedge 
 that barred the way with its ragged line. And 
 he charged it as if it were not there, keeping 
 on in his tremendous rush. 
 
 "Barnaby!" they shouted. They knew his 
 laugh before they could see his face. 
 
 "A near thing," he said, and pulled up the 
 black mare, who turned her head towards him 
 as he dismounted, her eye-balls glistening in 
 the darkness with something like human 
 pride. 
 
 "You didn't steady her there," said Kilgour. 
 
 "Steady her? We had to come for all we 
 were worth!" he said. 
 
 The Duchess, striding afoot, made her way 
 into the circle round him. Barnaby was ex- 
 plaining how he had ridden into one of the 
 lantern-bearers, a silly fool who had turned his
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 105 
 
 light and was standing into the hedge; and 
 how he had got off to make sure the poor 
 devil wasn't injured. He had had to ride 
 after that like fury; no leisure to grope his 
 way. . . . 
 
 " Since you are not smashed up," said the 
 Duchess, shaking him by the arm, "go and 
 show yourself to your wife. You nearly 
 frightened her to death. ' ' 
 
 She piloted him to the buggy, and stood 
 by, with her unsentimental countenance con- 
 siderately averted. 
 
 "I am so glad you won," said Susan. She 
 spoke steadily, controlling the traitorous catch 
 in her throat. How was she to assure him that 
 she was not guilty of causing him to be dragged 
 to her side? 
 
 The man smiled at her stiff politeness. He 
 was still hot, still breathing a little hard, the 
 spell of his ride still on him ; and Julia 's wisp 
 of muslin was twisted round his neck. 
 
 "I'm sorry you were scared," he said. 
 "I'm rather in the habit of doing ridiculous 
 tilings like this. There wasn't much danger 
 really . . . and I didn't think you would 
 mind. ' ' 
 
 His casual apology struck her like a blow. 
 What right had she I How it must amuse 
 him that she should affect to care.
 
 106 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 "I did not mind/' she said proudly. "It 
 was funny." 
 
 One of his friends was coming up with a 
 coat to throw over him. The men who had 
 come to grief were straggling in, bruised and 
 dirty, but miraculously sound. Kitty Drake 
 leaned over the wheel on the other side, hailing 
 them, calling to each man to ask if he was 
 alive. . . . 
 
 "Was it?" said Barnaby, and smiled. The 
 glint in his eyes reminded her of his face as the 
 light flashed on him, dare-devil, reckless, down 
 there when he jumped the water. Perhaps the 
 joke was a little too much for him. 
 
 "You are not altogether a callous person," 
 he said slowly. "I don't believe you, Susan. 
 You fainted when I came home. ."
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 "DULL?" said Lady Henrietta. 
 
 The girl became aware of her with a start. 
 
 Barnaby had just gone, and the house was 
 quiet. Late as usual, he had come clinking 
 down in his spurs, and run out to his waiting 
 horse; and she had seen him off, but had not 
 yet turned away from the door. Lady Hen- 
 rietta's uncommon earliness had surprised her. 
 She did not know how wistful her aspect was. 
 
 "No," she said. "Oh, no. I was only 
 watching " 
 
 "To see the last of him," retorted Lady 
 Henrietta smartly. "I know I know. One 
 glimpse of him as he crosses the wooden bridge, 
 and again a peep before he cuts across by the 
 willows. How dare you let him set off day 
 after day without you?" 
 
 She paused. There was mischief in her eye, 
 an unwonted touch of excitement. One would 
 have said she was plotting. 
 
 "You are too lamb-like," she said. "I'll 
 give you a horse. Tell him you'll go hunting 
 with him to-morrow." 
 
 She laughed outright at the girl's look of 
 consternation. 
 
 107
 
 108 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 "No," she said, "you wouldn't. My dear, 
 you have got him, and you must keep him. 
 It's a woman's business to look after her hus- 
 band, to throw herself into his occupations, and 
 rescue him from the ravening lions that run up 
 and down in the earth. Why didn't you back 
 me up when I attacked him last night, and he 
 put me off with his nonsense about a quiet 
 pony? Why didn't you insist?" 
 
 Susan flushed scarlet, remembering Lady 
 Henrietta's unexpected onslaught and Bar- 
 naby's good-humoured amazement; his vague 
 promise of giving her a riding lesson. He 
 glanced at her mirthfully, and that look of his 
 had called up a hot disclaimer of any wish. 
 Was it not in their bargain that as far as pos- 
 sible they were not to haunt each other? 
 
 "Since you are so meek," said Lady Hen- 
 rietta, who did not miss her confusion, "I must 
 put my finger in the pie." 
 
 Her eyes were not young, but they were far- 
 seeing; she turned from the prospect at which 
 Susan had been gazing, and laid authoritative 
 fingers on her sleeve. 
 
 "Eun upstairs," she said, "and get into your 
 habit. I've told Margaret to have it ready. 
 It won't fit, probably, but you are not vain; 
 it's borrowed. Don't stare at me, you baby ! 
 Eackham and I settled it the night he dined
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 109 
 
 here, while you and Barnaby were trying not 
 to talk to each other. I don't know whether 
 you can ride or not, but you must begin. ' ' 
 
 She finished up with a chuckle. The sight 
 of Susan's face well, that was enough for her. 
 She had turned a more potent key than she 
 knew. 
 
 Two horses were pawing the gravel beside 
 the door, and one of them had a side-saddle 
 on his back. She had seen them coming when 
 she despatched her daughter-in-law to dress. 
 Eackham himself was waiting on the steps. 
 Lady Henrietta beckoned to him with the joy 
 of a bad child firing a train of powder. 
 
 "I've told her," she said. "She'll be down 
 in a minute. Take her once or twice round the 
 park, and if she doesn't fall off " 
 
 "She won't fall off," said Eackham. 
 
 "You brought her a quiet horse!" the con- 
 spirator was feeling a slight compunction. 
 
 Barnaby 's cousin, his ancient rival, smiled 
 under his moustache. "I'll take good care of 
 her, my aunt," he said. 
 
 "You are an obliging demon, Eackham," she 
 observed. "It was good of you to give up 
 your hunting." 
 
 "They'll be at Eanksboro' about twelve," he 
 said significantly. ' * If you really wanted us to 
 give Barnaby a surprise "
 
 110 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 Lady Henrietta favoured him with an en- 
 lightening nod. Whether or no he was bent 
 on furthering her purposes, assuredly she 
 might trust him. 
 
 "Villain," she said. "You understand me; 
 it's an experiment, it's a squib!" 
 
 Twice Susan rode solemnly round the park. 
 To her, remembering how, as a child, she had 
 ridden, cross-legged, bare-backed, anyhow, any- 
 thing their solicitude was absurd. She swung 
 her foot in the stirrup, lifting a transfigured 
 face. 
 
 "You are all right," said Eackham, glancing 
 backwards towards the distant windows. "I 
 knew you could ride." 
 
 He bent over in his saddle to unlatch the 
 hand-gate that Barnaby had ridden through be- 
 fore them, taking his short cut over the wooden 
 bridge by the willows. Keeping his horse back, 
 he held it open. 
 
 "Come out this way," he said. They went 
 cantering up the lane. 
 
 Dim and dark was the landscape, threatening 
 rain, and the clouds were sinking lower and 
 lower, rubbing out the hills. A kind of ex- 
 pectation hung in the air. A storm gathering 
 perhaps. They rode up and up, until the nar- 
 row green lane came to a sudden stop, and a 
 break in the high barriers of hawthorn let them
 
 THE WAY OF A "WOMAN 111 
 
 on to a ridge that hung over a wide sweep of 
 yalley. Underneath lay a fallow strip, reddish 
 brown amidst the green waves of pasture, and 
 a party of rooks rose cawing above the idle 
 plough. 
 
 Susan, her heart still dancing, laid a happy 
 hand on her horse's mane, the willing horse 
 that carried her so smoothly. 
 
 "You like it?" said Eackham. 
 
 There was a subtle difference between his 
 guardianship and that of his cousin. She 
 missed that queer sense of security that she had 
 with Barnaby. Why, she knew not, but Back- 
 ham's neighbourhood troubled her. She felt a 
 nervous inclination to burst into hurried 
 chatter. 
 
 "It was awfully kind of Lady Henrietta to 
 arrange it, and of you," she said; "though 
 you were both afraid that I should disgrace 
 you. Yes, you were watching; and she too: 
 her mind misgave her when she saw me in the 
 saddle. What is the matter with the horses?" 
 
 "Look!" he said, smiling broadly. 
 
 And immediately she guessed. Far on the 
 right she distinguished a flick of scarlet. 
 
 "Oh!" she said, in an awed whisper, under- 
 standing. 
 
 "That's one of the whips riding on," he ex- 
 plained; "they are going to draw the spinney
 
 112 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 down there, just underneath. We're in for it, 
 aren't we? Shall we stay where we are, and 
 chance Barnaby's displeasure? I'll open the 
 gates for you, and give you a lead. Can you 
 jump?" 
 
 She laughed at him, carried out of herself, 
 back in remote adventures when there had 
 been nothing she would not dare. Her blood 
 was up, and she felt her horse quivering be- 
 neath her. Hounds were in the spinney; she 
 had glimpses of dappled bodies ranging among 
 the trees; at the eastern side an interminable 
 troop of riders were pouring into the field. 
 There seemed no limit to their numbers as they 
 massed thicker and thicker on the skirts of 
 the cover till there was but the south side 
 clear. 
 
 "Keep still!" said Kackham in a breath, 
 and as he whispered a living flash passed by. 
 It vanished across the fallow, as a whistle 
 shrilled from below. One of the whips had 
 seen him. 
 
 "Steady!" said Eackham. "Hounds are 
 coming out. He broke at that bottom corner. 
 -Now!" 
 
 Her horse bounded away with his. She was 
 close behind him as they raced down the head- 
 land. The fence at the end was low; a thorn- 
 crammed ditch and a rotten rail. She took it,
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 113 
 
 hardly knowing, but for her horse's excitement, 
 that she had jumped. He broke into a gallop 
 then, and she let him go. 
 
 ''Who's the lady out with Backham?" called 
 one man, waiting his turn at a gap. The man 
 ahead of him squeezed through before reply- 
 ing. 
 
 ''Don't know. She's chosen a damn reckless 
 pilot!" 
 
 But no man's recklessness could have beaten 
 hers. She followed him blindly; nothing 
 daunted her, nothing dimmed the eagerness in 
 her soul. This was to live indeed. 
 
 They were hard on the pack. She could hear 
 them in front, could sometimes catch a view of 
 them flickering on. A great noise of galloping 
 filled the air behind, drumming hard; but she 
 was still keeping her lucky place in the van. 
 She and Eackham. . . . 
 
 There was something formidable ahead. She 
 felt her horse faltering in his stride, not afraid, 
 but doubtful; those that were close behind 
 were parting right and left ; some of them were 
 falling back. Without turning her head she 
 knew it. Eecklessly she kept on. The others 
 might blench. . . . She would not. 
 
 Up went her horse, and in mid-air she had 
 time to ask herself what would happen, to guess 
 that it was touch and go. It seemed a great
 
 114 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 while before they came down, with a jar and a 
 stagger, galloping rather wildly on. 
 
 She was too excited still to feel tired, too 
 ignorant of danger to know what a wild line 
 she was taking now. Just ahead of her Back- 
 ham had disappeared with a crack of timber, 
 and she must not be left behind. 
 
 An ominous crash pursued her as she went 
 through a stiff barrier of thorns ; a loose horse 
 was flying past. She looked dizzily for Back- 
 ham, wondering if it was his. It tried to clear 
 the next fence riderless, but was too unsteady, 
 and swerving crosswise, nearly brought her 
 down. In the field beyond it was stopped 
 by an oxer. Someone behind cracked his 
 whip. . . . 
 
 "We've beaten the lot!" called Backham; his 
 voice came a little hoarse in her ear. "Half of 
 'em funked that bullfinch, and there's one fel- 
 low in the ditch " 
 
 She reeled in her saddle. 
 
 "I've no breath left," she panted. 
 
 "Pull up. Pull up!" said Backham, and 
 leaned over as she managed to stop her horse. 
 Her knees trembled and she held on a minute ; 
 she thought she was going to fall off out of 
 sheer fatigue. 
 
 Hounds were baying on the other side of the 
 hedge. They had got their fox. People were
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 115 
 
 coming up on all sides, in haste to mingle with 
 the few who had ridden straight. She was 
 vaguely conscious of their interested regard; 
 she heard a general buzz of gossip. 
 
 ''There's Barnaby," said Backham. He had 
 dismounted, and stood by her horse's shoulder, 
 pretending to do something with a buckle, but 
 in reality waiting for her to recover. His arm 
 was ready to catch her if she should slide off; 
 his wild eyes were fixed on her. 
 
 "Don't forget it was with me, not with him, 
 you rode your first run," he said. The tri- 
 umph in his whisper made her afraid. She felt 
 like a truant. 
 
 What would Barnaby think of her? Would 
 he be very angry? Had he watched her riding, 
 wondering who she was? She lifted her face, 
 a little proud, but troubled. All at once her 
 glorious adventure wore the look of an es- 
 capade. 
 
 He had ridden up, but he was not looking at 
 her at all. The set of his mouth was hard. 
 
 "I'll take charge of my wife," he said. 
 
 How strange it sounded. Would she never 
 get used to it? She had an immediate sense 
 of protection, of happiness out of all reason. 
 But what else could he call her, before the 
 world? 
 
 His cousin grinned at him brazenly.
 
 116 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 "If you haven't too much on your hands,'* 
 he said darkly. ' ' Oh, take over your lawful re- 
 sponsibilities if you like. You needn't fight me. 
 It was your mother's idea. . . . But she's 
 tired. She mustn't stop out too long." 
 
 "It was a mad thing to do," said Barnaby 
 curtly ; ' ' risking her life over these fences ! ' ' 
 
 "Come, come," said Eackham, "don't paint 
 me too black. I took the greatest care of her. 
 Didn't I?" 
 
 "I was looking on," said Barnaby. 
 
 He had turned to Susan at last, and she saw 
 that his face was pale. Something in him re- 
 sponded to her look of rapture dashed. 
 
 "Poor little girl!" he said. "I didn't know 
 you cared about it " Then he smiled rue- 
 fully. "By Jove!" he said. "You gave me a 
 fright. I thought you'd get yourself killed a 
 dozen times. And I had a bad start. I 
 couldn't get up to you. There, don't let's look 
 as if we were quarrelling, though under the cir- 
 cumstances, do you think we should?" 
 
 She plucked up spirit to answer him in kind. 
 "On the stage," she said, "the audiences would 
 expect it." 
 
 "Well," he said, "we'll disappoint the 
 audience. . . . You won your bet, Kilgour ; 
 it is my wife. Wasn 't it wicked of her I ' ' 
 
 She found herself trotting on at his side.
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 117 
 
 Backham had fallen back. It was Barnaby who 
 directed her, who rode at her right hand ; and a 
 cheery crowd hemmed her in. 
 
 At the head of the procession hounds were 
 moving on. Occasionally the authorities called 
 a halt while they searched a patch of trees by 
 the wayside, or turned aside to examine a hol- 
 low tree. But these were not serious diver- 
 sions. Once, indeed, there was a whimper as 
 the pack ran scampering into a small planta- 
 tion, and the huntsman went in to see what it 
 was, his scarlet glancing in the bare brown mist 
 of larches. 
 
 "I know what '11 happen to us," grumbled 
 Kilgour, as the verdict was issued that it was 
 empty. "We'll climb up on the top of Eanks- 
 boro' and the heavens will open on us." 
 
 The ranks closed up again as the pack 
 tumbled back sadly into the road. Kilgour was 
 a true prophet ; they were bent at last towards 
 that unfailing harbour. On they pushed, up 
 hill and down, through a grey village where 
 the trees shut out the sky from the winding 
 street, and then slap in at a gate that let them 
 on to the grass again. 
 
 11 Where are we?" asked Susan, as she was 
 squeezed in the press through the gate, finding 
 elbow-room as her neighbours scattered on the 
 other side, spreading downward.
 
 118 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 i 'On the wild side of Banksboro ', " said Bar- 
 Baby. * ' Stick to me if you are thinking of get- 
 ting lost. You'll see where you are when we 
 reach the top, and you can look down on the 
 cover; but that's at the other side. Don't 
 you remember the black look of it on the hill- 
 side, off the Melton and Oakham road?" 
 
 All were hurrying across the rough bottom, 
 with its hillocks and furze bushes, and patches 
 of withered bracken; then, gathering in the 
 narrow bit that let them in under a fringe of 
 trees, mounting upwards. On the further side 
 of the summit they came out above a thick 
 plantation; and there they drew rein and 
 waited, unsheltered, bare to the sky overhead. 
 
 Down came the rain. 
 
 "I wish I was dead," said a lank man be- 
 hind Kilgour. "I wish I was fighting a bye- 
 election ! ' ' 
 
 Those who were near huddled into the brist- 
 ling hedge that might break an east wind, but 
 was useless against this downpour. A few 
 slunk back over the brow, and herded under 
 the trees; the rest sat stubbornly on their 
 horses, humping their shoulders, their dripping 
 faces set grimly towards the cover below; 
 hearkening to hounds. 
 
 "Would you rather be pelted with words?" 
 said Kilgour, ramming his hat over his nose.
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 119 
 
 " Surely they trickle off you. * . . Jerusa- 
 lem ! we '11 be drowned. ' ' 
 
 The lank man turned up his collar, feeling 
 for a button. 
 
 "Well, they are dry!" he said. 
 
 "They don't give you rheumatism, I grant 
 you," said a fat man beside him; "but they 
 aren't healthy. I don't care what a man's 
 trade is, if he can discourse about it, it's im- 
 probable he can do his job. And yet we poor 
 devils of politicians have to spin our brains into 
 jaw " 
 
 "True," said Kilgour. "You don't trust a 
 glib fellow to dig your garden. . . . And 
 yet you turn over your country to him." 
 
 The fat man grunted. 
 
 "I never want to open my mouth again," he 
 said. "I'm addressing six meetings a week in 
 my constituency, and nothing will go down with 
 'em but ranting. Tell you what, Kilgour, we're 
 going on wrong principles altogether. What 
 we want is Government by Minority. Just you 
 get on a platform and look down on their silly 
 faces ! The fools are in the majority in any 
 walk of life; they swamp the sensible chaps, 
 even Solomon noticed that. And it's the fools 
 we must please, because they are many. We 
 take their opinion; we let them settle things. 
 The whole system is upside down."
 
 120 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 "There's something in that," said Kilgour. 
 "It always amuses me how you vote-catchers 
 despise a man who works with his head; and 
 bow down to your ignorant fetish the working 
 man. ' ' 
 
 There was a slight disturbance in the cover, 
 but nothing came of it. People shifted back- 
 wards and forwards; there was a smell of wet 
 leather and steaming horses. 
 
 "Are you cold?" said Barnaby. 
 
 Susan smiled. He was between her and the 
 worst of it ; the rain beat on his upturned face 
 as he sheltered her. She liked watching him 
 . . . she was not unhappy. 
 
 The lank man was trying to light a cigar. 
 He glanced up between his hollowed fingers, 
 his eyes twinkling in a creased red face. 
 
 "Our lives aren't worth living, Mrs. Bar- 
 naby," he said. "We are all made so painfully 
 aware of our inferior status. The tail wagging 
 the dog; that's what we have come to." 
 
 The fat man followed his glance, and his dis- 
 gusted expression gave way to a friendly gleam. 
 His puffy eyelids quivered. 
 
 "Let us grumble," he said. "You see how 
 the weather behaves to us when we escape for 
 a week-end from bondage. There isn't' a 
 bright spot anywhere but one tale I heard 
 lately in my division."
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 121 
 
 The lank man tossed away his match; the 
 cigar was drawing. 
 
 "And what was that?" he said. 
 
 "Well, it seems they got a Cabinet Minister 
 down to rant against me," said the fat man, 
 chuckling. "He had made himself particularly 
 obnoxious to our militant sisters, and there 
 were terrible hints as to what the ladies were 
 going to do about him. So a London paper 
 commissioned their blandest reporter to call on 
 'em, and incidentally get at their intentions ; 
 and he stuck a flower in his buttonhole and 
 tackled an engaging young suffragette, who 
 confided in him the tremendous secret. Swore 
 him, of course, to silence " 
 
 "And the wretch betrayed her?" 
 
 The politician grinned. 
 
 "They were going to disguise themselves as 
 men," he explained, "and pervade the meeting 
 in the likeness of divers of my rival's most 
 prominent supporters. She was to make up as 
 a well-known farmer who happened to have 
 lumbago; leggin's, and corporation, and side- 
 whiskers gummed on tight." 
 
 "Pity she let it out," said Kilgour. 
 
 "Aha!" said the other man, "she was art- 
 less. Well the news got down to 'em somehow, 
 just in time for the meeting, and they set a 
 bodyguard over anybody who looked suspicious.
 
 122 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 Couldn't keep out their principal backers, or 
 insult 'em by explaining, and hadn't time to in- 
 vestigate. And my rival got on his legs. 
 I'm told they were all more or less in hysterics, 
 each man glaring at his neighbour. And these 
 whiskers looked jolly unnatural in the artificial 
 light. My rival had got as far as to mention 
 his 'right honourable friend who, at great in- 
 convenience' when that old farmer started to 
 blow his nose. 'Turn her out!' he screeched, 
 and four men seized the astonished old chap, 
 and hoisted him, kicking and bellowing, to the 
 door. . . . There was a glorious row, I'm 
 told. It practically broke up the meeting. ' ' 
 
 "Ah," said Kilgour, "politics aren't always 
 an arid waste. ' ' 
 
 "No, occasionally there is rain in the desert. 
 Are we ever going to move? I'm soaking." 
 
 In the dark heavens the clouds were frayed 
 by glimmering streaks of light. Barnaby 
 moved impatiently, and beyond him Julia Kelly 
 passed by, changing her station. The girl who 
 was sheltered by his shoulder had forgotten 
 that Julia must be there. She felt suddenly 
 that she was a stranger. 
 
 How often must he and Julia have hunted 
 together, how often they must have ridden side 
 by side, sharing the day's fortunes; whispering 
 contentedly to each other as he shielded her
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 123 
 
 from the storm ! More telling than speech had 
 been Julia's half-sad, half-reproachful smile. 
 
 "They've got him out!" cried Kilgour, spin- 
 ning round and heading a mad stampede. As 
 the rest imitated him, Barnaby turned to Susan. 
 ' ' I 'm not going to let you out of my sight ! " he 
 said. 
 
 Down the hill they raced. Hounds were fling- 
 ing themselves across, bursting louder and 
 louder into cry, proclaiming that they were on 
 his line. And now nobody minded rain. 
 
 For a little while Susan felt the magic of it 
 again ; the swing of the gallop, the exhilaration 
 of the jumps as they came ; but all too soon she 
 flagged. They were hunting slower; hounds 
 were not so sure of the scent ; they were slack- 
 ening, losing faith. The huntsman went for- 
 ward, and the Master stopped the field. Then 
 they went on again, running in a string up the 
 hedge. 
 
 Barnaby turned his horse's head and let the 
 crowd go by. He looked at her significantly. 
 How did he know that she could not keep on 
 much longer? 
 
 "I'll take you home now," he said. 
 
 "Oh, don't!" she cried. "I am so sorry. 
 
 . . Don 't let me spoil your day. ' ' 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 "I'll pick them up again later on," he said.
 
 124 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 "We must do the correct thing, mustn't we? 
 It would look bad if I let you go home alone. 
 Good heavens, how tired you are! You can 
 hardly sit on your horse.'* 
 
 Lady Henrietta, the mischief-maker, waited 
 with equanimity for Barnaby to come home. 
 He had brought Susan back and gone off again 
 on a fresh horse, giving her no opportunity of 
 a passage-at-arms with him. 
 
 When he did return his coolness was disap- 
 pointing. She waited until she could contain 
 herself no longer. 
 
 "Why don't you ask after Susan?" she said 
 at last. He looked up then. His clothes had 
 dried on him, he had changed lazily into slip- 
 pers, and was warming his shins at the fire. 
 They had finished the day with a clinking run. 
 "She 'snot ill?" he said. 
 
 "I put her to bed," said Lady Henrietta, 
 "when she came in. The poor child could 
 hardly move. ... I suppose you bullied 
 her frightfully when she turned up?" 
 
 Barnaby went on stirring his tea and stretch- 
 ing himself to the blaze. 
 
 "I told her to have a hot bath and a good 
 long rest," he said, in a grandmotherly tone. 
 ; 'What did you expect? Were you hoping that 
 I should beat her?"
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 125 
 
 "I was hoping all kinds of things," said 
 Lady Henrietta. 
 
 "Such as!" 
 
 She lost all patience. What was the use of 
 plotting if nothing she could devise would rouse 
 him? Anything would be more satisfactory 
 than that maddening smile of his. 
 
 "Do you want to break the child's heart?" 
 she cried. 
 
 For a moment she fancied that he was 
 startled; she could not see his face so well, but 
 the cup clattered in his hand. Then she dis- 
 covered that he was laughing at her. 
 
 "Has Susan complained?" he said. 
 
 " She ? " said Lady Henrietta. ' ' Oh, how lit- 
 tle you understand her ! She '11 never compla.ni 
 of you. All I hear I have to screw out of other 
 people. From what they tell me ! Oh, she'll 
 never complain, though you and your Julia 
 make yourselves a by-word!" 
 
 She paused there, confident that there would 
 be an outburst. Her triumphant expectation 
 was dashed; she was nearly struck dumb with 
 astonishment when she heard his voice. 
 
 "It's a queer world, mother." 
 
 This was indeed serious. He was not even 
 angry; and she had hoped to make him furi- 
 ous. She scanned him anxiously, stricken with 
 alarm.
 
 126 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 "You aren't well?" she said. 
 
 "I'm a little bothered," he said. "Look 
 here, mother; supposing well, supposing a 
 man were horribly, irretrievably, fond of a 
 woman, and would be a regular cur if he let 
 her know; would you condemn him for build- 
 ing up a kind of rampart, playing with fire that 
 he knew couldn't burn him, to keep him from 
 losing his head, and hurting the thing he the 
 thing that was precious to him? Oh, damn it 
 all, you can't possibly understand." 
 
 It was plain as a pikestaff. Lady Henrietta 
 was justified of her mischief-making. Some- 
 thing must be done. There was law and order 
 in any tactics that might vex the siren who was 
 still robbing her of her boy. Never in this 
 world would there be peace between her and 
 Julia. 
 
 "If," she said, "you want me to believe that 
 you married Susan to stick her up like a nine- 
 pin between you and a woman who threw you 
 over, who can't bear us to imagine you are con- 
 soled!" 
 
 She broke off indignantly, but Barnaby 
 would not quarrel. He got up and laid his 
 hand caressingly on her shoulder. 
 
 "Don't excite yourself, mother," he said. 
 "I was talking nonsense. So are you. . . .
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 127 
 
 If I were you I wouldn't meddle. It's more 
 dangerous than you know. ' ' 
 
 Then he went away to change out of his hunt- 
 ing clothes, and she watched his departure with 
 a wistful exasperation, lying back on her sofa. 
 
 "What a nuisance a heart is!" she said to 
 herself. "He would have had it out with me 
 but for that."
 
 CHAPTEE VII 
 
 IT was at this time that Rackham took a reviv- 
 ing interest in the devastating Julia. Covertly 
 he watched her. 
 
 And she became aware of his notice. A 
 curious exultation marked her discovery. It 
 was a sign and a portent. . . . Not perhaps 
 of any sentiment on his part more real than the 
 unprofitable flirtation that had once fatally 
 blinded her, but of strange matters in the wind. 
 
 Was theje an ominous stirring of that past 
 rivalry in^iis manner? She thought so, hug- 
 ging the vanity that was all her armour and 
 stood in her soul for imagination. It helped 
 to quicken the instinct that had divined a 
 strangeness between Barnaby and Susan. 
 
 The insult of his trying to make a tool of her 
 twice did not touch her. If he wanted to play 
 the old trick it meant that he believed in the 
 old situation. The suspicion thrilled her, flat- 
 tered her wild surmises. . . . 
 
 She smiled on Rackham when he came call- 
 ing, late in one winter afternoon. 
 
 "What on earth are you doing?" he asked, 
 pushing back the gate with his whip and riding 
 into the yard. 
 
 128
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 129 
 
 "Shutting up the hens," said Julia. 
 
 With a scarf over her head and her skirts 
 tucked up (one fault of Julia's was clumsy 
 ankles) she was clucking at the door of the 
 fowlhouse, beguiling the creatures in. Her 
 rather tragic air was incongruous. 
 
 "I have to see to them myself," she com- 
 plained. "I can't trust the men. They'd let 
 them roost in the trees and the foxes would get 
 them, and besides they would steal the eggs. 
 It's an odd thing, Eackham, but, drunk or sober, 
 all grooms have a passion for boiled eggs." 
 
 "So I've heard," said Eackham, "and like 
 'em best poached. They say no groom can see 
 an egg without slipping it in his pocket." 
 
 Julia locked up the fowlhouse on its tenants 
 and sailed towards him dangling the key. Hens 
 and pigs were her domestic preoccupation and 
 she, the extravagant, the reckless, descended to 
 queer economies in the way of calculating 
 scraps. In a matter of potato peelings the 
 Irishwoman in her came angrily uppermost. 
 And she herded her live-stock in a tea-gown and 
 velvet slippers. . . . 
 
 "There isn't a soul in the place," she said. 
 "Did you come over to see the horses?" 
 
 "No. I came to see you," said Eackham 
 bluntly. "It seemed a wise way of spending 
 Sunday afternoon."
 
 130 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 Julia smiled. It was a long time since Back- 
 ham had spent Ms Sunday afternoons in that 
 fashion. She flung up her head with a conquer- 
 ing gesture that was the swift translation of 
 her thought, and waited while he led his horse 
 into an empty stall. 
 
 There was not much grandeur in Julia's sur- 
 roundings, and her belongings were negligible, 
 eclipsed by her. She lived with an uncle and a 
 loutish brother, who bowed down before her, 
 dreaded her a little ; and were her humble satel- 
 lites. Nobody took them into consideration 
 except an occasional innocent who was bitten 
 by them in a deal over horses. When they were 
 not unobtrusively selling screws on the skirts 
 of the hunt they were in Ireland; and in their 
 own house they were relegated to a snuffy little 
 study. Going in by the side door that gave on 
 to the stable-yard Julia and her caller passed 
 through that sanctum smelling of stale tobacco, 
 and went on to the drawing-room. 
 
 This was Julia's room, furnished in Eastern 
 style as known in London shops. Ease, just 
 missing elegance, was its feature ; and rich, deep 
 colours. She was too lazy to play the piano, 
 but a glorified barrel-organ supplied its ma- 
 chine-made music. And as it stood, where the 
 light fell on it, still in the place of honour, not
 
 131 
 
 yet dethroned since the time of mourning, a 
 photograph. 
 
 Eackham paused in front of it with a slight 
 chuckle, immediately suppressed. It looked un- 
 commonly large and lifelike in its massive silver 
 frame. 
 
 "That's a good 'un of Barnaby. When was 
 it done?" he asked. 
 
 Her sigh was reminiscent as she swept past 
 him to the fire. "I had it enlarged from one 
 of my smaller ones when when the dreadful 
 news came," she said. 
 
 "Ah . . . when he was dead," said Eack- 
 ham, and looked about him. She had accumu- 
 lated a big stock; it seemed to him that the 
 whole room was peppered with Barnaby. 
 Surely any other woman would have packed his 
 photographs out of sight, would have been a 
 bit ashamed of such a parade in the face of 
 facts. It was rather sublime how Julia was 
 sticking to her guns. 
 
 "That's where you used to sit," said Julia, 
 waving a ringed hand, and he subsided. It 
 really was like old times. It provoked expecta- 
 tion. 
 
 They sat a little while in silence. There was 
 a light as of old victories in Julia's face, and 
 she too seemed to be listening, waiting for his-
 
 132 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 tory to repeat itself. Absently she pushed the 
 cosy down on the tea-pot (fresh tea was never 
 made in that house) in anticipation of heaven 
 knew what other caller. Eackham, who had 
 not darkened her door for years, had turned 
 up. On the head of that, what miracles might 
 not happen? Vaguely excited she patted the 
 cosy and smiled on him. 
 
 It was the man who spoke first. He put his 
 cup down and met her glance. 
 
 * * Expecting anyone else I ' ' he said. 
 
 "No," said Julia, "no," breathing a little 
 quicker. 
 
 He could be sworn he had heard the gate 
 click and swing creaking against the bushes, 
 as it used to do. All at once he broke into un- 
 explained laughter. 
 
 Julia rose and stood by the chimney-piece, 
 her lips parted, her eyes expectant. It was a 
 fitting climax that it should be Barnaby that 
 walked in. 
 
 "Hullo!" said Eackham checking himself, 
 serene. 
 
 With him came Julia's uncle, wheezing; her 
 brother brought up the rear. They were talk- 
 ing horses. 
 
 "We're having a look at that mare," said 
 Barnaby, addressing himself to Julia. It was 
 perhaps Eackham 's quizzical scrutiny that stif-
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 133 
 
 fened his back and made his tone so formal. 
 He stood in the middle of the room as if he had 
 been precipitated into it by her relations, and 
 took no step forward. "Your uncle's asking 
 too much." 
 
 "What! Firefly?" said Rackham. "She 
 isn't up to your weight." 
 
 "I know that," said Barnaby curtly and 
 looked his cousin full in the face. * ' I want her 
 for my wife." 
 
 There was a kind of challenge in his tone. 
 
 "Oho. Just so," said Backham. "Shoul- 
 dering your cares. . . ." 
 
 It was a matter of years since these two had 
 sparred in Julia's drawing-room. How easy it 
 was to fall into the rusty habit, to ignore all 
 changes. After all it must be a bit upsetting 
 to walk suddenly into that familiar room and 
 find things all as they used to be, even to the 
 rival on the hearth. . . . Was Barnaby try- 
 ing his strength, or what? 
 
 It was just possible of course that a man who 
 had been badly damaged once on a time might 
 wish to prove to himself that he was sound, 
 might walk the old dangerous path in bravado, 
 to show that he was not giddy, to convince an 
 incredulous world that he could keep his head. 
 He might even be so thoroughly cured that it 
 .didn't strike him there was awkwardness in
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 the feat. He might have wiped the whole epi- 
 sode off his slate. But if that was so the old 
 rivalry would not have sprung to life so 
 promptly; he would not have looked at his 
 cousin as if he wanted to knock him down. 
 
 "Why didn't Susan come with you!" said 
 Eackham, though knowing in his soul that noth- 
 ing would lure the girl into Julia's house. He 
 had too vivid a recollection of that one scene 
 he had been privileged to witness before Bar- 
 naby had stepped on to the stage again. "If 
 you're buying the mare for her to ride she 
 ought to have a look at her. What will you do 
 if she doesn't like her? Much better let her 
 stick to that one of mine." 
 
 "She'll not ride your horses," said Barnaby, 
 and turned his shoulder to him. There was a 
 smouldering heat in him that only looked for a 
 spark to burst into conflagration. Lord! how 
 swiftly passion could bridge over the blotting 
 years. 
 
 "Oh, poor Susan!" said Eackham. "Must 
 she Bo as she is told? Do you find her so obe- 
 dient? . . . Well, I'm off. I'll beat a re- 
 treat. There are too many of you in here, old 
 chap: you outnumber me." 
 
 He couldn't resist that quip, beholding the 
 army of photographs that were sprinkled about 
 the room, and Barnaby himself in the middle
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 135 
 
 as large as life, as great a fool as ever. Some- 
 where in the background Julia's brother pene- 
 trated the joke, uttering a solitary guffaw. 
 
 "What d'you mean?" said Barnaby, wheel- 
 ing on him. 
 
 "Oh, nothing; nothing,'* said Backham mild- 
 ly, and took his leave, suppressing a suffocating 
 inclination to ribald mirth that had nearly mas- 
 tered him as he squeezed Julia's hand. There 
 was no doubting her view of the matter, her 
 purring intensity as of a pleased tiger-cat. He 
 wouldn't have missed that call for a hundred 
 pounds. And yet he wouldn't have bet on it. 
 What had brought him there had been simple 
 scouting, not the irresistible premonition that 
 is the true gambler's luck. 
 
 Was it conceivable that Barnaby was such an 
 idiot, such a madman, as things implied! Oh, 
 Lord, yes ! All things were possible ; Eackham 
 was sure of that. He let out his laughter when 
 he had got on to his horse and ridden into the 
 road, heedless of Julia's relations, who had seen 
 him off the premises and were looking on at his 
 riding. (Eackham had a reputation for back- 
 ing wicked brutes.) 
 
 Half way to the turning somebody barred his 
 progress. 
 
 "Stand and deliver," said Gregory Drake. 
 "We could hear you a mile off disturbing the
 
 136 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 Sabbath peace. What's the joke, you pi- 
 rate?" 
 
 Eackham pulled up. It was getting dusk and 
 his expression was not easily legible. He shook 
 his head. 
 
 1 'Nothing much," he said darkly. "I am 
 easily amused as you know. A trifling matter 
 of my eternal happiness and another chap's in- 
 fernal blunders." 
 
 "You don't expect us to understand that?" 
 said Gregory grumbling. 
 
 "Not I," said Eackham. "I'm not letting 
 you spoil my game. ' ' 
 
 "Oh, he's mad," said Gregory, whipping up. 
 He was driving tandem. "Where are you off 
 to with that vanload?" retorted Eackham, get- 
 ting on to the grass. "Wants a drop of oil in 
 the axles." 
 
 Gregory looked sheepish. 
 
 "Fact is," he said, "the motor has broken 
 down and we were obliged to haul out the fam- 
 ily coach. If you looked closer you'd see it's 
 nothing worse than a dog-cart. We're picking 
 up Julia Kelly." 
 
 "Oh, are you?" said Eackham. "I fancy 
 Julia is otherwise engaged. I've just been in." 
 
 It was odd how quickly they caught his mean- 
 ing. Kitty, hanging onto the back seat, lifted 
 her feathered crest.
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 137 
 
 "Hush!" she cried. "Hold your tongue, 
 Eackham ! I don 't believe you. ' ' 
 
 1 1 Well, ' > he said. ' ' Go and see. ' ' 
 
 "Do you actually mean," screamed Kitty, 
 standing up, holding on, incoherent "that 
 Barnaby is there." 
 
 "Oh, come," said Gregory, "suppose he has 
 strolled across for a chat with old Kelly, what's 
 the harm? He's married and done for, isn't 
 he? Pass the sponge over that business, 
 Kitty." 
 
 But Kitty was choking with righteous wrath. 
 
 "Drive on," she said. "Oh, you men! You 
 infatuated lot of babes! Sponge, indeed! If 
 I could wipe out Julia! Doesn't he know the 
 outrageous way she went on when he was dead ? 
 Doesn't he know that no self-respecting being 
 would give her an inch to spin ells and ells. 
 . . . And you are laughing, Eackham ! ' ' 
 
 He rode on his way unabashed, having started 
 the most arrant little gossip in Leicestershire 
 on his cousin's track. It would be a sad thing 
 if she didn't raise the country in her champion- 
 ship of Susan. Mischief certainly was afoot. 
 
 Kitty swung herself down the instant they 
 reached Julia's gate and ran up the gravel, 
 marching with feathers waving in at the open 
 porch. Her husband screwed himself round to 
 watch her ruefully as she disappeared. She
 
 138 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 was not a long time inside. Just long enough 
 to put her foot in it as Gregory muttered, quak- 
 ing. She was capable of going for Barnaby on 
 the spot, and putting his back up. The worst 
 way to manage him, as anyone might have 
 known. He hailed her anxiously when she 
 came out at last. 
 
 "Well?" he said. "Well?" and, getting no 
 answer "You haven't brought her?" 
 
 Kitty was alarmingly quiet; her vociferous 
 little voice was gone. She climbed up to her 
 perch and let them all wait vainly for a descrip- 
 tion of her encounter. 
 
 "No," she said, "I haven't. I've done with 
 Julia."
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 SUSAN was in the garden. 
 
 There had been a frost in the night, and the 
 4 bushes crackled; the late winter sun was thaw- 
 ing it in the branches. Behind the cloudy glass 
 in the greenhouses were primulas and hya- 
 cinths, and all manner of scented things, a 
 bright blur against the panes; but she walked 
 rather the slippery paths in the lifeless gar- 
 den. 
 
 She tried to picture the blackened tufts tall 
 spikes of blossom, and the long line of rose 
 trees, all muffled in dried fern, a bewildering 
 lane of sweetness. Imagination failed her. 
 The blackbird that shot out of the yew tree, 
 screaming his sharp, sweet call ; the little wag- 
 tail running at a wise distance in the path be- 
 hind; they might guess and remember what 
 they would find in spring. She would be gone 
 then ; she would have stepped off the stage. 
 
 Foolishly she counted up the memories she 
 would carry with her, looked back at the great 
 old house, so warm inside. Strange to think 
 of the time, so impossibly near, when Barnaby 
 would release her, would tell her that he had 
 
 139
 
 140 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 made his arrangements for her to slip out of 
 this fantastic life without scandal. 
 
 Well, she had played up to him; she had 
 never lifted a miserable face, imploring him 
 not to make her suffer so. 
 
 Something was choking in her throat. She 
 had not realised how utterly she must pass out 
 of his life until it struck her that she would 
 never see one of these English flowers. The 
 garden became unbearable, taunting her with its 
 unknown mysteries, its hidden promise; and 
 she hurried down the weather-stained wooden 
 steps into the park. 
 
 There were rabbit tracks in the grass, and 
 live things rustled in the spinney. A mat of 
 beech-leaves kept the primroses warm. She 
 leant wistfully over the rail, gazing down from 
 the slatted bridge at the water. It was rushing 
 past, very deep. 
 
 And then she found a snowdrop. . . . 
 
 She heard the dogs scampering and looked 
 up. 
 
 "There you are," said Barnaby, putting his 
 arm through hers in friendly fashion. " 
 The servants, you know!" he reminded her in 
 parenthesis, jerking his head towards the dis- 
 tant windows. "Let's gratify 'em, poor souls. 
 They'll like to see us arm in arm." 
 
 He threw a stick to the dogs, and they scur-
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 141 
 
 ried down the bank to retrieve it, but, missing 
 it, found distraction in rummaging for a water 
 rat. Then he turned again to Susan. She had 
 plucked the snowdrop. That at least was given 
 to her. . . . 
 
 "You looked like that flower," he said, un- 
 expectedly, "when I saw you first." 
 
 She answered him valiantly. 
 
 "Was I so pale with fright!" 
 
 "I wasn't thinking of that," he said; "but 
 the thing hasn't been so difficult, has it, after 
 all? I didn't ask too much of you? We have 
 been good comrades and all that, haven't we, 
 Susan ? You have never wished ? ' ' 
 
 Wished it undone? She could not speak. 
 It was over. He was going to tell her that it 
 was over. She thought of that far-off night of 
 amazement, of her panic-stricken impulse, of 
 his hand on her shoulder that had stopped her 
 flight. . . . Ah, it had been worth it all. 
 Passionately she was glad of it. She had had 
 so much. 
 
 "No," she said, "I have never wished " 
 and, like him, she left the words unfinished. 
 
 And then, with the past close upon her, she 
 forgot everything but him. How she used to 
 think of him, dream of him, dead, who had come 
 to her rescue! 
 
 "Oh!" she cried softly, touching his rough
 
 142 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 tweed sleeve, " isn't it wonderful that you are 
 alive ! ' ' 
 
 They stood a minute or two in silence, neither 
 speaking, and then Barnaby broke the spell. 
 
 "Why did you wander down here in all that 
 drenching grass?" he said. "Your feet are 
 wet." 
 
 She began to laugh, helplessly, and almost 
 against her will. 
 
 "How like a man!" she said. "You all 
 think it the direst calamity that can happen. 
 You remind me of Vernon Whitford, who, when 
 the poor heroine was despairing, was prin- 
 cipally troubled because her boots were damp." 
 
 "I know," said Barnaby. "That's my 
 mother's beloved book. She got me to read it 
 too. Some of it stumped me, but I remember 
 that much. How did it go?" his voice dropped. 
 ' ' ' He clasped the visionary little feet, to warm 
 them on his breast.' " 
 
 It hurt her to feel her cheek burning scarlet. 
 There was no reason. She hurried to defend 
 herself from the wild fancies that might fill a 
 dangerous pause. 
 
 "If," she said, and it was anger at herself 
 that made her voice unsteady, "I had thrown 
 myself over this bridge into the river, you 
 would have cried out indignantly 'She'll catch, 
 cold!'"
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 143 
 
 "I might," he said gravely. "We are ma- 
 terial wretches. You must come back with me 
 and change your stockings." 
 
 He marched her towards the house. One 
 startled, serious look he gave her, but his voice 
 maintained the determined lightness with 
 which it was necessary to face the realities of 
 their bargain. The funny side of it was the 
 only side that would bear looking at. 
 
 1 ' You 're not impatient ? " he said. * ' You like 
 the hunting? and the life over here? Can you 
 stand it a little longer? We'll clear as soon as 
 we decently can, and think out the tragedy that 
 shall part us." 
 
 "Yes," she said; she was a little breathless. 
 The windows yonder were winking flame; it 
 looked as if the house was on fire, but it was 
 only the setting sun. . . . 
 
 "There's that horse my mother presented to 
 you," he went on. "You will have to keep him 
 as a souvenir. Hang him round your neck in 
 a locket, what ? ' ' 
 
 She could but laugh at his whimsical sug- 
 gestion. 
 
 "I'll keep nothing," she said. "An actress 
 doesn't claim the stage properties; her paper 
 crown, her gilt goblet, her royal dresses. Not 
 a poor strolling actress like me, at least. 
 Please, please " her voice shook a little. He
 
 144 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 i 
 
 must be made to understand so much, jest and 
 
 earnest. "Let me go out as you snuff a 
 candle. ' ' 
 
 "Will you?' 'he said. 
 
 They had nearly reached the house; the 
 glancing windows that had shone afire in their 
 eyes were dark. 
 
 "I didn't come out to plan tragedies," said 
 Barnaby. "I was sent to fetch you. The 
 Duchess is in there with my mother. There's 
 the Hunt Ball on in a day or two, and she 
 wants us to dine and go with her party. I 
 think she has some notion of keeping her eye 
 on you. She thinks that I treat you badly. ' ' 
 
 Susan hung back. 
 
 "Must I go?" she said. 
 
 "Of course," he said cheerily. "I'd never 
 hear the last of it if I went without you. And 
 my mother is awfully keen on you eclipsing the 
 rest. She's sending in to the bank for all the 
 family trinkets." 
 
 "I wonder you are not afraid of my running 
 away with them," she flung at him recklessly. 
 
 Barnaby laughed at her as one might at a 
 foolish child. 
 
 "Oh," he said. "I'll be there, mounting 
 guard. ' '
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 145 
 
 The Duchess was lodged in a ramshackle way 
 over a shop. She was not particular. After 
 hiring all the stabling that was to be had in 
 Melton, she had packed herself into a few odd 
 rooms, approached by a dark entry and a nar- 
 row stair. It made her feel, she said, like an 
 eagle. 
 
 But sometimes her hospitality outdid her ac- 
 commodation. On the night of the ball she had 
 asked as many people as could be squeezed into 
 her dining-room; all intimate enough not to 
 mind rubbing elbows; and dinner was a 
 scramble. 
 
 "The youngest," she proposed, "shall sit 
 with his back to the door, and duck when the 
 plates are handed in over his head. . . . 
 Do be careful. I put a little man there last 
 year, but when the door opened he used to 
 chuck up his head like a horse, and smashed no 
 end of china." 
 
 Having settled this, she threw up a window 
 and rang a bell violently up and down. 
 
 "That is for dinner," she said. "It has to 
 be cooked outside, and my people dawdle so. 
 Would you believe it, I was ten minutes ringing 
 for my maid when I came in from hunting. 
 She lodges a few doors higher up, and I had 
 quite a crowd in the street."
 
 146 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 "I remember," said Kilgour, "last time I 
 dined with you, one or two bets were laid as to 
 what was happening to the soup in the street 
 below." 
 
 "Accidents do happen," she acknowledged. 
 "It isn't quite true, however, that I stuck out 
 my head once and caught them scooping up the 
 sauce." 
 
 Susan, wedged in a corner between Kilgour 
 and another equally massive person, was puz- 
 zled by the face of a woman opposite, who was 
 smiling at her. 
 
 "Don't you know me?" said she. "I recog- 
 nised you by the dress you have on. I am 
 Melisande." 
 
 She noticed the girl's bewildered look at her 
 yellow hair. 
 
 "I keep a black transformation for the 
 shop," she said. "My own idea. But didn't 
 you know my nose? How dear of you to for- 
 get it. People call it my trade mark, and say 
 it's Jewish. The worst is, I haven't really shut 
 up shop. I have a young hedgehog to chaperon 
 here to-night. Oh, I am perfectly unashamed ! 
 She is all prickles, but worth a great deal of 
 money. I really couldn't bring her down with 
 me, so she is coming by herself in a special 
 train, or some such extravagance. I thought 
 she might do for Eackham."
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 147 
 
 1 ' What f ' ' said Barnaby. ' ' Aren 't you rather 
 hard on my cousin!" 
 
 "It is because he is your cousin," said 
 Melisande, "I am offering him the hedgehog. 
 Have you ever considered what your reappear- 
 ance meant to him? Don't we all know how 
 hard up he is, and what a boon your inheri- 
 tance would have been? If I don't step, in 
 with my benefaction he'll possibly murder 
 you. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Scarcely ! ' ' said Barnaby. 
 
 "Let me see," said Melisande. "Give me 
 your hand." 
 
 But he would not. 
 
 "You will frighten my wife," he said. 
 
 "Give me the glass he was drinking out of," 
 said Melisande. Barnaby 's neighbour pushed 
 it over to her, and she peered into it with alarm- 
 ing gravity. Silence waited on her prediction. 
 She raised the glass, swung it round thrice, and 
 spilt a little water. 
 
 "I've thrown out a misfortune," she said. 
 "A terrible misfortune," and looked round for 
 applause. 
 
 "I am eternally obliged to you," said Bar- 
 naby. * ' Thanks ! ' ' But she would not give up 
 his glass. 
 
 "There are strange things here," she said, 
 clasping her hands, and gazing into it with half-
 
 148 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 shut eyes. Barnaby reached over and cap- 
 tured the glass. 
 
 "We don't want her to reveal all our secrets, 
 do we, Susan?" he said, and saved the situa- 
 tion by drinking the secrets down. 
 
 His presence of mind turned the laugh 
 against Melisande, whose expression was a 
 study. Ignoring public ridicule, she affected to 
 meditate on his disturbing action. 
 
 "I wish I could remember what that por- 
 tends," she said solemnly. "I rather think it 
 was fatal." 
 
 But Barnaby refused to be overawed. He 
 was in a mood of tearing gaiety that Susan did 
 not quite understand. She herself, although 
 she knew that it was absurd, had had a super- 
 stitious fear of that glass of water. . . . 
 
 "Let's go on to the ball," said the Duchess. 
 
 In the general confusion the girl found her- 
 self on the stairs with Melisande, still ruffled. 
 Somehow their glances met. 
 
 "Barnaby would turn anything into a joke. 
 He was always like that," said she. "He 
 hasn't any sense of decorum." 
 
 " And you witches," remarked Kilgour, 
 who was close behind, "haven't a sense of 
 humour." 
 
 The sorceress pursed her lips. 
 
 "Was there anything bad?" asked Susan.
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 149 
 
 She was ashamed of the foolish impulse that 
 made her ask. Melisande looked at her in- 
 dulgently. But her disclaimer was too hasty 
 to be convincing. In a way, it was more dis- 
 quieting than if she had overwhelmed the 
 sinner's wife with evil prognostications. 
 
 " There was nothing in it. Nothing!" she 
 said, but her voice lacked conviction. 
 
 "That's right. Don't frighten us," said 
 Kilgour. 
 
 Susan was not frightened. But she could 
 not shake off an unaccountable nervousness ; - 
 could not forget Melisande 's wild sayings. 
 . . . Why was she afraid of Eackham? 
 
 It was odd that as soon as they came into 
 the ballroom her eyes should light on him. 
 Everybody was arriving at once, jammed in 
 under the gallery; and Eackham was push- 
 ing through the crowd to her side, and she 
 could not fly. 
 
 "What is the matter?" said Barnaby. 
 "Why, you're trembling 1 ?" 
 
 The truth came out before she could stop her- 
 self, though she could not explain it. 
 
 "I am shy," she said. " And I don't want 
 to dance with your cousin. ' ' 
 
 He did not scoff at her. He took her pro- 
 gramme and scribbled his name across it. 
 
 "See," he said. "Whatever he asks you
 
 150 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 for, say you're dancing it with me. How will 
 that do! Fill it in with any of the others, of 
 course, just as you like ; and let me know what 
 I am booked for later." 
 
 He moved on in the swaying throng, dis- 
 tracted by somebody signalling to him, hailed 
 on all sides, nodding to his friends. Other 
 men were surrounding Susan. She could smile 
 at them now, although Eackham was at her 
 side. 
 
 "They're just finishing number one," he 
 said. "Will you give me number two?" 
 
 "I am dancing it with my husband." 
 
 "Number three, then?" 
 
 "I am dancing it with my husband." 
 
 Another claimed her attention ; she gave him 
 a dance quickly. Kilgour, who could not get 
 near her, held up five fingers to her above the 
 bobbing heads in the crowd. She counted them 
 gaily, putting down the number. 
 
 Eackham was still at her side, insisting, but 
 her answer was the same. He looked at her 
 queerly. 
 
 "You seem to be dancing everything, more 
 or less, with your husband. ' ' 
 
 Kitty Drake, floating in like a smoke wreath, 
 put in her word. 
 
 "A husband," she said sapiently, "is the
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 151 
 
 only possible partner for a frock like hers. 
 7 always come to the Melton Ball in rags." 
 
 But when Eackham had departed, she looked 
 curiously at Susan. 
 
 "You were rude to him," she whispered. 
 "Was it the frock, or what? I am safe." 
 
 "I don't know," said Susan. "It is very 
 unreasonable of me, but I am always a little 
 frightened when he is near me. ' ' 
 
 Kitty seemed to think that she understood. 
 
 "Keason?" she said. "My good girl, I've 
 known more women wrecked because they 
 were ashamed to give in to their frightened 
 instincts than I dare remember. Don't begin 
 to reason! It's simply a machine for making 
 mistakes; it never mends them. Go and be 
 happy. Go and dance with your husband!" 
 
 Barnaby had come to her, and there was pity 
 as well as liking in Kitty's little push. 
 
 "Shall we begin?" he said, and his arm went 
 round her as she swung out with him on to the 
 shining floor. Dimly she was aware of music, 
 of lights and people; an atmosphere of en- 
 chantment. 
 
 "Tired?" he said, pausing. 
 
 "Tired? Oh, no," she panted, as if he had 
 asked her the strangest question. 
 
 "I didn't know you could ride," he said,
 
 152 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 "and I didn't know you danced. I really 
 know very little about you, Susan. ' ' 
 
 They had stopped a minute near a ring of 
 idlers who had drifted on to the floor, and 
 somebody caught up his words. 
 
 "Have you never danced with her before, 
 Barnaby?" 
 
 "No," he said, and bent to gather her train 
 himself, that the weight of it should not tire 
 her arm. 
 
 "Do you hear that?" chuckled the man be- 
 hind them. "Never rode with her, never 
 danced with her. What on earth did he find 
 to do?" 
 
 "Made love to her, of course." 
 
 Susan felt his arm tighten round her as they 
 whirled into the dizzy spaces. 
 
 "I've never made love to you, have I, 
 Susan!" 
 
 He was breathing quicker; her cheek almost 
 touched his as he bent his head ; her pulses were 
 beating in tune with his. In a sudden faintness 
 she shut her eyes. 
 
 And then the music crashed into silence 
 and she was leaning against a pillar, stupidly 
 watching the brilliant scene. There was a 
 great buzz of talking under the gallery, and 
 Barnaby was turning to his friends. She 
 heard his voice now and then amidst the babe! 2
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 153 
 
 but it was Kilgour and Gregory Drake who 
 were trying to amuse her, picking out the celeb- 
 rities, good and wicked, in that assembly of 
 glittering dresses and scarlet coats. 
 
 "You'll notice, " Kilgour was saying, "it's 
 the older men who are dancing, and the 
 young 'uns are looking on. They've no 
 stamina, the lads! Do you see that woman 
 like a tub, with hungry eyes? She was a 
 beauty once, but when her admirers began to 
 slink off she went in for spirits that awfully 
 unpleasant kind that you can't absorb. She's 
 always calling 'em up and setting 'em on to tell 
 tales about her dearest friends." 
 
 "Yes," said Gregory, "it's really more un- 
 healthy to offend her now than when she was 
 an anarchist and used to spring little clicking 
 machines on you and offered to explain how 
 they worked. She got into hot water once, 
 while it lasted, making herself a side-show at 
 a bazaar. Some foreign personage was attend- 
 ing, and a rumour started that she meant to 
 wind up her clock in earnest. It emptied the 
 hall like winking. The Board of Charitables 
 were no end annoyed." 
 
 "They say her fellow anarchists begged her 
 to take her name off their books. Said she 
 brought 'em into contempt. ' ' 
 
 "That wasn't why," said Gregory. "It was
 
 154 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 because she would bring Toby, her mastiff, to 
 all their meetings. He and Biff, the thing she 
 carried in her muff, used to scare 'em out of 
 their lives." 
 
 "Look at that shop window!" said Kil- 
 gour, as another woman, smothered in dia- 
 monds, canted past. 
 
 "American, isn't she? Cummerbatch mar- 
 ried her for her money, and of course they're 
 wretched. It never pays " 
 
 Susan was conscious that the speaker had 
 checked himself, in his face a ludicrous awk- 
 wardness. Had the world jumped to a similar 
 conclusion about her and Barnaby? Instinc- 
 tively she turned her head. She wanted to 
 share the joke with him, to see his delighted 
 appreciation ; but he was not near. 
 
 And he did not dance with her any more. 
 The night dragged on, and one man after 
 another bent his sleek head and offered her 
 his arm. All Barnaby's friends were rallying 
 to her flag. Still, in its turn, would come a 
 star in her card, a dance that found her 
 waiting for a partner who did not come. 
 
 After one of these blanks she came face to 
 face with him in the Lancers. He was romp- 
 ing as violently as the rest, charging down the 
 room; and as the chain of dancers burst it
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 155 
 
 was his arm that kept her from falling into a 
 bank of pale tulips against the wall. 
 
 "Wasn't the last dance ours?" he said. 
 "I'm awfully sorry: but you are getting on 
 all right, aren't you? Plenty of substitutes? 
 I've been watching them buzzing round you." 
 
 She smiled at him bravely. How like life 
 this dancing was . . . meeting and parting, 
 and strange companions. . . . For the first 
 and last time she was linking arms with 
 Julia. 
 
 Later on she saw Eackham on his way to 
 her. It was almost the first time that evening 
 that she was unsurrounded. She had felt 
 him watching her ; awaiting his time to swoop. 
 Barnaby had not been visible during the last 
 two dances, and this, alas! was one that was 
 glorified with a star. 
 
 "Yes," said Eackham, before she could 
 speak, "I know; you are dancing it with 
 your husband." 
 
 There was no anger in his voice; only a 
 kind -of sardonic amusement, as if he could 
 afford to forgive her for that rebuff. She 
 looked vainly for Barnaby. 
 
 "As a matter of fact," said Eackham coolly, 
 "he has delegated his privilege to me." 
 
 "I am tired," she said. It was true; very, 
 tired and forsaken.
 
 156 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 "Then we'll sit it out," said Eackham, no 
 whit abashed. He carried his point over her 
 weariness; she wondered dully why she had 
 been afraid of him, and she was too sad to 
 struggle. She let Trim take her up the stairs 
 into the far corner of the gallery, now de- 
 serted, and sat with her arms on the rail, gaz- 
 ing absently on the flitting brightness that 
 mocked her wistful mood below. 
 
 All at once she started. Her wandering 
 thoughts were fixed. 
 
 "What are you saying to me?" she cried. 
 
 Eackham was very near her, his head bent, 
 his voice low and passionate in her ears. 
 
 "What I have always wanted to say to you," 
 he said. "You guessed it, didn't you! You 
 were a little afraid of me; just a little. 
 You've been trying to put it off. . . . 
 But don't you remember the first time we met 
 and that afternoon down by the spinney, 
 when I told you I was your friend 1 ' ' 
 
 She began to shiver. His hand, shutting the 
 idle fan, was imprisoning hers as it clenched 
 itself on her knee. 
 
 ' ' I was not listening to you ! ' ' she cried des- 
 perately. "I was not thinking of you. How 
 dare you?" 
 
 "What were you thinking of then!" said 
 Eackham. "Not of Barnaby, who has gone
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 157 
 
 back to his first love and forgotten that you 
 exist." 
 
 "He sent you to me," she said piteously. 
 
 "Oh, that was a lie," said Eackham. "He 
 didn't even trouble as much as that." 
 
 She had sprung to her feet and her face was 
 as white as ashes. For how long had this man 
 been telling her that he loved her? She had 
 been deaf to him, had caught his words with- 
 out understanding their import, murmuring 
 "Yes" to him, while her eyes and her heart 
 were searching for one figure to pass in the 
 dizzy scene below. 
 
 "You are mad," she said. 
 
 "Mad if you like," said Eackham. "After 
 all, I am Barnaby's cousin, and it's probably 
 in our blood. Look at him, still crazed over 
 a woman who jilted him years ago ! ' ' 
 
 She flung up her head, compelled by a pite- 
 ous instinct to play her part. 
 
 "And I am Barnaby's wife," she said 
 bravely. 
 
 He looked at her fixedly, making no motion 
 to let her pass him. 
 
 "Are you?" he said. 
 
 The band seemed to burst into clamour and 
 die away; but they were all dancing; there 
 must be music still, although she could not hear 
 anything but these two syllables. She kept her
 
 158 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 eyes steady. Perhaps he did not grasp the sig- 
 nificance of his words. 
 
 "You have insulted me enough," she said to 
 Mm slowly. 
 
 A wild eagerness lighted his face. 
 
 "I'm not insulting you," he said. "I leave 
 that to him. . . . I'm asking you to be my 
 wife, Susan. Let him go. Let him release 
 himself. Leave him to the woman from whom 
 you can't keep him. Come away with me, 
 and marry me!" 
 
 "I cannot," she said. 
 
 He had to fall back then and let her go. 
 But he followed her down the stairs. The 
 light in his eyes flickered out, leaving a sullen 
 admiration. 
 
 "Well," he said, "I warn you. I've a bit 
 of a score to settle with Barnaby. ' ' 
 
 She turned on him. She had reached the 
 bottom; her foot was on the crimson carpet 
 that lay under the gallery; a little way off 
 a handful of men were talking with their backs 
 turned, hilarious at the climax of a sporting 
 tale. She looked at the dark face above her; 
 her lips were white now, her eyes were blazing. 
 "Are you threatening him?" she cried, and 
 the devil in Eackham smiled. 
 
 She took a few rash steps, hardly knowing in 
 what direction.
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 159 
 
 "You needn't look for him here," said Rack- 
 ham bitterly. "Don't let his friends think you 
 jealous. " 
 
 From where, she stood she could see in at 
 the open doorway of one of the sitting-out 
 rooms, a dim, mysterious haunt of palms, the 
 chairs drawn back in the shadow. Was not 
 that Barnaby and a woman in a glittering green 
 dress, listening with her face uplifted ? 
 
 Ah, what right had she to run to him! 
 One of the men standing about under the gal- 
 lery had looked round. She heard him mutter 
 it was a shame. What was a shame ! Not any- 
 thing that could be spoken or done to her. 
 . . . She threw up her head, walking 
 straight on as if she were walking in her sleep. 
 
 The Duchess and Kitty Drake were together 
 half-way up the room; they moved down to 
 meet her, exchanging looks. 
 
 "My dear," said the Duchess solemnly, 
 "you look fatigued. " 
 
 "I am tired," she said. 
 
 "I thought so. Fagged out. You have 
 danced too much. Major Willes " 
 
 She called a man to her side and sent him 
 on an immediate errand. When he was gone 
 she returned to Susan. 
 
 "I've sent somebody to fetch your husband,"
 
 160 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 she said. "He ought to take more care of you. 
 I shall scold him. ' ' 
 
 "Oh, don't!" she cried faintly, but her 
 champions took no notice; and soon Barnaby 
 himself came swinging along the room. 
 
 "Barnaby," said the Duchess, "you ought 
 to be ashamed of yourself. Take your wife up 
 to supper." 
 
 The first rush was over upstairs in the sup- 
 per-room, and Barnaby found a corner. She 
 sat with him at a little round table behind a tall 
 plant that shut off the world with its wide green 
 fronds, some sheltering exotic. And he was 
 pouring out champagne, a drink she hated. 
 She put her hand over the top of the glass, and 
 he caught it and lifted it off, holding it in his 
 while he poured on unchecked. 
 
 "It's not good stuff, but it's good for you. 
 Drink!" he said. 
 
 He seemed to be laughing at her from an im- 
 measurable distance ; his prescription had made 
 her dizzy. 
 
 "It will go off in a minute; you wanted it 
 badly," he was saying, in a voice that sounded 
 far away and unlike his own. 
 
 "It has gone to my head," she said, appeal- 
 ing to him. "I'm afraid I shall say something 
 silly. Don't let me. Don't let me talk.
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 161 
 
 "Why not? There is nobody listening, 5 " he 
 was saying, encouraging her; amused. 
 
 And Susan heard her own voice. Her head 
 was spinning; she was talking against her will. 
 
 "Why did you never come back and dance 
 with me?" she was asking. It seemed to her 
 that there was a long pause, and then his an- 
 swer came, low and close. 
 
 "I did not dare," he said. 
 
 "Oh," she said piteously; no, not she, but 
 the imprudent, tired girl whose head was giddy, 
 and who did not know what she said. "Oh, 
 how funny!" 
 
 Perhaps he was throwing dust in people's 
 eyes, trying to blind them to his fluttering, 
 like a burnt moth, round Julia. If they saw 
 him sitting up here in a corner with her, and 
 she was happy, they would think there was 
 nothing in it. He must be trying to make her 
 laugh. Well, she must help him. She could 
 say something funny too. 
 
 "There's a man downstairs," she told him, 
 "who asked me to marry him." 
 
 "What?" said Barnaby. He started as if 
 he had been shot. 
 
 "He said he loved me," she repeated. "He 
 wished me to go away and release you and 
 marry him." 
 
 "Who?"
 
 162 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 "You were with the only woman yon ever 
 cared for. That was what he said. I had no- 
 body to keep him away from me. . . ." 
 
 "Oh, I was with the woman I cared for, was 
 I?" he said. "And who the devil is it wants 
 horsewhipping when I get at him!" 
 
 The deadly calm in his voice arrested her. 
 What had she said to him, babbling in her un- 
 happiness? Alarm steadied her; the dizziness 
 was passing. 
 
 "I will not tell you," she said, forgetting 
 how vainly she had looked for him to shield 
 her. 
 
 His eyes were blue as steel. She had never 
 seen him angry until to-night. 
 
 "I'll make you," he said. 
 
 They stared at each other a minute, her eyes 
 as unflinching as his were hard. Across the 
 silly little supper table with its glass and sil- 
 ver, its green, gold-tipped bottles, and its 
 tumbled flowers, he leaned and gripped her 
 hands. 
 
 "Did you tell him you are not my wife?" 
 he said. 
 
 There was a whiff of scent in their neigh- 
 bourhood ; the great green fronds spreading be- 
 hind him were rudely stirred. A passing 
 couple must have brushed against that screen 
 on their way to the stairs. A burst of merri-
 
 " Did you tell him you are not my wife ? " he said
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 163 
 
 ment came from the upper end of the room. 
 But these two were as much alone as if it had 
 been a desert. 
 
 So that was why he was angry. He believed 
 that she had broken faith. . . . 
 
 "I told him nothing," she said. 
 
 Barnaby took a long breath. She felt his 
 grip relax. 
 
 "You are a good girl," he said. "You 
 wouldn't break your promise. I suppose I've 
 no right to order you: I'll find him out for 
 myself. Tell me one thing, and we'll let it 
 go" 
 
 She waited. There had been something very 
 bitter to her in his relief. All he asked of her 
 was to keep the secret until he was tired of the 
 joke. . . . 
 
 "Susan," he said. "Did you want to tell 
 him?" 
 
 What did that matter to him? Supposing 
 she had wanted? Supposing she would have 
 given worlds to exchange her difficult post for 
 one so different, so secure ? Her cheek burned. 
 
 "I would sooner have died," she said. 
 
 Rackham stood under the gallery in a black 
 mood, watching the Duchess send her messen- 
 ger to hunt out the missing husband. He saw 
 Julia, bereft of her cavalier, pausing uncer-
 
 164 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 tainly; and a satiric impulse moved him to join 
 her. 
 
 "Come and have supper with me," he said. 
 
 "I am engaged to Barnaby," she said, a lit- 
 tle defiantly. 
 
 " They've sent him up with his wife," he 
 retorted, and his mocking tone seemed to please 
 her. She submitted and pressed his arm. 
 
 "Poor Barnaby!" she said. "It's an awful 
 muddle." 
 
 She was looking very lovely and pathetic. 
 The man who had once been entangled a little 
 way in her toils himself and, having failed to 
 succumb, was naturally inclined to despise her, 
 admired her pose. It was hardly to be won- 
 dered at if Barnaby, who had been mad about 
 her once, should be incapable of resisting the 
 allurement of these dark eyes, so deep and so 
 reproachful. He could not help speculating 
 how far she was in earnest, and how far a 
 hurt vanity inspired her. Curiosity piqued 
 him. 
 
 "I understand," he said gravely, as they 
 passed out and began to climb to the supper- 
 room. It amused him to feel that her con- 
 fidential attitude, her claim on his sympathy, 
 was a subtle intimation that he had been the 
 unlucky cause of the fatal misunderstanding, 
 and must therefore be kind to her. All at once
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 165 
 
 lie had a perverse inclination to cast himself 
 in the scale again. Why not? It would be 
 a bitter joke on Barnaby, and it suited his 
 savage humour. 
 
 "I like your dress," he said. His change of 
 tone surprised her. She glanced at him swiftly, 
 half-turning as she mounted, her green gar- 
 ments rippling as she lifted her train on one 
 smooth arm, displaying a whirl of skirts and 
 one little green sequin slipper. "Ah," she 
 said, "down below they've been reviling me 
 for a mermaid, and complaining bitterly of 
 my tail." 
 
 "And so," said Eackham, "the little slipper 
 is betrayed, to dispel the illusion!" 
 
 "Perhaps," said Julia. She used, at one 
 time, to smile up in his face like that. . . . 
 A vindictive sense of his power possessed him, 
 flattering him on this night of defeat. In his 
 heart he was still fiercely worshipping the pale 
 girl who had flouted him, clinging obstinately 
 Oh, she was a fool, and so was Barnaby; and 
 the irony of it was that he had only to lift Ms 
 finger ! 
 
 "We'll find a place by ourselves," he said, 
 confidentially, passing into the room. Inside it 
 he took a step or two, glancing about him. 
 There were vacant seats on the right, but the 
 tables had a battered air. Further down,
 
 166 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 perhaps ; yes, further down, near the wall. 
 He turned back to look for his partner, and the 
 sight of her face amazed him. With a prompt- 
 itude, that surprised himself he pulled her 
 back, and got her outside the room. Was Jt 
 possible that he had been mistaken in her, or 
 could a woman push affectation as far as 
 that? 
 
 She broke into a kind of gasping exclamation 
 that was not intelligible at first, and he stared 
 at her in limitless amazement. 
 
 "Oh, poor Barnaby, oh, poor Barnaby!" she 
 repeated. There was a ring of triumph in her 
 incoherent voice. She had gone mad, he 
 fancied. 
 
 1 ' Hush ! " he said. ' ' They '11 hear you. ' ' 
 
 He was glad he had shut that door, and 
 thankful there was not a soul on the stairs. 
 
 "I was right!" she said, "I was right. 
 . . . I knew it! You were there when she 
 came here first as his widow, and I told his 
 mother to her face it was a wicked plot!" 
 
 "Julia," said Rackham, "you don't know 
 what you are saying." 
 
 She controlled herself a little. He held her 
 wrist. 
 
 "Didn't you see them in there?" she 
 asked. "Didn't you hear him?" 
 
 "If you mean Barnaby," he said, "I was
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 167 
 
 looking out for our places. I didn't notice 
 whereabouts they were till you clutched at me. 
 They didn't see us at all." 
 
 "I heard him," she said, in the same wild 
 key of triumph. "I heard his own words. 
 He said she was not his wife." 
 
 "Hush!" said Eackham vehemently, and 
 then, more slowly " Julia, are you sure of 
 that?" 
 
 She tried to imitate him, to whisper, but 
 she was too excited. 
 
 "Sure!" she said, laughing hysterically. 
 "I know his voice so well. There was a green 
 plant between us " 
 
 "Wait," said Eackham. "There's some- 
 body coming. We'll go down. Damn! there 
 are people everywhere ! Get a shawl, and 
 we'll go out into the street." 
 
 Julia resisted him. 
 
 "Why are you dragging me away?" she re- 
 belled. "You can't keep me quiet. Think how 
 I've been treated! I could scream it to all the 
 world!" 
 
 A woman could not have silenced her, but 
 her emotional nature yielded finally to the 
 rough coaxing of a man. He almost swung her 
 downstairs into the draughty passage and, 
 raiding the ladies' cloakroom, snatched up 
 the first wrap that lay to his hand.
 
 168 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 A chill wind blew up the steps, but there 
 was still a persistent crew of gazers loiter- 
 ing in the street below. Rackham led her past, 
 and they strolled a little way into the darkness, 
 lighted at intervals by a twinkling lamp. There 
 was no danger there of her making scenes. 
 
 "Now," he said. "Now, Julia !" 
 
 "They shall all hear the truth!" she cried. 
 She hung on his arm, gesticulating. 
 
 "You wouldn't betray him?" said Back- 
 ham, sounding her. 
 
 "Him?" she said. "Poor Barnaby! He 
 and I are the victims. Don't you understand 
 yet? When she thought he was dead his 
 mother just to crush me, just to humble me 
 in the dust! hired this creature. Don't you 
 remember how she sprung her on us? Who 
 had heard of a marriage? Oh, it was a judg- 
 ment on her when he came home!" 
 
 "She'd hardly look at the case in that 
 light," he said. But Julia was impervious 
 to irony. 
 
 "He should have considered me first," she 
 said. "Why do men always sacrifice the one 
 they love best? It's a kind of cruel unself- 
 ishness. I was his dearest, a part of himself, 
 and so and so I'm to bear this trial ! But 
 he might have trusted me!" 
 
 She was either laughing or sobbing, he was
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 169 
 
 not sure which; the cloak that muffled her hid 
 her face; but her voice raged on, half furious, 
 half triumphant. 
 
 "Of course, she's blackmailing him," she 
 said. "That wretch has got him in the hollow 
 of her hand! If he disowned her it would all 
 come out, and it would disgrace his mother. 
 He was always quixotic. And so he is tem- 
 porising till he can bribe her to disappear. 
 But Lady Henrietta has no claim on my for- 
 bearance!" 
 
 She had to pause for breath, and he managed 
 to get in his word. 
 
 "I am going to advise you," he said, "to 
 keep quiet over this." 
 
 They had come to the end of the street, and 
 were walking back. A dazzle of lights in the 
 distance marked the Corn Exchange. A motor 
 whirred past, its lamps sending a brief glare 
 that was like a searchlight. Already a few 
 were leaving. 
 
 "Why?" she said, staring at him. 
 
 "You'll be a fool if you talk," he said. "If 
 Barnaby is holding his tongue for his mother's 
 sake, is it likely he'll give way? And you have 
 no proofs. Whatever you say, he'll deny it. 
 He mightn't forgive you, either. Be sensible. 
 . . . Wait a bit, and I'll make inquiries." 
 
 It struck her then as odd that he had ac-
 
 170 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 cepted her words himself, without argument, 
 with no incredulous opposition, such as she 
 was beginning to realise must fall to her lot if 
 she published her tale abroad. 
 
 "Did you know from the first?" she 
 cried. 
 
 "No," said Eackham, "I didn't know. But 
 I guessed." 
 
 They had nearly reached the steps, and he 
 slackened, regarding her narrowly ; but already 
 she was subdued. It was characteristic of her 
 that she had never seen his admiration for the 
 impostor. Vast as her imagination was, it was 
 blinded by centring on herself. 
 
 * ' And you '11 help me I You are on my side ? ' ' 
 she said. 
 
 He knew then that he had prevailed. 
 
 "As long as you are wise," he said. They 
 went up the steps together. 
 
 "I had better find my party," she said 
 hurriedly. "I want to go home. Poor Bar- 
 naby! I can't bear to meet him. I am too 
 agitated." 
 
 Eackham took back the borrowed cloak and 
 strolled along the passage, in no hurry to 
 return to the ballroom. People were passing 
 in and out; some of them were saying good-
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 171 
 
 night, and one pair were wrangling on their 
 way to the door. 
 
 "Who was the man you were flirting with in 
 the street?" said the lover in an angry stutter. 
 The lady scoffed. 
 
 "What a story!" 
 
 "My brother saw you go out. He came up 
 and chaffed me." 
 
 "Your brother is a donkey. It must have 
 been someone else. ' ' 
 
 "I tell you he recognised you by that chiffon 
 fal-lal you wear!" 
 
 Eackham stood on one side. Let them fight 
 it out. . . . Then his mouth hardened. 
 What was he going to do ? He had managed to 
 prevent Julia from spoiling it all, and as long 
 as he could keep her quiet the cards were in his 
 hands.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 "I WON'T let you go home," said the Duchess. 
 41 Barnaby can do as he likes, but you're too 
 tired to mind sleeping in a cupboard." 
 
 She held Susan firmly by the arm as she 
 spoke; she had motives. Barnaby deserved 
 to be punished; his conduct with Julia had 
 really been scandalous. But a worn-out girl, 
 a wisp of white satin, was no match for a 
 naughty husband. She would burst into tears 
 and forgive him. Let Barnaby go home by 
 himself, feeling guilty, and brood upon his un- 
 kindness. She would tell Susan what to do to 
 him in the morning. 
 
 With rough kindness she hustled the girl 
 away with her, and having collected her party, 
 ordered them to bed. 
 
 "Because," she said, "until some of you 
 are disposed of I can't tell what to do with the 
 others, and I want to know if there are beds 
 enough to go round." 
 
 Susan was the first to be bundled into her 
 attic, and lay wearily listening to a far-off: 
 commotion. When at last the household had 
 settled down there was a fresh disturbance, and 
 
 172
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 173 
 
 the elder of the two foreign maids mounted, 
 carrying an armful of pillows. 
 
 The Duchess herself followed, to excuse the 
 indicated invasion. She was already in her 
 dressing-gown. The maid set up a chair bed 
 that had stood, doubled up, in the corner, and 
 was sent out of the room for a minute. 
 
 "I've come to apologise," said the Duchess, 
 "for pitchforking a stranger into your room 
 like this; but I'm sorry for the woman. You 
 are the only one of them I can depend on not 
 to be horrid to her.'* 
 
 She looked round, measuring the space that 
 was to be shared. "I hope," she said, "you 
 won't bump into each other. The truth is, 
 I have a shocking custom of sticking my head 
 out of the window when something is going 
 on outside; and just as I was getting into bed 
 I heard a tremendous buzzing. Everybody 
 must have started. If this was somebody's 
 motor gone wrong, I supposed I ought to offer 
 my hospitality. And it was. The chauffeur 
 was grovelling; a man I knew was storming 
 at him; and a woman wringing her hands on 
 the pavement. I knew her too, perfectly, and 
 she had no business in that man's car." 
 
 She stopped to listen. 
 
 "I am not," she said, "a universal mender. 
 If people I don't particularly care about are
 
 174 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 jumping out of frying-pans, I don't preach at 
 them eternal fire. But this fool of a woman 
 had chosen to bolt under my very nose. 
 Providence had cast her upon my doorstep. 
 So I took the hint. Not being a heathen I 
 really had to." 
 
 The confidential maid was ascending with 
 someone strange to the place, who stumbled 
 and chattered in halting French. 
 
 "I poked my head farther out," said the 
 Duchess, "and shouted 'Is that you, Lady 
 Cummerbatch? Have you had a breakdown T 
 and it was worth it to see her jump. I don't 
 in the least know what she answered; it 
 sounded hysterical. 'Well,' I said, 'leave 
 your husband to tinker up the machine; it 
 will probably take him hours. I can put you 
 up.' " 
 
 "Her husband?" said Susan, puzzled. 
 
 "Tact, my child, tact! I sent Fifine down 
 to fetch her, and kept my eye on him. She 
 followed Fifine into the house like a lamb." 
 
 She wrapped her dressing-gown closer round 
 her, and prepared to depart. 
 
 "I couldn't keep her in my room," she 
 said; "I've two girls camping on the floor. 
 Besides, she would begin confessing every- 
 thing, and I am certain that I should smack
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 175 
 
 her. Pretend that you are asleep. If she 
 cries, don't notice. Good night, my child." 
 
 She patted Susan on the head, looking as if 
 she would have kissed her, but not being ac- 
 customed to caresses, did not quite know how. 
 
 Then she wheeled round to receive the late 
 visitor, holding up her finger, and crying 
 "Hush!" very loud. 
 
 Susan lay with her face turned from the 
 light and her eyes shut, as she had been bid- 
 den. She heard Fifine, after some careful 
 whispering, close the door and make her way 
 down ; she heard a smothered sobbing from the 
 improvised bed that almost blocked the cham- 
 ber; and then she heard a stealthy noise in 
 the room, and opened her eyes. On the wall 
 she could see the shadow of a person strug- 
 gling into her clothes, and evidently about to 
 fly. Some instinct made the girl spring up 
 and fling herself against the door. 
 
 "Oh! Oh!" said the strange woman, totter- 
 ing. "Let me out!" 
 
 Susan looked her in the face. 
 
 "If you want to go," she said, "I will call 
 the Duchess." 
 
 The stranger began to cry. She was thin 
 and fair, with a faded skin and unhappy eyes, 
 outstared by a blaze of jewels. Susan re-
 
 176 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 membered seeing her at the ball. Kilgour had 
 called her the Shop Window. 
 
 "He's waiting for me. I must go with 
 him," she cried, worked up to a pitch of agita- 
 tion that deprived her of self-control. 
 
 "You shall not," the girl said. 
 
 They both heard .an engine vibrating far 
 down below. The woman flew to the window. 
 And then the Duchess's strident voice struck 
 into the night from her own window under- 
 neath. 
 
 "So glad the motor is working. Don't 
 trouble about your wife, Sir Eichard. She's 
 safely tucked up in bed." 
 
 Then a furious backing and grinding, as the 
 car started and rushed away into the darkness, 
 baulked of a passenger. 
 
 Susan retired sedately into bed, since it was 
 no longer necessary to guard the door. The 
 woman began to strip off her jewels, that she 
 had put on again, anyhow, flinging them in 
 a heap on the table. 
 
 "Absurd, isn't it?" she said, in a high, un- 
 natural key, "wearing all these . . . but 
 I wasn't going to leave them behind." 
 
 The girl said nothing; she was embarrassed. 
 
 "The Duchess took him for Dicky," the 
 prisoner rambled on. Perhaps she was afraid 
 of silence. "You guessed the truth. I saw
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 177 
 
 you at the ball to-night. They were all talking 
 about you, and I liked your diamonds. Did 
 your husband marry you for your money?" 
 
 Susan drew a sharp breath. Ah, this 
 woman was more to be pitied than she, who 
 had brought sorrow upon herself. 
 
 "Oh, you poor thing!" she said softly, sit- 
 ting up in bed and clasping her hands round 
 her knees. 
 
 Lady Cummerbatch was one of those lucky 
 women who find solace in lamentation. They 
 are the fortunate ones, whose bitterness of 
 heart can be dissipated in bitter speech. 
 
 " I've heard," she went on, too distracted 
 about her own plight to be conscious of the 
 rank impertinence of which she was being 
 guilty. "I've heard all about your husband. 
 He's the wild Barnaby Hill who was jilted by 
 an Irishwoman and disappeared and married 
 abroad to vex her, and then turned up after his 
 people thought him dead. You're an Ameri- 
 can too, though you are not my kind. They 
 seem fond of you here ; they all take your part ; 
 but what difference does it make? Aren't 
 we two miserable women?" 
 
 She began to weep noisily, and then to 
 shiver. Getting into bed, she pulled her fur 
 cloak over her shoulders, and sat hunched up, 
 staring at the light.
 
 178 ,THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 "Do you mind my not putting out the 
 candle?" she said. "I can't bear to lie wor- 
 rying in the dark. If that auto hadn't stuck, 
 and the Duchess hadn't jumped me when I 
 got out to see what was the matter, I'd have 
 been out of my misery. ... I said to Sir 
 Richard once 'You married me for my 
 money,' and he laughed in my face and said 
 'My good young woman, you had an equivalent 
 you married me for my title.' And then I 
 just screamed, 'I married you for your title! 
 Oh, yes, I married you for your title!' till he 
 banged himself out of the house." 
 
 "But if that was not true " said Susan. 
 
 "True? It was all true," she sobbed. 
 "The pity was it didn't keep true. When I 
 married that man I couldn't have told you if 
 his eyes were grey or green. But there ! 
 It wears off with them and it wears on with 
 us." 
 
 In her lamentation she continued to identify 
 herself with her compatriot; their common 
 misfortune, as she conceived it, was mixed up 
 in her bewailing. 
 
 "Why don't you try it, like me?" she said. 
 "Why don't you run away from him? If you 
 cry and stamp and bluster it makes them 
 vain, but when they've lost you outright they 
 miss you. . . . Oh, it's awful to live with
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 179 
 
 a man and watch him getting impatient be- 
 cause you are in his way and he's tied to you; 
 to see him looking hard at you, thinking 
 how could he have paid the price ! He tried to 
 be civil at first, but his face soon taught me. 
 ... I wonder how long were you de- 
 ceived?" 
 
 "I was never deceived," said Susan, hardly 
 knowing she had uttered that sigh aloud. 
 Her arms were round the other woman now; 
 a poor wretch who had once been happy. Ah, 
 with what pain would she not have gladly 
 purchased some mirage of happiness, some 
 illusion that she was his . . . and be- 
 loved . . . for half an hour! 
 
 The haggard butterfly who had been cursed 
 with riches dropped her voice from its wailing 
 tune to a whisper. 
 
 "I'm going to France to-morrow," she said. 
 "He won't like that. It will be the same as 
 striking him in the face. He to turn from me 
 to other women who had no money to give 
 him ! When a man sees that what he has 
 tossed in the gutter is precious to another man, 
 when he sees how the other man picks it up, 
 he feels cheated. It hits him harder than if 
 you had killed yourself. I thought of that 
 first. But don't you do it! I knew just how 
 he'd say 'Mad! quite mad!' and bury me and
 
 180 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 forget me. He'll never lose sight of it if I 
 go away like this " and her voice rose high 
 "that will let him know how I hate him!" 
 
 But when her confidences had tired her out, 
 and she loosed her clasp of Susan, pulling up 
 the quilt and sinking into a wearied slumber, 
 when the girl lay gazing alone at a light that 
 was burning dim; there Was a cry in the 
 silence. 
 
 "I've come back, Dicky! Dicky, let me 
 in ! I 've come back. ' ' 
 
 It was the woman who hated her husband, 
 calling to him in her sleep. 
 
 Susan awakened in the morning with music 
 in her ears. Dreaming, she danced with 
 Barnaby, and his arm was round her, his 
 breath quick on her cheek, his face not . . * 
 kind. 
 
 And as the wild illumination of a dream 
 sometimes teaches what a stumbling con- 
 sciousness dare not know, so the girl awoke 
 trembling. 
 
 But that dream of all dreams was madness. 
 
 Into her waking mind came the thought of 
 Eackham, the man who had said he loved her. 
 Had she not always been ill at ease with him, 
 and what was that but a warning instinct, 
 divining, shrinking from the peril in a man's
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 181 
 
 admiration? But Barnaby and she had been 
 such good comrades. . . . 
 
 Quaint incidents crowded on her, scenes in 
 the hunting field, Sunday afternoons at the 
 stables, the day he had cut his finger and she 
 had run to him to bind it up ; the day he had 
 told her the brim of her riding hat was too 
 narrow, and made her try on another that 
 satisfied his inspection. . . . Oh, they had 
 honourably tried not to haunt each other, but 
 all the same. . . . Dear and safe memo- 
 ries; they blotted out last night. 
 
 She raised herself on her elbow and looked 
 across the room at the runaway. 
 
 So a woman could sleep whom the casual 
 kindness of an acquaintance had saved from 
 shipwreck; so a woman could sleep who had 
 poured out her soul to a stranger. 
 
 Someone was tapping at the door. It was 
 late. Ten, eleven, ah, quite that; and Mon- 
 sieur had come for Madame and brought her 
 clothes. And Miladi said Madame was to 
 dress in her room, as one was so cramped up 
 here. 
 
 The maid waited discreetly at the door, her 
 sharp, foreign eyes taking in everything, the 
 other woman huddled up in bed, her clothes 
 flung all over the floor, her gems scattered 
 recklessly on the table.
 
 182 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 Susan slipped on the dressing-gown that had 
 been brought her, and was following, Fifine 
 going down in front as a picket, to see that the 
 coast was clear; when she heard her neighbour 
 calling. Lady Cummerbatch was sitting up 
 in bed. 
 
 "I made a fool of myself last night, didn't 
 I?" she said. "Why didn't you smother me 
 with my pillow? Don't be afraid, I'm as wise 
 as an old hen this morning." She pulled the 
 girl close enough to kiss. "You are a dear; 
 you are a dear!" she cried. 
 
 Stretching out her arm to the dressing- 
 table, she caught up something from its disor- 
 dered glitter, squeezing it into Susan's hand. 
 
 "Keep it," she said. "I know you've 
 heaps of your own. I saw them last night. 
 But I want you to have something to remember 
 me by. I can do nothing for anybody but 
 give them things. . . . Do! Please me! 
 I'd have thrown myself out of that window if 
 you hadn't been kind to me." 
 
 The girl looked doubtfully at the diamond 
 star that had been thrust upon her. 
 
 "If you don't care to wear anything I've 
 worn," said the woman, "put it by. Who 
 knows ? Some day you may be glad to have it. 
 If it does come from a worthless creature, it's
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 183 
 
 fit to sell. I've heard of rich women whose 
 husbands ruined them, and who had to pawn 
 their jewels. . . . How do we know what 
 will happen to you and me?" 
 
 Susan went down the irregular flight of 
 stairs. The Duchess was waiting in her room 
 for a word. 
 
 "Good morning, my child, " she said. 
 "Your husband has very properly come to 
 fetch you. I should advise you to let him off 
 lightly about last night." 
 
 The maid had gone out of the room. 
 
 "About !" faltered Susan. 
 
 "Philandering with Julia. I believe in 
 severity, of course," said the Duchess bluntly, 
 "but as a matter of fact Kitty and I have 
 been at him like early birds. Told him what 
 we thought of him, and so forth. Don't look 
 so sorry. It's done him good, and you can 
 descend upon him like a forgiving saint." 
 
 "I have nothing to forgive him," the girl 
 protested. "Oh, I wish you would not say 
 that." 
 
 The Duchess smiled benevolently at her 
 stammering haste. She fancied she under- 
 stood. 
 
 "I quite forgot," she said, "to ask after that 
 idiot upstairs. There's a woman who tried to
 
 184 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 enrage her husband into paying her more 
 attention by making herself conspicuous with 
 another man. Bad policy, my child. It 
 makes the man think less of her, though it may 
 alarm his possessive instinct; and, of course, 
 if anybody stole your old coat you'd feel in- 
 clined to knock him down: but that wouldn't 
 make you believe it was as good as new. No, 
 no, it's a fallacious notion. However, we're 
 talking of this person. I'd be sorry for her 
 feelings if I didn't think the shock of being 
 stopped on the brink would bring her to her 
 senses. We are very good-natured among 
 ourselves, but she wouldn't find it easy to live 
 it down. She isn't one of us." 
 
 She smiled encouragingly at the girl, who 
 was wrapped in her own dressing-gown, a 
 thick masculine garment that sat oddly on her 
 slimness. 
 
 "People think," she said, "that we hunt- 
 ing people are a lawless band. They think 
 they can come and do as they like in Melton. 
 Just because we have a sporting sense of 
 loyalty to each other, and stick to our friends 
 when they need us. If you or Barnaby, for 
 example, did anything outrageous, we'd scold 
 you a little and let it drop. But we don't do it 
 with an outsider. . . . He's brought your 
 habit. Get into your things, my dear."
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 185 
 
 Barnaby nodded to her cheerfully as she 
 came into the breakfast room. He was sitting 
 on the window seat, and the rest of them were 
 at breakfast. Whether or no they had been 
 attacking him, he did not look cast down. 
 
 "Well, how are you?" he said. "Good 
 girl, you are coming hunting. I brought 
 everything, didn't II They nearly left out 
 your boots." 
 
 "Look out and see who that is passing," 
 said the Duchess. Someone was cracking a 
 whip below. He flung up the window, and she 
 came round herself. 
 
 "What's the matter?" she said. "Is it a 
 serenade, or do you want some coffee?" 
 
 A man with a long nose and a grizzling 
 moustache had halted on his way up the street. 
 Two or three others had left him and were 
 trotting on. 
 
 "Have you heard the latest?" he said. 
 "Kichard Cummerbatch is drawing all the 
 covers like a raging maniac, roaring for his 
 wife. Her party went back in two cars from 
 the ball last night, and each lot thought she 
 had gone in the other. It appears she's 
 bolted." 
 
 "Upon my word," said the Duchess, "if 
 you are going to shout scandal at the top of 
 your voice I shall have to put up my shutters.
 
 186 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 She is just over your head, Major. She had 
 nowhere to go, since her party went off with- 
 out her; so I took her in." 
 
 "Hey? What?" he said, looking up as 
 quickly as if the lady were a chimney-pot 
 that might fall on him. " Keep still, horse! 
 You don't say so?" 
 
 His face was blank for an instant, but he 
 soon recovered from his disappointment. His 
 well of gossip had not run dry. 
 
 Cocking his head on one side like a mis- 
 chievous old bird, he began on another tack. 
 
 "Well," he said, "if you're so rough on 
 scandal, you'll have to keep our friend Bar- 
 naby in order. What does his poor little 
 American wife say to his goings-on?" 
 
 There was an awful pause in 'the room 
 above. 
 
 "Susan," said Barnaby, "he's as deaf as a 
 post. Put your head out and tell him as loud 
 as you can what you think of me. ' ' 
 
 Somebody began to laugh; the rest fol- 
 lowed; and there was no more awkwardness; 
 his presence of mind had saved the situation. 
 As he leaned out of the window with his hand 
 on Susan's shoulder the Major's face was a 
 study. Incontinently he fled. 
 
 "There!" said Barnaby, "we have routed 
 the enemy. Let's get on our horses and pur-
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 187 
 
 sue him. Hullo, who are these 1 ? A whole 
 tribe without one sound horse among 
 them." 
 
 The Duchess started back. 
 
 "Don't tell me it is my friend Wickes," she 
 said. "I promised him weeks ago I'd beat up 
 a little talent for his concert to-night, and I 
 have never done it. For heaven's sake, some- 
 body, volunteer! Is there a woman here who 
 can sing in tune?" 
 
 "Do you sing, Susan?" said Barnaby. 
 
 "Oh, the man's affectation! Does she or 
 does she not?" 
 
 She did not know what impelled her. Per- 
 haps his carelessness; his unshaken attitude 
 of amusement at a position that was to him 
 so absurd. 
 
 "I could act something, perhaps," she said. 
 The Duchess jumped at her offer. 
 
 "Booked!" she declared. "Stop that man 
 clattering past, and tell him I want him to 
 sing John Peel. And, Cherry, you'll do for 
 a comic song. You're men, and it doesn't 
 matter about your voices, so long as you wear 
 red coats." 
 
 The young man she was ordering pushed 
 away his cup with an injured air. A murmur 
 of " Delighted, I 'm sure. Delighted ! ' * 
 floated up from the street.
 
 188 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 "You know I have only one song," he said, 
 "and that is The Broken Heart." 
 
 "Well," she said unfeelingly, "you can 
 make it comic." 
 
 "Are you coming?" said Barnaby. He 
 was waiting; some of them had already 
 started. The girl caught up her gloves and 
 whip. 
 
 "Good-bye, all of you," said the Duchess. 
 "I beg you'll remember your obligations. 
 Barnaby, the thing is at eight. Call down to 
 John Peel and tell him. . . . Whatever 
 you do, don't let my performer come to any 
 harm. ' ' 
 
 "I will not quit her side for a moment," 
 he promised, and the Duchess shook her head 
 at him as they ran downstairs. 
 
 He was laughing as he put her up in the 
 saddle. 
 
 "It appears you don't know how to manage 
 a husband," he said. "Don't look so sorrow- 
 ful. / don't mind them. And the general 
 public is anxious to lend a hand." 
 
 They rode soberly side by side, over the 
 noisy cobbles, down to the low white bridge 
 thronged with pedestrians, threading their 
 way amidst the stream that was turning in at 
 the gates further on to the right. 
 
 "We'll keep on, shall we?" said Barnaby.
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 189 
 
 " Hounds will be moving directly, and there'll 
 be a fearful crowd getting out of the Park." 
 
 So they held on between the lines of towns- 
 folk and, turning upward, fell in with a clus- 
 ter of horsemen on the watch, loitering on the 
 hill. 
 
 " Awful bore, meeting in the town like 
 this," said one of these peevishly. His horse 
 was eyeing a perambulator strangely, and 
 there was no space for antics. "Why do the 
 Quorn do it?" 
 
 "Oh, it pleases the multitude." 
 
 There was a roar down below, and a scuf- 
 fling noise as of hundreds running. Above the 
 bobbing heads passed a glimpse of scarlet, 
 as a whip issued from the green gates, clear- 
 ing a way for hounds that were hidden from 
 view in the middle of the throng. Barnaby 
 turned his horse round. 
 
 "Come on," he said. "We'll wait for them 
 out of the town. I suppose it's the customary 
 pilgrimage? Gartree Hill." 
 
 Behind them, louder and louder, drowning 
 the tumult, came the quickening tramp of 
 horses. Their own animals grew excited. 
 
 "Sit him tight!" said Barnaby. Her horse 
 had nearly bucked into the last lamp-post 
 at the top of the hill. He would not wait 
 peaceably at the corner, so she took him a
 
 190 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 few yards further on, straight over the brow, 
 where the way was not street, but road, looking 
 down upon open country. 
 
 "Hullo!" said Barnaby. 
 
 The fields that spread underneath were bare 
 and wind-swept; there was no sign of life in 
 them. But what was that brownish dab on 
 the right? Incredulously he watched it trav- 
 elling up the furrow; and, convinced, let out 
 a wild yell that made their own horses jump. 
 
 "It's a fox!" he said. "It's a fox. Keep 
 your eye on him,' Susan, while I fetch them up. ' ' 
 
 He galloped back, waving his hat to hurry 
 the startled host. The huntsman came 
 swiftly over the hill, and a glance assured him ; 
 he touched his horn. In half a minute he and 
 his hounds were scouring over the fields, and 
 the riders who had been at the front were 
 jumping out of the road. 
 
 "They've found. They are running!" 
 
 The cry was flung from lip to lip along the 
 bewildered ranks that had closed up in ex- 
 pectation of the long jog to cover. A minute 
 more and the crowd had burst like a scattered 
 wave, far and wide. 
 
 Down the slope; up a rise; in and out of 
 a lane defended by straggling blackthorn; 
 dipping over the skyline; the pack was gone.
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 191 
 
 Only the quickest could live with them, only 
 the first away had a chance of keeping up in 
 the run. They were just a handful as they 
 landed over a stake-and-bound into a rolling 
 pasture, a great rough waste where the ridges 
 rose up like billows, crosswise, submerging the 
 horses that were shortening in their stride. 
 
 "Good for the liver!" groaned Kilgour, 
 as he rocked up and down. "But what a sell 
 for the crafty ones waiting on Gartree Hill!" 
 
 "They'll cut in with us at Great Dalby," 
 said Barnaby, flinging a glance that side. 
 The pack hung to the left, still flying. 
 
 "Not much!" said Kilgour. "D'you sup- 
 pose the fox is stopping with Lydia Measures 
 for a bottle of ginger beer? What did I tell 
 you? There they go, wide of the village, over 
 the Kirby lane " 
 
 He broke off his ejaculations, pointing 
 triumphantly with his whip, pushing on. A 
 man of his build could not afford to lag be- 
 hind, unlike those light-weights who could lie 
 by and then come like a whirlwind and make 
 it up. He must keep plodding on. But he 
 took no shame to diverge suddenly to a gate. 
 Let the young 'uns surmount that rasper. 
 
 On the high ground above a breathless horde 
 struck in. Eumour, or the wind, or some sav-
 
 192 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 ing instinct had warned them; they had come 
 at a breakneck pace from their shivering 
 watch elsewhere. 
 
 Susan, riding her hardest, with her chin up 
 and rapture on her face, laughed as she heard 
 the frantic thudding of that pursuit. 
 
 ' 'They've missed a bit,'* cried Barnaby at 
 her shoulder. Her horse was faster than his, 
 but was tiring. She was glad to steady him 
 as the pack ran into a strip of trees. 
 
 "What a scent!" said Barnaby. "Hark 
 at them! They're sticking to him; they're 
 driving him up the Pastures I" 
 
 He swung round in his saddle, still keeping 
 on. The rearguard, no longer in desperation, 
 were trooping contentedly down the road. 
 
 "They'll get left," he said. "They reckon 
 on losing him. Silly asses, they're lighting 
 their cigarettes ! ' ' 
 
 Slower, but steadily, hounds were running 
 up the wood. Their cry increased in volume, 
 vociferous, echoing in the trees. It sounded 
 a hundred times louder than in the open. 
 And this time there was no changing foxes; 
 they drove him too hard. Out he went at the 
 top, and had no time to twist and turn in 
 again; they were on his heels. Beyond was a 
 steep drop into a village, and then a long 
 struggle, and another drop to a ford. As the
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 193 
 
 last of them were splashing through the water, 
 the first of them were swinging out of their 
 saddles and turning their horses' heads to the 
 wind. They had run to Baggrave, and killed 
 their fox in the Park. 
 
 * ' Three cheers for Barnaby and his outlier, ' ' 
 said Kilgour. "That was no poultry- 
 snatcher, but a real beetle-fed warrior. What 
 the dickens shall we do next?" 
 
 "Oh, get up in a tree, somebody, like Sister 
 Anne; and rake the horizon for second 
 horses!" 
 
 Susan knew that voice. It was Eackham. 
 
 "Get up yourself," said Kilgour. "Your 
 history isn't sound. / don't trust my weight 
 on anything but a watch-tower." 
 
 Susan had turned away her face; she did 
 not want to have to acknowledge Eackham, al- 
 though he had no shame in approaching her. 
 Nervously she plunged into a rapid argument 
 with Kilgour, whose broad and comfortable 
 presence was a kind of buckler. But through 
 it all she was conscious of him, she heard his 
 voice. He and Barnaby were arranging some- 
 thing about a horse. She did not catch the 
 drift of it, but Eackham turned to her point- 
 edly and asked her opinion. 
 
 "I wasn't listening," she said. His glance 
 penetrating; she could not escape it, and
 
 194 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 recollection burnt in her cheek. She heard 
 Barnaby whistle suddenly to himself. 
 
 Hounds were moving at last, not hurrying, 
 but drifting across the park, searching as they 
 went; and second horsemen were springing 
 up out of nowhere. Those who were lucky 
 were changing horses. Already it was far on 
 in the afternoon. 
 
 "That's the worst of beginning so late," 
 said Kilgour. "The day's gone before you 
 know it. And here we've, been dawdling 
 munching. . . . Now we'll just get away 
 with the twilight after dodging backwards and 
 forwards for an hour or two between the 
 Prince of Wales 's and Barkby Holt. ' ' 
 
 "Shut up, ill prophet!" said Barnaby, as 
 they gathered close in to the cover-side. 
 Already there was a whimper. 
 
 But it was late before the prophesied shilly- 
 shallying came to its appointed end, and those 
 who had resisted the false alarms, sticking 
 patiently on guard at a windy corner, saw 
 a fox break at last. A misleading holloa had 
 drawn off the field; they were massing on the 
 other side, out of sight, out of hearing in the 
 rising wind that carried away with it the warn- 
 ing note of the horn. And hounds were slip- 
 ping out like lightning.
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 195 
 
 "Come on!" said Barnaby. This time 
 there was no mistake. 
 
 It didn't matter that there was a rival shout 
 behind the dense thicket. Let those who liked 
 it exclaim that the pack was divided, and miss 
 a run to hang skirmishing for ever and ever 
 about the Holt. . . . They had a fox away, 
 and at least half the hounds were on him as 
 he dipped the rise and went spinning into the 
 infinite. Just a handful of riders they were, 
 but high-hearted, as they turned their faces 
 towards the dim red line of the sinking sun. 
 
 Miles and miles they seemed to go swinging 
 on. Behind a grey church, round a silent 
 village, and under a rustling wood. The wind 
 was fresh with the breath of twilight; its 
 withering blast died down with that last 
 stinging gust of rain. And hounds were still 
 running as swift as shadows, flickering far and 
 fast. 
 
 One by one the rest of them had fallen back ; 
 had steadied their faltering horses and lis- 
 tened, beaten. Susan could hardly see the 
 fences as they came up, darker and darker 
 against the sky. But her horse rushed at 
 them gallantly, and she had Barnaby to follow. 
 Hounds were invisible now, but near; their 
 cry was fierce behind that clump of trees, im-
 
 196 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 penetrable but for one glimmering gap of 
 light. 
 
 "They're running him still!" called Bar- 
 naby, plunging in. 
 
 His voice was all she wanted. She could not 
 ask more of Heaven than this one gallop ; and 
 all her life she would remember that she had 
 ridden it out with him. . . . 
 
 They had to ride warily through the trees, 
 feeling their way, trusting in their horses. 
 Here the path was deep and boggy, there water 
 trickled, and the boughs hung low, swishing 
 against them as they went by. Birds whirred 
 restlessly in the creaking branches, and an owl 
 flew shrieking in front of them. When they 
 emerged from that eerie passage everything 
 had grown weird and strange in the cheating 
 dusk. 
 
 "That's the horn," said Barnaby. "He's 
 calling them ofT. Doesn't it sound unearthly? 
 There they are. Listen. . . . Listen. 
 . . . They're running him in the dark!" 
 
 Far away on the hillside a light twinkled 
 suddenly, turning the twilight land into dark- 
 ness as the first star makes it night in the sky. 
 
 Barnaby laughed. "That was a hunt!" he 
 said. "Hark! he's stopped them. We'll have 
 to find our way out of this. Why, we can't 
 see each other's faces. . . . Let's keep on
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 197 
 
 a bit up this hedge-side, and perhaps we'll get 
 into a bridle-road." 
 
 He went first, striking into a kind of track. 
 
 " There should be a gate in the corner," he 
 said. " Better let your horse get his head 
 down and smell out the rabbit-holes. We're 
 like the babes in the wood, aren't we? Mind 
 that grip! Where are you?" 
 
 The gate was there. They passed through 
 it, and on the other side was a sign-post. 
 Barnaby struck a match, standing up in his 
 stirrups to peer at the moss-stained board. 
 
 "I'm afraid," he said, "we'll be late for 
 that concert. Unless we can strike Kilgour's 
 habitation and get him to send us on. Shall 
 we try for it? We're oh, never mind where 
 we are; it's the end of the world, anyhow. 
 Are you tired to death?" 
 
 He turned round with the match in his fin- 
 gers, and looked at her, but it had burnt down ; 
 he dropped it, and reaching out, caught her 
 hand, swinging it in his as their horses stum- 
 bled on side by side. 
 
 "What a cold little hand!" he said, but his 
 grip was warming it through the leather. . . . 
 
 The end of the world. . . . He had used 
 the word so lightly, but it called her back to 
 reason. Another day was over. And per- 
 haps to-morrow the world might end.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 THE Duchess and her friend Wickes were a 
 trifle anxious, but their faces cleared as the 
 late ones arrived. Two or three rows behind 
 them the village schoolmaster dropped like a 
 shot rabbit into his seat. 
 
 "A minute later and we'd have been lost," 
 whispered the Duchess. "It's always a battle 
 to keep him off the platform. Once he is 
 wound up no power on earth can stop him. 
 Twice already he has offered his recitation, 
 proposing to fill the breach." 
 
 "Poor devil, what a shame!" said Barnaby. 
 " Why not let him?" 
 
 "We did let him once," said Wickes, and 
 a reminiscent shudder passed down the row. 
 He addressed himself eagerly to Susan. 
 
 "It's awfully good of you, Mrs. Hill," he 
 said, the worried creases in his long face relax- 
 ing. "Every time I get up a village concert I 
 swear it will be the last, but I go on doing 
 it year by year. You have no idea what the 
 tribulations are " 
 
 "That is meant for me," said the Duchess, 
 lowering her voice to a guilty whisper. " I 
 ask you, how could I help it? You know what 
 
 198
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 199 
 
 a commotion there was this morning, getting 
 off to the meet. I told somebody to call down 
 from my window to Eufus Brown that he was 
 to attend this concert and sing John Peel. I 
 could tell him a mile off by his old grey horse ; 
 you know: how the creature bobs his head up 
 and down: " 
 
 "1 did your bidding," said Barnaby. "You 
 only said 'Stop him!' and I don't know who 
 on earth it was, but it certainly wasn't Eufus." 
 
 "How was I to know," groaned the Duchess, 
 "that he had sold the grey?" 
 
 "But the beggar was quite delighted," pro- 
 tested Barnaby, who saw nothing worse than 
 a joke in this substitution of a probably voice- 
 less stranger. "He undertook to do it." 
 
 The Duchess pointed a solemn finger. 
 
 "Barnaby," she said, "you have been out 
 of the world too long. You don't know the 
 whole horror of the position. There he sits ! ' ' 
 
 "Flushed with victory," murmured someone 
 else, "hoarse with bawling: " 
 
 "It was an awful moment," said the Duch- 
 ess, "when he came and thanked me for the 
 compliment I had paid him. I've never 
 spoken to the wretch in my life." 
 
 "He feels you have adopted him now," said 
 the Job's comforter at her elbow. "Barnaby, 
 you don't know him. He's the most impossi-
 
 200 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 ble bounder who was ever kicked out of society, 
 and we have all been turning him the cold 
 shoulder for the last two seasons. We were 
 beginning to hope we had finally choked him 
 off." 
 
 "Poor Wickes is nearly beside himself," 
 said the Duchess. ''He will never get over it. 
 But imagine my feelings when I discovered 
 what I had done " 
 
 "The populace at the back didn't know what 
 to make of it; they are used to us rollicking 
 in John Peel, shouting out the chorus. But 
 we were all too utterly petrified to emit a 
 whoop " 
 
 "Is there anything you would like in the 
 way of properties, Mrs. Hill?" said Wickes, in 
 a severe, sad voice. Susan looked down, sud- 
 denly nervous, her hands clenched, her face a 
 little pale. 
 
 "What is your wife going to do?" Kilgour 
 was asking, and Barnaby was answering care- 
 lessly that he didn't know. 
 
 "She is rather a dab at acting," he said, and 
 now he was looking humorously at her. But 
 for once she failed to smile back her recog- 
 nition of the eternal joke between them. . . . 
 Yes, she was good at acting. . . . 
 
 "Turn the lights down," she said, and Mr. 
 Wickes flew obediently to the nearest lamp.
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 201 
 
 Anything to obliterate past misfortunes! 
 "And there is a woman at the back with a 
 baby. Ask her to lend it to me. ' ' 
 
 She had meant to amuse them differently, 
 but some impulse had made her change her 
 mind. She flung a dark shawl, borrowed, over 
 her satin frock. Mr. Wickes came back to her, 
 carrying the child gingerly; its mother had 
 relinquished it with pride, only protesting 
 against his taking it up by the back of its 
 neck like a puppy, which Wickes, distracted 
 by his responsibilities, had seemed inclined 
 to do. 
 
 They were all looking at her with interest, 
 mildly stirred to expect something unusual, 
 as the anxious Wickes helped her on to the 
 platform and lowered another lamp. But as 
 she stood above them their curious faces faded, 
 and the touch of the little body, so light in her 
 arm, took her out of herself. She was once 
 more playing, playing for life, in the Tragedy 
 Company; making the people sob at the tragic 
 end of the drama. 
 
 11 Don't waken the child. . . ." 
 
 The first note of her voice vibrated like the 
 plaintive string of a harp. The listeners were 
 startled. 
 
 She was the woman whose husband was 
 faithless and, in the horrible madness that
 
 202 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 gripped him, was coming to take her life. She 
 was shut in, hidden in a poor shelter, miles 
 away from human help; and she was listening 
 for his step in terror, loving him so bitterly 
 still that she would have been glad to die, but 
 clinging desperately to life for the sake of his 
 child. And she rocked the baby on her arm, 
 half distracted; singing to it, ceasing her 
 chant to listen . . . and imagining his ap- 
 proach. But all the while, in her despair, she 
 stifled the scream that was on her lips; she 
 must not waken the child. 
 
 Further and further she retreated, staring 
 with frightened eyes at the door, but still 
 Pushing the baby at her breast; and then, all 
 at once, she stopped, and bent her face to its 
 cheek. A pause hung, significant; and then 
 came her cry, dreadful, heart-breaking. The 
 baby was still. He might come; he might 
 kill her ... he could not waken the child. 
 
 "Good heavens, how real!" said Mr. 
 Wickes. 
 
 Susan, breathing a little quicker, looked 
 down on the dim-lit audience. All these 
 women could ride, all these women could dance. 
 . . . She wanted Barnaby to think of her 
 sometimes, later. Would he remember her by
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 203 
 
 the one thing they could not do? by that wild 
 scrap of melodrama? 
 
 The room was" shaking with an almost 
 hysterical applause. Behind there was an 
 enthusiastic stamping. And the only woman 
 who was not crying was the baby's mother, 
 who was too flattered, and one other who 
 looked on with disdainful eyes. 
 
 "Did you like it?" asked the actress wist- 
 fully. It was Barnaby himself who had come 
 forward to help her down. She could not 
 hear what he said; it was under his breath, 
 and it was drowned in the clapping. 
 
 The lights had gone up again; she could 
 recognise the people who were surrounding 
 her, as she stepped down amongst them. Near 
 the wall, not very far from the Duchess, who 
 was frankly borrowing a large, masculine 
 handkerchief, were sitting a thin, fair woman, 
 and a big, stupid, slow-witted man. They 
 both had an odd look of having just found 
 each other. The Duchess wagged her head at 
 them. 
 
 "Yes," she whispered, "there they are. 
 They have made it up. . . . Wickes, don't 
 you think it would be a noble deed to invite 
 the schoolmaster to play God Save the King? 
 It will get his name into the local paper."
 
 204 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 "Certainly," said Wickes. He took a long 
 breath, conceived his troubles over, remain- 
 ing, however, with his eyes fixed on Susan in a 
 kind of awed curiosity. Finally he spoke out 
 the problem in his mind. 
 
 "Do you mind telling me," he said, apolo- 
 getically, "what spell you used how you 
 contrived to keep the inf ant quiet?" 
 
 "Oh, she's a witch!" said Barnaby. 
 
 "Yes, she's a witch," said the Duchess 
 kindly, "but I know the secret. It had a 
 comforter in its mouth." 
 
 They were all moving now, bustling out of 
 their chairs, and blocking up the gangway with 
 their "good nights." The proletariat was 
 waiting for them to depart before shuffling out 
 of the shilling benches. And there was Julia, 
 paler than usual, but as lovely, smiling at Bar- 
 naby, giving him a long, strange look that was 
 full of pity and understanding. . . . 
 
 "You're done up," said Barnaby. "Come 
 along. I shouldn't have let you be dragged 
 into this performance on the top of a hard 
 day's hunting." 
 
 She kept her lip steady, wishing she had not 
 seen that interchange of glances; shrinking 
 absurdly from the implication that was con- 
 veyed by Kilgour's officious interposition of 
 Ms broad person. Did he think he could arrest
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 205 
 
 the march of events by planting himself like 
 a kind ox between Barnaby and Julia? Did 
 he think they would not find means ? Still 
 she kept her lip steady, letting Barnaby hurry 
 her down the room; reminding herself that 
 she had no right to feel insulted, or even a 
 little sad. 
 
 When they reached home she was going 
 straight upstairs, as was her custom, but Bar- 
 naby stopped her. 
 
 "Don't go up yet," he said. "You ate no 
 dinner. I told them we'd have something 
 when we came in." 
 
 She let him draw a chair for her beside 
 that red fire in the hall that always tempted 
 the weary to go no further; and bring things 
 that she did not want out of the dining-room. 
 
 "I've sent away the servants," he said. 
 "I've got out of the way of them flitting 
 round me. You'd rather sit here, wouldn't 
 you, and get warm and let me forage ? ' ' 
 
 For a little while they were gay, and then 
 he cleared away plates and glasses, and a 
 silence fell between them. He settled down in 
 another of the great chairs and lit a cigarette. 
 A smiled curved in the corners of his mouth 
 and vanished; he was thinking hard. Susan 
 watched him, shading her eyes with her hand
 
 206 ,THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 that lie might not raise his head suddenly and 
 read their wistfulness. She was not often 
 alone with him in the house. 
 
 What was he thinking? His face was no 
 longer careless; the kind blue eyes were fixed 
 earnestly on the fire. She remembered the 
 strangeness of Julia's look and her heart ached, 
 guessing. Something must have happened 
 between them; he must have let her see un- 
 mistakably that he loved her still. For there 
 had been no restlessness in Julia's air, no 
 bravado, it had been the smile of a woman 
 who was sure. And he had himself set a 
 barrier between them. 
 
 She felt a wild longing to comfort him, to 
 take his head on her arm and whisper that 
 nothing was too hard for a man, nothing 
 worth that steadfast, unhappy gaze. 
 
 He moved, and the start it gave her set her 
 pulses beating fast. If he had not stirred, 
 might not the impulse have been too much for 
 her ? might she not have found herself kneeling 
 by him, comforting him in the madness of 
 her heart? She heard her own voice, im- 
 ploring, sharp as if in some stress of mortal 
 fright 
 
 "Oh, let me go! Oh, will you not let me 
 go?" 
 
 He had looked up quickly. The sobbing
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 207 
 
 wildness of her cry broke in on his absent 
 mood. 
 
 "You are tired of the farce?" he said. 
 
 She came back to herself. What was the 
 matter with her? "I cannot bear it," she 
 said slowly. 
 
 And for a minute there was silence again 
 between them. She heard the fire crackling, a 
 far-away clock ticking on the stairs; . . . 
 she thought she could hear the silence itself. 
 
 "I didn't know it was hurting you," he said. 
 
 He was sorry for her ; he must not be sorry. 
 She tried to laugh. 
 
 "Don't think of me," she said. "It it 
 didn't matter. After all, I'm an actress. I 
 am one of these strange people that can pre- 
 tend. Let me go back to the other kind of 
 acting, where nobody will think me real ; where 
 there will be crowds applauding, and not just 
 one person to be amused and say * She carries 
 it off well, but she'll make a slip, she will 
 stumble!' . . . Oh, it couldn't hurt me. 
 Don't you know we can only hurt our- 
 selves?" 
 
 "Do you think I'll let you go back to that 
 life?" he said. 
 
 His voice recalled the raging warmth of pity 
 with which he had once referred to his law- 
 yer's tale of her plight. Apparently the situa-
 
 208 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 tion still roused in him a mistaken feeling that 
 she was in his charge. She flushed, struggling 
 with a betraying weakness. 
 
 "A hard life," she said, "but not unbear- 
 able. . . . My public will not be cheated. 
 They will not shame me with too much kind- 
 ness " 
 
 Barnaby was not listening. 
 
 "Who was the man, that fellow last 
 night?" he said. 
 
 Why did he speak of that? Did he dare to 
 imagine that she was building on another 
 man's promises? that she was scheming, cal- 
 culating 7 
 
 "No, " she cried bitterly. "No, not 
 that!" 
 
 A great while after, it seemed to her, he 
 spoke again. His voice was quiet. 
 
 "I think you are right," he said. "It's 
 time to make an end of this. It's too danger- 
 ous." 
 
 "Yes," she said faintly. That at least was 
 true. . . . 
 
 He went on, rather quickly. She was not 
 looking at him. She could not. 
 
 "Listen. To-morrow you'll have a wire 
 from London. I'll see to it. I'm afraid we 
 can't make it a cable; there isn't time. It will 
 have to be from my. lawyers, saying you are
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 209 
 
 wanted in America on important business. 
 My mother doesn't understand business. Any- 
 how, you'll be excited, and you needn't know 
 what it means; so you can't explain." 
 
 "Yes," she said, in the same low voice. 
 "To-morrow." 
 
 "We'll have to see about boats and things 
 when we get up to town. And, of course, we'll 
 have to make up a story. But once you're out 
 of this country " 
 
 Yes, once she was out of this country it 
 would all be simple. She had only to disap- 
 pear. 
 
 "What will you say of me?" she asked, with 
 a sad quaintness. "Will you tell them that I 
 am dead!" 
 
 He moved suddenly, checking himself. 
 
 "Oh, God knows!" he said. "It will take a 
 lot of planning. You've forgotten the other 
 lady." 
 
 Yes, that was his difficulty. Although she 
 would be gone there would still be a bar 
 between him and Julia. That was the 
 tragedy. 
 
 "I'll be out when the wire comes, probably," 
 he said. It seemed to amuse him to settle the 
 details; he seemed to be flinging his serious- 
 ness aside. "Eackham is coming over to try 
 a horse. For form's sake you'll have to send
 
 210 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 for me immediately. I'll be somewhere down 
 in the schooling pastures." 
 
 The nearness of exile took away her breath. 
 But the impossible situation could only have 
 ended so. That had been their bargain. At 
 least she had not failed him, she had done all 
 that he asked of her, drinking the bitter cup 
 of her own dishonesty to the dregs. A rush of 
 memory carried her back to that first night of 
 his return, so distant, and yet such a little 
 while ago. She held out her hand to him, 
 humbly, uncertainly 
 
 "Good night," she said. "You you have 
 been good to me." 
 
 Barnaby took her hands in his ; clasped them 
 hard. It was surely not his voice that was so 
 unsteady. 
 
 "It's the last time, is it?" he said. "Let's 
 play it out gallantly. Let's pretend. Susan, 
 Susan is that how you say good night to 
 your husband?" 
 
 Her heart beat fast; her head was dizzy. 
 He was looking down in her eyes, drawing her 
 hands to his breast. 
 
 No, not Barnaby: not the one man she 
 trusted! . . . 
 
 "Good night, Sir," she whispered. 
 
 And he remembered ; he let her go and stood
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 211 
 
 back as she passed him on her way to the 
 stairs. 
 
 "Good night," he repeated, in that queer, 
 unsteady voice. "I beg your pardon, 
 Madam."
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 TO-MORRROW had come. 
 
 It was the same kind of morning as other 
 mornings; there was no lurid conflagration 
 lighting up the sky. Outside it was dull and 
 quiet, and even the wind was still. Susan 
 paused at the staircase window, gazing a little 
 while. 
 
 In the hall beneath she heard Barnaby talk- 
 ing to the dogs. And his voice shook her. 
 The stunned sense of finality that was with 
 her gave way to a sharp and sudden pain. 
 
 She could not bear to go down to him. 
 Turning, she fled back. 
 
 ''Is that you, Susan?" called Lady Hen- 
 rietta. She was sitting up at her breakfast, 
 and the door of her room was ajar. "Where 
 is Barnaby riding out so early? I heard his 
 boots creaking as he went by." 
 
 "I don't know," the girl said, truly. "I 
 haven't seen him." 
 
 "Then don't loiter like a draught in the 
 door," said Lady Henrietta impatiently. 
 "Come in and have your tea up here and help 
 me to read my letters." 
 
 She did as she was bidden. The sharp kind- 
 212
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 213 
 
 liness of Barnaby's mother was sweet to her; 
 and it was the last time she would sit with her, 
 the last time she would listen with a smile that 
 was not far from tears to her caustic prattle. 
 Whatever happened to her, however they man- 
 aged her disappearance, she and Lady Hen- 
 rietta would never meet again. Would she 
 think of her sometimes, kindly? she was 
 not to know. . . . 
 
 ''What's the matter now?" said Lady Hen- 
 rietta suddenly. "You look pale." 
 
 Hurriedly the girl defended herself from 
 the imputation. 
 
 "Of course, it's Barnaby," said Lady Hen- 
 rietta, undismayed. "I suppose he has been 
 behaving badly." 
 
 " Oh no ! Oh no ! " cried Susan. 
 
 Lady Henrietta waved her hands im- 
 patiently. How fragile she looked, how; 
 pretty; the pink in her cheekbones matching 
 her painted silk peignoir. The hardness that 
 sometimes marred her expression had softened 
 to a pitying amusement, and she had a look 
 of Barnaby when she smiled like that. 
 
 "You'd deny it with your last gasp," 
 she said. 
 
 Susan was picking up and arranging the let- 
 ters that were lying in disorder. It was dif- 
 ficult to sustain that quizzical regard. But
 
 214 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 Barnaby's mother had not finished with her. 
 She was not to be distracted. 
 
 1 'You never tell me anything, either of 
 you," she said. "What is a mother-in-law for 
 but to rule the tempest and shoot about in the 
 battle? It's too firmly fixed in your heads that 
 I am a brittle thing, and whatever is raging 
 round me I am not to be excited. And it's 
 absurd. I don't mind having a heart, in 
 reason. It's amusing; a kind of trick up my 
 sleeve. But I won't have it robbing me of my 
 rightful flustrations. I am as strong as a 
 horse, if you two would realise it. And you 
 and Barnaby are such a funny couple." 
 
 She scanned the girl's face a minute. 
 
 "I'm attached to you, you little wretch," she 
 said. "But I don't believe you care a straw 
 for him." 
 
 But as she spoke her merciless eyes had 
 pierced the girl's mask of light-heartedness. 
 On this last morning Susan was not mistress 
 of herself. 
 
 "You are fond of him!" she said. "Dread- 
 fully, ridiculously fond of him like any old- 
 fashioned girl. . . ." 
 
 "Oh, hush!" cried Susan. Anything to stop 
 that unmerciful proclamation. She flung her- 
 self on her knees, and her terrified protest was 
 stifled in Lady Henrietta's arms.
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 215 
 
 "How silly we are!" said she, but she held 
 the girl tightly. "I'm to bridle my tongue, 
 am I? You are afraid I shall tell him? Oh, 
 you poor little girl, you baby, is it as bad as 
 that?" 
 
 She pushed her away, as if ashamed of her 
 own emotion, and a fierceness came into her 
 voice, that had been entirely kind. 
 
 "If you allow that woman to ruin your 
 lives !" she said. "Oh, I'm not blind, I'm 
 not altogether stupid ! If you let her 
 take him from us I'll never forgive you, 
 Susan." 
 
 Having launched her bolt, all unconscious 
 of its stabbing irony, she recovered her ban- 
 tering equanimity, and looked whimsically at 
 her listener. 
 
 "Why are you gazing at me," she said, "as 
 if I were about to vanish? I'm not going to 
 die of it. I am going to take the field. ' ' 
 
 Barnaby was not in the house when the girl 
 went at last downstairs. She wandered in and 
 out of the library, trying to smother her ex- 
 pectation, listening without ceasing for the 
 telegram that was to come and make an end. 
 He did not appear at luncheon, and she sat 
 alone, pretending to eat, but starting at every 
 sound. Afterwards, to quiet her restlessness,
 
 216 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 she went round to the stables to say good-bye 
 to the horses. 
 
 The pigeons flew down to her as she walked 
 into the wide flagged yard. She went to the 
 corn bin and scattered a handful as they cir- 
 cled round her and settled at her feet. The 
 men must be still at dinner. There was no 
 stud groom to look reproachful as she tipped a 
 little oats in a sieve to give secretly to the 
 horse that had been her own in this country of 
 make-believe. She felt like a thief as she lifted 
 the latch. It seemed wrong to be there by her- 
 self, without Barnaby. She had always gone 
 round with him. 
 
 The horse lifted his beautiful head, and they 
 stared at each other. She patted his quarter 
 with her flat hand, and he went over and let 
 her empty her parting gift in his manger. 
 
 "Good-bye," she said. " Good-bye, old 
 boy!" 
 
 Tears choked her. She stumbled out 
 through the straw and shut the door on him. 
 
 All down that side of the yard there was a 
 row of boxes. The bay came first, and then 
 the chestnut that Barnaby had ridden yester- 
 day afternoon. He pulled a little with Bar- 
 naby; ... he had never pulled with her. 
 And there was the hotter chestnut that she had 
 called Mustard, and the brown horse that had
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 217 
 
 been mishandled and had a trick of striking 
 out when a stranger came up to him in the 
 stall. She had gone with Barnaby to look at 
 him when he first arrived from the dealers', 
 and Barnaby had caught her back just in 
 time. The horse looked at her gravely, sadly, 
 with no evil flicker in his eye. Life had dealt 
 hardly with him as with her, and he seemed, 
 best of them all, to understand. But Barnaby 
 had forbidden her to go near him. . . . 
 Mechanically she went on to Black Eose's box, 
 but her place was empty. 
 
 There was a grey next door, an old horse 
 that had carried her many times. He was to 
 be fired in the spring, sold perhaps. She leant 
 her head, shuddering, against him; and he 
 licked at her hand like a dog. . . . What 
 was the end of them, all these brave, patient, 
 willing creatures? A few seasons' eager 
 service, and then, step by step, as the tired mus- 
 cles failed the undying spirit knocking from 
 hand to hand, harder fare, worse misusage, 
 the dreadful descent into hell. 
 
 Once, on their way back from hunting, they 
 had come suddenly on a strange procession, a 
 gaunt herd of worn-out shadows making their 
 last journey, staggering humbly along the way- 
 side. It was a haunting tragedy. Staring 
 ribs, hollow eyes dim with misery, and the
 
 218 
 
 cursing driver thrashing one that had fallen, 
 and lay in a quivering heap on the grass. She 
 had asked what this horror was. . . . Just 
 a shipload of useless horses travelling in the 
 dusk their unspeakable pilgrimage to the sea. 
 
 And she had turned on the men riding at 
 her side. Shame on them, that were English, 
 that called themselves a sporting nation. 
 . . . What a lie that was ! she had cried. 
 
 And Barnaby had said "She's right 
 there!" and the other men had not laughed. 
 
 There were voices in the saddle-room. One 
 of the grooms crossed the yard whistling. 
 She was still leaning her head against the old 
 horse, and she waited. She did not want the 
 men to stare at her and wonder; she did not 
 want them to find her there. 
 
 "The master took out Black Rose, didn't 
 he?" 
 
 "Yes. He's gone down the fields with his 
 Lordship." 
 
 "Will he be riding her in the Hunt steeple- 
 chases?" 
 
 That was a stranger's voice, not one of Bar- 
 naby 's servants. 
 
 "Can't say." The stud groom was cau- 
 tious.
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 219 
 
 "That's an ugly brute of his Lordship's. 
 Why didn't he ride him here?" said another 
 voice, joining in. 
 
 "He had to go somewhere in the motor, and 
 so I'd orders to bring the horse over. It wasn't 
 a job I envied," said Eackham's groom. 
 
 "If ever a horse was a devil, that one is," 
 said the stud groom, laconically. 
 
 "Wants a devil to back him," muttered 
 Eackham's man. "I never ride out of our 
 yard without expecting he'll down me. Got a 
 history, hasn't he?" 
 
 "Who told you that?" 
 
 ."Stevens told me you'd passed a remark 
 about him." 
 
 The stud groom received the insinuating sug- 
 gestion with a dignity that was proof against 
 pumping for the space of a minute. He 
 chewed on a straw discreetly. Then his own 
 knowledge became too much for him. 
 
 "If I told you his history, Arthur Jones," he 
 said slowly, "you'd never lay your legs across 
 him no more." 
 
 "Then for God's sake tell it," said Arthur 
 Jones. 
 
 The stud groom laughed grimly. He was a 
 man of saturnine humour, and liked impressing 
 his underlings.
 
 220 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 "His Lordship knows/' he said. "If any 
 man could cow a horse, he can. Weight tells. 
 IWeight and devilry. But any other gentleman 
 buying Prince John I'd call it suicide. If I 
 didn't, according to circumstances, mind 
 you" he lowered his voice, not much, but 
 enough "call it murder." 
 
 Would the men never stop gossiping and 
 disperse? She would have to face their 
 curious looks at last. 
 
 "I was up Yorkshire way when his Lordship 
 bought him," said the stud groom deliberately. 
 "Four of us was leaning over the bars at that 
 auction. Two of us had a mourning band on 
 the sleeve of our coats, and the third chap had 
 unpicked the crape off his a month ago. 
 When they put Prince John in the ring there 
 came a frost on the bidding. They said he'd 
 ought to 'a bin shot out of the road, and 
 never put up for sale. His name wasn't 
 Prince John then. He'd been run in two 
 'chases, owners up; and he'd killed them 
 both." 
 
 The men stood with their mouths open, 
 digesting the horrid tale. And a stable lad 
 ran into the yard from his vantage point on a 
 hillock. 
 
 "They're down at the jumps," he said, 
 " and they're changing horses."
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 221 
 
 It was then that the girl came out, passing 
 swift as an apparition. The men fell back, 
 touching their caps. 
 
 "I'll lay she heard you," said Eackham's 
 man. 
 
 The stud groom looked after her curiously 
 and, crossing over to the door of the grey's 
 box, that she had left unfastened, closed it 
 without a word. 
 
 She did not know why she was hurrying to 
 the house. What half-conscious panic had 
 seized her as her inattentive mind took its wan- 
 dering impression of the grooms' idle gossip? 
 What words had reached her, lodging in her 
 brain to inspire that wild sense of impending 
 trouble? It was no good searching for Bar- 
 naby in the house. He was down at the jumps, 
 changing horses. 
 
 "There's a wire for you," said Lady Hen- 
 rietta. 
 
 It had come. At first she looked at it 
 stupidly, as if it, the signal, were some trivial 
 interruption. She heard herself explaining, 
 like an unthinking scholar repeating a half- 
 forgotten lesson. "I must go away. I I 
 have to go away." 
 
 "Bad news?" asked Lady Henrietta 
 quickly. Susan crumpled the telegram in her 
 hand.
 
 222 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 "Yes, it's bad news," she said. "It is from 
 the lawyers." 
 
 Vaguely she recollected what she was to say. 
 Something about going up to London at once, 
 and perhaps on to America. 
 
 "Let me see it," said Lady Henrietta. 
 "Yes, it sounds urgent. We'd better send 
 somebody to fetch Barnaby. He will have to 
 take you. You must catch the afternoon 
 train. ' ' 
 
 "Yes, I must catch the afternoon train," re- 
 peated Susan. That was decided. Had not 
 Barnaby mapped it out? She wondered dully 
 how he had managed to convey private instruc- 
 tions for that impeccable message; but all the 
 while she was thinking, thinking, and sud- 
 denly she was conquered by her wild, unrea- 
 soning fear for him. 
 
 "I'll go and find him," she said. 
 
 Lady Henrietta demurred, curious, desiring 
 to cross-examine; but the girl's face smote her, 
 and she forbore to hold her back. 
 
 It was not far down the fields, and she went 
 like a driven leaf, possessed by a fear that 
 would not be stilled by reason. She had gone 
 down there sometimes to watch them schooling 
 hunters, and she had ridden the jumps herself, 
 that day when Barnaby showed her how they 
 trained steeplechasers, with real wide hedges
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 223 
 
 and a movable leaping bar. He had tried to 
 prevent her risking the double, bristling with 
 difficulty, and she had defied him, larking over 
 it, and then galloping back to him to say she 
 was sorry. 
 
 She counted the fences mechanically as they 
 came up one by one, visible against the winter 
 sky; lines of artificial ramparts, defended by 
 a guard rail, made up with furze; and the 
 lapping rim of that actual water jump. The 
 strange thing was that as she came nearer and 
 nearer, instead of diminishing, her premoni- 
 tion grew. She talked to herself to keep down 
 her panic. 
 
 Why were so few men killed steeplechasing? 
 Because it was dangerous, Barnaby had said. 
 It was the rabbit holes and the mole-hills and 
 the grips that broke your neck unawares. 
 . . . That was the gate he had shut between 
 them, he sitting on his horse on the far side 
 laughing, while she practised hooking the latch 
 and pushing it back with the handle of her 
 whip. He had shown her first the nail studded 
 in the horn of the handle to keep it from slip- 
 ping; and then he had clapped the gate shut, 
 declaring that till she opened it fairly, with- 
 out his help, she should never pass. And she 
 had ridden through triumphantly at last. It 
 was the only thing he had had to teach her.
 
 224 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 How quaint they were, these heavy wooden 
 latches. . . . She let the gate swing and 
 ran. 
 
 Rackham was on Black Rose, and Barnaby 
 on a chestnut. They were walking their horses 
 when she caught sight of them, and Barnaby 
 was letting his look over a fence, flicking his 
 whip at the ridge of furze with its withering 
 yellow blossom. They were not talking loud, 
 but she thought his voice sounded angry. The 
 chestnut was restive. 
 
 "Keep still, you brute!" he said. 
 
 Something was wrong between the two 
 men. Some old antagonism had flared up, 
 rousing them to a hot discussion. The chest- 
 nut lifted his forefeet off the ground, 
 and Barnaby shook his bridle carelessly, warn- 
 ing him again to be quiet. Then all at once 
 up he went, seizing the unguarded moment. 
 
 
 
 Crash! 
 
 The girl saw him rise, saw him stagger, fall- 
 ing back on his rider ; and she ran on with sob- 
 bing breath. 
 
 The chestnut rolled over sideways and strug- 
 gled on to his legs. A little way off the mare 
 was plunging, upset by what was happening; 
 she could hardly be controlled. Susan had 
 reached Barnaby, she had thrown herself down
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 225 
 
 beside him to lift his head from the rough 
 grass where he lay so still. Rackham had dis- 
 mounted; he was coming to help; but she 
 was out of her mind with terror. She caught 
 up Barnaby's whip, springing to her feet, 
 lashing at him as if he were a wild beast that 
 she must keep at bay. Then she dropped on 
 her knees again, and laid her cheek on Bar- 
 naby's heart, and the turf was heaving up 
 round them both. 
 
 Far off, indistinct, she heard troubled whis- 
 pers, and one quite close. 
 
 "He's breathing still, my lady." (That was 
 the stud groom, who had formerly served a 
 countess. He always addressed her so.) She 
 looked up at him. 
 
 "He's living yet, my lady," the man repeated 
 in an awed undertone. "Best not try to move 
 him. They've sent a car for the doctor. Best 
 let him lie till they come. . . . " 
 
 He knelt on the other side, and one of the 
 men stood over him in his shirt-sleeves, fold- 
 ing up his coat. With significant carefulness 
 they raised Barnaby's head a little and slipped 
 it under. And then they all waited and 
 watched for a hundred years. . . . 
 
 When the doctor came he was still uncon- 
 scious. Something was broken, and there was 
 bad concussion. It was possible he might be
 
 226 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 injured internally, strained, crushed, a cur- 
 sory examination could not make sure. They 
 stripped a hurdle of its furze, and he was 
 lifted and laid upon it; the men hoisted it on 
 their shoulders and tramped with a dreadful 
 slowness through the fields to the house. 
 
 "I'll ride on and break it to his mother," 
 said Rackham, averting his eyes from Susan as 
 he spoke to her. 
 
 "Yes," she said dully. She had forgotten 
 him. 
 
 And as it often is, the one who was thought 
 least fitted to support a shock took it coolly. 
 A lengthy experience of hunting accidents 
 helped her to seize, comforted, on Eackham's 
 report of concussion, and to believe in his blunt 
 assurance that the whole thing was nothing 
 worse than an ordinary spill. A more diplo- 
 matic messenger might have terrified her with 
 his gentleness, but she suspected no conceal- 
 ment in a man who, without beating about the 
 bush, looked her right in the face and lied. 
 She did not see the men carry their burden in, 
 and when the others came to her, relieving 
 Eackham, she was comparatively calm. Her 
 active fancy was diverted by measures that 
 she ascribed to a misplaced anxiety for her- 
 self.
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 227 
 
 "I am not going to collapse," she insisted. 
 "It's too ridiculous making this fuss about me 
 and not letting me go to him. It's not the 
 first time the poor boy has been brought back 
 to me knocked silly. You needn't be so fidgety 
 over me; you had better look after Susan. 
 . . . My dear, my dear, I know what it is ! 
 And concussion is a thing the doctors can't 
 cut you to pieces for, thank Heaven. Give her 
 a little brandy!" 
 
 Rackham's glance met the doctor's. The 
 case was too serious to provoke a smile. 
 
 Lady Henrietta had turned to Susan. 
 
 "Oh," she said, with the air of one who 
 wished to demonstrate to an over-anxious cir- 
 cle that she had her wits about her ' ' that tele- 
 gram ! Of course you can't go now. We 
 must wire up to town. " 
 
 The girl listened to her without at first com- 
 prehending. 
 
 "Oh, the telegram," she repeated. How 
 pathetically absurd that futile invention 
 sounded now. 
 
 "I must go to him," she said. 
 
 The doctor nodded encouragement. 
 
 "I'll bring a nurse back with me when I 
 come again," he promised. 
 
 Into the girl's pale cheek came a sudden
 
 228 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 colour. She lifted her head and her eyes shone. 
 She held out her hand, and all at once it was 
 steady. 
 
 "No one else; no one but me!" she 
 cried. 
 
 Oh, the farce was not played out; the cur- 
 tain was not down. She was still his wife to 
 that audience; it was to her he belonged, to 
 no other. . . . Desperately she stood on 
 her rights; the poor, fictitious rights she had 
 purchased with all that pain. 
 
 "You can't nurse him," the doctor was say- 
 ing gently. "You'd break down; you would 
 make yourself ill. You don't know what you 
 would be undertaking." 
 
 But Barnaby's mother was on her side. 
 
 "Fiddlesticks!" said she. She had bright- 
 ened unaccountably; in her voice ran a queer 
 little tremour of satisfaction. "Let her make 
 herself ill if she likes. Why shouldn't she? 
 I've no patience with modern vices, calling in 
 hirelings ! A wife's place is with her hus- 
 band, not quaking outside his door." 
 
 Susan was looking bravely in the doctor's 
 doubtful face. 
 
 "You can trust me," she said, on her pale 
 lips a wistful flicker that hardly was a smile. 
 "I too was a hireling, once. I know 
 how."
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 229 
 
 She knew lie must yield. What man 
 would dare to stop her? What man would 
 dare to dispute her claim! Only Barnaby him- 
 self, who might one day laugh at the tragic 
 humour of her assumption. A kind of de- 
 spairing joy shook her soul, and was blotted in a 
 passionate eagerness of devotion. Barnaby 
 was hurt, perhaps dying, . . . and noth- 
 ing could conjure her from his side.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 THE house had become very quiet. 
 
 Under Barnaby's windows and right down 
 the avenue the crunching granite was spread 
 with tan. The servants moved silently about 
 their work, even in the far kitchens whence not 
 a sound could be heard. 
 
 For a long time he was unconscious; for a 
 long time he lay breathing heavily, and they 
 could not tell if he was in pain. Other doctors 
 came down from London, and Lady Hen- 
 rietta had to be told what it was that the girl 
 was fighting with that pale and steady face. 
 
 ''It's love, sheer love, that keeps her going," 
 said one witness to another, watching her 
 courage in the deeps of agony and uncertainty, 
 and, at last, in the breakers of hope. 
 
 She was safe- in giving herself without stint, 
 because for a long while he did not know her, 
 and it did not matter to him who it was that 
 was soothing him with a passionate gentleness 
 of which his jarred brain would have no knowl- 
 edge when it recovered its normal tone. She 
 could sit at his bedside hushing him, whisper- 
 ing that she loved him, she loved him, and he 
 must sleep. 
 
 230
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 231 
 
 Sometimes he talked to her in unintelligible 
 mutterings, sometimes his rambling speeches, 
 without beginning or end, were bitter to un- 
 derstand. 
 
 "You mustn't mind what he says," the doc- 
 tor warned her kindly. "It's certain to be 
 rubbish. Generally they go over and over 
 some silly thing they remember. I had a pa- 
 tient once who got into fearful trouble through 
 winding off something about a murder he had 
 read in a book." 
 
 That was after he had stood awhile listen- 
 ing gravely to Barnaby's restless talk. 
 
 "I'll find a way out. Wait a bit, my dar- 
 ling. . . . We'll not have our lives ruined 
 by that mad marriage. I'll find a way out for 
 us." 
 
 It was not always the same. Sometimes in 
 the night it would be "I tell you she's my 
 wife. No, no, not the other. Awfully good 
 joke, what? Mustn't lose my head, though; 
 mustn't lose my head." 
 
 And Susan would lay her cheek against his 
 in an agony lest he should hurt himself with 
 his excitement. 
 
 "Sleep!" she would whisper, "oh, my dear- 
 est, lie still and sleep. . . ." 
 
 "But I love her. Don't you know that? I 
 can't marry my girl. Because I love her;
 
 232 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 just because I love her mustn't lose my 
 head!" 
 
 Once after she had quieted him, and he had 
 lain a little while motionless he called her. 
 
 1 'Are you there?" he said. His voice was 
 so sensible that she trembled. 
 
 "Yes," she said softly, and he gave a sigh 
 of content. But soon he was muttering again, 
 and restless. 
 
 "She wants me to sleep," he was repeating, 
 "she wants me to sleep." 
 
 No, he had not known who she was. She 
 bent over him, smoothing his forehead with a 
 tender and anxious hand. Sometimes her 
 touch was magnetic. 
 
 "Yes," she said. "Hush, my dearest." 
 
 "Kiss me," he murmured suddenly, "and 
 I'll go to sleep." 
 
 And since at all costs he must be coaxed to 
 slumber, she kissed him for the woman who 
 was not there. 
 
 
 
 Slowly he turned the corner, slowly. 
 
 And at last she found him watching her one 
 morning as she came towards him with a cup 
 in her hand, across the great, wide room. She 
 liked this room; it was so vast and simple. 
 Its battered furniture must have been his
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 233 
 
 when he was a boy. And there was no clutter 
 of pictures and photographs; only a few an- 
 cient oil-paintings of hounds and horses. 
 Above his bed a square patch in the wall-paper 
 that was unfaded, betrayed where a woman's 
 portrait had hung once and had been taken 
 down. 
 
 "Hullo! "he said. 
 
 He lay looking at her, thin and haggard, but 
 his whimsical smile unchanged. 
 
 "It's she," he said, "or is it the stuff that 
 dreams are made of?" 
 
 "It is she," said Susan. 
 
 "I've been ill, haven't I?" he said. "And 
 I say, Susan, have you been nursing me?" 
 
 "Yes," she said, steadily. 
 
 "I thought so. I've had a kind of feeling 
 that you were there. What's it all about? 
 Wasn't I down at the jumps with Eackham, 
 and the horse went up ? Did I get dam- 
 aged?" 
 
 "Bather," she said. 
 
 "And you didn't fly to America?" 
 
 "No," she said. 
 
 His weak, amused voice, talking in pauses, 
 smote on her heart. 
 
 "Ah," said Barnaby. "It would have 
 looked bad if you'd bolted, wouldn't it? No
 
 234 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 end heartless. Susan, oh, I've noticed things, 
 off and on, you've been killing yourself look- 
 ing after me. " 
 
 His smile was troubled. She shook her head 
 at him. 
 
 "You didn't do it," he said, ''because, oh, 
 because of some queer notion that you owed 
 us something f You didn't do it to make it 
 up to us, to pay us out?" 
 
 She put her arm under his pillow and, rais- 
 ing him slightly, lifted the cup to him and let 
 him drink. If Barnaby could have known: 
 if he could have seen her claiming him in her 
 hour of desperation ! If he could have dimly 
 guessed what a dreadful happiness had walked 
 hand in hand with pain! She had won some- 
 thing of her mad adventure. She was the 
 woman who had nursed him, who had waked 
 night after night at his pillow. Nobody could 
 rob her of that. And when she was gone 
 he would perhaps think of her with kind- 
 ness. . . . 
 
 "It wasn't remorse," she said. 
 
 "It's awfully good of you," said Barnaby. 
 "But why but why " There was a faint 
 eagerness in his puzzled voice. 
 
 "Perhaps," she said bravely, "it was the 
 dramatic instinct. How could a poor actress 
 forget all her traditions? How could she help
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 235 
 
 rising to her part? Don't talk. . . . Lie 
 quiet and laugh at me all you want." 
 
 * * 
 
 One day Lady Henrietta came into the 
 room with a budget of letters and all she could 
 rake of gossip. 
 
 "You two have been shut up so long," she 
 said, "I believe you have both forgotten there 
 is such a thing as an outside world. Why 
 don't you ask who has been inquiring for you?" 
 
 "Who has been inquiring for me?" said 
 Barnaby. 
 
 He was propped high in his pillows, and 
 was looking like himself. In the afternoon he 
 was to dress and sit in a chair and read the 
 paper. 
 
 "Everybody," she said. "Poor Eackham 
 has been two or three times a day when you 
 were bad. Of course it was his horse that did 
 the mischief. He would not be satisfied with- 
 out seeing Susan " 
 
 "Did you see him?" asked Barnaby. There 
 was something a little odd in his intonation. 
 
 "Susan see anybody?" exclaimed his mother. 
 "She had eyes for nobody but her patient. 
 All the wild horses in Eackham 's stables would 
 not drag her away from you. He's thinking 
 of going abroad for a bit, he says. To Amer- 
 ica, or Canada ; he confused me with his talk
 
 236 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 of cities and mines and mountains. I don't 
 know if he has any idea of making a fortune 
 there or if he is looking out for a lady. I 
 said you might have to go out there too, 
 but the unfortunate accident had postponed 
 it, and he said it was a bigger place than 
 I fancied, but to let him know if he could be 
 of any use to you. His manner was rather 
 queer." 
 
 "Poor chap," said Barnaby. "I daresay 
 he is hard up. It would have been lucky for 
 him if I Why, what is the matter, Susan I ' ' 
 
 "Don't tease her," said Lady Henrietta. 
 "You can't possibly realise what a fright she 
 had!" She turned briskly to the girl, how- 
 ever. "We never heard any more of that mys- 
 terious telegram that was to carry you off 
 so quickly the day Barnaby was hurt," she 
 said. "Have you quite forgotten it? Does 
 absolutely nothing matter to you but him?" 
 
 Barnaby had begun to laugh, weakly, uncon- 
 trollably. 
 
 "Oh, that will keep," he said. 
 
 "What do you know about it?" said Lady 
 Henrietta, catching him up sharply. "It came 
 when you were out. I understood she was 
 looking for you when she witnessed your 
 smash. And I'm convinced it has never en- 
 tered her head from that day to this."
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 237 
 
 Then she remembered her heap of letters. 
 
 "Look at all these!" she cried. "All beg- 
 ging for news of him! And the offerings! 
 There never was anything so romantic. . . . 
 There's one old woman down in the village 
 that's killed her pig and, Barnaby she sent 
 up a delicate bit in a dish for you. ' ' 
 
 "Romantic f" said Barnaby. 
 
 "Oh, romance has singular manifestations," 
 said Lady Henrietta. "You never know. . . . 
 There was that girl of Bessy's, for example, 
 who used to write poetry. She was too 
 romantic, poor thing, and that 's why she never 
 married. She went in for hero-worship. Used 
 to go into kind of trances of adoration over 
 a famous soldier that she had never seen. And 
 once I tumbled over her sitting on the hearth- 
 rug with her hands clasped behind her head, 
 gazing with a rapt expression into the fire. I 
 thought she was fighting his battles with him 
 in her imagination, or poetising; but she whis- 
 pered 'Don't interrupt me! I'm darning his 
 socks. ' " 
 
 She was turning over her letters. 
 
 "Here's one for you, Susan," she said. 
 "It's a London postmark. A big hotel, but 
 rather a common hand." 
 
 Susan took it indifferently. Lady Hen- 
 rietta was already plunged in the midst of a
 
 238 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 family letter; wherein an aunt of Barnaby 's 
 was presuming to offer her advice. She read 
 out bits of it with little shrieks of scorn. 
 
 " 'When Toby broke his leg I made a point 
 of ' Who cares what folly she committed 
 when Toby broke his leg"? 'I do hope, Hen- 
 rietta, you see that the doctors do not permit 
 the poor boy's wife to be in and out of the 
 sick-room. It irritates the nurses.' . . . 
 Ah, but ours is a romantic sick-room! If we 
 had married a fool like Charlotte's daughter- 
 in-law ! ' ' 
 
 She glanced up smiling at the other two. 
 Providence, not she, had taken the field; and 
 she had faith in its workings as efficacious. 
 But Susan was not attending. She was read- 
 ing her letter still. "My dear," said Lady 
 Henrietta, "who is the common person?" 
 
 But she got no answer. 
 
 "Come! Tell us," said Barnaby; and at his 
 voice Susan started. 
 
 "Somebody I used to know," she said. 
 
 Lady Henrietta had returned to her own 
 correspondence. Her mild curiosity could 
 wait until the girl had finished deciphering the 
 almost illegible scrawl. 
 
 "You might straighten the pillows for me," 
 said Barnaby. 
 
 She tore the letter across and threw it into
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 239 
 
 the fire. Then she came over to him and did 
 what he wanted with a jealous eagerness that 
 was new. 
 
 "Was it a worrying letter!" he said, in a 
 low voice. He had nothing to do but look at 
 her. 
 
 "No," she said, "it didn't worry me." 
 But her tone was subdued, too quiet, as if she 
 had had a shock. 
 
 "I'm eternally grateful to you for burning 
 it, though," he said; "that abominable scent 
 it reeked with was like a whiff of nightmare. 
 I seem to remember it. I wonder where I can 
 have run across a woman who advertised her- 
 self like that. . . . I'm glad you burnt it. 
 Considerate nurse. It was the only thing to 
 do." 
 
 She was grateful to him for not insisting. 
 Not yet, not yet; not just this morning! . . . 
 Afterwards she would tell him. . . . She 
 moved away from his side and picked up a 
 newspaper from the pile that lay with the 
 letters. 
 
 "Do you know what you look like?" said 
 Lady Henrietta, tapping her cheek. "Like 
 a child that has been startled, like a child when 
 an unkind shake has scattered its house of 
 cards." 
 
 It was true. But such a tottering house,
 
 240 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 such, a dream-built, precarious house of 
 cards ! 
 
 Lady Henrietta dropped her voice, osten- 
 sibly to communicate a paragraph in the aunt's 
 letter that was unsuited to the profane mas- 
 culine understanding. 
 
 "I don't want to pry," she said; ''but was 
 that by any chance an anonymous letter ? ' ' 
 
 "Oh, no, no, it was not," said Susan. 
 
 "Not Julia's hand disguised! That woman 
 is capable of anything. She's been here sev- 
 eral times inquiring. Sending in brazen mes- 
 sages! " 
 
 "Is there anything in the paper?" said 
 Barnaby. 
 
 Susan glanced hastily up and down the 
 sheet. No, there was nothing. Among the 
 theatrical announcements an American play 
 that had come to London. 
 
 "She is looking in the advertisements!" said 
 Lady Henrietta, affectionately scornful. "My 
 dear, the poor boy is thirsting for murders and 
 politics." 
 
 The advertisements. . . . And among 
 them 
 
 "To-night at 8. 
 
 "The Great American Comedy 'Shut Tour 
 Windows' . . . Mr. Rostiman's Company.
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 241 
 
 Mr. Hayes, Mr. Vine . . ." (a long list of 
 names that were unknown to her, and unmean- 
 ing) ; "And Miss Adelaide Fish." 
 
 Barnaby was up and dressed. 
 
 He was much amused at his own weakness, 
 at his dependence on that slim, supporting 
 arm. He let Susan settle him carefully in a 
 chair, and then frightened her by getting on 
 to his feet and pretending to walk out of the 
 room. She flew to him, scared, reproachful, 
 making him lean his weight on her shoulder as 
 she brought him back. 
 
 "Tyrannical girl!" he said. 
 
 She looked down on him as he sat there, 
 dressed and shaved, his clothes fitting rather 
 loosely, his blue eyes hollow. How unspeak- 
 ably dear he was. How hard to face empti- 
 ness. . . . 
 
 "I'll put your mother in charge of you while 
 I am gone," she said. 
 
 "Don't be too long," said Barnaby. "I'll 
 miss you." 
 
 Unwillingly her heart sank. He would miss 
 her. In that little while; in that scant half- 
 hour ! 
 
 "Patient," she said, "you flatter." 
 
 And smiled at him bravely, and went away.
 
 242 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 "I'll go to him immediately," said Lady 
 Henrietta. She was writing furiously, de- 
 spatching a counterblast to the aunt's inter- 
 fering letter, which had contained more warn- 
 ings than she had read aloud. It deserved six 
 pages. 
 
 "How do you spell inseparable?" she asked, 
 hardly interrupting the delightful business of 
 administering a slap to one whose daughters- 
 in-law were not wax and whose sons were wild. 
 Distractedly she glanced at Susan. 
 
 "You look wan," she said. "I told them 
 you were to have the motor with the hood off . 
 Get all the air you can. Do you mind taking 
 this old brooch into the town to be mended?" 
 Her eyes twinkled as she unpinned it and put 
 it in Susan's hand. 
 
 "There!" she said, "that will make sure 
 you don't hurry back too soon, pretending you 
 have had your breath of air." 
 
 The girl went into her own room and slipped 
 on a hat and coat. While she tied a veil round 
 her head she remembered that in the diamond 
 star, which was the only thing in the house that 
 was her own, a stone was loose. Since she 
 must go in to the jeweller's on Lady Henri- 
 etta's trumped-up errand she might as well take 
 it with her. 
 
 The motor was not round when she de-
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 243 
 
 scended, and she sank into one of the deep 
 chairs in the hall. When she was away from 
 Barnaby the strength in her seemed to fail. 
 It had been heavily tried, and the strain was 
 telling on her, now that it was relaxed. 
 
 The tan that had been scattered on the ave- 
 nue still deadened the sound of wheels. But 
 she saw Macdonald, who was waiting to pack 
 her into the car, moving to the door; and 
 rising, she went towards it. She had not time 
 to draw back as she saw her mistake, for Julia 
 was on the steps. 
 
 Swift in seizing her opportunity the visitor 
 walked in at the open door. There was some- 
 thing belligerent in her entrance. 
 
 "How is he?" she asked, without preamble, 
 addressing Susan. Macdonald had fallen back 
 discreetly. 
 
 "He is better," said Susan coldly. "I have 
 to go out, Miss Kelly." 
 
 "I must see him," said Julia, in a low, in- 
 tense voice that would not be denied. "I've 
 tried and tried, but they never would let me 
 in. You will take me to him. ' ' 
 
 "If" said Susan. 
 
 Julia did not blench under these accents of 
 proud surprise. 
 
 "Yes," she said. "You daren't refuse me. 
 I know too much. ' '
 
 244 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 The assurance in her voice warned the girl 
 that this was no hysterical vapouring, but a 
 challenge. She answered her bravely, main- 
 taining an outward calm. 
 
 "I am sorry I cannot do as you wish," she 
 said. 
 
 How lovely the woman was, with her angry 
 flush, and her long-lashed eyes. How reck- 
 lessly she spoke. Some theatrical impulse in 
 her had overridden prudence; whoever liked 
 might have heard her. . . . With that odd 
 irrelevance that keeps the mind steady under 
 fire Susan was wondering who it was that had 
 said "Yes, she's a beauty, but the back of 
 her neck is common " 
 
 "You have no right to keep us apart," said 
 Julia. "I've been patient . . . but this 
 is too much! After all I'm not stone; I'm a 
 woman With all the world gabbling about 
 you and your devotion ! I daresay you 
 think you are getting an influence over him. 
 Poor Barnaby ! All this while you have had 
 him at your mercy!" 
 
 She fixed her eyes on Susan with an inde- 
 scribable stare of scorn. 
 
 "Will you take me to him I" she said. 
 
 "I will not," said Susan. 
 
 Julia came nearer. They were practically
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 245 
 
 alone. Macdonald was putting rugs in the 
 motor. 
 
 "I believe you are fond of him," she said 
 ruthlessly. "Fond of him! You the cheat, 
 you the impostor I" 
 
 Ah, she had known what was coming. 
 She had read it in Julia's eyes. Desperately 
 she stood her ground. 
 
 "You insulted me once before," she said 
 slowly. 
 
 "Yes," said Julia. "Even then I was not 
 blinded. . . . But now I know. I've 
 known ever since the Hunt Ball, when Bar- 
 naby " 
 
 "Barnaby f" Susan repeated the word 
 under her breath as if it was strange to her. 
 
 " When Barnaby said that you were not 
 his wife." 
 
 The girl stretched out her hands uncon- 
 sciously for a support that she did not find. 
 There was a mist between them, and she 
 swayed on her feet. Weak in spirit and body 
 from her long nursing, she felt as if someone 
 had struck her a whirling blow. In a kind 
 of vision she saw Barnaby and Julia dancing; 
 always Barnaby and Julia dancing; peo- 
 ple had talked that night; they had sympa- 
 thised with her. . . . Well might Julia
 
 246 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 laugh at her disapproving world if he had whis- 
 pered that! And it was true. She had only 
 to look in Julia's triumphant face to know that 
 this thing was true. 
 
 She could not speak. She turned and 
 walked slowly towards the stairs, and began to 
 go up. On the landing above she waited until 
 Julia had reached her side. Then she went 
 along the corridor without turning her head 
 until they had come to the end. 
 
 At Barnaby 's door she stopped and, turning 
 the handle, spoke at last to the other woman, 
 the woman to whom he had betrayed her. 
 
 "Go to him," she said. 
 
 And without another word she left her, and 
 left the house. 
 
 Barnaby looked up, surprised. 
 
 Susan must have started, and Lady Hen- 
 rietta would not open his door so slowly. Who 
 was this rustling on his threshold? 
 
 She took a little run into the room, and 
 stopped. 
 
 * ' Oh, Barnaby ! ' ' she cried emotionally. ' ' At 
 last!" 
 
 His unresponsiveness was thrown away on 
 her excited mood. Flushed with victory she 
 misread his expression, less like rapture than 
 consternation.
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 247 
 
 "This is a bit unexpected," lie said. "I'm 
 not in very good form, Julia. I'm afraid I 
 must ask you to excuse me " 
 
 "Was I too sudden?" she said. "Ah, poor 
 Barnaby; how you are altered; how ill you 
 look! Let me do something for you " 
 
 She rushed at him with enthusiasm, casting 
 a glance around her for illumination, and he 
 could but smile at her hasty gesture, not yet 
 grasping its full significance, not realising the 
 jealous self-assertion that lay behind her be- 
 wildering readiness to push him back in his 
 chair, to shake up his pillows, to administer 
 some potion. 
 
 "I don't want anything, thanks," he said. 
 He was still grappling with the problem of her 
 appearance. 
 
 "Oh " she cried, desisting, "to think of 
 you, helpless all this time, and in the hands of 
 that woman !" 
 
 "Are you speaking of my wife?" he said. 
 
 Julia laughed softly, reproachfully, and let 
 her eyes rest on his. 
 
 ' * Foolish man ! ' ' she said. ' ' You might have 
 trusted me. Think what I've had to endure! 
 Wasn't I punished enough for that ancient 
 misunderstanding? Did you think I was so 
 vindictive that you dared not confide in me? 
 But I would have shared your burdens. For
 
 248 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 your sake I could even forgive your mother." 
 
 What was she driving at? His mouth set in 
 a stiff line that might have warned her if she 
 had not been so sure. 
 
 "I meant to wait," she said, "to pretend I 
 was ignorant like the rest; to hug the secret 
 till you struggled out of that wicked tangle 
 and came to me. I understand you so well. 
 I knew for whose sake you were trying to avoid 
 a scandal. Oh, Barnaby, how mad it was 
 and how like you ! ' ' 
 
 "Julia," he said, "what do you mean?" 
 
 She missed the dangerous note in his voice, 
 too quiet. 
 
 "I'm not angry with you now," she said 
 caressingly. "But, Barnaby, was it fair to me? 
 People are so uncharitable . . . they talked 
 cruelly about us. And if I hadn't known that 
 she was not your wife, if I hadn't known you 
 were free " 
 
 "That's a mistake," he said grimly. "I am 
 not free." 
 
 She stared at him. So great was her gift of 
 illusion, so invincible the vanity that in her was 
 the breath of life, that she had put down his 
 stiffness, his strangeness, to the effort to keep 
 his feelings in control. The glad shock of her 
 visit must have been almost too much for him. 
 But what was that he was saying?
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 249 
 
 "Oh," she burst out. " Don't tell me she 
 has entrapped you! That's what I was afraid 
 of; that's why I felt I must see you at all 
 risks, in spite of all opposition. I knew she 
 would try to take advantage of your weakness 
 while you were her prisoner, while you lay here 
 at her mercy, no match for her ! ' ' 
 
 No, he was not strong yet. His forehead 
 was wet and his mouth was dry. He had a 
 curious longing to find himself back in that cool 
 bed yonder. 
 
 "Oh, for God's sake," he cried. "Stop 
 talking nonsense ! ' ' 
 
 His adjuration checked her passionate speech. 
 She remained gazing. 
 
 "I don't know," he said slowly, "how you 
 got hold of your hallucination. I don't know 
 on what grounds you are making that accusa- 
 tion. Did I hear you say that Susan was not 
 my wife? Don't repeat it." 
 
 Julia drew a quick breath of amazement. 
 
 "Barnaby!" she gasped, in an incredulous, 
 startled voice. 
 
 "Don't repeat it," he said stubbornly. Yes, 
 the old fire was extinguished, the old spell 
 shattered. And still she gazed at him, unable 
 to comprehend. All at once she began to laugh. 
 
 "She did not deny it!" she said. "At first 
 she tried to keep me from you, but when I
 
 250 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 told her I knew all, that you had confessed it 
 yourself, she was beaten. Oh, anybody who 
 saw her face would have known the truth ! ' ' 
 
 She was frightened then. His eyes were so 
 blue and blazing. 
 
 "You told Susan," he repeated, "that I 
 that / had said she was not my wife?" 
 
 "Yes," she said, still defiant, but quailing 
 a little before his look. 
 
 He stood up. He was regarding her with 
 an expression that held no memories of the 
 past. It was all blotted out; no trampled 
 passion, no hidden tenderness stirred in him 
 to excuse her. 
 
 "If you were not a woman !" he said, in 
 an implacable tone that was unknown to her. 
 * "You had better go." 
 
 "What a monster I am!" said Lady Hen- 
 rietta. "How neglectful! Was I more than 
 five minutes'? You'd have rung if you'd 
 wanted me, wouldn't you? Poor boy, were you 
 very dull?" 
 
 "It's nearly time for her to come back," he 
 said. 
 
 He was looking tired. Getting up had not 
 done him good. Feeling somewhat guilty his 
 mother sat down to amuse him and make up 
 for her lapse by half an hour's brisk attention.
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 251 
 
 Somehow his curious depression affected her. 
 She, too, began to listen for the motor. 
 
 "I told her not to hurry back," she said 
 apologetically, as time went by. " She's been 
 doing far too much. If she doesn't take care 
 of herself now you're better, she will break 
 down. ' ' 
 
 1 'Wasn't that the car?" said Barnaby. 
 
 But no light step came hurrying up the stairs. 
 
 "I'll ask," said Lady Henrietta, and rang. 
 The servant who came knew nothing, and was 
 sent down to make inquiries. She was puzzled 
 by the report. 
 
 "I can't understand this!" she said. 
 "Barnaby they say the car has come back 
 without her." 
 
 His look alarmed her. She jumped up 
 quickly. 
 
 "I'll see the man myself," she said; "it must 
 be some ridiculous blunder." 
 
 She was a long time downstairs. When she 
 came back she was bewildered and indignant. 
 
 "They tell me," she said, "that Julia Kelly 
 has been; that she saw Susan before she went 
 out" 
 
 "She came up here," said Barnaby. 
 
 "So the servants tell me," she said. "I can 
 hardly believe it ! And the man says that 
 Susan made him drive her straight to the sta-
 
 252 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 tion. He heard her ask when there was a train 
 to London. There is no message " 
 
 Anger was struggling in her voice with ap- 
 prehension. She looked suspiciously at her 
 son. 
 
 "Barnaby " she said emphatically, "if this 
 is Julia's doing I'll never forgive either of 
 you ! ' ' 
 
 He had got on his feet, and stood uncer- 
 tainly, as if measuring his strength. The look 
 on his face struck her into silence. 
 
 "Don't couple me with Julia," he said, set- 
 ting his teeth. The sweat was glistening like 
 dew on his forehead. "Poor little girl . . . 
 poor little girl. ... So she's gone. Why, 
 what's the matter with me? What an incapa- 
 ble fool I am ! How am I to go and find her if 
 I can't walk straight across a room 1"
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 ALL London was placarded with that American 
 play. 
 
 It ran through the streets in big letters on 
 the omnibuses; it walked in tilting lines in 
 the gutter; it stared out from all the hoard- 
 ings with the wide smile of its principal actress 
 . . . Adelaide Fish. 
 
 And it was the gaudy poster that startled 
 Susan out of the unhappy listlessness that had 
 fallen on her. Facing her suddenly it arrested 
 her wandering step. 
 
 Adelaide Fish. . . . Had the world stood 
 still after all, and was it this morning that she 
 had had a letter . . .f 
 
 "Hideously inartistic," said one passer-by; 
 to another. 
 
 "Still she's handsome. I've seen her. One 
 of these big women " 
 
 Yes, it was inartistic. Beds and blues and 
 greens in vivid splashes, and the name writ 
 large. A marvellous jump from the bankrupt 
 shifts of the Tragedy Company to this smiling 
 elevation. And Barnaby was still ignorant. 
 He had not been warned. 
 
 She thought of him now. The passionate 
 253
 
 254 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 shame that had caught her up like a flame 
 sweeping all before it had died out. She felt 
 only a kind of wonder at herself, looking back. 
 It was inevitable. The impossible situation 
 could only have ended so. ... But in the 
 background all the while was the woman. 
 
 She tried to shake off the lassitude of de- 
 spair. Why had she burned the letter? She 
 had been going to tell Barnaby, although the 
 writer had forbidden her to share its contents 
 with him. It would have been simpler to let 
 him but no, she could never have put that 
 letter into his hands. Hard enough to look 
 him in the face and tell him what she could 
 repeat ; that the woman who was his wife, the 
 one in whose likeness she had been masquer- 
 ading, had written, and was in England. But 
 before she had spoken Julia had intervened 
 and the waters of bitterness had closed over 
 her head. 
 
 Barnaby must not be left in the dark. She 
 had a wild and sudden longing to do something 
 for him still; one last service. She could find 
 out from this woman what were her intentions 
 towards him and if it were a threat or a prom- 
 ise that had lurked in that ambiguous letter. 
 
 She must ask somebody where she was. 
 For the first time she realised her surroundings, 
 the roar of the traffic, the restless street.
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 255 
 
 Outside the theatre an interminable train of 
 people, wedged tightly, endured with their 
 faces turned towards the gallery stair ; another 
 line, reaching far down the pavement and less 
 good-humoured, guarded the entrance to the 
 pit. The lights falling on their faces threw 
 up a singular likeness in expression, a kind 
 of touch-me-not attitude that defied their 
 physical juxtaposition. Squeezed like her- 
 rings, their pained endurance was heightened 
 by the universal lack of a smile. And the 
 lines were haunted by a street musician strum- 
 ming his lamentable tune. 
 
 As Susan went up the dark entry she was 
 pursued by unfriendly glances, the quick sus- 
 picion that she was a late comer who must be 
 turned back ignominiously in her base attempt 
 to push in at the head of the line. As she 
 vanished inside the stage door there was an 
 interested murmur; here and there a man un- 
 bent and asked his neighbour which of them 
 she was. Then there was a click and the 
 crowd wenjt surging forward. The doors were 
 open. 
 
 Miss Fish was in her dressing-room. 
 
 Like one in a dream the girl was breathing 
 that familiar atmosphere of the theatre. It 
 seemed to shut off for ever all that was yester- 
 day. She stumbled into a little room violently
 
 256 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 scented, full of blinding light. And a woman 
 swung round and seized her hands. 
 
 "There you are!" she said. "I can't kiss 
 you my face is sticky. I've sent away my 
 dresser. Wait till I shut that door!" 
 
 She made a dash and secured it, then pushed 
 Susan into a chair. 
 
 "I'll have to make up while I talk," she said. 
 "Go on; go on. I'm mad with curiosity! I 
 am dying to hear it all. ' ' 
 
 "I had your letter," said Susan. 
 
 Adelaide laughed. Her warm voice had a 
 note of banter. 
 
 "I didn't know but you had waxed fat like 
 Jeshurun," she said. "Wasn't it he that 
 kicked? So I wrote that letter. I had to see 
 you. You burnt it? You didn't tell him?" 
 
 "He does not know you are here," said 
 Susan. "He has been ill." Her heart was 
 beating painfully hard; the air in this close 
 little room was suffocating her. It was not 
 air. . . . 
 
 ' ' Yes ? ' ' said Adelaide. ' ' That 's how I know 
 about you. My dear, don't tell me! I picked 
 up a picture paper and saw a piece about him 
 and his accident, and his devoted American 
 wife! I'd so often wondered what became of 
 you. It 's tremendous ! ' ' 
 
 There was admiration in her gaze as she
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 257 
 
 turned unwillingly from her visitor to the glass, 
 smearing her chin as she talked. "I did hear 
 of him being alive," she said. "I saw that in 
 one of our papers, 'English Gentleman Comes 
 Back from the Grave' and so on. I was 
 scared when I thought of you. They said 
 what a joy it was to his wife and his mother, 
 and I thought they had been too hasty. But 
 there was never a word more, though I 
 watched the paper. I decided he must have 
 walked into the offices here and said 'I do not 
 desire you to mention this' I'd heard it was 
 done sometimes by the upper classes. But !" 
 
 Again her face expressed unqualified ad- 
 miration. "You must have had a nerve," she 
 said, ' ' you poor kitten ! ' ' 
 
 The girl sprang up, her mouth proud, her 
 eyes imploring. 
 
 "Adelaide," she said, "you were good to 
 me once, you you tried to help me. Won't 
 you believe me when I tell you I am nothing 
 to him? It was all acting, all acting from be- 
 ginning to end. Never real, never what you 
 said in your letter. I was only staying in his 
 house playing that part till I could disap- 
 pear without scandal. ' ' 
 
 "What?" said the woman bluntly. "Has 
 he never said to you 'If I can free myself of 
 the other I'll marry you.' "
 
 258 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 ' * Oh, never ; never ! ' ' 
 
 "Then," said Adelaide, "it's not for your 
 sake his lawyers are getting busy, trying to 
 find what they call flaws, trying to break his 
 marriage? They can try. . . . You didn't 
 know?" 
 
 She turned on the girl with a suddenness 
 that took her unawares ; read her face. 
 
 "He's not playing you fair!" she cried. 
 
 It was remarkable, just then, how she resem- 
 bled Julia. Half dressed as she was, half 
 made-up, her eyes darkened, and scorn on her 
 carmined lip. 
 
 "I'll give you a hold over him," she 
 said. "I'll stand by you. Wasn't it all my 
 doing? Who's that knocking? You can't 
 come in." 
 
 Good-nature was back as she turned from 
 the interruption. She smiled indulgently, as 
 one who was hoarding a gift. 
 
 "I wouldn't lift a finger for him," she said, 
 "But I'm silly over you. I'll tell you. And 
 you can go back to him and make your bar- 
 gain. ' ' 
 
 The girl shut her lips hard. She must 
 listen; for Barnaby's sake she must listen. 
 The shamed colour ebbed in her cheek. 
 
 "I'm not mad, or bad, at least not to 
 speak of," said Adelaide, "but I'm careless.
 
 " Go on ; go on. I'm mad with curiosity ! 
 I am dying to hear it all."
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 259 
 
 . . . Oh, I'll give you your Englishman, 
 child ; you needn't look so stricken ! I once had 
 a kind of a romance myself. When I was a 
 young thing like you I married myself to a 
 shabby little poet. But I grew tired of him 
 muttering verses and dreaming things upside 
 down; and we had a divorce, and I ran and 
 left him and went on the stage. And all the 
 while that little man kept on writing ; and when 
 he'd used up all his poetry, and all the dead 
 kings and queens, he woke up and wrote a 
 play." 
 
 A queer pride, not unmixed with tenderness, 
 came into her voice at that. 
 
 "What do you think?" she said. "Nothing 
 would move him but that they should find me 
 out and give me the star part. 'I have had 
 her in my mind all these years,' he said, 'and it 
 is she. No one but she shall play it.' All 
 these years that I had forgotten him, he was 
 building me a ladder ." 
 
 She laughed abruptly, banishing sentiment. 
 
 "I've done all the talking," she said, "and 
 I must, while you sit there dumb with your 
 big eyes asking me if it's to be the dagger or 
 the bowl. D'you remember when I was Queen 
 Eleanor, and you were the Eosamond, and the 
 boys nearly shouted the roof down, begging you 
 not to drink? Ah, those times, they were
 
 260 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 funny. I've shot up since, like a rocket into 
 the sky." 
 
 Time was running out. Somewhere in the 
 distance there was a blare of music. She had 
 finished making up, and she must let in her 
 dresser. 
 
 " Listen to me," she said. "His people 
 haven't the clues to connect a Phemie Watson 
 they never heard of with Adelaide Fish. 
 You'll have the start of them. Make your 
 terms; make your terms before James and I 
 go to housekeeping again. ... I daresay 
 he'd never find it out for himself. About that 
 divorce it was never fixed. The lawyer 
 wanted to go duck-shooting, and I was gone, 
 and James, why, they're unbusinesslike, these 
 poets ! he says he had always hugged an inex- 
 tinguishable spark " 
 
 She paused, looking impatiently at her lis- 
 tener, who was so silent. 
 
 11 Don't you understand?" she said. "I'm 
 no more Mrs. John Barnabas Hill than you 
 are. If you're wise you'll make him marry you 
 to-morrow. ' ' 
 
 Susan did not know which way to turn when 
 she was in the street. It seemed much darker ; 
 it seemed as if she were lost.
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 261 
 
 She walked blindly on and on. The people 
 were ghosts that were streaming by; their 
 faces that gleamed and passed did not lighten 
 her terrible loneliness. A straw in that human 
 river, she was afraid. 
 
 There was a post-office on the other side of 
 the street. She almost ran to it, unconscious 
 of the swift perils of the crossing. 
 
 For she must write to Barnaby, and the 
 thought of communicating with him, poignant 
 as it was, had a strange touch of comfort. 
 The bare office became a harbour. 
 
 They gave her a letter card, and she wrote 
 at the counter, with the scratching office pen. 
 That was why it was so ill written. It was 
 ridiculous how such a trifle hurt her. Was it 
 not the first and last time she would ever write 
 to him, and did it matter how badly, since it 
 was to tell him that there was no bar between 
 him and Julia? . . . 
 
 He would be glad to have it. ... 
 
 She held it fast an instant before letting it 
 fall into the yawning slit. She liked holding 
 it in her hand, because it was a link between 
 her and all that lay behind that curtain of 
 loneliness; because it was going to him. In a 
 little while he would touch it, would wonder, 
 perhaps, at the unknown hand, that poor scrib-
 
 262 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 ble ! She dropped it in and it went like her 
 own life into the dark. 
 
 For awhile she hurried, fighting her choking 
 terror of the emptiness that was left. Why 
 was it worse now than it used to be? She had 
 been in strange cities, she had been friendless. 
 . . . And somewhere behind in the glitter 
 that mocked the darkness there was still one 
 person who would help her, if she asked help ; 
 who would be kind to her lavishly, without 
 understanding. She did not ask herself why 
 it was impossible to turn in her rudderless 
 flight and appeal to the woman from whom she 
 had tried to guard her heart. There was a 
 gulf between her and Adelaide. 
 
 Little by little the fear driving her seemed 
 to fail, and all other emotions grew indistinct, 
 crushed by an infinite weight of fatigue. At 
 last she could not think, could not suffer. She 
 only wanted to go to sleep. 
 
 It was a frost in Leicestershire. There 
 would be no hunting. 
 
 That first irrelevant thought struck Susan 
 as she felt the sharpness of the air breathing 
 in on her face. The narrow window above her 
 head had been propped a little way open with 
 a hair-brush, and the curtain that divided her
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 263 
 
 bed from the next was agitated; she had a 
 neighbour who was astir. 
 
 With her eyes shut the girl imagined the 
 grass frozen white, and the branches silver; 
 heard the rapping trot of a string of hunters 
 exercising in the long road beneath the park. 
 
 But this was not Leicestershire; it was Lon- 
 don, and she was lying in a narrow bed in a 
 small square attic. At the foot stood a wash- 
 ing stand, with a jug and basin, at the head a 
 chest of drawers. There was not room for a 
 chair. 
 
 Was it last night she had followed a stranger 
 bearing a candle up flights and flights of un- 
 carpeted wooden stairs 1 The weariness of that 
 pilgrimage obliterated her stupefied sense of 
 relief when the kind, worn woman had con- 
 sented to take her in, her absurd inclination to 
 sink down on the chair in the passage and fall 
 asleep. She had thought she would never, 
 never cease climbing stairs. 
 
 She remembered now. 
 
 Lady Henrietta had asked her once, when 
 she and Barnaby had run up for the day to 
 London, to call on an old governess who was 
 ill. "In a sort of lodging-house," she had 
 said. "One of these places where women live 
 in hutches and eat in the basement." And
 
 264 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 the dreariness of it had haunted her. Some- 
 how she had found her way there again. The 
 old governess was gone, but the manageress 
 recalled her face. They would not have taken 
 her in without luggage at an hotel. 
 
 With that came the recollection that she was 
 penniless. The few chance shillings that she 
 had with her she had spent on her railway 
 ticket. She remembered thinking of that in 
 the train ; she remembered finding Lady Hen- 
 rietta 's battered brooch that she had pinned 
 in her dress to take to the jeweller, and the 
 diamond star that was the one thing she had 
 to sell. Ah, that was between her and desti- 
 tution. She started up. What had she done 
 with it? She had been too utterly weary to 
 think or care. 
 
 The draught was beating the dingy dividing 
 curtain that swung on its iron rod; it bulged 
 like a sail over the top of the chest of drawers, 
 sweeping it clear; and it parted, giving a 
 glimpse of a girl beyond with the star in her 
 hands. She started. 
 
 "I was just putting it back," she said. 
 "The curtain knocked it off on my side. How 
 it sparkles!" 
 
 Susan stretched out her fingers, a little too 
 eagerly. 
 
 "You needn't be so sharp," said the girl,
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 265 
 
 disconcerted. "I could buy heaps like it for 
 a shilling apiece at a shop in the Edgware 
 Boad," and she threw it back carelessly, and 
 began to whistle to show she was not abashed. 
 
 She had a plain, good-humoured, impudent 
 face and dusty hair. On her arms she wore 
 a pair of black stockings with the feet cut off, 
 fastened by safety pins to her under bodice. 
 She was tying her petticoat. 
 
 "I want to sell this," said Susan. In her 
 loneliness she was loth to offend a stranger. 
 "But I hope I shall get more than a shilling 
 for it." 
 
 "I'll give you three," said the girl, and then 
 was all at once smitten with awe. "I say 
 you don't mean to say it's real?" 
 
 Her off-hand manner became subdued; she 
 looked curiously but respectfully at Susan. 
 
 "You came here unexpectedly, didn't you?" 
 she said. "Did you know you had slept all 
 Sunday? Mrs. White said you were dead 
 tired, and that you were a lady. I'll lend you 
 my brush, if you like; and a bit of soap." 
 
 Susan smiled at this proof of confidence. 
 
 "I'll shut the window, shall I?" the girl went 
 on, letting it slam as she withdrew the hair- 
 brush. "I was airing my bed. I always 
 make it before I go down because I'm anaemic, 
 and I've no breath to run up all these flights
 
 266 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 of stairs after breakfast. If you want to be 
 private you can pull the curtain. ' ' 
 
 That was the one thing she would not will- 
 ingly do for her; with her own hands shut out 
 the view of one so mysterious. 
 
 The other sleepers were stirring behind 
 their enshrouding folds, like hidden moths 
 preparing to burst from the chrysalis. In 
 one quarter after another the heavy breathing 
 was cut short by an awaking sigh. One or two 
 emerged with their jugs and padded barefoot 
 to the hot- water tap on the landing. 
 
 "I'll get you a jugful, shall I?" said Susan's 
 friend, and having installed herself as mistress 
 of the ceremonies, returned to the subject of the 
 star. 
 
 "Mind you don't try a pawnbroker," she 
 said. "If you take my advice you'll walk into 
 the swaggerest shop in Bond Street, where they 
 are used to ladies." 
 
 "Why?" asked Susan. 
 
 The girl assumed a great air of worldly, 
 wisdom, cocking her head on one side like a 
 London sparrow. 
 
 "Oh," she said, "ihey won't be so likely 
 to lose their heads over you, and perhaps ask 
 you how you got it." 
 
 She had not considered that. Her dis-
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 267 
 
 mayed look gratified the girl, who at once 
 adopted the manner of a protector. 
 
 " You '11 be all right," she said. "They'll 
 know the difference in the Bond Street shops. 
 It wouldn't do in the City." 
 
 She had been in a jeweller's shop with Bar- 
 naby once, and it was in Bond Street. If she 
 could find it ... the girl's suggestion had 
 made her nervous ; she would have more cour- 
 age in going where she had been with him. 
 Would they eye her askance even there? 
 Would they make difficulties, ask questions? 
 The thought harassed her. 
 
 She lingered a minute outside the shop, when 
 she had found it ; gazing into the glittering win- 
 dow, so preoccupied with her errand that it 
 never entered her head that there might be any- 
 one who would recognise her among the idle 
 people that were abroad. Defending herself by 
 a haughty carriage she took a long breath and 
 went inside. 
 
 "How are you?" 
 
 She started as violently as if she had been a 
 thief. She had never expected to meet this man 
 again ; and there he was, holding her limp hand 
 in his.
 
 268 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 "I saw you over the way," he said, "and 
 plunged in here to catch you and ask about Bar- 
 naby. How is he getting on 1 " 
 
 At first she thought it must be in merciless 
 irony he was speaking, and plucked up a spirit 
 to defy him. He had glanced from her face to 
 the counter; he was a witness of her singular 
 transaction. She felt his glance burn her. 
 What was he thinking of it! 
 
 "Oh, he is getting on very well," she said 
 recklessly. 
 
 "Is he up here with you?" said Eackham. 
 
 Was it possible that he did not know? She 
 gasped. 
 
 "No," she stammered. And now he looked 
 at her more strangely. She was gathering up 
 the price of her star and turning to leave the 
 shop. They had made no demur; they had 
 given her more than she dared to expect. . . . 
 
 "Which way are you going?" said Eackham. 
 
 "Your way isn't mine," she said. 
 
 He was keeping at her side ; she could not out- 
 strip his strides with her flying little steps. 
 
 "But I want to talk to you," he said boldly. 
 "You were a little beside yourself, weren't you, 
 at our last meeting? IVe not seen you since 
 Barnaby's accident. . . . You blamed me 
 for it, didn't you? My dear girl, if I had 
 wanted to murder him I wouldn't have been so
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 269 
 
 clumsy. What are you doing in London all by 
 yourself!" 
 
 That last question came suddenly, just when 
 his bantering speech had roused her, and put 
 her off her guard. He was watching her face ; 
 and it blanched. 
 
 "What's the trouble!" he said. "Con- 
 found!" 
 
 He had cannoned into another man, whose 
 approaching figure he had not marked. It was 
 Kilgour, in London clothes, who blocked the 
 way, with a growl for Eackham and a friendly 
 hand-grip for Susan. 
 
 "Who's the man charging!" he grumbled. 
 "Though you can't see daylight through me, 
 still I'm not a bullfinch. Come along, Mrs. Bar- 
 naby; you are just the person I want. I've 
 been praying my gods for a sympathetic eye. 
 Come and look at my masterpiece in the win- 
 dow. " 
 
 His large presence was a safeguard. She 
 could have clung to him. 
 
 "Half Leicestershire is in Bond Street in a 
 frost," he said. "I knew I'd run across some- 
 body. I've been up myself since Friday. But 
 what is Barnaby doing in town? What do the 
 doctors say!" 
 
 What a fool she had been not to have dreaded 
 this. Half Leicestershire in Bond Street!
 
 270 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 And she had fled to London, the great, engulfing 
 city ! She could have laughed wildly at her- 
 self, at her childish want of precaution, her ro- 
 mantic imprudence in haunting places where 
 she had been with him, where it was so likely 
 that she would meet his acquaintances. But 
 what would he think of her when he heard that 
 she had been seen . . . ? 
 
 Mechanically she walked on a few paces. 
 Eackham was still at her right hand; he 
 would not be shaken off. And Kilgour was talk- 
 ing in his loud, kind, friendly voice; taking it 
 for granted that Barnaby and she were in town 
 together. He did not guess that she was a run- 
 away. 
 
 ' ' It came to me in a vision on the top of Bur- 
 rough Hill," he said. "Rain and mist and the 
 setting sun. ... A kind of greyish-black 
 gauziness with a stripe of crimson. There! 
 What do you think of that?" 
 
 With a grandiloquent gesture he pointed out 
 a diminutive grey and black turban throned in 
 solitary majesty in the middle of a shop- win- 
 dow. His shop; his personal achievement. A 
 quaint pride sat on his good red face, rough- 
 ened by wind and weather. It was somewhat 
 akin to the pride great men feel in doing little 
 things. The big successes in life are too over
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 271 
 
 weighting ; they oppress a man with the memory 
 of his struggle, the long strain, the effort, > 
 the troubling secret of how he has fallen short. 
 Kilgour might have swelled with pride over 
 greater matters, but when he thought of them 
 he was humble. . . . He wagged a delighted 
 forefinger at his creation, boasting. 
 
 * ' There isn 't much of it, ' ' said Eackham. 
 
 Susan was between the two men ; she felt like 
 a caught bird that dared not flutter, and she had 
 still a frantic desire to laugh. 
 
 ' ' That 's it, ' ' said Kilgour. ' * No feminine ex- 
 aggeration. It's all idea and no trimming, in- 
 stead of all trimming and no idea. And as light 
 as a feather. I tried it on myself." 
 
 She was laughing; not at the absurd image 
 his speech called up, not at the picture of this 
 bluff sportsman gravely regarding himself in 
 a mirror, balancing his insecure idea on his 
 close-cropped head ; but at the tragic absurdity 
 of her own position. How little they knew, 
 these men ! 
 
 "Good-bye," she said. "I I am in a 
 hurry. ' ' 
 
 "Just wait a minute," said Kilgour. 
 "There's another point in its favour. If you 
 are in a hurry you can clap it on hind-before. 
 Wait a bit and let me illustrate what I mean.
 
 272 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 Two or three doors up. You know this place? 
 It's my rival Jane. Now, impartially, let's pick 
 these hats to pieces." 
 
 But she interrupted his scientific disparage- 
 ment rather wildly. She had not known how 
 much she liked him, Barnaby's friend who 
 might have talked to her of him if she had dared 
 to loiter for the sake of hearing his name spoken 
 now and then. . . . She held out her hand 
 to him wistfully. 
 
 "Good-bye, Lord Kilgour," she said hur- 
 riedly. ' ' Good-bye ! ' ' 
 
 He squeezed the little hand kindly, not utter- 
 ing his surprise till she had vanished from his 
 ken. 
 
 "Bolted into the very shop!" he said. 
 "How like a woman. Next time I meet her 
 she'll have one of these monstrosities on her 
 head." 
 
 He nodded carelessly at Eackham, to whom 
 Susan had bidden no farewell, and strolled on, 
 hailing his acquaintances, looking in the shops. 
 Turning into Piccadilly he saw a face he knew 
 coming towards him in a hansom, and raised 
 his stick. 
 
 "Thought it was you," he said. "You don't 
 look very fit to be out. What do you mean by 
 it? I told your wife you had no business rack- 
 eting in London. ' '
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 273 
 
 The hansom had stopped. Barnaby was lean- 
 ing out, staring at him. 
 
 "What did you say?" he asked. There was 
 an incredulous eagerness in his voice. 
 
 "Eh?" said Kilgour, struck by his looks, and 
 sorry. "Barnaby, old chap, you ought to be in 
 bed. What's up? You haven't come to town 
 to consult any fancy doctors? No complica- 
 tions, are there? It's generally when a fellow 
 is mending that they crop up." 
 
 "No, it's not doctors," said Barnaby. 
 "Look here, Kilgour " 
 
 "Seems to me," said Kilgour, "as if you had 
 been roped in by Christian Science. Don 't you 
 know what a battered-looking ghost you are?" 
 
 "I'm all right," said Barnaby impatiently. 
 "Just answer me, Kilgour. What did you 
 mean by saying you told my wife ?" 
 
 "I wasn't meddling," said Kilgour sagely, 
 "I was offering a rational opinion " 
 
 "Oh, stop fooling!" said Barnaby. "Do 
 you mean you saw her?" 
 
 The other man was puzzled by the urgent note 
 in his voice. Then he laughed. 
 
 "Missed her have you?" he said. "Oh, yes, 
 you fractious invalid, I saw her." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 There was no mistaking it. Barnaby was in 
 earnest. For the second time Kilgour had a
 
 274 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 twinge, an uncomfortable recollection of a 
 brown leather arm-chair in Wimpole Street and 
 long white fingers handling one or two queer 
 little scientific dodges that pried into hidden 
 things. Once he had had to go with a friend. 
 It had turned him sick, that minute or two of 
 waiting in dead silence to hear the verdict. 
 . . . Had Barnaby been there? . . . He 
 shook off the unwelcome fancy. If he knew 
 anything of that girl she would not let Bar- 
 naby go into a lion's den without her. 
 
 "Half an hour ago," he said. "With your 
 cousin in attendance. I met them coming out 
 of What's-his-name's, that jeweller's shop in 
 Bond Street." 
 
 "What?" said Barnaby. He looked like a 
 man whose wits were staggering under a mor- 
 tal blow. Then his mouth set hard, in a fighting 
 line. 
 
 "Bond Street," he called up the trap to the 
 driver, and the hansom dashed jingling on. 
 Kilgour was left marvelling on the kerb. 
 
 "By Jove!" he said to himself, proceeding 
 to cool his perturbation in the peaceable at- 
 mosphere of his club, and stoutly refusing, 
 though troubled in mind, to draw the inevita- 
 ble conclusion.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 SUSAN hardly knew how she reached the dreary 
 place that was her refuge. Meeting Eackham 
 had shaken her. An unaccountable restless- 
 ness took possession of her as she thought of 
 him; she felt him pursuing her; she had an 
 impulse to run and run until she was hidden 
 from the penetrating intentness of his regard. 
 In the shop whither she had fled she had tried 
 to argue with herself, but it had been useless. 
 The relief with which she had found herself 
 for the moment free from him taught her too 
 much. 
 
 She had glanced desperately backwards. 
 He was not walking on with Kilgour. . . . 
 What did she want; what excuse had she for 
 staying till he was gone? She must buy some- 
 thing. Clothes for travelling; was she not 
 going to America? and she had nothing, not 
 even a handkerchief. 
 
 The suggestion steadied her. How soon 
 could she sail? She must find out at once; 
 must engage her passage. They had nothing 
 but hats in here, but an assistant directed her 
 to another shop upstairs. 
 
 Recklessly, since the prices here were ex- 
 275
 
 276 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 travagant prices for one who had only a handful 
 of sovereigns between her and want, she made 
 purchases. It seemed to quiet her silly agita- 
 tion, to restore to her something of her de- 
 spairing calm. 
 
 But when she issued into the street again 
 panic ruled her. She could not breathe freely 
 until she was far from this dangerous neigh- 
 bourhood, until at last she was shut inside the 
 gloomy house in a side street, that barred out 
 imaginary pursuers with the massive security 
 of its blistered door. 
 
 But she must go out again; she must dis- 
 cover how quickly she could sail: perhaps 
 she was missing an opportunity. 
 
 The girl who had talked to her in the morn- 
 ing came in and brushed against her as she 
 passed in the dim hall. 
 
 "Oh, it's you!" she said, stopping. "How 
 dark it is in the passage ! I wish they 'd light 
 the gas. How did you get on? I found some- 
 thing else of yours up there. It didn't look 
 worth much, but it's no good leaving things 
 about, and there isn't a key in your chest of 
 drawers." 
 
 As she spoke she held out something. 
 
 "They've been talking about you," she went 
 on, "saying things about you turning up at 
 night without a bag or anything. They can't
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 277 
 
 understand you calling yourself Miss and wear- 
 ing a wedding ring. I told them it would be 
 worse if you called yourself Mrs. and didn't. 
 You'll have to get some things, won't you!" 
 
 She looked inquisitively at Susan, who had 
 sunk on to the hard wooden chair in the hall, 
 unable to face the stairs. But the mysterious 
 stranger was hardly attending to what she said, 
 amounting as it did to a declaration that she 
 had found a supporter. Lady Henrietta's 
 unlucky brooch, that she had inadvertently 
 taken with her, was just then a precious thing. 
 She remembered how Barnaby had laughed at 
 his mother, while she persisted in telling its 
 history, and how she had vainly tried once or 
 twice to throw it away, but had given up. 
 
 "I know it's bewitched," she had said. 
 ''It is always bringing me small misfortunes, 
 but I have an uncanny feeling that I mustn't 
 part with it. Besides, I can't. It has fallen 
 in the fire, and been left in a railway carriage, 
 and had all kinds of mischances, but it has 
 always come back to me. It's attached to me 
 for ever and ever. I don't know what would 
 break the spell." 
 
 Susan smiled a little as she gazed at that bit 
 of dinted silver. Fate had made an end of 
 the superstition. Surely she might keep it, 
 valueless in itself, for the sake of the woman
 
 278 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 she would never see again. Its unluckiness 
 did not matter. . . . 
 
 "Yes," she said vaguely. "I must go and 
 get some things." 
 
 What had the girl been saying! There was 
 a kind of sympathy in her face. 
 
 "Would you come with me?" she asked, 
 yielding to her instinctive need of companion- 
 ship. She could not go out alone. . . . 
 
 "Bather!" said the girl. 
 
 They set out, an ill-matched couple, flotsam 
 that had drifted together, and would as casu- 
 ally drift apart. The Londoner led the way 
 confidently, but surprised at Susan's first er- 
 rand, the shipping office. It heightened her 
 interest, and she listened closely to the stran- 
 ger's eager inquiries. No, there was no room 
 on the next boat sailing. She could have a 
 berth in the following steamer if she liked, 
 only three days later. But was there no boat 
 to-morrow? Oh, yes, but no cabin accommoda- 
 tion. The traveller did not care. She would 
 go steerage. 
 
 "You're in a dreadful hurry to sail, aren't 
 you?" said the Londoner, to whom the trip 
 represented a tremendous voyage. 
 
 Yes, she was in a hurry. 
 
 "And you keep so close to me; you turn
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 279 
 
 your head sometimes as if you thought we 
 were followed. What are you afraid of?" 
 
 Susan tried to smile, but the truth was too 
 near her lips. 
 
 "A man," she said nervously, with her 
 thoughts on Rackham. 
 
 The other seemed to understand. She did 
 not ask any more questions, but was kind and 
 useful, advising her, helping her, reminding 
 her that she must buy a trunk. Till they 
 turned the last corner, and were within a few 
 yards of the Babbit Warren, as this old inhabit- 
 ant called the house; then she hung back a 
 little, glancing right and left. 
 
 "You're not quite yourself, are you?" she 
 said, consideringly. Her eyes had the bright- 
 ened gleam of one plunging alive into a serial 
 tale, one of these in which lords and ladies be- 
 have strangely and the typewriting girl rules 
 the tempest. As she put her key in the latch 
 she looked round again. But there were no 
 untoward appearances dogging them in the dis- 
 tance. There was a disappointing emptiness 
 in the street. 
 
 The gas was lit in the hall at last, accentu- 
 ating its gloom. The rather dismal illumina- 
 tion fell on a mahogany table under the stair 
 where stood a row of candlesticks, each bear-
 
 280 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 ing a different length of candle and a slip of 
 paper. 
 
 Susan's ally paused to examine them, read- 
 ing out the names scribbled on the slips. It 
 was the custom for those who were to be out 
 late to leave their candles in the hall, and the 
 last one in, finding a solitary candlestick left 
 downstairs, knew that it was her business to 
 chain the door. 
 
 "Miss Shanklin, Miss Friend, Miss Mitch- 
 ell " read out the inquisitor. "Mitchell 
 is burnt down into the socket; she reads in 
 bed. She'll set us- on fire one night. Miss 
 Robinson that's me, but I've changed my 
 mind: Miss Grahame " 
 
 Susan made no sign. Then she remembered. 
 That was her name again. 
 
 "Oh, yes," she said, "is that mine?" 
 
 The other girl nodded to herself. 
 
 "Well," she said. "It's been brought down 
 by mistake. Better take it up with you; they 
 don't turn the gas off till ten." 
 
 She watched Susan go wearily up the long 
 flights, and then ran swiftly along the passage 
 and called down to the basement. The boy 
 who opened the door to strangers and carried 
 coals answered her call out of the black gulf 
 of the kitchen stair; his eyes glittering, like 
 a demon invisible in the dark.
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 281 
 
 "What are you ladies wanting now?" lie 
 asked in an injured voice "You can't have 
 'em!" 
 
 "Gerald," said the girl mysteriously, "come 
 up. Higher; higher! If anybody calls here 
 asking for a lady, darkish, with grey eyes, and 
 middling tall, never mind what name he 
 says ! Don't breathe a word of it, but 
 fetch me." 
 
 "Doesn't sound like you," said Gerald, but 
 grinned, diving backwards into his native 
 gloom. 
 
 Miss Eobinson turned from the basement 
 stairs and began her long journey to the top 
 of the house. No, wild horses would not drag 
 her out that night. Did they always write 
 down a traveller's address at the shipping 
 office? Supposing it were her lot to draw two 
 sundered hearts together? 
 
 The Kabbit Warren was a depressing house. 
 As the day waned its dreariness increased; it 
 grew fuller of tired women whose search for 
 work had been useless, and who came trudging 
 in with the twilight to join the rest who had 
 been listening all day with straining ears for 
 the postman, while they studied ceaselessly the 
 advertisement sheets in the daily paper. 
 
 It was chiefly the incapable, the discouraged,
 
 282 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 those who had fallen out of the ranks through 
 ill health, or were losing their hold because 
 they were not any longer young, who drifted 
 into this harbour. They were all in a manner 
 waifs, and they had nothing to hope for but 
 that they might die in harness. 
 
 Susan sat with her cheek on her hand, with- 
 drawn a little, in the dingy sitting room. She 
 was unconscious of the whispering interest she 
 excited; she did not hear the subdued discus- 
 sion that raged around her. But the atmos- 
 phere of the house weighed on her, charged 
 as it was with failure. It was robbing her of 
 courage. 
 
 How strange it was to look back; almost un- 
 bearable. How hard it was to look forward. 
 She was to sail to-morrow . . . she must 
 be brave. . . . 
 
 The girl who had struck up a casual alliance 
 with her sat amidst the others, ripping the 
 ragged binding off a skirt. Her sallow face 
 was less heavy than usual, her eyes alight. 
 
 She had glanced up quickly as Susan came 
 in, and had begun to hum a tune, snipping 
 fast. It had been impossible to resist the 
 temptation to crystallise wandering specula- 
 tion and focus the general attention for awhile 
 on herself by a few dark hints and thereupon 
 thrilling silence. The rest fell with a pathetic
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 283 
 
 eagerness on the brief distraction that light- 
 ened their dreary lives. They had outlived 
 their own little histories; no excitement 
 touched any of them but the recurrent terror 
 of wanting bread. 
 
 All at once Miss Robinson laid down her 
 scissors and listened intently to something she 
 heard without. 
 
 "Is that coals I" said one, huddling near the 
 fire, in a hushed voice, as who should say 
 Might the Gods relent? But no full scuttle 
 bumped the panels as Gerald put in his head. 
 
 "Wanted," he said, and grinned. 
 
 Miss Eobinson gave one gasp, half in fright, 
 half triumphant, and fled out of the room, 
 shutting the door with care. 
 
 Then, for a moment, cowardice nearly 
 quenched her long-unslaked thirst for drama. 
 Visions of herself as mediatrix, restoring a 
 runaway wife to her frantic husband, were up- 
 set by fearful misgivings in which she saw 
 herself figuring, not in the gilded realm of the 
 serial page, but in lurid paragraphs on the 
 other side of the paper. Paragraphs in which 
 someone heard pistol-shots. . . . 
 
 In the dim passage she clutched at Gerald. 
 
 "What is he like?" she whispered. 
 
 "A regular toff," said Gerald in an awed 
 voice. "Asked for a Miss Grant. None of
 
 284 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 that name here. Slight, dark lady. And then 
 I twigged that he was your party. I've seen 
 his picture once in the News of the World; they 
 snapped him, held up by the police in his mo- 
 tor. How did you get to know 'im, Miss Rob- 
 inson? He's a lord." 
 
 "Oh!" she said. This was indeed a sensa- 
 tion. This would last her all her life! 
 
 Barnaby had had no luck in Bond Street. 
 
 He sat forward in his hansom, leaning out, 
 gripping the front, ready to dash it open. It 
 did not matter to him how many fools were 
 about, how many frivolous idiots, men and 
 women, stopped short in their idle progress 
 and stared at him. Down Old Bond Street, 
 along New Bond Street, right to the end he 
 went, raking the narrow thoroughfare with a 
 searching gaze. The shop signs mocked him. 
 Milliners, jewellers, palmists, druggists, pic- 
 ture-sellers: a fantastic jumble. She might be 
 anywhere, within two or three yards of him, 
 and he not know it. She might have just gone 
 in at that door yonder that was closing. She 
 might be just coming out. 
 
 Half an hour ago. One chance in a hundred. 
 . . . More likely she was miles off, whizzing 
 in one of these cursed taxis
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 285 
 
 Well, he could hunt down Backham. He 
 would drive to that old barrack of his in 
 Marylebone. No, that was let or shut up or 
 something. Where the devil did he go when 
 he was in town? 
 
 It was late in the afternoon before he ran 
 him down. He had been heard of, or seen, in 
 most of his ordinary haunts. One man had 
 come across him in a saddler's shop, another 
 had passed him ten minutes ago in the Hay- 
 market. And at last Barnaby found him com- 
 ing out of his tailors'. He stopped the han- 
 som. 
 
 "Get in," he said. 
 
 "Hullo!" said Backham, staring at him. 
 "What's wrong with you?" But he obeyed 
 mechanically, and the hansom started off. 
 "What d'you mean by kidnapping a fellow 
 like this? Where on earth are we going?" 
 
 "I've told him to drive to my hotel," said 
 Barnaby curtly. There was a controlled fury 
 in his voice. 
 
 "But why the deuce " 
 
 "I'm not going to have a row in a cab." 
 
 "Whew!" said Backham, twisting round 
 and regarding the grim outline of his cousin's 
 profile, his stubbornly closed mouth. Unless 
 Barnaby were stark mad there was something
 
 286 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 serious in the wind, something he could not 
 trust himself to utter without losing his hold 
 on himself. 
 
 It was not far to the hotel. Barnaby got out 
 stiffly and Eackham followed. 
 
 "I hope you've got a nurse on the premises," 
 he said, "or a keeper." 
 
 "We'll go to my room," said Barnaby, in the 
 same deadly quiet voice. Up there he closed 
 the door and turned round on Eackham like 
 one who had got to the end of his tether. 
 
 "Now!" he said. "Damn you, what have 
 you done with my wife?" 
 
 "What?" said Eackham. He had not ex- 
 pected that charge. 
 
 "You know where she is," said Barnaby. 
 "Don't lie to me. You were with her in Bond 
 Street" 
 
 So that was it. 
 
 "How should I know if you don't?" said 
 Eackham. "Do you mean she's gone?" 
 
 His eagerness was unmistakable. It was 
 worth a torrent of empty protestation. The 
 two men looked each other straight in the eyes. 
 
 The likeness between them came out then, 
 when they were roused. Something in the 
 angry set of the jaw, something in their ex- 
 pression; a recklessness, a hard blue stare. 
 
 Barnaby had dropped his stick. He could
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 287 
 
 stand up without its support. For the time 
 he had borrowed strength of passion. 
 
 "You don't know?" he said, and took a long 
 breath. 
 
 "I don't," said Rackham. "There's no oc- 
 casion to fight me, if that's what you brought 
 me here for. I saw her ; I spoke to her ; but 
 I was fool enough not to understand. I sup- 
 posed she was up in town for the day, buying 
 rubbish. I never doubted she was going back. 
 I thought you were still on your sick-bed and 
 she was looking after you " 
 
 He checked himself abruptly in the burst of 
 angry candour that his surprise evoked. 
 
 "You needn't look so damnably glad " he 
 broke out, "because I've shown myself a sim- 
 pleton, not a villain. Look here, Barnaby, I've 
 answered your question. I'll ask you to tell 
 me one thing. She's gone, and you have lost 
 her. What do you mean to do?" 
 
 "Search London from end to end," said 
 Barnaby, "till I find her." 
 
 "That's how we stand, is it?" said Back- 
 ham. "You're not wise enough to let her 
 go?" 
 
 He spoke more slowly, recovering from his 
 astonishment. There was a light in his eye, 
 and into his voice had come a ring of exulta- 
 tion. He had got over his first vexation, his
 
 288 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 rage at his own stupid failure to guess the great 
 good news. 
 
 "What right have you to say that?" cried 
 Barnaby. 
 
 "For the matter of that," said Backham, 
 "what rights have you?" 
 
 The shot told. For a minute they looked 
 again fixedly at each other. 
 
 "You had my answer," said Barnaby, "when 
 I spoke of her as my wife." 
 
 "You stick to that then?" said Backham. 
 "Though she has found it unsupportable, 
 though she's gone you still hold to that pre- 
 tence? What's the good? You don't care a 
 straw for the girl. Oh, I've seen you together; 
 I know the terms you were on. It's sheer ob- 
 stinacy makes you play the dog-in-the-man- 
 ger " 
 
 "Take care," said Barnaby, breathing hard. 
 
 "Let's drop that humbug," said Backham. 
 "I'm no gossip. But I've had an inkling from 
 the first. I've guessed all along that it was 
 a plan of your mother's. Infernally incon- 
 venient of you to turn up and spoil it ! But 
 I held my tongue. Nobody else had any idea 
 of how the land lay but Julia. There's a dev- 
 ilish instinct sometimes in a jealous woman " 
 
 He laughed shortly. Something in Bar- 
 naby 's look amused him.
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 289 
 
 "What? She's been reproaching you, has 
 she, after all?" he said. "Well, I did you one 
 service there. If I hadn't kept her quiet, she'd 
 have shrieked it all out on the house-tops on 
 the night of the Melton Ball. You owe me 
 something for that, Barnaby. There 'ud al- 
 ways have been a few who wouldn't have put 
 her down as a raving lunatic. Mind, I didn't 
 muzzle her for your sake I did that for 
 Susan. I wasn't going to stand by and see 
 that woman hounding 'em on ! ' ' 
 
 "Have you done!" said Barnaby. He had 
 got back some measure of self-control. 
 
 "I'm done if you are reasonable," said Rack- 
 ham. "Why not own up and tell me what you 
 can, and let me look for her. I swear I'll find 
 her but not for you." 
 
 Barnaby took one step towards him, and he 
 stood back quickly, smiling at his own involun- 
 tary precaution. He could afford to smile, to 
 stave off a scuffle that would summon all the 
 rabble in the hotel. 
 
 "Steady!" he said. "Don't try to kill me. 
 It would be a waste of time for both of us. 
 I'm not afraid of you, Barnaby, but I have 
 something else to do, now, than to stop 
 rowing up here with you. I'd better warn 
 you " 
 
 Barnaby was struggling to hold himself in.
 
 290 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 Susan had still to be found, and she would 
 want his protection. Eackham was right there, 
 damn him; he must not lose his head. 
 
 "And I warn you," he said. "I'll find my 
 wife without your help. Do you hear what I 
 say? my wife, Eackham. I don't care what 
 story you have got hold of. Understand that. 
 She belongs to me." 
 
 "And yet she's gone," said Eackham. 
 
 Somebody was knocking at the door, but so 
 discreetly that neither of the two men heard. 
 Eackham, turning to go, had halted to fling 
 back his taunting word. And the other man 
 had no answer. His own storming haste had 
 undone him. 
 
 "You can't get over that, can you?" said 
 Eackham. "It knocks the bottom out of your 
 doggedness. If she doesn't choose to carry it 
 on you can do nothing." 
 
 "I can take care of her," said Barnaby. 
 His voice sounded hoarse. 
 
 "No, you can't," said Eackham, with a sud- 
 den fierceness that matched his own. "That 
 will be my business." 
 
 "Yours?" said Barnaby, and his look was 
 dangerous. He advanced on the other man 
 with a clenching hand. 
 
 "Because," said Eackham, "if she's not
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 291 
 
 your wife: and she's not; she's nothing to 
 you I shall make her mine." 
 
 In the short silence that fell between them 
 the knocking became insistent. 
 
 "Better let them in," said Rackham, "I'm 
 going." 
 
 Barnaby pulled himself together and turned 
 the key. His locking the door had been an 
 instinctive action. And Rackham passed out, 
 ignoring the insignificant person waiting on 
 the threshold, who met Barnaby 's look of blank 
 interrogation with an apologetic reminder of 
 his own orders. He had said if a message 
 came it was to be brought up at once. And 
 a message it was ; from the shipping office. 
 
 Rackham swung out of the place like a con- 
 queror. The knowledge that Susan had run 
 away was to him the knowledge that he had 
 won. 
 
 He never doubted that he would find her, 
 and inspiration helped him, as it will the man 
 whose blood runs quicker under the stimulus 
 of his belief in his luck. What was the shop 
 she had flown into to escape him and Kilgour, 
 and the embarrassment of their ignorant ques- 
 tions? He had stayed long enough outside to 
 know it again, waiting till he had no excuse for
 
 292 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 loitering any longer. She must have made 
 purchases. He went straight there. 
 
 How simple it was, with luck on his side, to 
 call in and say that a lady who had been in that 
 morning was afraid she had forgotten to leave 
 her name and address. . . . This was no 
 big emporium, but a little exclusive shop where 
 it was possible to describe a customer's ap- 
 pearance with a chance of finding it remem- 
 bered by saleswomen who recognised his stand- 
 ing and were sympathetically amused. In the 
 hat-shop they directed him upstairs, and there 
 he found an equal appreciation of his attitude 
 of comical despair, as he tried helplessly to 
 run through a list of feminine furbelows that 
 the careless lady was supposed to have or- 
 dered to be sent home. How should a man 
 succeed? Smiling they reassured him. They 
 recollected the lady perfectly from his descrip- 
 tion, and she had made no mistake in that es- 
 tablishment; the parcel was already packed 
 and waiting to be despatched. To satisfy him 
 an assistant was bidden to read out the ad- 
 dress on the label, and as she glanced up at 
 him, expecting him to verify it, Backhand 
 checked himself just in time. For the name 
 she slurred over was strange to him. 
 
 Why, he had thought of that, since natu- 
 rally the runaway was no longer masquer-
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 293 
 
 ading as his cousin's wife; and yet he had 
 been about to deny that it was she. What had 
 it sounded like? Grant, or Grand? And was 
 it indeed Susan, or a stranger? He had no 
 means of knowing; the only thing possible was 
 to go blindly forward, trusting in his luck and 
 fixing that address in his head. 
 
 "Yes, yes, that's all right," he acknowl- 
 edged, and laughed good-naturedly at the ap- 
 parent futility of his mission as he sauntered 
 out of the shop. 
 
 It was Miss Eobinson's mysterious signal 
 that cleared the room. One by one, like startled 
 shadows, its denizens flitted thence, and left 
 Eackham alone with Susan. 
 
 They hung over the stairs, buzzing like bees 
 in the semi-darkness, thrilled by an interest 
 that was vaguely heightened by alarm. At in- 
 tervals they hushed each other into silence, lis- 
 tening with bated breath lest anything might 
 transpire, and watching with a kind of fascina- 
 tion the crack of light that issued from the 
 door of the sitting room. Only Miss Robinson 
 herself went whispering, whispering on. 
 
 "Poor little girl!" said Eackham. 
 
 There was triumph and pity and a threaten- 
 ing kindness in his voice. His reckless person-
 
 294 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 ality seemed to fill the room that had been so 
 suddenly deserted. 
 
 She had risen to her feet with a gasp at his 
 entrance. A wave of panic swept over her 
 head and left her slightly trembling; because 
 she had had no warning. 
 
 "How did you come here?" she said. 
 
 "Oh," he said, smiling down upon her. "I 
 prevailed on a drab young woman who seems 
 to have constituted herself your guardian to 
 bring me in. I wasn't going to risk your giv- 
 ing me the slip as you did this morning. You 
 wouldn't have seen me if I'd sent in a cere- 
 monious message." 
 
 "No," she said, "I would not." 
 
 "I knew that," said Eackham. "The same 
 pride that kept you from telling me the truth 
 would have hidden you from me. You'd have 
 had me turned from the door. But the drab 
 romancer was a great ally, though I've had to 
 agree with most of her wild surmises. I'll 
 make you forgive me later." 
 
 He laughed under his breath. 
 
 "She asked me," he said, "if I was your 
 husband." 
 
 "You you ! Did you let her think " 
 cried Susan in a choking voice, fighting against 
 a strange sense of the inevitable that his look 
 inspired.
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN '295 
 
 "Oh, she had been thinking hard," he said. 
 "A runaway stranger, calling herself Miss 
 Grahame, was it? I got it wrong and wear- 
 ing a wedding ring. What more likely I I 
 had the part thrust on me directly I showed 
 my face. ' ' 
 
 He dropped the half -jesting air that had 
 masked his excitement, and came nearer. She 
 shivered a little at his approach. 
 
 "Daren't you trust me, Susan?" he said. 
 "I'm not a Pharisee. Why, I guessed it 
 from the beginning. Don't you remember how 
 I asked you to let me help you if you wanted 
 a friend? And all the while I was watching. 
 Do you think I can't guess how Barnaby drove 
 his bargain, careless of you, trading on your 
 helplessness in the shock of his return? What 
 did he care that it was hard on you, so long as 
 it suited his selfish purpose?" 
 
 "He was good to me," she said. It was no 
 use denying anything any more. 
 
 "Are you grateful to him still?" said 
 Eackham. 
 
 She turned away her face. 
 
 Something in her attitude kindled in him 
 that instinct of protection that had from the 
 first struggled in his soul with admiration. 
 Had he not felt a consuming rage that it had 
 not been his to battle for her, to turn round
 
 296 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 on Barnaby and his world, all pointing the 
 finger of scorn at her for a cheat? He would 
 have liked them to do their worst, would have 
 liked to defy them. . . . Well, that oc- 
 casion was his at last. 
 
 Barnaby had nearly fooled him. The ex- 
 traordinary course he had taken had at first 
 made Eackham curse himself for an imagina- 
 tive ass. But he had been right. His time 
 had come. . . . And Barnaby was defeated. 
 
 "Well," he said, "that's ended. I'll take 
 care of you now, I'll take you out of this. 
 Look at me! There's nothing between us now, 
 no fictitious barrier, no mistaken idea of loy- 
 alty to a man who took advantage of your 
 false step to make you play his own foolish 
 game. You made a gallant show. It almost 
 deceived me, once or twice, almost made me 
 believe you liked him. . . . Never mind 
 that. Like a brave girl you've freed yourself 
 from that intolerable position. And I'm here, 
 Susan, where I always was, at your feet." 
 
 She lifted her head; a little, sad, desperate 
 face upturned. 
 
 "Why must you insult me?" she said. "Is 
 it because I am all alone?" 
 
 "I'm asking you to marry me," said Eaek- 
 ham. 
 
 She stared at him for a minute. His pur-
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 297 
 
 suit of her was not all selfish: there was an 
 impatient fondness in his reckless face. 
 
 "I ?" she said faintly. "A woman of 
 whom you know nothing but that she came 
 among you as an impostor? You cannot mean 
 what you say, Lord Backham." 
 
 He broke in on her protestation roughly. 
 
 "Do you think I mind tattle?" he said. 
 "Let their tongues wag. We'll hold up our 
 heads and flout 'em. I'll leave it to Barnaby 
 to find a way out of his muddle. Lord, how 
 it will puzzle them, how they'll jabber when 
 they see our marriage advertised in the Morn- 
 ing Post /" 
 
 He was taking her assent for granted, arro- 
 gant in the heat of his headlong moment. 
 Perhaps it did not strike him as possible that 
 she would refuse. What woman in her plight 
 would not lean gladly on the rescuer who came 
 to offer her his kingdom? Perhaps he was 
 blinded by his confidence in his luck. 
 
 "I can't marry you!" she said. 
 
 Eackham did not fall back. He laughed in- 
 dulgently. Was she troubled because of the 
 world's opinion? 
 
 "Dear, silly child," he said. "Don't be 
 frightened. I'll make them treat you properly. 
 I'll make them swallow their amazement; and 
 they shall be kind to you."
 
 298 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 Yes, this man loved her. That was why she 
 was afraid of him. She was not used to being 
 loved like that. She had never learned to see 
 in it help, instead of danger. . . . 
 
 "I can't marry you," she repeated, but her 
 breath came fast. 
 
 * ' Oh, but you must ! " he said. ' ' Fate is on 
 my side. What kind of a struggle can you 
 make against me all by yourself? I've found 
 you, Susan, and I'll never let you go. . . . 
 There's nothing too outrageous for me to un- 
 dertake, and nothing on earth to stop me. 
 Your hands are trembling." 
 
 He bent to seize them in his, brushing aside 
 her mute defiance with his violent tenderness, 
 as determined as Fate itself. Just for a min- 
 ute she felt very tired in spirit, very weak to 
 resist him. It was so strange, although it was 
 terrible, to be loved. Why should any man 
 care so deeply as to stand between her and 
 the emptiness of the world? Might she not, 
 if she submitted, find the strange worship 
 sweet? 
 
 She did not know she was wavering until she 
 understood his smile, and with that her heart 
 was smitten by a fugitive likeness, a trick of 
 manner, reminding her of another man. Use- 
 lessly, poignantly, memory stabbed her. She 
 flung out these trembling hands.
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 299 
 
 "No!" she panted. The thought of it was 
 unbearable. "I can't I can't!" 
 
 He was taken aback by the vehemence of her 
 cry. For a moment he did not speak, looking 
 at her queerly. His laugh was angry. 
 
 "I've a great mind to bundle you into a 
 cab and carry you off," he said. "Oh, they'd 
 let me! I've only to tell these people that you 
 are my wife and a little mad. My tale would 
 sound more probable than yours." 
 
 She was not sure that he was not in earnest. 
 Panic-stricken she shook off his hold on her 
 arm, meaning to pass him and reach the door. 
 Why? To make a futile bid for sympathy in 
 this house of strangers? 
 
 Who was it that had turned the handle and 
 was coming in ? Her gaze was unbelieving ; she 
 could neither breathe nor stir till the suffo- 
 cating leap of her heart assured her that it was 
 true. For it was Barnaby himself who was 
 standing in the doorway, just as he had stood 
 on that night when she had seen him first* 
 Only the look in his eyes was changed. 
 
 The same faintness overcame her that had 
 stricken her down that night. She did not 
 know whose arms had caught her as she was 
 falling . . . falling. . . . But she was 
 afraid of nothing, though all was darkness. 
 
 "Your race, Barnaby," said Eackham.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 "I KNEW we should get you back," said Lady 
 Henrietta. 
 
 That had been her first word last night, and 
 she repeated it with the emphasis of a proph- 
 etess justified. Still her clasp of the truant 
 had been almost fierce. 
 
 The journey to London had done her no 
 harm. Bather had all this excitement given 
 her a fillip. There was a triumphant pink in 
 her cheek, and amusement twinkled in the fine 
 lines surrounding the corners of her eyes. 
 Whilst Barnaby had been searching she had 
 been busy, dealing with an imposing but 
 worldly personage in gaiters, who had been 
 an old admirer of hers and was her sworn ally. 
 The situation charmed her ; it was like a thrill- 
 ing but perfectly righteous bit of intrigue. 
 Quizzically, delightedly, she was regarding 
 Susan. 
 
 "Yes," she maintained. "I pinned my faith 
 to that battered old brooch of mine. It's un- 
 lucky to wear, but still when I remembered 
 that it was doomed to come back to me I was 
 tranquil. I knew it would." 
 
 300
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 301 
 
 She turned from one to the other, challeng- 
 ing them to mock at her superstition ; and then 
 she laughed. 
 
 "My dear!" she said. "I'll never forget 
 his face when I was raging at him. I blamed 
 him, you may 'be sure. Or his voice when 
 he called to me l She has written ! ' I could 
 get no more out of him till I lost my patience 
 and cried 'Then for Heaven's sake read the 
 letter and tell me what she says ! ' And when 
 he said 'She says she has found out that my 
 marriage was illegal' I could only exclaim 
 * Thank goodness!' " 
 
 She laughed again at her picture of his 
 amazement. 
 
 "I shocked him awfully," she said. "But 
 I was transported. It had solved a riddle. 
 . . . 'So that was the mysterious American 
 business,' I said, 'that is what was the matter! 
 And she has rushed off and set you free and 
 all the rest of it, you undeserving laggard ! If 
 that's all it can soon be mended.' And then 
 he woke up from his stupefaction. But it was 
 I who thought of the Bishop. It was I who 
 suggested a special licence. I am the head con- 
 spirator, Susan, and I'll go and put on my 
 things." 
 
 She went, glancing back to them as she 
 reached the door.
 
 302 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 " Don't let her out of your sight, Barnaby," 
 she said warningly, and left them together. 
 
 The girl stayed where she was, quite still; 
 gazing down from the dizzy height of the win- 
 dow on the restless world in the streets below. 
 Barnaby was limping across to her side. She 
 felt his touch on her shoulder. 
 
 ''There's the church down there," he said. 
 "Like an island in a whirlpool, isn't it? But 
 all the roar and the rush dies down like the 
 noise in a dream when you get inside. It's 
 wonderfully dim and dark in there, and they're 
 dusting the pews for us, and there are a few 
 lilies on the altar. And we'll just walk into it 
 hand in hand." 
 
 Her breath came hurriedly, like a sob. 
 
 "Are you sure?" she said. 
 
 "Ah," he reminded her, "I've never made 
 love to you, have I, Susan?" 
 
 She could not answer him, knowing him so 
 close ; and she dared not look up at him. There 
 was so much to remember, and she had begun 
 to guess how dangerous it had been. . . . 
 He laughed, and his hand leaned heavier on 
 her shoulder. 
 
 "I've been hopping all over London like a 
 mad cripple," he said, "and at last I've got 
 you. I must hold on to you, or you'll manage 
 to disappear. Why did you run away when
 
 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 303 
 
 you thought I couldn't follow? It wasn't fair. 
 Oh, my darling, couldn't you understand?" 
 
 His voice was not steady now; there was 
 reproach in its passionate undertone. 
 
 "I'm sorry," she said, and laid her cheek 
 against his sleeve. This thing that was still 
 too wonderful was true. 
 
 "Why," said Barnaby. "It was only you 
 from the first, that first night when the sight 
 of you staggered me. I didn't know why, but 
 I did know that at any cost, at any risk, I 
 couldn't let you go. I thought I was strong 
 enough, man enough, to keep you safe in my 
 house: and when I began to find out what a 
 hard thing I had undertaken, when I had to 
 fight back the mad desire to make the farce 
 we played at real, you believed that I had 
 betrayed you to another woman. . . . I've 
 got your letter, your dear scrap of a piteous 
 letter, letting me know that she and I had no 
 barrier between us. ... And that was to 
 be the last I heard of you, was it, Susan?" 
 
 The reproach in his question was lost in its 
 bantering tenderness. 
 
 "Wait," he said, "till I have you safe, and 
 I'll teach you. . . . And then, perhaps, 
 we'll dare to look back on it all and laugh, a 
 long time afterwards ; just you and I, by our- 
 selves."
 
 304 THE WAY OF A WOMAN 
 
 Lady Henrietta was back already. She had 
 been discreet, had asked for no fuller explana- 
 tion than the one she had so promptly fur- 
 nished herself. It was all she was to know; 
 but she was too wise to pry. At the back of 
 her mind there was nothing but an absolute 
 satisfaction, as of a warrior who had won her 
 battle. If her eyes, shrewd and understanding, 
 were dimmed a little as she considered them, 
 she flung off her emotion quickly and smiled 
 again. 
 
 "How funny it is," she said. "You have no 
 idea how I am enjoying myself, you children. 
 Put her furs on, Barnaby, button her up to the 
 chin. I promised the Bishop we wouldn't be 
 late. Secret marriages never are." 
 
 Then, hurrying him, she was moved to plague 
 him with an irrepressible spark of mischief. 
 
 "Incomprehensible pair," she said. "I wish 
 I had been at your first wedding. It must have 
 been frightfully romantic." 
 
 Barnaby put away his watch. An uncon- 
 querable flicker lit up his eyes. 
 
 "Romantic's the word," he said. "Let's go 
 and get married, Susan." 
 
 THE END