UNDER THE ARCH
 
 UNDER THE 
 ARCH 
 
 By 
 LADY HENRY SOMERSET 
 
 Author of 
 " Sketches in Black and White " 
 
 " Under the arch of life, where love and death, 
 Terror and mystery, guard her shrine, I saw 
 Beauty enthroned ; 
 
 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI 
 
 New York 
 
 Doubleday, Page 3" Company 
 1906
 
 Copyright, 1906, by 
 
 Doubleday, Page <5r Company 
 
 Published, March, 1906 
 
 All rights reserved, 
 
 including that of translation into foreign languages, 
 including the Scandinavian
 
 MY MOTHER
 
 PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS 
 
 LADY CLIFFE, a young married woman, brilliant, im- 
 passionate, and sentimental, who learns of the 
 things which she suffers. 
 
 SIR JOHN CLIFFE, a straightforward, unromantic 
 Englishman. 
 
 ELIZABETH MAYNELL, an imaginative girl much im 
 pressed by the sorrows of the people, who deter 
 mines when her own happiness is shipwrecked to 
 live for their good. 
 
 ERIC ERRINGTON, artistic, self-absorbed, vain, and 
 unscrupulous, but very attractive to women. 
 
 MICHAEL FANE, a socialist, impetuous, frank, and true 
 to his ideals, but too much absorbed in his work to 
 notice the details which affect the happiness of 
 others. 
 
 OLD MR. ERRINGTON, a wealthy banker. 
 
 His SUBMISSIVE WIFE. 
 
 Miss OSTERLEY, who is always hunting a social grievance. 
 
 FATHER MARTIN, an old man with a strong power of 
 sympathy and the wisdom of wide experience. 
 
 BILLY AND SALLY, slum children who live in the Court 
 in which Elizabeth works. 
 
 LADY HORNDEN, Lady Cliffe s mother; foolish, worldly ; 
 the desire to see her daughter happy the only reality 
 in her artificial life. 
 
 MRS. RODNEY, a society woman. 
 
 LADY AUGUSTA LEAVEN, who desires to be a social 
 success and a philanthropist. 
 
 MARTHA, Elizabeth s old nurse.
 
 UNDER THE ARCH
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 "WiLL you have another egg?" 
 
 The voice that spoke these words was subdued, and 
 the face of the pretty fair-haired young woman was 
 very grave. Opposite to her sat the man to whom the 
 question was addressed; a tall, sunburnt, broad-shoul 
 dered man, who would everywhere be recognized as an 
 Englishman, with crisp, curly hair, and the general 
 appearance of having just come out of his bath. He 
 was eating his breakfast in silence. He too looked subdued 
 and solemn. 
 
 "No, thank you," he said, looking up at her for a 
 moment. 
 
 "It is horrible," she said; "I feel as if it were dread 
 ful to talk, and yet impossible to be silent. It always 
 appears to me that it requires real courage to be the first 
 person after a death to ask any member of the family 
 what they will have to eat. It seems like disrespect 
 for the dead; and yet it s got to be done by someone, 
 you know, Jack." 
 
 "That is an unfortunate simile to use to-day," said 
 Jack. "I am not dead, and I hope I may not be just 
 yet." 
 
 "Of course not; there would be no difficulty in that 
 direction with the corpse. You are among the bereaved. 
 But seriously, do let us talk right up to the last about 
 
 3
 
 4 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 anything, everything, only let us talk. These last days 
 have been so awful, the whole house smelling like a 
 saddler s shop, and every horrible old relation whose 
 existence one had forgotten coming to poke round the 
 kit and try to understand the use of each aluminium 
 cooking pot." 
 
 "Well, it will be over soon," said Jack. 
 
 "Oh, don t Jack; you talk like a man in a jail, eating 
 his last breakfast before being hanged." 
 
 "Perhaps it is a last breakfast," said Jack slowly. 
 "Come, Kit, old girl, let s drop this dreary chaff. I 
 must try and get some business done. I wonder if you 
 understand Rodgers will pay you the cheques quarterly; 
 anything you want you must ask him for. He will look 
 after everything, only, of course, you won t run amuck? 
 But he s got enough to meet all your reasonable wants." 
 
 "All right," she answered. "I won t go to Paris 
 and order a thousand gowns and three trousseaux of 
 underlinen; but after all, nowadays, it s only a man 
 who is capable of that." 
 
 She was talking for the sake of saying something, 
 and as she did so the color came and went quickly, and 
 the thin hands nervously rolled the crumbs of bread 
 into little hard balls. At last Jack pushed back his 
 chair and rose, throwing his napkin down on the floor. 
 
 "I must go out for a few minutes," he said, as he 
 stood by her. "I shan t be gone long, and we must 
 start at eleven o clock." 
 
 "Out?" said Katherine, looking at him, her great 
 shining blue eyes turned up to his face. "Out? Why 
 it s almost time to go." 
 
 "Yes, I know," he answered; "but it s only for a 
 little while." 
 
 A moment more and he was gone. She heard the 
 hall door bang as she still sat on at the breakfast table,
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 5 
 
 resting her chin on her hands, and looking out over the 
 dreary London leads, thinly veiled by the white muslin 
 curtains. In less than two hours he would be gone. 
 
 "How I wish I really knew what I felt about any 
 thing," she thought. " Sometimes I am sick at heart 
 at the thought of the long distance, and the risk, and 
 all it means for him. Sometimes I almost feel that 
 the separation will be good, that to have freedom, and 
 not to be expected to love anybody, will be a relief. Poor, 
 poor old Jack, and poor little me. I wonder which is 
 real, my sorrow, or my little bit of content. I don t 
 know. I always feel I am two people. My mind is 
 constantly trying to climb out of one self into the other, 
 and yet both seem the real me." 
 
 She rose slowly and went to the glass and looked 
 vacantly into it, as though she hardly recognized her 
 self. She patted, almost unconsciously, some stray 
 curls on her forehead, and then lesiurely left the room 
 to give some orders to the servants. 
 
 Presently the banging of the front door announced 
 her husband s return, and she heard his voice calling 
 to her to put on her hat, as the carriage would be round 
 at once. And when she came down the stairs and crossed 
 the hall she felt as though she walked in a dream. She 
 saw him shake hands with the butler, while tears ran down 
 the old man s face. 
 
 "Good-bye, Sir John. God bless you, and give you 
 ealth and a safe return to er ladyship. God keep 
 you safe, Sir John," he said, as he still grasped his hand. 
 "I never thought when you was little, and I used to elp 
 you play soldiers, I should live to see this day; but you 
 may rely on me taking all care of everything, whether 
 you comes back or not," and he turned away, ashamed 
 of his grief. 
 
 "Oh, it ll be all right, Lane," said his master. "You
 
 6 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 mind everything, and I shall be home soon to tell you 
 all about the splendid time I shall have had. Good-bye, 
 George," he said to the footman, who looked all unpre 
 pared with a speech, hot and shiny after carrying luggage. 
 
 But another good-bye had to be said. 
 
 "No, old man, no." The shiny nose was rubbed 
 against his hand. "No, Nip, old boy, I can t take you," 
 and for the first and only time his voice shook for a 
 moment, as he ran his hand over the rough stubby head. 
 
 "Take care of him, old girl," he said to his wife, as 
 they got into the brougham. "Is my bag in, and my 
 coat? That s all"; and as if it were a relief, he called, 
 "Go on," and the horses moved forward. 
 
 There is no place which has a more prosaic outward 
 manifestation than a railway station, and yet on no 
 stage is the drama of life more vividly enacted. The 
 little servant girl goes to her first place, and struggles 
 to be cheerful in that trying moment of first parting. 
 She pokes her chubby face through the train window 
 and gasps her last farewells. 
 
 "Tike care of mother, kiss oant, tike care of yer- 
 self," all these unceasing injunctions to stifle the sob 
 that shall not come, and, waving her little red hand, 
 she is borne to the unknown. 
 
 The newly-married couple try to look indifferent 
 as they walk up to the platform, until the grain of rice, 
 or the more squalid confetti, betrays them, as they take 
 their seats as far from one another as possible. The 
 station is the first act of that new life, with all its poten 
 tialities of happiness or suffering. 
 
 Three men have entered another compartment, one 
 dressed in brown, with the King s brand on his clothes. 
 For him too a new life opens. He too has said good-bye 
 to the freedom of the old life, but he is now fast bound 
 in misery and iron. By-and-by, at midnight, in the
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 7 
 
 long shadows of the arc lights, there will stand black 
 figures who lift a coffin into the train, and take their loved 
 one for the last journey. 
 
 To-day the mixture of tragedy and comedy is com 
 plete. Some go on holiday. The early spring has 
 beckoned them away from the gray streets and dingy 
 squares, and has called them with enchanting voices 
 to sunshine, fields and flowers. But for the most part, 
 dust-colored garbs proclaim the departure of men whose 
 faces are set, women flushed or pale, with forced smiles 
 and foolish little jests, whose laughter is nearer tears. 
 
 As Sir John s brougham drove up under the glazed 
 archway he. put his head out of the window and then 
 hastily withdrew it. 
 
 "By Jove!" he said; "your mother has come. I 
 thought I had said good-bye to her; I didn t know she 
 would be here." 
 
 "Oh, bother," responded Lady Cliffe. "She loves 
 a scene; she is never happy unless she can be the centre 
 of some fuss, and she will drive me mad when you are 
 gone." 
 
 "Just tell her to leave you alone," said Jack, with 
 that splendid ignoring of the possible, characteristic 
 of his sex. They stood for a moment at the ticket office. 
 A tall and still handsome woman, dressed in long draperies 
 exquisitely made, and carefully arranged to suit her figure, 
 came to meet them. 
 
 "My darlings," she said, "my heart is bleeding for 
 you; I could not resist the last blessing. My beautiful 
 child, you have not slept all night; there are purple 
 rings round your eyes. I know you ve been weeping. 
 I don t wonder. Jack never looked so wonderfully hand 
 some a perfect god in his khaki." 
 
 "For God s sake, dear lady, don t talk nonsense," 
 said Jack, flushing. "The whole station will hear you."
 
 8 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 "My child," said Lady Hornden, turning once more 
 to her daughter, "I think I am suffering more than 
 you. When a mother feels for her child in sorrow the 
 anguish is greater than her own." 
 
 "Well, mother, we won t compare anguishes just 
 now. There s Mary \Vennington. I didn t know she 
 was going." 
 
 "Oh, didn t you?" said her mother. "But, of course, 
 she s here because Arthur Warley is going. Such a 
 scene I saw before you came up. There they were, 
 holding each other s hands behind the waiting-room 
 door. I came away at once. But, my dear, what can 
 he see in her? She s frightful, and her hat so inappro 
 priate. Now I like yours; there is a little grief bend 
 in it which speaks of tears, and all the coloring of that 
 mole-colored cloth is so subdued and harmonious." 
 
 "Oh, for heaven s sake, don t talk clothes," said 
 Katherine, edging away. "See, there s Mr. Farning- 
 ham; he s looking for you." 
 
 The man she beckoned came up, effusively shaking 
 hands. Lady Hornden held his hand for two or three 
 minutes, explaining minutely all she was experiencing 
 at that terrible moment of parting. Mr. Farningham 
 was one of those elderly men who are content to descend 
 the hill of life clasping the hand of a dowager. The 
 higher the rank the happier the journey, and he was 
 only too glad to pour out his condolences. 
 
 "Yes, I know," he murmured, "but you are so brave, 
 so heroic. What a strength you will be for poor dear 
 Lady Cliffe to lean on. Oh, forgive me, but what a 
 sleeve! I worship such lines at that. Swanz, of course; 
 no one but a Viennese could have built it. I always know 
 the Viennese hand from the Parisian; it is so much 
 more grand-dame" 
 
 "Dear man, you have the eye of genius," said Lady
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 9 
 
 Horndcn, smiling delightedly upon him. "Dine with 
 me to-night, and go to the play. There is a new piece 
 with Mary Milton. I am told she is perfect, just naughty 
 enough, and not too naughty." And then they fell to 
 discussing different groups on the platform, able to be 
 light-hearted, for to them there was no tragedy of parting. 
 
 Sir John and his wife walked slowly together toward 
 the reserved carriage. The scene was still a dream to 
 her. What could she feel? Her head was dull and 
 heavy. She hoped she could cry when he left, and then 
 reproached herself for ever doubting the possibility. 
 
 Another khaki figure walked down the platform to 
 meet her, a tall, slight, fair man, with clear blue eyes, and 
 a mouth which was drawn on his face with clean lines 
 like one of Holbein s drawings. 
 
 "Lady Cliffe," he said, "I m awfully glad to see you 
 to say good-bye. Wish me luck, won t you?" 
 
 Jack walked on after slapping him on the back, say 
 ing: 
 
 "Hullo, old fellow, I wish you were coming with our 
 lot, instead of that confounded yeomanry." 
 
 Errington smiled, and showed a gleam of white even 
 teeth; but his eyes looked sad. 
 
 "See here," he said, in a low voice to Katherine; "I 
 want you awfully to do something for me. My old 
 dog is left at my hotel with my servant. Would it be 
 asking too much for you to take care of him ? I should 
 be so grateful. He s aw r fully fond of me, and he will 
 pine, I m afraid; besides, I should like to think you 
 had him." 
 
 "Of course I ll take him," said Katherine. "If he 
 fights with Jack s dog I ll send Nip into the country." 
 And then she bit her lip, feeling she had said a stupid 
 thing. "I mean," she added, "of course they ll get 
 on."
 
 io UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 "Take your seats," roared the official. 
 
 "God bless you," said Eric Errington, as he took 
 her hand. "Pray for me now and then." And he 
 turned hastily away. 
 
 Jack came back, and, putting his arm round her, 
 said: 
 
 "Good-bye, old girl; you remember all I told you 
 about business and everything. Oh, damn!" he ejacu 
 lated, "here s your mother again." 
 
 " So the awful moment has come," said Lady Hornden, 
 preparing for a final scene. " God bless you !" she said, 
 as she folded him in her sleeves. "It seems terrible not 
 to go with you to Southampton, but dearest Katherine 
 told me you wished to go alone. See here! I forgot; 
 this little flask is always to go with you, in case you are 
 faint or wounded ; and this stuff is the best thing on earth 
 for sea-sickness. It cured a man I know who dies every 
 time he crosses the Channel." 
 
 "Thank you," said Jack hoarsely, in a voice that 
 had little of gratitude in it. Then almost shaking her 
 from him, he turned to Katherine, who stood looking 
 dumbly on. "Good-bye, dear old girl. God bless you. 
 Keep well; don t overtire yourself," he said lamely. 
 Somehow words didn t come easily. 
 
 There were groups all down the platform ; loud laughter, 
 but no merriment; hilarious voices, that somehow did 
 not seem to speak in tune, said: 
 
 "We ll be back soon, now that Bobs has gone, and 
 we shall give the Boers a real trouncing. We ll soon 
 settle them. Keep your peckers up." 
 
 Jack looked out of the window and seemed to have 
 no more words at his command. Katherine felt the 
 moments were hours; but the little green flag waved 
 at last. 
 
 "Good-bye, good-bye," said one and all. For how
 
 UNDER THE ARCH n 
 
 long? For time, or till eternity? None knew; but 
 
 the train glided out and on. 
 
 ****** 
 
 Lady Hornden had just returned from the station 
 to her house in Park Lane, had eaten her luncheon 
 with unimpaired appetite, and after having changed 
 her dress and draped herself in a clinging tea-gown 
 was prepared for the usual stream of afternoon callers. 
 The responsibility of selecting the right visitors rested 
 with the butler, a great gentleman with a cold manner, 
 who advanced in a mysterious way from the back of 
 the hall, when the two footmen had thrown open the 
 doors, to pronounce the word of admission or denial. 
 If the guest was of no importance he would call to them 
 from a distance in a strident voice: 
 
 " Er ladyship is not at ome," but if, although judged 
 unacceptable, the caller was of a social position which 
 warranted respectful familiarity, he advanced himself, 
 and unbending for a moment would offer to take a 
 message, but the condescension was momentary and 
 the distant demeanor soon resumed. 
 
 Once an unwary footman, whose training was still 
 incomplete, committed the fearful indiscretion of ad 
 mitting the country clergyman and his wife while a 
 butler was upstairs announcing the French Ambassa 
 dor. The man was sent away on the spot. 
 
 "To think," said Mr. Jennings, with almost despair 
 in his voice, "that you ave so little tact or understanding 
 that you could mix er ladyship s callers like that! You d 
 better go for an under butler, and mind plate, for you ll 
 never understand the delicate dooties of the front door." 
 
 Lady Hornden had only adjusted her black drapery 
 to her satisfaction against the old-gold brocade of the 
 favorite seat, when Jennings threw open the drawing- 
 room door and announced Mrs. Rodney.
 
 12 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 "Dearest!" said Lady Hornden, rising and holding 
 out both hands. "How sweet of you to come on such 
 a day. My heart has been aching for you. You can 
 understand how torn I am, too my little Katherine " 
 Lady Hornden covered her face with her hand, on which 
 glittered six diamond rings. 
 
 "I know just what it all means. Come and sit here, 
 and let us talk about our troubles together." 
 
 The visitor was a tall, slender woman. At first you 
 scarcely noticed her delicately moulded features. The 
 eyes were the only thing which struck you large and 
 well set, it seemed as though the pigment had over 
 flowed the line, for the whites were so blue that it was 
 almost difficult to judge where the iris ended. It was 
 a beautiful face, but the expression was hard. The 
 eyes looked out on the world with steely brightness. 
 The thin lips parted for a moment in mirth, but never 
 drooped in sadness. She would have been more beautiful 
 could she have looked plain for a day, her friends used to 
 say. 
 
 "To tell you the truth," she said, "I have thought it 
 all out, and I m not going to make any trouble at all. 
 Troubles are mistakes. They age you, and wear your 
 temper, and then, when the people for whom you have 
 lost your most priceless possessions come home, they 
 only say you have ceased to be attractive." 
 
 She drew out a cigarette-case as she spoke, reached 
 the match-box from among the innumerable silver 
 knickknacks on the table, and lit a cigarette. Then 
 lying bacK. on a low arm-chair she lazily watched the 
 long lines of blue smoke curl upward. 
 
 "You see, dear Lady Hornden, we can t all pretend 
 to be like Katherine. George is gone, poor old dear, 
 and lots of my pals, but there are still a few people left 
 to play about with, and I don t mean to mope. I saw
 
 UNDER THE ARCH; 13 
 
 Katherine at the station; she looked awfully white, but 
 she ll get over it all right, like the rest of us." 
 
 Lady Hornden looked puzzled. It was not the princi 
 ple that perplexed her; it was the crudeness of the state 
 ment. She was still early Victorian enough to like a thin 
 layer of sentiment scraped over all questionable morality. 
 She disliked the bald way in which things were spoken 
 nowadays things which she no doubt had herself done 
 in her youth, but had never classified. 
 
 "My dear," said Lady Hornden, "you are so down 
 right. Of course darling Katherine is heartbroken; but 
 you are right, every woman owes it to herself to guard 
 against that which destroys her charm. Did you see 
 Lady Wennington at the station?" she added, glad to 
 change the subject. "I thought she was a little too 
 marked in her grief at saying good-bye to the wrong 
 person. However, he certainly is a mari complaisant" 
 
 "Of course he is," said Mrs. Rodney, "so is every 
 man who is not a fool. By the way, Eric Errington 
 went by the same train, didn t he? Volunteered, I 
 hear, with the Blankshire Yoemanry. That s bad 
 luck for Katherine; he would have kept up her spirits." 
 
 Mrs. Rodney turned her large bright eyes on Lady 
 Hornden, and looked at her through the curling smoke. 
 Women are divided into two species: those who guard 
 their young with tiger-like fidelity, and those who are too 
 selfish to have even this natural attribute. Lady Horn 
 den belonged to the former, and in a moment her pro 
 tective instincts were aroused. 
 
 "Oh dear no; if Eric had stayed Katherine would 
 never have had the spirits to care to play with him or 
 anyone else. She is absorbed in Jack. I have never 
 seen such devotion in my life. When she dines here, 
 she is looking at the clock all the time in order to get 
 away the instant he is back from the club. If I go there,
 
 i 4 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 she listens for him to come, and is so distracted that 
 I never can get her to attend to what I am saying. She 
 really is head over ears in love with him, and no wonder, 
 for a more charming or devoted husband never lived. 
 Poor old boy! I hope he ll come back safe." And she 
 sighed a deep sigh and clasped her white hands on her 
 black dress. 
 
 "I daresay," said Mrs. Rodney slowly, "that she s 
 fond of Jack; but of course you know that Eric is devoted 
 to her. And everybody knows that she liked Eric a little, 
 only he hadn t any money, or much position, so you were 
 wise." 
 
 Lady Hornden looked doubtfully at Mrs. Rodney. 
 There were times when she feit that she almost hated 
 her. 
 
 "Katherine," she said, after a pause, "was very young; 
 she had beauty and money, a rare combination," she 
 added, looking severely at her visitor, "and I was the 
 guardian of her destiny. Of course I tried to influence 
 her as I felt was for her good. That was my wisdom," 
 said Lady Hornden bitterly. 
 
 "I don t blame you," said Mrs. Rodney. "I think 
 from your point of view you were right, if you were sure 
 Jack cared for her." I have always been told he was 
 the one good young man in London; that he had no 
 previous histories, not even the most pardonable little 
 romance. Personally, I wouldn t give a fig for a man 
 who knew nothing of the world." 
 
 At that moment the door was again thrown open, 
 and Mr. Jennings announced, in the muffled voice of 
 one who understands how to suit his manner to special 
 occasions : 
 
 "Lady Cliffe." 
 
 Katherine was looking pale, with delicate blue shadows 
 round her eyes.
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 15 
 
 "Mama," she said, "I thought I would come in to 
 tell you I m going to rest, and to save you from coming 
 round. Hullo, Anne! I did not know you were here. 
 So we ve all foregathered to condole with each other." 
 She sat down on a chair and smiled, but it was an effort 
 at gayety that did not seem very successful. "Has 
 mama been telling you what to wear and what to eat, 
 and how to cook a new dish? She is my mainstay in 
 the art of living." 
 
 "No," said Mrs. Rodney, lighting another cigarette 
 from the stump of the old one; "we ve been talking 
 about you, and she says you re absolutely wrapped up 
 in Jack, and don t care a fig for Eric, or any other of 
 your old admirers. It s awfully touching," said Anne, 
 putting the stump of the cigarette into the ash-tray. 
 "Femme du foyer what a beautiful role." 
 
 "Nonsense," said Katherine, growing pink in a moment. 
 "I m no better than anyone else. Jack s a good old 
 thing, and I m awfully fond of him. What are you 
 doing with yourself to-day? Will you stay and play 
 bridge? Very well, here we are; let s get a table. Will 
 you, mama?" 
 
 And presently the three women were lost in that modern 
 narcotic which dulls all care. The afternoon wore on, 
 and only when the clock struck seven did Lady Hornden 
 recollect that she was to dine with Mr. Farningham and 
 go to the play. 
 
 "Your luck is monstrous, Anne," she said, as Mrs. 
 Rodney gathered up the little heap of money that lay 
 beside her. Then the three women kissed each other 
 and parted. 
 
 Katherine Cliffe drove straight home; the evening 
 was wet, foggy and cheerless. The hall of the old-fash 
 ioned London house looked cold and deserted. A few 
 sticks and umbrellas and a covert coat of Jack s were still
 
 1 6 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 in the stand. The room where the packing had been 
 done had been tidied, but the writing materials on the 
 table were disarranged, as he had left them. There is 
 nothing so pathetic as the little things which belong to 
 someone who has gone away on either a long or a short 
 journey. They alone seem immutable. Who has not 
 known the heartache which an old coat or a pair of worn 
 gloves can bring? Who has not felt the dreary feeling 
 of the unchangeableness of inanimate objects, when 
 he returns to the home of long ago, and sees the same 
 ornaments, the same pictures, but the living forms which 
 were the centre, while these were the accessories, are 
 gone never to return. 
 
 Nip was the only living creature to greet Katherine s 
 entrance. His tail was wedged disconsolately between 
 his hind legs; it wagged slowly and sadly, even when she 
 patted his rough, broad head. 
 
 " Poor old boy ! " she said, " do you miss your master ? " 
 
 "Please, my lady," said the footman, who had taken 
 her cloak and rug from the carriage, "there s a man 
 ere with a dawg and a note; says as Vs got orders to 
 bring it to you." 
 
 The color came into Katherine s face. 
 
 "I had forgotten," she said. "Tell the man to come 
 up." 
 
 After a slight scuffle a baize door swung back and 
 a small, thick-set servant was dragged by a strong, long 
 haired collie, whom he endeavored to hold in bounds 
 on a leather lead. 
 
 "Gently, lad, gently," he kept on saying; but the 
 collie was determined to go on, whether he followed 
 or not. 
 
 "This," said the man, panting and tugging at the 
 lead, "is Mr. Errington s collie dawg, milady. E 
 gave me orders to bring it to yer ladyship at once after he
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 17 
 
 sailed, with this note. Down, sir! down, sir!" and he 
 held out an envelope, while with the other hand he strained 
 the lead to pull the animal back. 
 
 Katherine patted the dog, who looked eagerly into 
 her face with his amber eyes, panting with quivering 
 tongue, and showing his pointed ivory teeth. 
 
 "What is his name?" 
 
 "His nime is Laddie," said the man. "Good dawg, 
 good dawg," as he struggled again. 
 
 Katherine turned away and opened the note. 
 
 "I would ask you to be good to this poor lonely thing," 
 it ran, "as you are good to every living creature. I dare 
 not ask you to be kind to it because he has been my 
 friend and companion; but will you keep him with you 
 till I come back ? And if I do not, may he stay with you 
 and find that happiness which is the lot of all who are 
 near you?" 
 
 She held the paper for a moment, and then, feeling 
 that the eyes of the servant were watching her, she ordered 
 him to loose the dog. 
 
 "He is to stay here," she said. 
 
 Presently an ominous growl from the other end of 
 the hall betokened the presence of Nip, who resented 
 the advent of the tawny stranger. The low growl was 
 angrily responded to and a fight was imminent. Kather 
 ine hastily rang the bell, which was answered by the 
 butler. 
 
 "Take Nip away," she said; "he is ill-tempered." 
 
 The old man looked aggrieved, but caught the dog 
 by his collar and pulled him toward the door which 
 led to the offices. Nip dragged at his collar and growled 
 his remonstrance. His rough coat was standing up like 
 wire, and as he passed into the lower regions he cast 
 a reproachful look at Katherine, half pathetic, half 
 angry.
 
 i8 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 The incident did not please her. She laid her hand 
 on the restless collie s head, but the thought that Nip s 
 banishment was her first act after her return to the solitary 
 house was an unpleasant memory, which she tried to 
 forget.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 EVENING was setting in; the sky was leaden and the dust 
 rose in little bustling circles. The wind caught the dirty 
 paper on the pavement and drove it along the street, 
 making a constant rustling sound. The dull court 
 looked gloomier than usual. The children had left their 
 play for a while ; they had been screaming at their games, 
 as only town-bred children scream, with that restless 
 excitement which is characteristic of the fact that there 
 is no proper vent for their energies; but a fight was 
 taking place in an adjacent alley. A crowd had gathered, 
 and nothing can equal the pleasure which the arrival of 
 the policeman, and the subsequent separation, and the 
 possible removal of the combatants to the nearest police 
 cell, brings to the slum child. 
 
 In the window of a little parlor in the corner house 
 the figure of a girl was sitting, looking out into the street. 
 She sat motionless, her profile clearly drawn against the 
 white panes, her hands folded in her lap; the droop of 
 the head gave sadness to the outline. An open book lay 
 beside her, but she had not turned the pages. 
 
 An older woman entered the room with a taper; she 
 was about to light the gas, but the girl turned with an 
 imploring gesture: 
 
 "Not now, Nanny, not now. Let me be in the dark 
 a while longer." 
 
 " Yes, Miss Elizabeth, if you wish," said the servant. 
 Then, with the affectionate familiarity of a trusted friend, 
 she came across the room, and, laying her hand on the 
 slight figure, she said: " Don t fret, dear; try to forget."
 
 2C UNDER THE ARCH , 
 
 The flickering taper was still in her other hand, and 
 shed fitful touches of light on her gray hair and pale 
 complexion. The kindly, motherly face looked on the 
 little dark head that was pressed against the window with 
 quiet composure. 
 
 "Oh, Nanny!" said the girl, turning wearily toward 
 her. "I can t help it; I do try to forget. I have no 
 right to remember, but it s such a hard day." She 
 rose as she spoke, and held out her slim hands with a 
 gesture, partly helpless, partly of despair. 
 
 "Don t you fret, dearie; I wouldn t. Whatever 
 appens will appen, and if e does come ome, I don t 
 see as you ll be any happier, worse luck." 
 
 "You mustn t say that, you dear old thing. Don t 
 let s talk of it. It s best just borne; but days like this 
 make me feel how it all lives, and nothing, no, not all 
 the work and all the needs of the people, can root it out." 
 
 "Time is a wonderful doctor," said the elder woman. 
 "He comes and sort of smothers out things, and makes 
 us forget, if we re patient. I m sure, Miss Elizabeth, 
 I ve had sorrows as I felt I never could get over, but 
 lor ! to-day I ardly thinks of them. When Simmons 
 was took sudden, as I ve often told you, and they brought 
 him ome a corpse, and I elped wash im and put im 
 in his coffin, I felt I never should get over it, but I did. 
 Three months after I took in washin , and many s the 
 time I felt a downright brute, I eat so earty, an I slep 
 so well. And when I corned to your gran ma, the first 
 situation I ever took, and I eld you in my arms, I felt 
 I never wanted nothing more in the world." 
 
 "Yes, Nanny, I know, I know," said Elizabeth, look 
 ing at her \vith the pity the young feel for the old, because 
 they realize that the capacity for vivid happiness has gone, 
 and, with the duller sensibility, suffering is less poignant. 
 
 A gust of wind swept over the court. The rain began
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 21 
 
 to fall. The children came shrieking back, and disap 
 peared into their several dingy doorways like rabbits 
 that seek their burrow. Yet still Elizabeth sat on. 
 She was roused from her solitary watch, however, at last, 
 by the slamming of the door, footsteps in the passage, 
 a man s voice, cheerfully telling Nanny how wet it was, 
 while he took off his dripping coat; and then the door 
 opened, and a strong, cheerful voice said: 
 
 "Is anything wrong?" 
 
 The visitor stood in the doorway, unable to find his 
 way into the dark room. Nanny hurried past him 
 with a light, and soon the gas was burning. He was 
 a man of medium height, powerfully built, with large 
 head and massive forehead, and deep-set gray eyes. He 
 had a short "brown beard and very dark hair. There 
 was an eager, anxious look in his face, and his eyes were 
 bright and restless. 
 
 "Nothing wrong," said Elizabeth, still sitting by 
 the window, half turning and holding out her hand, 
 "only I was tired, and couldn t come to the meeting." 
 
 "You missed something," he said, throwing himself 
 into an arm-chair and crossing his legs. "You would 
 have thoroughly enjoyed it. Gessner was superb. I 
 never heard him better; he absolutely demolished Blount 
 and his miserable individualistic theories. I m most 
 awfully sorry you weren t there." 
 
 He went on talking in his eager way, as though the 
 subject in which he was interested possessed him. He 
 had no ears for anything else. Presently Elizabeth rose 
 and took a low seat opposite to him, and wearily listened 
 to his explanation of the lecturer s point of view. 
 
 "Yes, that was good," she said, when he paused; 
 "but what will come of it all? It s the same thing over 
 and over again. We all see it and know it, but everything 
 goes on just the same. I m tired of talk." He was
 
 22 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 watching her now. "It seems to me that all this eternal 
 talk is as if a doctor were perpetually lecturing a sick 
 man on what health really is, while the poor patient 
 can only pray for healing healing, that is what we 
 want, healing for this great hospital of a world," she 
 said, clasping her hands tightly together. She looked 
 at him as she spoke, and saw that his boots were muddy, 
 which annoyed her, and then she felt angry with herself 
 for noticing so insignificant a detail. "Oh, Michael," 
 she continued, "I am so tired of it all; so tired that I 
 sometimes feel I would rather not hear anything more 
 about people who are suffering, since we can t help them." 
 
 "Betty," said the man quietly, "I know what you 
 feel. You re not well to-night; you ve been overdoing 
 your strength, but you mustn t lose heart. It s only 
 as some of us see the wrong, and try to right it, that 
 we can awake the sleepers all round us. We have got 
 to be content to be torch-bearers for a bit, and help 
 people to find the right way, and they will find it. It 
 takes a while to rouse them. Then they have to rub 
 their eyes and find out where they are, and that is our 
 moment to set them on the right road. You were always 
 an optimist, Elizabeth." 
 
 "Yes," said Elizabeth, smiling sadly. "I remember 
 old Mrs. Marner saying that she wasn t going to get 
 low spirits any more. She had heard me say I was a 
 hippopotamus, and she was going to try to be a hippo 
 potamus too. But, Michael, I feel that somehow I am 
 losing my likeness to the big, powerful beast." 
 
 Michael threw his head back and laughed, showing 
 a row of strong white teeth. 
 
 "Take courage, little Hippo," he said; "all your 
 strength is wanted by the feeble, who look to you in 
 order to imitate whatever you are, and that must be 
 always your best. No, Elizabeth, don t lose heart;
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 23 
 
 we have set ourselves to change the code by which the 
 world is governed, at any rate this little bit of the western 
 world to which we belong. Good God!" he said, sitting 
 upright, "it s a splendid work. Fancy, if you could 
 really show men that the commandment which rich 
 men listen to with such complacency every week, Thou 
 shalt not steal, with a comfortable feeling that it does 
 not apply to them, is the very one that they are breaking, 
 in common with the tramp who sneaks a loaf, or the 
 poacher who bags a rabbit; only that theirs is a crime 
 black and hideous, whereas the other is often excused 
 a thousand-fold by circumstances. The poor man is 
 caught and put into prison; that doesn t prove his guilt. 
 The other sits to condemn him on a magistrate s bench, 
 or is made a baronet or a peer, and patted on the back 
 as a valuable member of society; and all the while his 
 slum dwellings are the breeding places of crime. But 
 if he were to clear them he would lose income, and so, to 
 benefit himself, he steals the health and happiness of 
 men and women and little children. Most people never 
 look on things as they really are, but are contented with 
 what they seem. That is why the horrible, hideous 
 hypocrisy of it all has so eaten into our national life." 
 
 He rose as he spoke and paced the room. 
 
 " Don t talk as if you were at a public meeting, Michael," 
 said Elizabeth peevishly. 
 
 He stopped, standing in front of her; she was leaning 
 back in her chair. He paid no heed to her fretful inter 
 ruption; it was as though he had not heard it; he was 
 too engrossed in his subject. 
 
 "You and I think, perhaps, we can do very little 
 against the great tide of the lust of gain; but if we can 
 only show the dastardly cowardice of living each for 
 himself, and only rouse people from this stupor which is 
 called content, to realize the degradation to which they
 
 24 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 have come, why, that is a divine mission, good enough 
 for the best." He looked down at Elizabeth absently, 
 and said, after a pause: "Yes, I know you suffer. Each 
 has to walk the via dolor osa, which is the way of death, 
 but it leads to resurrection. But you re tired. I won t 
 weary you," he said, as he sat down again. 
 
 "There is a humble little detail I want to speak of," 
 he added, drawing a well-worn book from his pocket. 
 "You know young Joe Carter, who used to work at 
 the flour mills. He s in the Militia, and he s gone to 
 South Africa, bitten by this thirst for men s blood they 
 call patriotism, and he s left that girl almost penniless. 
 Trouble is, they weren t married, and there s a baby 
 expected. It is a hideous lookout for her," he said, 
 looking up with his eager, questioning eyes. "Great 
 God! we call it Imperialism, this murder of another 
 nation for land-grabbing; and with our usual hypoc 
 risy, we talk of British honor. How much should 
 we have thought of British honor if the country had 
 no mines? We deserve to be beaten, and we shall get 
 our reward some time or other." 
 
 "Michael," said Elizabeth, sitting upright, her hands 
 tightly pressed together, "don t let us talk of that. The 
 men who went felt it their duty, and they are willing to 
 die for it. The war may be a criminal mistake, but it 
 has called out splendid qualities in the men who have 
 risked everything to go. I ll do what I can for the girl, 
 and go to her to-morrow." And she leaned back again 
 as though the effort to speak had tired her. 
 
 "Go to bed and get a long sleep," said Michael, rising. 
 "It s the only medicine you need. Good-night!" and 
 he held out a large, well-shaped hand in a protecting way. 
 
 Presently the shutting of the street door proclaimed 
 that he had gone out into the night. 
 
 Elizabeth rose and went to the window; the blind
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 25 
 
 had not been drawn. The street was silent and deso 
 late. Twice a church clock had given the time since the 
 last passer-by staggered home through the rain to bed. 
 A wet night chases most people home, and to-night the 
 rain had been drenching when the public-houses turned 
 their customers out. All down the street, doors were shut; 
 blinds were drawn across closed windows, and though 
 in most a light still burned, it was a dim light that told 
 of smoking lamps turned low at bed-time. 
 
 The black pavement glistened in the light of the street 
 lamps, bare and empty, except when, now and then, a 
 stray cat picked its way carefully across the wet flags. 
 But the rain was over now. A fresh wind was blowing 
 back the heavy clouds that had hung over London all day, 
 and high overhead a strip of sky showed between the 
 roofs of the tall, dark houses, clear deep blue, with here 
 and there a brilliant star. 
 
 The first breath of wind made Elizabeth open the 
 window, and the strip of sky above held her there. After 
 a hideous afternoon of fog and rain and mud a day 
 that made ugliness more ugly and misery more miserable 
 that strip of sky was like a sight of green fields; like 
 a breath of air from the hills; like the sound of the sea. 
 Blue sky and stars above the black houses; it seemed 
 to her like the kind face of God looking down on the 
 wretched street. And what a wretched street it was! 
 The night hid its dirt and squalor now, and sleep hid 
 its misery and pain. But daylight, she knew, would 
 soon show it all once more. The quiet night would pass, 
 and the stars be hid, and men, women and children would 
 wake again in a few hours to hunger and sorrow and sin. 
 
 "Night brings us stars as sorrow shows us truth." 
 Was it true? she thought. Night did not always bring 
 us stars, or else we were so blinded by the flaring lights of 
 the street that we could not see them; and some of us
 
 26 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 were so shut in by this black wall of London that we 
 never realized there was a sky above, never lifted our 
 eyes beyond the wall of houses. 
 
 A slow, heavy footstep broke the silence. Some 
 body was coming down the street somebody walking 
 slowly and deliberately, for there was an interval of 
 several seconds between the sound of each step. The 
 sound came nearer, then a woman staggered past a 
 lamp-post, and by the dim light of the lamp Elizabeth 
 recognized the broad figure of Mrs. Green, the rag and 
 bone lady. 
 
 She was talking to herself in a low, complaining tone, 
 something about a farthing and the treachery of a blind 
 man. She staggered on a little farther, then suddenly 
 the footsteps ceased. Elizabeth leaned out of the window. 
 Mrs. Green had slipped to the ground and was now 
 lying on her back on the pavement; but she was still 
 talking, still complaining of the blind man and her far 
 thing. Evidently her fall had not interrupted her thoughts. 
 But by-and-by the voice ceased; Elizabeth thought she 
 must have fallen asleep, till her voice began again, this 
 time clear and distinct: 
 
 "Gawd in heaven, look down on me!" Mrs. Green 
 had seen the stars. "Here I lie, flat on my back, and 
 Gawd in heaven, E sees me." Then her thoughts 
 went back to her trouble. "The blind man e stole 
 my farden, but Gawd in eaven will pity me." 
 
 For half an hour she talked to the strip of blue night 
 sky. She told the stars the story of the farthing, of the 
 blind man, and much of her history that Elizabeth knew 
 to be true. She had just begun to pray when a police 
 man came by and offered to help her home to bed. 
 
 "Our Father, which art in eaven." Mrs. Green 
 struggled to her knees. " Allowed be Thy Nime," 
 she began.
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 27 
 
 The policeman was kindly. 
 
 "Come now, Mrs. Green, come home, and you can 
 say your prayers there." But Mrs. Green would not heed. 
 
 "Thy Nime Thy Nime. Wot comes arter allowed 
 be Thy Nime, Mister Copper?" 
 
 The policeman told her. Mrs. Green folded her 
 hands like a child. 
 
 "Thy kingdom come. Thy will be do , and 
 
 arter Thy will be done?" 
 
 Again the policeman prompted. Petition by peti 
 tion, he repeated the prayer for her, and Mrs. Green 
 said it after him as a child might at its mother s knee. 
 
 "For ever and ever, Amen. Thank you, Mister 
 Copper. Tain t often as I gets time to siy my prayers, 
 but when I do, I likes to siy them right." 
 
 Then she allowed him to raise her to her feet and 
 help her home. The sound of their footsteps died away, 
 and again the street was quiet. But it was not for long. 
 Soon two children came down the street and settled 
 themselves on the doorstep beneath her window. 
 
 "My mover is rowing, so I came out," said one. 
 
 " I ain t been indoors to-night," said the other. " Farver 
 and mover s bof boozed." 
 
 They crouched down out of sight and she heard no 
 more for several minutes. Then suddenly one of the 
 children began to sing. There was something almost 
 uncanny in the child s voice, singing there in the dark 
 night. Even more than the blue sky and brilliant stars, 
 that shrill sweet voice brought into one hateful street 
 a breath of a far-away beautiful world. 
 
 "There is a land of pure deloight 
 Where saints immorjul rine." 
 
 She too, then, had been looking at the stars. But 
 she got no farther with her song.
 
 28 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 "Don t!" said the other child quickly, in a voice 
 that was sharp with pain. "It mikes me fink of the 
 country, and I can t abear it, cause I m ere." 
 
 The singing voice stopped, and again the street was 
 quiet, but Elizabeth heard in the silence the sound of 
 a child crying softly in the dark. She held her breath 
 and listened. Then, quick as thought, she ran down the 
 stairs, opened the door, and sat on the doorstep beside 
 her. The dirty little head pressed against her shoulder, 
 and a child s hand stole into hers, and she forgot the ach 
 ing of her own heart.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 ELIZABETH MAYNELL had grown up in the conven 
 tional atmosphere of narrow surroundings. She had 
 never known either of her parents, for her father, who 
 had held a high position in the army in India, and had 
 won the distinction of the Victoria Cross, died just before 
 she was born. Her mother never recovered the blow, 
 and her love for her little daughter had proved too frail 
 a tie to keep her, and after a few sad months she followed 
 her husband to that distant country, from which there is 
 no leave of absence, as gladly as though she had been 
 called to rejoin him in the Indian station. 
 
 The baby was left to the care of her grandmother 
 and her aunt, and had kno\vn no other home. Her 
 grandmother was an invalid, her aunt a conscientious, 
 uninteresting w r oman, firmly persuaded that the real 
 art of educating children was never to allow them to 
 perceive that affection held any place in daily life. So 
 little Elizabeth was reproved, punished and taught, but 
 no glimpse was ever given her of any tenderness that 
 made her childish presence welcome, or any caress that 
 interpreted love. 
 
 There was one being, however, who opened the door 
 of her heart with a magic key, who understood all her 
 moods, to whom she came with all her troubles, and 
 round whose neck she would throw her baby arms and 
 cover the kind face with kisses. Martha, her nurse, 
 was the very centre of the child s life. Granny might 
 be stern and silent, auntie fidgety or unjust, but Nanny 
 always knew all about it, sat by her when the nights were 
 
 29
 
 30 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 dark, and held her hand till she slept, told her beautiful 
 stories out of her head of majestic queens and pretty 
 princesses, and splendid princes, of dragons and witches, 
 of dwarfs and fairies. It was Nanny in whose arms she 
 lay when the fever made her restless, or when she was 
 wracked with whooping-cough. People might come 
 and go, but Nanny was there, and Elizabeth was content. 
 And Nanny loved the child as only a lonely woman can, 
 who has no other channel to divert the current of her 
 love. The pale face and dark eyes were to her the most 
 beautiful in the world. She brushed and curled and 
 tended the dark-brown hair as though it were some sacred 
 trust. There were times when hatred positively possessed 
 her, when she thought the child was unjustly treated, 
 and almost wilfully misunderstood in her loveless 
 home. 
 
 The day came at last when Elizabeth went to school. 
 Martha looked thin and worn; she had not slept for 
 nights. The dread of parting overshadowed her like 
 a nightmare. Dry- eyed she would sit by Elizabeth s 
 bed and tell her how happy a place school really was, of 
 all she would do, the games she would play, and the dear 
 little girls who would be her companions. 
 
 The torrents of tears she shed were unknown to Eliza 
 beth, who thought that grown-up people never cried, 
 that she alone enjoyed the doleful privilege of throwing 
 herself sobbing into Nanny s arms, because she was only 
 a little girl, while the strong voice comforted her and never 
 trembled. 
 
 At last the parting came, and Elizabeth found that 
 Nanny had been right. School was a paradise to the 
 lonely girl, to whom the holidays seemed long and term- 
 time short. She learned easily and well. The mistress 
 was a woman of powerful intellect and keen interest. She 
 was never content until she had moulded a girl s mind
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 31 
 
 not merely taught conventional accomplishments. She 
 saw in Elizabeth a strong nature with intense and pas 
 sionate power of affection; she understood the restric 
 tions of her home life, and she set out to widen the girl s 
 sympathy, to soften her own trials by a deep understand 
 ing of the wrongs and troubles of others, and to turn her 
 enthusiasm into channels which should bear her heart 
 out to humanity at large. 
 
 The girl, who loved the elder woman, promptly re 
 sponded, and was soon absorbed in the study of sociology 
 and political economy, with the result that no more 
 ardent reformer ever espoused the cause of the oppressed 
 than she. Martha would listen, half frightened, half 
 proud of her knowledge, by the hour, as she tried to show 
 her where our social system fails, but Martha always 
 ended the argument by returning to her original ideas. 
 
 "It s no use, Miss Elizabeth, God made some rich 
 and some po r; and we are distinctly told, and I see 
 no reason for giving up my religion, that we ve to order 
 ourselves lowly and reverently to all our betters, and be 
 content with that state of life to which it as pleased God 
 to call us. There must be differences, and there is differ 
 ences. Your grandmama and your aunt is born in 
 another station from me, and so is you; only when your 
 po r ma died, I ad charge of you, and brought you through 
 your teething, and loved you for your pretty ways and good 
 eart, and your own dear sake. But Miss Elizabeth, 
 dear, God has put the rich man in is castle, and the 
 po r man at his gate, and not all the learning in all the 
 world is going to alter it, till we re all equal in eaven. 
 Though where your dear grandma and aunt is going to 
 sit I dunno, for they ll never like to be huddled up with 
 servants, and even less respectable folk, as doesn t know 
 their place as well as they; but God knows best, and 
 E ll take care it comes out right.
 
 32 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 Elizabeth was still a child when a strong influence, 
 destined to mould her future, came into her life. 
 
 The Mill Farm was a long white building, set a little 
 back from the high road. A small wooden bridge, 
 painted white, crossed the stream, which had formerly 
 worked the waterwheel now standing idle. A gate led 
 to the house, and a brick path crossed the garden, gay 
 with the flowers that bees love best. It was planted 
 with no symmetry or scheme of color, but with splendid 
 profusion, each flower loved for its own beauty, not for 
 the sake of forming a geometrical design. The anemones, 
 mignonette and carnations, and sweet-scented stocks, 
 blue lupins and delphiniums, hollyhocks and michaelmas 
 daisies, succeeded each other with the seasons, and roses 
 bloomed there, it is said, longer and later than anywhere 
 in the neighborhood. It was a garden that was loved 
 and tended, and such fostering care is always to be recog 
 nized. 
 
 Mrs. Fane lived among her flowers. She was a tall, 
 pale woman, with delicate health. The care of her 
 garden, and the love of her son, were the joys of her 
 existence. 
 
 Few people called at the Mill Farm. The general 
 verdict was that they were odd, with strange ideas; in 
 fact, it had been whispered that they were socialists a 
 word that conveyed little to the country people, but it 
 had a dangerous sound, and it was always best to be on 
 the safe side in making acquaintances. Moreover, Mrs. 
 Fane rarely went to church, and her son never; so the 
 rector, after a first visit, called no more. The owner of 
 the Mill Farm was, however, wholly unaware that the 
 question as to the desirability of admitting her into county 
 circles had ever been discussed. She looked upon the 
 remoteness of the place as one of its chief charms and 
 the absence of visitors as a distinct gain.
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 33 
 
 She had been left a widow, after a life of unbroken 
 happiness with one of the most promising scientists 
 of his day, a man who was just rising to eminence, when 
 the grasp of death held him back from fame. One boy 
 was left, and his care and education became the passion 
 of her life. Her means were very limited, but by the 
 strictest economy she managed to give him an excellent 
 education, and finally, by the aid of a scholarship, to send 
 him to Cambridge. His success at the university was 
 her reward, his subsequent career her one anxiety. 
 
 Michael Fane was a man who should make a mark. 
 This was reiterated by tutors and friends; but, they 
 told her constantly, the very strength of his character 
 led him to take views on the questions in which he was 
 interested which were often out of all proportion, and he 
 was in danger of injuring his future by his uncompro 
 mising zeal. 
 
 At first the career of a clergyman appealed to him. 
 It would bring him into contact with the people and 
 open to wider spheres of influence. But as his opinions 
 crystallized he felt that it was his love for the social side 
 of the work which prompted his choice, and that he did 
 not possess the faith that would make his religious teach 
 ing of any value, and he wrote to tell his mother that he 
 could not conscientiously take Orders. This decision was 
 a severe disappointment to her. She had hoped to 
 hold her son in a settled life and definite work, but when 
 once he determined to abandon the idea she never referred 
 to it again, and left him free to make a new choice. 
 
 He finally decided to read for the bar, and to live 
 in an East End settlement the while, where he could give 
 his spare hours to social work. His mother left her London 
 house, took the Mill Farm, and settled in the country. 
 
 To many who have been called to face the problem 
 of cities, the illusion has remained that country places 
 3
 
 34 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 are not infected by the horrible social sickness that in 
 fects the towns; but a little experience soon shows that 
 the thatched, rose-covered cottages, and picturesque 
 village streets are too often but whited sepulchres, hiding 
 behind fair exteriors the plague of overcrowding, bad 
 water, insanitary drainage, and other evils, which eat 
 out the life of the slum dwellers. 
 
 Michael, during his visits to Ilbury, discovered all 
 this, and much more. To his mind the hours of labor 
 were out of all proportion to the pay. The conditions 
 under which the cottages were held appeared to him 
 little short of tyranny, and the question of the monopoly 
 of land almost possessed him. He endeavored to instil 
 into the work-people that spirit of revolt he believed could 
 alone bring about reform; but he was met by apathy 
 and a dogged determination to let things be, bred, he 
 believed, of a deep-rooted fear of the power that could 
 wrench from them what they held, and leave them 
 stranded in far worse conditions. 
 
 The "neighboring gentry," as they were called, held 
 his views in detestation, and looked on Michael Fane 
 as a dangerous man, the more so as they recongized his 
 undoubted ability. But happily his visits were short, 
 and the business of his life kept him for the greater part 
 in London, so the process of "undermining" the people, 
 as they called it, was spasmodic. 
 
 He had, however, one eager disciple. Elizabeth, 
 fresh from school, found in him a master, at whose feet 
 she gladly sat; and Mrs. Fane, with her gentle, motherly 
 ways, was to the girl the very embodiment of tender 
 understanding and sympathetic womanhood. 
 
 Elizabeth was but a child when first she formed this 
 strong friendship. Her frocks barely reached her ankles; 
 her hair was braided in a thick long plait. She was still 
 at the age when dress makes no appeal, and it was a
 
 35 
 
 disgrace to own to any interest in personal appearance. 
 But the sight of the little figure in a plain blue linen frock 
 and shady stsaw hat coming up the pathway gave un 
 mixed pleasure to the quiet woman, and was always 
 welcomed by the young man who romped with her, and 
 taught her, and watched her mental and physical de 
 velopment, with the eager interest he brought to everyone 
 and everything he cared about. 
 
 Mrs. Maynell troubled herself little about her grand 
 daughter s pursuits; and Miss Maynell thought it was 
 very kind of Mrs. Fane to take any interest in a child like 
 Elizabeth, for children were often troublesome and dif 
 ficult to amuse. And so, during the holidays, the Mill 
 Farm became to Elizabeth the one entirely happy spot; 
 and later, when school days were over, it was for a time 
 the centre of her life s interest. 
 
 There is a strange desire for change peculiar to the 
 young; a desire which is almost incomprehensible to 
 older people, for to those who are sur le retour, as the 
 French so delicately call it, the absence of sorrow is almost 
 synonymous with happiness. But to the young, monot 
 ony is misfortune. 
 
 Elizabeth was no exception. She would awake after 
 dreamless sleep to perfect health; to the daily fortune 
 she inherited with life, the sun that shone in the heavens, 
 the birds that sang in the hedgerows, the devotion of 
 Nanny, the love of her friends at the Mill Farm, the 
 interest of her studies, the faithful affection of the village 
 folk; and yet she often looked longingly away to the 
 horizon, wondering, with the strange boldness of youth, 
 what the future would bring. She was not discontented; 
 it never occurred to her she was unhappy, only the world 
 was wide, and the little corner in which she lived was 
 very small. What key would open the gates of life and 
 lead her out into its possibilities?
 
 36 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 "If only something would happen," she used to say. 
 
 The uneventful days were, however, destined to be 
 broken by the arrival of a guest at the great house of the 
 village, known as Ilbury Hall, a dignified building designed 
 in the sober period of William and Mary, square and 
 substantial, with a fine roof and overhanging eaves, to 
 which the architect had given a prodigal sweep, creating 
 thereby an undefined beauty of outline. The square 
 windows looked silently out on the wide stretch of park 
 coward the west, twinkling at sunset like the eyes of some 
 old veteran or past beauty recalling their former triumphs, 
 and then growing gray and still again as the light faded. 
 
 Old Mr. Errington, the present owner of Ilbury, an 
 estate of some ten thousand acres, of which his family 
 had been possessed for generations, had spent his sum 
 mers in London, attending to the affairs of his bank 
 in the mornings, and spent his evenings in the House, 
 where he usually slept while others managed the affairs 
 of his country. But lately he had given up his seat in 
 the House of Commons, and his bank saw him no more. 
 
 With tottering steps the old man was hastening to 
 ward the end of his long journey, but the devotion which 
 had absorbed him through the years was the only thing 
 which still remained strong and unbroken; and day after 
 day he leaned over his study table, taking endless notes, 
 and making innumerable little sums upon his blotting 
 paper, with trembling hands caressing the list of his 
 investments, or turning the pages of his bank pass-books, 
 as an old book-lover might reverently turn the page of 
 some priceless manuscript. 
 
 The house was bleak and dreary. The brown holland 
 covers had not been removed for years. The great 
 chandeliers hung in their drab shrouds from the ceiling. 
 The carpets were faded and worn into little brown paths, 
 where feet had most often passed.
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 37 
 
 Old Mrs. Errington, meek and deaf, sat in what was 
 called the boudoir, a room made hideous by sham painted 
 oak of a bilious yellow brown, and a flock paper, a very 
 nightmare of red, green and gold, a legacy of the taste 
 of the fifties. She often wished that her husband would 
 allow her "to do up the room," and visions of white and 
 gold papers with a border of pink roses came to her, but 
 the flock paper still remained untouched. No one 
 remembered any part of the house having been reno 
 vated or altered in the old banker s time. 
 
 At the end of this summer he decided to send for 
 his nephew and his heir, Eric Errington. It had hurt 
 his pride, that he had no son to succeed to his property 
 and money, more than his heart. All the grief was 
 reserved to the little lady who sat alone in the boudoir, 
 who ordered his dinner for forty years, and now helped the 
 trained nurse, as far as he allowed her, to take care of him. 
 
 Eric was in Scotland when he received his uncle s 
 summons. He had rarely met the old man, and felt 
 no compunction in answering that he would go to him 
 as soon as the grouse-shooting was over. Having taken 
 his fill of sport, when the birds got wild and the weather 
 bad he put himself into the train, and early one morning 
 found himself in a dog-cart, travelling through the misty 
 lanes between dripping hedges to Ilbury Hall. 
 
 A turn in the road, and the gray stone piers of the 
 gates rose gaunt and grim against the line of green grass 
 which divided the entrance from the highway. The 
 leopards, stiff and upright, mounted guard on either side, 
 as they stood for two hundred years, and the iron gates, 
 rusty with age, creaked slowly back as the man dis 
 mounted to open them. Somehow, as they shut again 
 with slow, grating sound, Eric felt a new era was begin 
 ning; that, with the closing gates, new circumstances 
 were opening round him.
 
 38 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 The great avenue, dark with heavy foliage of the beech 
 trees, already turning to gold, was dim and solemn; and 
 then, as they emerged again into the light, the house 
 lay stretched across the garden, gray and green and brown, 
 the slate roof darkened with lichen, the massive chim 
 neys, sharply drawn against the dull sky, and the faint 
 line of smoke curling upward, the only visible sign of 
 habitation. 
 
 It had never struck him as so fine before; and as he 
 crossed the threshold he felt that there rose within him 
 a new sense of pride which he had not known. This 
 great inheritance was a goodly thing on which he had 
 never really reckoned, but which was now almost within 
 his reach. 
 
 "Mr. Errington is not down yet," said the butler, 
 "but your breakfast is ready, sir." 
 
 He led the way across the slippery polished floor of 
 the long hall into the low dark dining-room. Oak 
 panels covered the walls, disfigured by varnish, but 
 the full-length portraits by Reynolds and Romney gave 
 a dignity that no defacing hand could destroy. 
 
 The butler, after supplying his wants, left the young 
 man to his meal. The buhl clock ticked silently. It 
 was the only sound that broke a silence which bid fair 
 to rival the stillness that sends men demented on the ice 
 fields in the great North-West. The hearth looked 
 deserted, swept and garnished for the summer, with 
 shining blackened grate, barred with forbidding paper. 
 
 The young man who sat there eating eggs and bacon 
 presented a strange contrast, in his exuberant youth 
 and strength, to the gloomy surroundings, with his clear 
 blue eyes and bronzed cheeks, a slight fair moustache, 
 and a thin firm line of mouth, short glossy hair and broad, 
 well-made limbs; he was a picture of virile life in that 
 silent, tomb-like house.
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 39. 
 
 He finished his breakfast, stretched himself, and 
 then, throwing open the window, he stepped out. Light 
 ing, a cigaiette, he walked down the long terraced path 
 upon which the lower windows opened, and paused for 
 a moment when he came to the library, where he knew 
 his uncle usually sat. He did not expect to find him 
 there, as he heard he was not yet dressed; and he w r as 
 startled to see a bent figure standing in the window, his 
 eyes fixed intently on a gardener who was sweeping the 
 golden leaves. The whitened lips moved slowly, and 
 as the man worked a smile lit up the faded eyes, set in a 
 network of wrinkles, and the trembling hands made 
 continual motion, as though he were getting together a 
 heap of scattered money. 
 
 "Shovel em up, shovel em up," murmured the old 
 man continuously; and, as the gardener swept, his bird- 
 like claws grasped some invisible heap. 
 
 Eric stood and watched him for some seconds, until 
 he saw the door of the room open and a nurse enter, 
 evidently to tell him of his nephew s arrival. Then 
 the smile faded, the old hands dropped, and he turned 
 from the window. 
 
 A few moments later Eric was ushered into his uncle s 
 presence. The nurse was still in the background. Mr. 
 Errington sat at the writing-table. He turned slowly, 
 and said : 
 
 "How d ye do, Eric? Glad you could spare a day 
 or two for us. Sport good ? Too good to leave sooner" ? 
 he added, with a bitter little laugh. 
 
 He asked how many birds they had bagged? Were 
 there plenty this year? Was the moor extensive? He 
 remembered that years ago he had shot grouse in York 
 shire, but he added that he had taken few holidays. 
 "Lucky the young men can get the time nowadays; 
 I had no time for sport. I was grinding at my desk,
 
 40 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 grinding day in day out, but I ve made my pile," he said, 
 as he put his trembling hands together as though he had 
 something precious between them. 
 
 "I m glad, uncle, to come; sorry I couldn t leave 
 before. Two or three fellows and I had taken a moor, 
 and I couldn t chuck it till the shooting was over." 
 
 The younger man looked uncomfortable and out of 
 place. 
 
 "I ve got a little business to go through with you," 
 said the banker; "not that there s any hurry. I m 
 good for a long time, young man, I ll tell you that." 
 And he looked at Eric under his shaggy white eyebrows 
 as though he dared him to contradict it. 
 
 " Jolly glad," said Eric. " Of course, uncle, we needn t 
 talk of that; you re game for years." But as he said the 
 words he knew they were the lies the men tell to the old 
 and the sick. 
 
 "Yes, yes, years," said the banker. "Things are 
 bad now, but by gad! I ve got investments it would 
 puzzle a wiser head to beat; a combination as devilish 
 ingenious as anything in the city." 
 
 Eric sat silent. He was not sensitive, but the scene 
 jarred upon him, and he longed to be out in the open 
 air, away from the ugly atmosphere of that room. 
 
 "I shall weary you now, uncle. I ll go out a bit, 
 and come to you presently." He rose to go. The 
 nurse followed him out. 
 
 "Mr. Errington s a little weak in his mind now and 
 then," she said. "He has all sorts of fancies, as you 
 have seen; he is always thinking he s at the bank, and 
 that gold is being counted. Old people have all sorts 
 of whims," she said, smiling a hard, frosty little smile. 
 "But he s wonderfully strong." 
 
 Eric turned away, out into the garden, anything to 
 be rid of the impression of that old man, chained to
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 41 
 
 his sordid life, and yet bound to set out on the long journey 
 men take empty-handed. He tried to forget it, but the 
 remembrance was strangely recurrent. 
 
 The next day was Sunday. The village church stood 
 almost within the grounds. The little gray steeple 
 was the only evidence to the family at Ilbury that there 
 was any other life than the dull monotony of the present 
 every-day existence, and the absorbing passion of making 
 money. 
 
 Regularly every Sunday Mr. and Mrs. Errington 
 had for years past been found in their accustomed places 
 at eleven o clock on Sunday morning, when they were at 
 the Hall. The rector always spoke approvingly of the 
 old banker. His subscriptions \vere not large, but they 
 never varied. Every Sunday his half-a-crown was 
 solemnly deposited in the plate, not because it had any 
 relative proportion to his income, but because it was 
 an appropriate coin. A shilling would be too little; 
 eighteen pence was an unsatisfactory compromise. So 
 years ago he had settled that half-a-crown was to be 
 his Sunday offering, and he had stuck to his resolve, 
 as indeed he did to everything he had once settled. 
 
 His regularity at morning service was also looked 
 upon with clerical approval; and his almost fierce de 
 termination that whatever he went through in order 
 to support the church should not be borne alone, which 
 made him inexorable in his demands that every member 
 of his household, and all his employees, should attend, 
 likewise was much applauded. 
 
 "Such an excellent example," said the clergyman; 
 and he was often quoted in clerical circles as one who 
 earned for himself respect and admiration. 
 
 The family pew was an antiquarian curiosity; it 
 occupied a gallery to itself under a carved canopy, en 
 riched with the Errington family arms. Faded red
 
 42 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 curtains screened the exalted worshippers from the 
 vulgar gaze. But the old banker s devotions were 
 seriously interfered with on account of the zealous watch 
 he kept that none of his hirelings should be missing. 
 The red curtains were drawn aside, the clang of the 
 brass rings echoing noisily through the church, and the 
 old head bent over the gallery while he scanned every 
 pew. Occasionally an absentee w r as detected, and he 
 would cross over to where old Mrs. Errington bowed 
 meekly over her large prayer-book, and in a loud whisper 
 would say: 
 
 "Maria, Mrs. Humphreys is not in church; and, 
 so far as I can see, Henry is not there either. What 
 does that mean? I m damned if I will allow it!" 
 
 "My dear," whispered Mrs. Errington meekly, "it 
 can t be helped. Mrs. Humphreys is just confined, 
 and he is staying to look after her." 
 
 "No reason, no reason at all," in rather louder ac 
 cents. "See he is here next Sunday; and she ought 
 to be back Sunday after that. Lazy hounds! they ll 
 always shirk if they can; but I ll have my orders attended 
 to, by God! I will." And then he would cross to the 
 pew and resume his devotions. 
 
 The arrival of Mr. Eric had been the topic of con 
 versation through the week. People wondered what 
 sort of man Mr. Errington s heir would be. The men 
 on the estate discussed possibilities in low voices at 
 their work, "For walls have ears," they said, and a 
 man who ventured to criticise the reigning landlord 
 would, as likely as not, lose his work and his cottage. 
 So they would point meaningly to the Hall. 
 
 "Be the young squire cum?" 
 
 "Cum yesterday forenoon. A seed im droive in 
 the great gates as a was cumin ome ter breakfast; a 
 loikly looking yung mon."
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 43 
 
 "Waal, toime ll show what e be loike, when we ve 
 buried the ole mon." And they fell to work again in 
 silence, with the reserve natural to those who daily 
 recognize the power another holds over their well-being. 
 
 In the village, where the women gathered for their 
 weekly shopping, discretion was less apparent. Mrs. 
 Williams had seen him when she was taking the ser 
 vants washing to the Hall. 
 
 "I was just a crossing the courtyard," she told her 
 interested listeners, "when I seed a young mon cumin 
 acrass, taall and foine e was, and very andsome, to 
 my oiye, at any rate. I made ma dooty to im, and e 
 touched is cap for arl the world as if a d bin a lady; 
 quite the gen leman e was." 
 
 "Different from is uncle," said a sour-looking old 
 woman; "none ll be sorry when is toime cums, and 
 the old squire s gone to meet is Judge. I siy, there ll 
 be a surprise for im one day, and none too pleasant." 
 
 Mrs. Bitton s feelings were well known. She had a 
 special grudge against the squire for sending her grand 
 son to a reformatory for trapping rabbits on the waste 
 piece of ground known as Scrubbs Common. 
 
 "Waal, a ope as the young mon ll ave loong loife, 
 and a good wife and a appy ome, an do well by the 
 po r folks," said a rosy, round-faced woman, tucking 
 a loaf of bread under her arm, and shouldering her 
 heavy basket. "That s wot a ope." 
 
 In the tap-room the young man s arrival was fully 
 discussed on Saturday night by the men who gathered 
 there for a pipe and a glass of ale, as they sat round 
 on the hard benches in the smoky atmosphere. Had 
 anyone seen him? Yes, the man who drove him, drop 
 ped in, and gave much the same verdict a gentleman, 
 an no mistake. 
 
 "As noice a man, I should judge, as ever sat be ind
 
 44 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 a orse. Tarked very affably aboot the ole mare as I 
 was drivin ; asked ow many orses we kep ? A tole 
 im straight outright. A says, orses we don t keep 
 sir; crocks they is isn t one on em s got fower legs. 
 The pair as got aboot fower sound legs between em. 
 E larfed earty, an e says: Well, I da resay you re 
 not arsked to bucket em aboot the country, e says. 
 Nice free young mon, I found im." 
 
 Then their talk wandered from the merits of the 
 heir to favorite local grievances, and although com 
 parisons are odious, they were freely drawn by men 
 accustomed to the task, between old Mr. Errington 
 and Lord Oxendon, who owned the adjoining estate. 
 John Miller, the wheelright, and Stevens, the black 
 smith, went over the old ground; they had travelled 
 the same road some scores of times, but their audience 
 did not weary. 
 
 It s this ere ready mooney business as is our ruin," 
 said the blacksmith, as he knocked his pipe against 
 the edge of the seat. "If the old lord ad be aved as 
 the squoir does where would we arl a bin, d ye think? 
 Why, I ve shod for the ole lord for twenty years, an 
 is bill as roon on mebbe sevin years at a toime. There s 
 never bin noo countin orse by orse, it s joost roon on, 
 an thin a sent in a statement, as the agint caals it, an in 
 coourse a toime the mooney s come, but this yer fidgety 
 wiys wi mounting bills, and what not, is ruin to ard 
 workin men. It s this gite yer mended, and it s this 
 lock yer done, an piy so mooch an no more, ow s a 
 mon ter mike a livin , a ast yer?" 
 
 "Yer right," said the wheelwright. "Nua ll joost 
 giv yer an instance o w r hat it means. His lardship 
 sent is little brown cart ter me ter put new spokes in 
 the wheels. E did some fower years ago. A did is 
 job, an a meets is lardship in the North Road, an e
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 45 
 
 stops, an e says, Miller, e says, yer did that job 
 well, e says. This yer little trap roons as well as ef 
 it ad just come out o the coach-builder s yeard. E 
 never arst for no bill ner nothink, an o course I weren t 
 a-goin tcr trouble im, an three years arter oi sent the 
 agint the bill for six pun ten shillin s, an a year arter that 
 a got the mooney joost as right as can be. Th ole squoire, 
 e wants is ole dog-cart doon oup. There wasn t a 
 spinter o difference wot a done ter the two. A sent it 
 baack to the staible; not twelve hours aterwards, doon 
 cums Mr. McEwen joost as nasty as possible. Wher s 
 yer bill ? A gives it to im, same as a give it to is lardship. 
 Dooun e cums again, says the old squoire was a-tremblin 
 with rage. Take the spokes out agin, or tak a pound. 
 Mean, a caal it, damned mean, takin bread out o folks 
 mouths. It s these mooney-makin ways that s out o 
 place wi a mon in is persition." 
 
 There was a chorus of assent. A few more instances 
 of the difference between the two landowners, and then 
 the talk fell to the prices at a neighboring sale, and 
 wandered away from the old man and the new comer.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 ON this particular Sunday every pew was filled. Peo 
 ple came early to church with a pleasant feeling that 
 something new was in store for them, and that all 
 the week a topic of conversation and a source of con 
 jecture would be provided. 
 
 The second pew of importance belonged to the Hon. 
 Mrs. Maynell. It was of far more modest proportions 
 than the squire s, and beyond the fact that it gained 
 distinction by facing another way from the ordinary 
 seats, it was on a level with them under the gallery near 
 the pulpit. The old lady rarely attended church, and 
 Miss Maynell usually occupied the seat alone; but to 
 day a fly had been ordered, and Mrs. Maynell, draped 
 in a heavy black silk mantle and a bonnet with a tuft 
 of black feathers, tottered on the arm of her daughter 
 into church, a fact . which gave added importance to 
 the occasion. 
 
 Elizabeth had long ago purchased the privilege of 
 sitting apart by the fact that she taught in the Sunday 
 School, and on this particular Sunday she followed the 
 children as usual, as they clattered into the side aisle 
 and took their places, the girls, after hasty devotions, 
 casting curious glances behind them, to catch a glimpse 
 of the gallery where the great folk sat, then twisting and 
 wriggling, brushing back their wiry hair, which had 
 just been released from its prison of plaits or Hinde s 
 curlers. The boys more placid, were chiefly concerned 
 to pass bullseyes and humbugs to each other, and con 
 sume them, without detection. Great, therefore, was 
 
 4 6
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 47 
 
 the consternation when, with the opening sentences 
 of the service, the red curtains were drawn back and 
 Mr. and Mrs. Errington sat alone in their accustomed 
 places. What could have happened? 
 
 Mrs. Hancock, the dressmaker, who held views which 
 were represented by the publication called "The Prot 
 estants Challenge," which she always placed on the 
 table in her fitting-room, felt terrible misgivings. Could 
 the young man be a Catholic or an atheist? It would 
 be disastrous if it were so. She was almost certain she 
 had heard something to his discredit, but she could not 
 remember what it was or where she had heard it. 
 
 The young ladies from the Hill Farm, who had re- 
 trimmed their picture hats, realized that sense of flatness 
 which usually accompanies disappointed anticipation. 
 Even old Mrs. Maynell asked her daughter if young Mr. 
 Errington was in church, as she could not see a third figure. 
 
 But disappointment was to give place to entire satis 
 faction, for during the Psalms a side door opened and 
 a young man, dressed in a tweed suit, entered a pew 
 at the end of the church, bowed his smooth, glossy head 
 for a moment, and then stood up, tall and square, among 
 the worshippers. A flutter ran through the congregation. 
 He had gone into a free seat and was sitting next old 
 Marty, the carrier s widow, a seat never occupied except 
 by village folk. Eric, perfectly unconscious of any 
 comment, opened no prayer-book, but put his hands in 
 his pockets and looked round the church. It all seemed 
 to him very primitive and humdrum. 
 
 "Good old souls, I dare say, browsing here like their 
 own cattle, never seeing anyone or anything," he thought. 
 Then there came before him the remembrance that 
 some day they would be his dependents, and he the rich 
 man who would hold the power of the place in his hands. 
 What would he do? Of course he would be kind; he
 
 48 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 wanted to be liked. He would keep hounds, and have 
 big meets at the Hall. How much money would he 
 want to settle his bills? What would hounds t cost? 
 Whereabouts could he build the kennels? 
 
 He sat down mechanically as the first lesson began. 
 The clergyman was reading in a harsh voice the story 
 of Jonah, the cowardly crew and the great fish. He 
 began to look over the congregation again. Presently 
 his attention was arrested by the figure of a girl wholly 
 unlike the rest of the worshippers. She was dressed 
 very simply. It would have been difficult to recall what 
 she wore, but her clothes hung with easy grace, and 
 the bend of the head showed the pretty points on the 
 nape of the neck, from which grew the soft brown hair. 
 He waited for the head to turn, interested to know whether 
 the face was in keeping with the charming line of the 
 white neck and of the willowy figure. 
 
 A fidgety child gave him his opportunity, and he 
 saw an oval face and dark eyes, with a curiously ap 
 pealing look, as Elizabeth half rose from her seat to 
 rebuke the boy, and as she turned their eyes met. The 
 light of the body is the eye. There is at times a curious 
 sense of sudden recognition, not of any previous ac 
 quaintance, but of subtle affinity hard to define. 
 
 Elizabeth looked away at once. She was annoyed 
 at having caught sight of Errington. She held very 
 strong views as to the attitude of mind she wished to 
 maintain in church. It was one of her chief reasons 
 for desiring to leave the family pew. She wanted to feel 
 alone, away from the associations of her perplexing life. 
 
 The careful observance as to the conduct of each 
 member of a family, common in the Church of Eng 
 land, is unfortunate and embarrassing. In Roman 
 Catholic countries devotion is not regarded as strange 
 or priggish, but with us, if a girl kneels longer than is
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 49 
 
 customary the matter is gravely discussed by her elders, 
 and she is supposed to be either morbid, or to desire 
 to seek spiritual notoriety; and if a boy should show 
 such proclivities, it would be considered abnormal. 
 
 Elizabeth tried hard to banish from her mind the 
 remembrance of those questioning eyes; and after the 
 service was over followed her charges down the aisle, 
 determined to look in the opposite direction, although 
 she felt Errington was watching her intently. The 
 children had almost passed the place where he sat, when 
 a boy, desirous of escaping as quickly as possible the 
 restraint of the slow procession, dropped a prayer-book 
 as he brushed past Errington s pew. The young man 
 bent down quickly and picked it up. Then, waiting 
 till Elizabeth passed, he rose and gave it to her, saying: 
 
 " One of your boys dropped this, I think." 
 
 She looked round. She would have given anything 
 to have appeared indifferent, but the color came into 
 her face; she took the book, and muttered her thanks, 
 and left the church with a strong feeling of annoyance, 
 quite disproportionate to the trifling incident. 
 
 "I m sorry I had no top hat, uncle, so I could not go 
 with you to church," said Eric at lunch. 
 
 The matter had been gravely discussed before church 
 with Mrs. Errington, and it had been finally settled 
 that the absence of regulation dress barred the entrance 
 to the family pew. She was an undecided woman, 
 never quite sure of anything, and when Eric consulted 
 her she wavered. 
 
 "Dear Eric I don t know your dear uncle always 
 does, and my brothers, when they come here. It s 
 generally supposed but still, you re only passing on your 
 way to London still, perhaps it s best it might seem 
 like disrespect to the church, or to your dear uncle I m 
 sure I don t really know what to advise." 
 
 4
 
 50 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 The outcome, however, was, as we have seen, that 
 Eric risked neither Divine nor human displeasure, and 
 worshipped in the free seats. He was anxious to as 
 certain Elizabeth s name, and yet for some reason he 
 did not ask the question directly, but preferred to take 
 a circuitous route. 
 
 "Who was the old lady in the pew?" he asked his 
 aunt. 
 
 "Mrs. Maynell, the Hon. Mrs. Maynell, sister of 
 Lord Oxenham," said Mrs. Errington, "and her daughter, 
 Miss Maynell, was with her. She has a grand-daughter, 
 a young girl who lives with them, the late Major May- 
 nell s only child. They have brought her up, and have 
 been very good to her." 
 
 "She was not in church?" he queried. 
 
 "Oh, yes, she was," said Mrs. Errington; "she 
 well, I don t know, I m sure, young girls are so odd, 
 everything is topsy-turvy nowadays. She sits with 
 the school children, I m sure I can t think why. When 
 I was young my poor dear father would never have 
 allowed it. Indeed, we never should have wished it. 
 The schoolmistress, it seems to me, is paid but I don t 
 know everything is so different." 
 
 So Eric gained the information he wanted, and spent 
 the rest of the afternoon smoking cigarettes and wonder 
 ing how he could arrange to see Elizabeth again. He 
 lay on his back under one of the big cedar trees where 
 the peacocks roosted. They were screaming in the 
 afternoon sunshine; their harsh discordant voices were 
 said to betoken rain, but the golden light shining through 
 the dark branches of the big tree seemed to defy the 
 omen. 
 
 He saw himself meeting Elizabeth in the fields, re 
 leasing her favorite dog from a trap, saving her from 
 an infuriated cow. All manner of adventures passed
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 51 
 
 in review, and each time she met deliverance at his hands, 
 for her dog or for herself, with the same straight, appeal 
 ing glance which fascinated him in the morning. It 
 worried him to be able to find no excuse for seeking her 
 out or making her acquaintance. Mrs. Errington s 
 tone did not imply intimacy with her grandmother. 
 
 At last he decided to go to evening service. He could 
 not remember the Sunday when he had even contem 
 plated two attendances at church, but custom did not 
 deter him. He was not burdened with scruples as to 
 his motives. He had a distinct object in going, and 
 he announced his intention at tea. 
 
 The old man had gone to his room; he was tired, 
 and would not leave it till dinner-time, his aunt told 
 him. Evening church was at six. Was he going? 
 She never went twice. His uncle thought once on Sun 
 day was enough. Did he always go in the evening? 
 The walk was very nice. She remembered, with a 
 little sigh, liking evening church best years ago when 
 she was a girl. She used to go through the cornfields 
 on summer evenings in Surrey. 
 
 "My poor dear mother was very religious. It used 
 to be very pleasant but, dear me, it s a long time ago"; 
 and the little pale, withered face looked sadder even than 
 its wont. 
 
 At six o clock Eric started across the park in the op 
 posite direction to the church. A low red-brick build 
 ing, almost buried among the trees, had been pointed 
 out to him as Mrs. Maynell s house, and he walked 
 leisurely toward it without any definite plan of action, 
 trusting to luck to bring him some pleasing adventure. 
 
 The elms were reflecting the orange and brown lights 
 of the sunset against the pale evening sky. The trees 
 in the avenue cast long blue shadows across the yellow 
 grass, and the stillness of an English Sunday was hold-
 
 52 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 ing that country world in its beautiful spell. Now and 
 then the distant bark of a dog broke the silence, but 
 the quiet that succeeded the sound emphasized the 
 peace. A few children stood near the gate that led 
 into the lane. They had been picking blackberries. 
 Their mouths and hands were stained with the purple 
 juice. They looked with wide-eyed curiosity at Eric 
 as he passed, whispered and giggled, and then the desul 
 tory child-mind asserted itself, and they fell to gathering 
 blackberries again, and forgot what manner of man 
 the stranger was. 
 
 The path to the manor-house lay across another field. 
 A stile on the further side of the lane showed where the 
 white line followed on over the green grass. Eric climbed 
 the stile and continued on his way. What could he 
 do to ensure his end? How could he manage to meet 
 her? He did not wonder long for, suddenly, coming 
 straight toward him out of the copse which bordered 
 the field, he saw the slim supple figure of the girl who 
 had so filled his mind since he first saw her seven hours 
 ago. The realization of his hope made him start. 
 
 He had done his best to bring about this event, and 
 now that his plan had so far succeeded he felt baffled 
 to know what use he could make of his opportunity. 
 He seemed at far off as ever from attaining his end. 
 
 At that moment the evening stillness was broken 
 by a clash of rushing, swinging sound, for the church 
 bells took possession of the peaceful hour, imperious, 
 insistent. Elizabeth came nearer. She too had seen 
 the figure slowly coming toward her, and had again 
 felt strong self-contempt for the little flutter of excite 
 ment which the sight brought to her. 
 
 They were now close together. He noticed that 
 in an ungloved hand she held her prayer-book, and 
 that the hand was long and slim. He stood before
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 53 
 
 her on the narrow pathway and raised his cap. The 
 inspiration came to him to ask her if he was on the right 
 road to church. Truly, men are willing to be counted 
 fools sometimes to gain an end, for the tower was be 
 hind him, and he knew it well. 
 
 Elizabeth looked at him gravely for a moment, and 
 then the same strong feeling of comradeship which had 
 taken hold of both for a moment in the morning possessed 
 them again, and they looked at each other and laughed. 
 That laugh was the death of conventionality, the merry 
 mingling of minds which is the gateway of friendship. 
 
 "The church," said Elizabeth, "is there," pointing 
 to the tower behind her. "Do you not hear the bells?" 
 
 "Are you going? Will you let me walk with you?" 
 
 "I suppose I ought to say I have not been introduced 
 to you, like the man in the Bab Ballads. But I am 
 going to church, and as you seem to have a very poor 
 instinct for locality, I will take you there, if you like." 
 
 "My name is Errington, and you are Miss Maynell, 
 I know," said Eric. "That is introduction enough, 
 isn t it? without the intervention of a third party!" 
 
 That evening after dinner, when wine and dessert 
 were on the table, Eric casually mentioned the fact 
 that he had met Elizabeth. 
 
 "I missed my way," he said, "and as I met Miss 
 Maynell, I asked her the road to the church. She seems 
 a nice girl. She was very kind in setting me straight." 
 
 His remark led to no response from his uncle or aunt, 
 but the rector, who usually dined at the Hall on Sunday 
 night, said: 
 
 "She is a good girl, but full of the most exaggerated 
 present-day theories. It has always been a mystery 
 to me how Mrs. Maynell, a lady of good birth, should 
 allow her granddaughter to associate with people like 
 the Fanes. Most extraordinarily undesirable, I should say."
 
 54 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 "D you mean those people who have come to the 
 old Mill House?" said Mr. Errington, suddenly roused. 
 "That Radical chap that goes ranting about, upsetting 
 people, and stirring them up to ask more wages? A 
 young blackguard, that s what he is. Mrs. Maynell 
 must be mad if she lets that girl make friends like those. 
 I d like to catch him coming here! Why, I understand 
 he held a meeting about the state of the cottages; said 
 every laborer ought to have at least three bedrooms, and 
 a drawing-room and a piano, I suppose! A man with 
 out a penny of his own to bless himself with telling land 
 lords what they ought to do it s unbearable. I ll 
 tell you what it is 
 
 And then the old man repeated all he had said again, 
 and lost the thread of his argument; the momentary 
 fire had burned low and left him listless. 
 
 "Besides," said the rector, when the pause came, 
 "they are not Church people, which is in itself objection 
 able." 
 
 "Damned dissenters! I was sure of it," muttered 
 Mr. Errington. 
 
 The clergyman looked puzzled. He approved the 
 sentiment, but deprecated the form of expression. 
 
 "Elizabeth seems a nice girl. I am sure it is difficult 
 to know what to do," said Mrs. Errington, "such odd 
 people call nowadays. When I was young my poor 
 dear mother would have been shocked at the way in 
 \vhich all these newcomers are admitted into county 
 society." 
 
 The rector cordially agreed as to the undesirability 
 of the modern mixture of classes and creeds, and a 
 desultory talk was kept up between him and Mrs. Er 
 rington until they left the dining-room to finish the 
 evening in the inharmonious surroundings of her sitting- 
 room.
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 5S 
 
 The thought of Elizabeth s friendship with the young 
 Radical was not agreeable to Eric. Why did she want 
 to mix with cads like that? Sbe was too good for such 
 surroundings. He felt the gulf that existed between 
 himself and such a bounder as this Fane. It seemed 
 clearly a duty to deliver a nice girl from people like 
 that. He felt no doubt as to his capability of training 
 her taste, and showing her what a gentleman should be. 
 
 On her return home Elizabeth also determined to 
 mention her meeting with Eric. Mrs. Maynell sat stiffly 
 dispensing cocoa and cake. *The Sunday evening meal 
 at the Manor was informal. Who had preached? she 
 asked, with a few more questions as to the congregation; 
 and then Elizabeth said, with slightly heightened color: 
 
 "I met young Mr. Errington in the meadow, and he 
 asked me the way to church, and I showed him the 
 road." 
 
 "Good gracious!" said her aunt. "I hope he knew 
 who you were. What did he take you for, I wonder, 
 that he should speak to you without an introduction." 
 
 Elizabeth almost smiled when she remembered how 
 this difficulty had been overcome. 
 
 "He knew my name," she said demurely, "and in 
 troduced himself." 
 
 "Twentieth century manners with a vengeance," 
 sniffed her aunt. 
 
 When bed-time came, and Elizabeth was safe in 
 her own room, with Nanny to undress her and tuck 
 her up and kiss her good -night, her spirits were un 
 usually exuberant. 
 
 "Guess, Nanny," she said, as she danced round the 
 boarded floor which surrounded a small oasis of carpet, 
 "guess who I ve seen. The fairy prince, Nanny, and 
 what s more," she said, stopping in front of her, "I ve 
 spoken to him. A real prince, handsome and good,
 
 56 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 and very brave, for he made acquaintance without any 
 introduction." 
 
 "Oh, Miss Elizabeth, whatever will your grandma 
 say?" said Nanny; but in her romantic heart she thought 
 that perhaps he too had found the enchanted princess. 
 
 The world never seemed so beautiful to Elizabeth 
 as it was in those autumn days. The golden light shone 
 through the beech trees, touching the deep brown car 
 pet of leaves that lay on the green grass with wonderful 
 pink and brown colors. The little evening mists rose 
 faint and blue over the meadows, and the robins sang 
 everywhere. 
 
 It was strange how often she met Eric, and how natural 
 it was to tell him just which way she would go next day, 
 and how naturally their walk led the same way and they 
 went together. At first such meetings only meant an 
 added interest to the afternoon, but soon her first waking 
 thought reached out to that point in her day. It was 
 the pivot on which all her other plans depended. The 
 ordinary little annoyances of life no longer affected her, 
 if only the afternoon would bring those hours of happy, 
 indolent, delightful intercourse. She spent more time 
 before her glass, retrimmed her summer hat and sat up 
 far into the night to let down the hem of her dress. She 
 thought it looked childish to wear it so short. She 
 held herself better, and arranged her hair with care, and 
 almost fancied now and then that she was nice-looking, 
 and then, as she anxiously peered at herself in her very 
 small mirror, she recollected all the wonderful people 
 whom Eric had described to her, the celebrated beauties, 
 whose photographs were sold in the London shops, and 
 appeared in the picture papers, and she turned away, 
 despising her own temerity, even to imagine that any 
 one in all the world could care how she looked or what 
 she wore.
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 57 
 
 To Eric those walks had also become quite a pleasur 
 able experience. He had at first been amused at the 
 curious mixture of naivete and knowledge which Elizabeth 
 displayed. She had listened eagerly to his account of 
 all the people he had met and known, names which were 
 historical to her, but to him were friends and acquaint 
 ances. She had heard with interest his description of 
 that great world of London which seemed so far away 
 and so mysteriously brilliant. But what made her 
 singularly interesting to him was the fact that whenever 
 he talked about abstract questions, spoke with authority 
 on the condition of the masses and their dependence on 
 the classes, settled the vexed relations of the sexes in a 
 sentence, or condemned a political party with whole 
 sale opprobrium, he found that Elizabeth held strong 
 views, not to be shaken by generalities. Here her mind 
 was formed, her reasons ready, and while she listened 
 patiently to his sweeping criticisms, he felt he influenced 
 her but little. 
 
 He had from time to time endeavored to "draw her" 
 as to her friendship with the Fanes, but on this subject 
 she was singularly reticent, always loyal but never ex 
 pansive. She instinctively felt that a gulf was fixed in 
 her mind between these friends and himself which she 
 was determined should not easily be bridged. 
 
 But when Eric talked of art and music Elizabeth 
 \vas enthralled. He would describe Wagner s operas, 
 explain wherein lay his stupendous power; demolish 
 the idols she had hitherto adored, showing her how 
 Mendelssohn and Handel became well-nigh intoler 
 able to those who were held captive by this modern 
 Titan. Then he would talk of Venice and of Rome, 
 give her graphic pictures of Florentine art, tell her of 
 the wonders of the Renaissance. Elizabeth would 
 hang on his words. Her soul went out to this world of
 
 58 , UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 beauty as a little grub rises from the quiet pool, expands 
 its wings and soars into the summer air. 
 
 Eric could talk well, and he knew his power. He 
 liked to watch her color come and go, and the pupils 
 of her dark eyes dilate. She listened to him while he 
 played on her imagination with a skilled hand. One 
 evening he had left her at the crossway where their roads 
 parted; he turned to watch her as she leisurely crossed 
 the meadows. The picture of the straight figure in the 
 sunlight pleased him, and he noticed her graceful strength, 
 when in an instant his arm was roughly grasped, and 
 he was violently hurled across the road. 
 
 A rushing sound, the toot of a horn, the blinding 
 dust that rose round him, told him what had happened, 
 and how narrow had been his escape. Eric looked 
 round to find his deliverer. A squarely built bicyclist 
 in dusty clothes, with a flannel shirt, came toward him. 
 
 "I was only just in time," he said, laughing. 
 
 "You risked getting yourself crushed," said Eric. 
 "I m awfully obliged to you. I think you saved my 
 life." 
 
 "Oh, that s all right," said the other man. "It doesn t 
 do to wool-gather in the country lanes; these rushing 
 monsters are down on you in a moment." 
 
 Eric liked the voice; it was strong and kind. He 
 loitered a little, and talked about the state of the roads, 
 the various hills, the best machines, as the stranger walked 
 beside him, wheeling his bicycle. At the lodge gate his 
 companion stopped and said: 
 
 "Good evening. This is your road; mine lies farther 
 on across the stream. I live at the Mill Farm, and my 
 name is Fane. I heard you were in these parts, but I 
 have been away for some weeks and only just returned. 
 My mother will be glad to see you, if ever you care to 
 come our way."
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 59 
 
 So this was Fane, thought Eric, as he walked toward 
 the Hall, the man Elizabeth knows and won t talk about. 
 He felt it was good his life had been spared; he ought 
 to be grateful, but he almost wished that he did not owe 
 it to this man. 
 
 "Anyhow, the fellow is a gentleman," he admitted 
 grudgingly. 
 
 Michael told the incident to Elizabeth and laughed 
 over his exploit. 
 
 "I saved the skin of the heir of Ilbury," he said, "but 
 I shall hope at a future time to help divide his inheritance." 
 
 He was astonished that she did not seem amused, 
 and made but little response. Elizabeth asked if Er- 
 rington was hurt, and then appeared to take no further 
 interest, and so the matter was referred to no more.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 OLD Mr. Errington had sent for his nephew for a long 
 business conference. Eric was puzzled to know what 
 had resulted from the interview. His uncle had told 
 him little or nothing, beyond the generalities which 
 he already knew, the acreage of the estate, his views 
 on farming and managing land, his dislike of certain 
 innovations which were being introduced by modern 
 farmers, his particular desire to give no rights-of-way 
 through the park, and the necessity of closing such roads 
 to the public in order to destroy any future claim which 
 might be set up. But when he left the old man s rooms 
 he was no wiser as to any details of his uncle s property 
 than when he arrived. The only piece of information 
 he had gained was that his uncle had investments in a 
 group of companies, called the Star, which he appeared 
 to think a good thing, but how much money he had 
 invested, or what his other securities were, he had not 
 heard. 
 
 The interview over, all excuse for prolonging his 
 stay at the Hall was at an end, and his departure was 
 fixed for the following day. He had won golden opinions 
 from his aunt, who continually repeated that it was 
 really delightful to find a young man so willing to settle 
 into their ways, requiring nothing but their society, and 
 rejoicing in the quiet life at Ilbury. 
 
 On that last afternoon Eric met Elizabeth in the 
 park, by a stream that ran through a long narrow valley. 
 The air was very still and the water tinkled over the 
 stones in the bed of the brook with gentle monotony. 
 
 60
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 61 
 
 From time to time a leaf fell with a little flutter, but it 
 was an autumn day when the world seemed to hold its 
 breath, as though anxious to delay the change which should 
 strip it of its beauty. 
 
 They sat together on a fallen tree, and both seemed 
 somewhat embarrassed. Eric because he felt half in 
 clined to induce Elizabeth to tell him how large a place 
 he held in her heart, and yet decided to refrain from 
 committing himself; Elizabeth because she feared lest 
 her voice might tremble when she talked of the time that 
 was coming, and that thus she might unduly show how 
 she dreaded the parting which loomed large on the mor 
 row. So they talked of every conceivable subject which 
 had but little interest for either, and Elizabeth was un 
 naturally gay, and laughed on the most trifling provocation. 
 
 "When shall we two meet again?" said Eric. "You 
 certainly have made my stay here not only bearable but 
 delightful. What should I have done, shut up with those 
 two old mummies, if I had not been able to talk to you?" 
 
 The color came into Elizabeth s face. 
 
 "I don t know," she said. "I am afraid if you had 
 left you would have suffered for your rebellion later 
 on; but now, at any rate, you have the satisfaction of 
 knowing that you have done your duty for years to come." 
 She poked a little hole in the grass with her umbrella, 
 and did not look up. 
 
 "Oh, dear, no," said Eric; "it s only to last a very 
 short time. I have promised to be back at Christmas." 
 
 Elizabeth s heart gave such a thump that she felt 
 he must almost have heard it. She looked up quickly, 
 and then, trying to appear indifferent, she said: 
 
 "Two months hence! Why, that is no time!" Then, 
 as the full force of the news grew upon her, in the exu 
 berance of her pleasure she forgot for a moment her 
 supposed unconcern, and cried gayly: "Ten Sundays;
 
 62 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 sixty more dinners." She went on calculating. "A 
 hundred and thirty breakfasts and teas, and you will be 
 back again." She laughed, and the remembrance of 
 their first meeting came so vividly before him that he 
 almost held out his arms to claim her then and there. 
 
 "Will the time seem so dull?" asked Eric. 
 
 "It s all very well for you," she replied. "You will 
 go back to a good time and jolly friends, and you will 
 see beautiful things, and hear splendid music; but I 
 shall go on and on and on, all my life, till I look like 
 Aunt Harriet." She felt she had committed herself, 
 that he might misinterpret her meaning, and added: 
 "And yet I am absolutely happy, and I want to stay here 
 all my life. It is a beautiful place; the best in the world. 
 I should hate London, and going out and seeing a lot of 
 strange people." 
 
 " Would you not like to see Venice and Rome and Paris ?" 
 
 Oh, no, I am happy just as I am. I want nothing. 
 I love the village; and the Fanes are so good to me. 
 They are always glad to have me at the Mill, and they 
 are dear people." 
 
 Once more the strong desire came to Eric to place him 
 self for ever in a position where equality could be no 
 longer possible with this other friend. But again he 
 prudently refrained. 
 
 "I called on them," he said, "to thank Fane for having 
 warned me of the motor. Good, commonplace people, 
 I should imagine." 
 
 "Commonplace?" said Elizabeth. "That s the last 
 word you can use. Why, Michael took a double first!" 
 
 " I don t care if he took a treble first," said Eric. " They 
 are commonplace. I could find you thousands of good, 
 cultivated, enthusiastic people just like them; excellent 
 and thoroughly middle-class." 
 
 "I daresay you could," said Elizabeth. "They are
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 63 
 
 my friends, so I belong to the middle-class; we have 
 the same ways and ideas, that is why, I suppose, they 
 appeal to me." 
 
 "Nonsense!" said Eric. "You do not belong to 
 them. The spirit of bourgeoisie is the most subtle thing 
 in the world like a smell. I have tried again and again 
 to define it, but it s entirely elusive." 
 
 "I defy you to know anything about them," said 
 Elizabeth. "In one afternoon you cannot possibly 
 classify people." 
 
 "Mrs. Fane put milk into the cups before the tea," 
 said Eric "that s a symptom; and she had curled up 
 bread and butter that s another." 
 
 "Well, that is delicate diagnosis," said Elizabeth; 
 "but she had no teapot cosy." 
 
 "No. But believe me, Miss Maynell, they are. It s 
 wonderfully middle-class to be so insistent about things 
 that really don t matter. It was in very bad taste to 
 try and get me to speak to my uncle about water for 
 the cottages. Those are things to talk about with agents, 
 not with your acquaintances." 
 
 Elizabeth did not appear keen to continue the argu 
 ment, and by-and-by the sun was low and red on the 
 horizon, and dipped behind the hanging woods which 
 outlined the hill, and a cold gray mist began to gather. 
 Elizabeth felt it was no use to delay, and she had best 
 be the first to rise. So she got up, and said, with an 
 air of exaggerated indifference: 
 
 "It is late. I must be walking homeward." 
 
 He sauntered down the road with her, where they 
 had so often walked, and came to the crossways, where 
 they always parted. 
 
 "I shall let you know directly I get back," he said. 
 
 She held out her hand; he took it, held it for a moment, 
 and then both went their own way.
 
 64 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 "Two long, long months. How I lied when I said 
 I was happy," thought Elizabeth. "If I knew he was 
 safe every day, and that he missed me a little, I should 
 not mind the dreary time so much. But the horrible 
 silence will be unendurable!" 
 
 Next day Eric went to London. He thought of Eliza 
 beth all the way up in the train, remembered certain 
 turns of her head and little inflections of her voice. It 
 pleased him to lie back and think of her, while he smoked 
 a cigarette and fancied what she was doing, and where 
 she was walking, and how sad she must be. 
 
 When he arrived at Paddington he called a hansom 
 cab and drove to his club. It was nearly three months 
 since he had been in London, for he had left for the north 
 a little before the twelfth. How jolly it looks, he thought, 
 as the familiar streets greeted him with their various 
 associations. He ran up the club steps. Several letters 
 and telegrams were waiting for him, some bills which he 
 hastily tore up, and three invitations. Lady Hornden 
 and her daughter were in town would he dine and do a 
 play? Yes, certainly. Mrs. Rodney had a play party 
 and supper afterward. Yes, she was always good com 
 pany. So he telegraphed to Lady Hornden and wrote 
 to Mrs. Rodney. He went into the smoking-room, lit 
 a cigar and took up a paper. The image of Elizabeth 
 seemed less vivid, as though the sharp outlines of the 
 drawing had been somewhat effaced by other hands. 
 
 The dull November days seemed dark and long. 
 The first weeks after Eric s departure appeared inter 
 minable to Elizabeth. When first she walked the familiar 
 ways it seemed as though the emptiness w r as unendurable. 
 Her whole heart cried out against the solitude. She 
 walked through the desolate valley in the park; she 
 stood before the fallen tree where they had sat together, 
 and the hunger for the absent was almost physical pain.
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 65 
 
 If only some news of him would come to her, some token 
 that He still remembered. 
 
 The thought of the many more attractive women 
 who surrounded him became intolerable. She was a 
 prey to jealousy of unknown rivals, whose form and 
 features her imagination materialized. She thought 
 of him all the day long; she prayed for him fervently 
 by her little bedside at night; but to no human being 
 did she speak his name, but locked away her sorrow 
 and her hope. For hope she certainly had. He said 
 he would come back. He had held her hand and looked 
 into her eyes. Did not men look like that when they 
 loved? Then the hot color would come into her face 
 and she would feel that even the thought was presump 
 tuous. 
 
 She spent less time at the Mill Farm. Mrs. Fane 
 felt, with the intuition of a sensitive mind, that some 
 thing had changed the child into a woman. What 
 was the subtle difference it would be hard to define. 
 She was absent-minded often, and seemed scarcely to 
 heed the little interests which had been so absorbing 
 to her but a few months ago. There was an aloofness 
 about her which, for the first time, betokened the pos 
 sibility of there being regions of mind into which her 
 friends could not penetrate; locked gates which even 
 the hand of friendship might not open. 
 
 When Michael came from London he too found her 
 reserved. She still listened to and laughed at all he 
 had to tell her, was interested in his news, but had noth 
 ing to tell him in return. He questioned his mother 
 about her. Was Elizabeth changed? he asked. What 
 had happened? Was she unhappy? But the wise 
 woman, who had come to no conclusions, answered that 
 Elizabeth was growing up; girls changed as they got 
 older, and the transition period was often difficult. 
 5
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 CHRISTMAS came at last. There is a wonderful simi 
 larity in anniversaries; they are like members of one 
 family who have a strong resemblance to one another, 
 and if some event comes to break the chain which binds 
 them to each other, it brings to us a sort of dismay, as 
 though the links of life were unduly disarranged. 
 
 To many the happiness of Christmas consists in its 
 beautiful monotony, the family gatherings which have 
 taken place with unbroken regularity, the little inci 
 dents whose very charm lies in their recurrence, the 
 small surprises, the shrill voices of children singing 
 the same old words to the well-known tune, the return 
 to old home ways. All these mean Christmas to hun 
 dreds of men and women; and even if the season brings 
 no vivid happiness, no special touch-point with other 
 lives dear to us by ties of friendship or of kin, there is a 
 sweet monotony in the little round of duties and of pleasure, 
 which is intimately connected in our minds with this 
 festival which binds humanity to God. 
 
 To Elizabeth Christmas had never brought the joy 
 of a family re-united, but it had always been a time of 
 quiet pleasure. The very fact that everything ever 
 since she could remember had always been the same 
 was in itself a joy she had begun to appreciate. To 
 night she stood beside the kitchen fire and watched 
 Nanny making the festive puddings. Elizabeth im 
 agined that she was taking her share of the labor, but 
 Nanny, with her sleeves tucked up and her face glowing 
 from exertion, would have told a different tale. 
 
 66
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 67 
 
 "Reach me that packet of cinnamon, dear," she 
 said. Elizabeth went to the dresser and gave her a small 
 brown paper bag. 
 
 "Bless your soul!" said Nanny hastily. "It s cloves 
 you ve given me. Very odd how you seem to ave lost 
 your memory. I can t make it out. I stoned all them 
 currants over again as you did yesterday, but bless you, 
 dear, I was glad for to do it." 
 
 Nanny scarcely looked up. Elizabeth seemed troubled. 
 
 "Do I forget?" she said. "Nanny, I don t think 
 so," and she gazed into the fire again and kept silence. 
 By-and-by she asked, with magnificent indifference: 
 "Are they having any party at the Hall this Christmas?" 
 
 "Party?" panted Nanny, turning the heavy sub 
 stance with a slap in her basin. "What company do 
 they ever keep? Not so much as the rich man in the 
 Gospels, for they don t even let the poor man eat the 
 crumbs as fall from their table. The squire, e d ave 
 em swep up and kept for the servants dinner." 
 
 "Of course I didn t suppose they would have a party; 
 they re too old," said Elizabeth; "only I thought per 
 haps some of their relations might come." 
 
 "I b lieve I did ear as the young squire was a-com- 
 ing," said Nanny, "but whether it was before or after 
 Christmas I couldn t say." 
 
 She paused in her work and looked up. There was 
 a moment s silence. Then, as if a new idea had dawned 
 upon her, she wiped her hands on her apron and went 
 across the kitchen and stood by Elizabeth. 
 
 "Honey," she said gently, "I know who you ve been 
 a-thinking about; but don t let your heart go out to 
 im afore e s told you that he has given you is already, 
 or else there ll be trouble. I m afraid of these fine 
 gentlemen a-comin down ere, and it s Won t you 
 have a walk ere ? and Will you come a-boating there ?
 
 68 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 and then go off and leave nothin be ind but sore hearts 
 and long thoughts. Oh, dear! don t you be a-giving him 
 what e asn t given you, dear Miss Elizabeth, don t you!" 
 
 And she put her kind hand on the girl s arm. Eliza 
 beth half turned. 
 
 "Nanny," she said, "I don t; I don t. I am not 
 giving anything he is not ready to give me back in re 
 turn." But she said the words with the misgiving that 
 came almost as a prophecy. Nanny returned to her 
 pudding in silence. 
 
 Later Elizabeth was sitting in her own little bed 
 room, the one place which was all her own. It was 
 bare in its frugal simplicity. The narrow bed, the 
 worn furniture, the white walls, hung with every kind 
 of picture and photographs, collected through the years, 
 the tiny dressing-table with its common looking-glass, 
 were all dear to the girl s heart. 
 
 To-night she had cleared the table, and by the light 
 of a solitary candle she was tying up small bundles and 
 writing the names of those for whom they were destined. 
 There were the servant girls, Mary and Emma, a blue 
 and pink bow for each Elizabeth held them by turns 
 against her neck to judge how they would look, and then 
 packed them in neat little parcels a new pipe for the 
 gardener; a penny whistle for the eldest boy; a woolly 
 bird for the baby. Each tiny bundle was laid on the bed. 
 
 Then Elizabeth opened a small cardboard box and 
 held a little gold brooch up to the light with a look of 
 real pride her present for Nanny. How surprised 
 she would be! She would wonder how on earth she 
 had got anything so grand. She would never guess 
 that Michael had brought it from London, or the many 
 directions Elizabeth had given him with that marked 
 advertisement in the " Queen" newspaper. The brooch 
 was replaced in its pink cotton wool, tied up and addressed
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 69 
 
 "For my darling Nanny." Then with a sigh she took 
 up a little volume of daily readings and inscribed her 
 aunt s name "from her affectionate niece." A small 
 Shetland shawl for her grandmother, and only two more 
 presents remained to be packed, one a cheap edition 
 of Epictetus. She opened the first page, held her pen 
 and hesitated, why she hardly knew, then slowly wrote: 
 "For M. F., from E. M." She had never written the 
 inscription in any of her yearly gifts in that form, but it 
 was the fittest, so it now seemed to her. "To my darling 
 Mrs. Fane," she wrote in the "Gardeners Almanack," 
 which was the last present, wrapped both together and 
 directed them to the Mill Farm. The milkman would 
 take them in the morning. Then she sat still and thought. 
 
 The happiness of the occupation had changed the 
 current of her ideas. She was easily lifted from de 
 pression, and quickly responded to passing pleasure. 
 If her occupation was congenial, trouble might lie deep 
 down in her heart, but the current of life would flow 
 over it smoothly, and even joyously. She had the rare 
 faculty of living in the moment and of enjoying what 
 the hour might bring, which kept her mind supple, and 
 gave continued vigor to hope. 
 
 By-and-by she rose and began to tidy her little room 
 and lay her parcels in a neat row. Then she took out 
 her best hat and brushed it carefully, looked out a pair 
 of new gloves, examined the safety of the buttons with 
 unusual anxiety, and finally took up her Bible and began 
 to look over a Christmas lesson for the children. 
 
 Presently the still air was filled with the sound of 
 bells. She opened the window and looked up at the stars, 
 and the thought came to her as she looked out into the 
 night that these were the same stars that had shone over 
 the Bethlehem stable. She put her hands together and 
 knelt down. No words came, only she prayed that she
 
 70 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 might meet Eric, and that he might love her if it was 
 God s will, she added; but her submission was not very 
 real, for if she could have coerced the power that holds 
 our lives, assuredly she would have done so. 
 
 On Christmas Day three figures sat in the Erringtons* 
 pew, and Elizabeth returned from church in exuberant 
 spirits. In the afternoon she went, as usual, to the Mill 
 Farm, by an unusually circuitous route, but to no pur 
 pose. The day was bitterly cold, and toward evening, 
 when she returned, the snow began to fall. 
 
 Never had any hours seemed so long as that Christ 
 mas night, so anxiously did Elizabeth desire the morrow. 
 The next day saw a white world, every twig adorned 
 with a diamond parure, every roof outlined in pearly 
 white against a sapphire sky. People murmured plati 
 tudes about an old-fashioned Christmas, but not even 
 Miss MaynelPs remark that "snow made the country 
 look vulgar, like a common Christmas card," could mar 
 Elizabeth s joy in the wonderful exhilaration of the day. 
 
 Soon after luncheon she dressed with unusual care 
 and started for the yew walk, a long line of evergreen 
 trees which united the broad undulating sweep of park 
 with the bare hills in the open country. What inspira 
 tion led her to this place she did not know. The branches 
 of the yew trees looked almost black, bearing their snow 
 burden, but the sombre coloring was a relief from the 
 dazzling whiteness of the road. The birds hopped 
 before her as she walked, tamed by the scarcity of food. 
 The road was long and lay between the trees like some 
 garden walk bordered with formal hedge; and yet so 
 winding was it in places that you could not tell what the 
 next bend would reveal. Elizabeth walked quickly, and 
 as she turned the first sharp corner she saw w r ithin a 
 hundred yards the man whose presence she so desired. 
 
 How many thousand times during the last two months
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 71 
 
 had fancy painted just this moment; and yet when it 
 had come she almost dreaded the meeting. Would her 
 dreams be all dispelled? Would the reality bring pain 
 or joy? Never did these twin spirits seem so near to 
 gether. 
 
 Eric saw her at the same moment as he came leisurely 
 along with his gun on his shoulder. He had been out 
 for a day s shooting, "for the pot," as he called this 
 solitary sport. The past months had somewhat dulled 
 the eagerness of his desire to meet Elizabeth, but on 
 Christmas Day as he watched her in church the eager 
 longing to be near her again possessed him, and the hope 
 that he might meet her had been in his mind all day. 
 And now the sight of the slight figure, the brilliant color, 
 and the strangely appealing face, brought back with a 
 rush those feelings the intensity of which he had almost 
 forgotten. 
 
 They were shaking hands with all the formalities and 
 little deceptions used by those who dare not put their 
 real feelings into words. Then they turned and walked 
 together, talking of weather and like platitudes. 
 
 "What have you been doing since I left?" said Eric. 
 
 "Oh, vegetating quite happily," said Elizabeth, "each 
 day the same as the last; but monotony is healthy." 
 
 "Did you think about our walks sometimes?" he said. 
 
 "Sometimes," said Elizabeth, and she smiled. 
 
 He could not understand why she did not expand 
 as much as when they were last together. It vexed 
 him that she should seem more reticent, and her restraint 
 urged him to be more demonstrative himself. 
 
 "I have often thought of them," he said, "the yellow 
 lights and the brown leaves. What golden days they 
 were!" 
 
 "Yes, they were beautiful," said Elizabeth, but too 
 demurely to please Eric.
 
 72 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 He told her of his visits, of the people he had met, 
 of the pictures he had seen and the music he had heard. 
 She responded sympathetically. By-and-by the hap 
 piness which had been pent up began to melt like a 
 frozen river in spring. Her laughter rippled out and 
 joyousness possessed her. Eric was exultant. He told 
 her of some new plans which he intended to follow up, 
 of the possibilities of producing music which had not 
 yet been heard in this country. He described to her a 
 cantata, written by a Pole, unknown as yet in England. 
 The music expressed the great problem of life, he said. 
 He hummed the score and then explained to her where 
 the theme changed, the mingling of sorrow and of pain, 
 how the exuberance died out, giving place to the sorrowful 
 wail of the lonely. 
 
 They paused. She stood and listened. The white 
 world was still. Hardly a blade of grass stirred. Only 
 the sound of Eric s voice broke the silence as he sang 
 softly the minor air. Elizabeth looked up at him. The 
 remembrance of the long, lonely days seemed to be in 
 terpreted by the song. Her eyes filled with tears, great 
 drops that did not flow, but remained large and bright, 
 as in the eyes of a child. 
 
 A flood of pity swept over Eric. The exhilaration 
 of the crisp, clear air was like wine in his veins; the 
 face, so delicate and pitiful, looked up to his. A desire 
 to protect this tender thing was overmastering, and with 
 out a word he bent and kissed her. 
 
 Elizabeth was for a moment speechless. Were the 
 gates of heaven thrown open? Had she only to pass 
 in to be happy for ever and ever? The next moment 
 her face was hidden and she was crying quietly in his 
 arms. 
 
 "My little girl," whispered Eric, "have you missed 
 me? Have the days seemed long?"
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 73 
 
 "Days?" said Elizabeth, raising her face and smil 
 ing through her tears. "They were as the days in 
 Genesis, which we are told mean years without end. 
 But why does anything matter now? Oh, I love you; 
 I love you; and you love me." 
 
 It was the old story, told ten thousand times told 
 by the ^Egean Sea, when the loves of men and gods 
 mingled in far-off days told in stately palace gardens 
 beneath dark cypress trees under Italian skies, and 
 echoed in humble corners of the earth, in lanes and 
 hedgerows and mean streets. 
 
 "When did you first know you loved me?" he asked, 
 as they went through the foolish catechism \vhich ex 
 pounds the creed of love in all times and places and 
 languages. 
 
 "When first I saw you." And then each told the 
 other of their hopes and fears and joys. 
 
 Then they parted. As Eric held her hand, he said: 
 
 "Elizabeth, I have one thing to ask you. Don t 
 tell anyone of this just yet. You see, my uncle is very 
 old, and I have to go softly." 
 
 A little shadow came over Elizabeth s face. 
 
 "Oh, Eric, it is such a big thing to keep secret," she 
 said. " How can I ? Would it be right ? " 
 
 "Yes, because I tell you," he said, taking her hand; 
 "and you had better begin to practise obedience now, 
 for you will have to do so very soon." 
 
 "Well, my lord and master," said Elizabeth, "take 
 all the responsibility always and for ever." And she 
 looked at him with happy, trustful eyes.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 ERIC turned into the long avenue and walked slowly 
 toward the Hall. His mind was still confused with 
 conflicting emotions. He had gone further than he 
 intended, and had sealed his fate with a rashness he 
 hardly regretted, so strongly had Elizabeth stirred his 
 affections. The touch of her little hand, the soft supple 
 figure he had held in his arms, were still vivid sensa 
 tions; and the pleasure of the experience triumphed over 
 the prudence he had prescribed. 
 
 "She is really devoted to me," he thought, "and a 
 beautiful, lovable woman." 
 
 Then he caught sight of the long gray house as he 
 had seen it three months ago. It would be his home 
 and hers. They would live here in dignified prosperity. 
 The children his children would play in the gardens 
 and run about the corridors. Elizabeth would sit at 
 the head of his table and entertain his guests. What 
 impression would she make on his friends? He ran 
 over a list of people and tried to imagine their comments. 
 She might never be exactly a "smart woman," but she 
 was refined and cultivated and captivating. She would 
 dress well, in a style peculiarly her own. Of course she 
 would drop ridiculous political ideas, derived from 
 association with people like the Fanes. 
 
 Here he hesitated a moment, and the sense came to 
 him that Elizabeth would never allow herself to be co 
 erced. 
 
 "I shall have to manage her gently," he thought, 
 "but her love for me will overcome such little obstacles." 
 
 74
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 75 
 
 And so with his mind full of the future he walked 
 up the broad gravel drive toward the front door. He 
 was surprised to see Wilkins, the butler, coming out 
 from the house to meet him. 
 
 Why was he waiting? Was he late? The man s 
 hands hung down by his side. He took short steps 
 with a little swinging walk, as though he were announc 
 ing a visitor. As he came nearer Eric saw that his face 
 looked unusually grave and that he made no return to 
 the smile with which he greeted him. 
 
 "Mr. Errington," he said, "I have some news, very 
 serious news, for you. You must prepare for a sad 
 blow, sir. The old squire 
 
 "111?" said Errington, stopping short. 
 
 "Worse than that," said Wilkins. "He s been took, 
 Mr. Errington, took quite sudden, sir, sittin at his 
 libr y table. It was alf past two, Mr. Errington, as 
 I should say a quarter to three, as I went in to see to 
 his fire. The old gentleman seemed quite comfortable. 
 He was doing of his accounts. I card im reckoning 
 to imself. And just before tea time Nurse Jones went 
 with is tonic as e always takes in the afternoon a 
 tablespoonful of brandy, sir, and some ginger and when 
 she opened the door she saw your poor old uncle a-lying 
 all crouched up of a heap. He seemed ardly to know 
 her. But she went up to him and roused him up a bit, 
 and e says to er: Send for Mr. McEwen, e says, I 
 want to sell out some stock; and then e says something 
 about the stars, delirious like, I should judge, as the 
 window curtains had been drawn quite a while; and e 
 falls back quite dead, e did, sir." 
 
 Eric held his breath. At first he felt almost stunned 
 by the suddenness of the event, which he had learned to 
 regard as distant. Then there came a great rushing 
 sense of exhilaration. Were all the difficulties gone?
 
 76 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 Was he now a man of position and of fortune? In a 
 moment he thought of himself with added importance. 
 
 He had indeed bestowed a great gift on Elizabeth 
 now that with his own hand he could set the door of 
 his home open to receive her. He kept a firm hold on 
 his feelings, and, after a pause, he asked in subdued 
 tones about his aunt. His words seemed to him to 
 have gathered weight as he spoke of the terrible shock 
 his uncle s death must have caused. 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Eric," said Wilkins, "she s terrible over 
 come, she is. We was obliged to break it to her afore 
 you come back, sir, as we was afraid she might ave 
 gone in to the corpse. She looked sort of frightened, 
 and then she cried quite gentle, and nurse, she put er 
 to bed, and that s where she is now, poor lady. She 
 said she was sorry e d gone off is ead, otherwise she 
 should have sent for the rector to pray to im; but of 
 course the Lord s ways isn t ours," said the butler, as 
 though he might have improved upon them considerably 
 if he were given a chance. 
 
 Eric walked across the hall, and then he paused. 
 What ought he to do? He felt undecided. What 
 was the right thing? Ought he to go straight to the 
 library? He shrank from the thought. He had seen 
 dead people very often; but somehow he could hardly 
 endure to see this man whose place he was so soon to 
 take, but he was particularly desirous of doing the right 
 thing. Wilkins solved the problem. 
 
 "I wouldn t go in now, Mr. Eric Mr. Errington, I 
 beg pardon but nurse is a-getting the poor thing ready 
 for us to take im upstairs after the doctor s been." 
 
 The doctor; that was a great relief. Yes, that would 
 be someone to speak to. It would be a blessing to have 
 a definite duty to fulfil. It was clearly his part to see 
 all those who came, and make all arrangements.
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 77 
 
 Wilkins began to draw down the blinds. He moved 
 noiselessly from window to window, and reminded him, as 
 the grating sound of the rollers attracted his attention, 
 that when they were drawn up again the house would 
 be his own. 
 
 "Please sir," said the maid, coming quickly toward 
 him, "Mrs. Errington would like to see you, sir." 
 
 He turned to follow her up the shallow staircase, with 
 a sense of discomfort at the idea of finding himself in 
 the presence of grief, and a guilty feeling that what 
 brought her pain had brought him all that he desired. 
 
 The room was nearly dark; the fire flickered on the 
 ceiling in little patches of light, and at first he could 
 not understand the geography of the furniture. But 
 when his eyes grew accustomed to the dimness he saw 
 the mahogany four-post bedstead, and, buried among 
 the pillows, the little figure which seemed to have grown 
 even smaller since he had seen her in the morning. 
 
 "Eric, dear," she whispered, as he bent down, "you 
 know it all. Your dear uncle we were married forty 
 years so sudden, not a word, only he said, I m going 
 to see into things, Matilda. I don t want to be dis 
 turbed. So I did not go near him. He was a just 
 man always saw everything was right. Oh, dear, I 
 wish I think, if I could have had a word but it s 
 best perhaps only we were together for a long time," 
 and she turned her head and cried softly. "I wish I 
 could have been more of a comfort, but I m not very 
 clever, and he had such a grasp." 
 
 "My dear aunt," said Eric lamely, "it s certainly 
 awfully sudden, but really a mercy for him. A long 
 illness is such a trial." 
 
 He hardly knew what he said. His voice sounded 
 to him harsh and grating, but she took his hand and 
 looked up with grateful eyes.
 
 78 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 "Yes, you re so right. He had such a spirit, an ill 
 ness would have been almost unbearable to him." 
 
 "Is there anything you would wish?" said Eric. 
 "Arrangements, or anything?" 
 
 Mrs. Errington looked perplexed, as though questions 
 tried her. 
 
 "You can do everything far better, of course all 
 that ought to be done all respect, and the right people. 
 And oh! I m sure I don t know just what your dear uncle 
 would have wished. He always settled everything." 
 And she cried quietly again. 
 
 "Leave it all to me," said Eric, immensely relieved, 
 and feeling as though he were shouldering her burdens 
 with unbounded generosity. "Leave it all to me; don t 
 think of anything, and try and sleep." 
 
 "Yes, dear Eric," said the little woman, the life 
 long habit of obedience reasserting itself. "And you 
 don t think I need see anyone, nor take steps or any 
 thing, yet?" 
 
 He calmed her; took all responsibility, and left her 
 crying and dozing at intervals. 
 
 Later he met the doctor, discussed his uncle s symp 
 toms and the form of the death certificate; but after that, 
 when heavy footsteps fell on the oak floor and creaked 
 up the wooden staircase, he shut the dining-room door, 
 and a shiver went through him which he was unable to 
 explain. 
 
 Then he sat down to write to Elizabeth. It was no 
 easy task. He asked her to keep their understanding 
 a secret. Whatever he wrote would be seen by her 
 grandmother and aunt, who, at such a time, would be 
 anxious to have news first hand. So he wrote : 
 
 "Mv DEAR Miss MAYNELL, 
 
 "You will have heard the sad news of my uncle s
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 79 
 
 sudden death. Will you inform Mrs. Maynell of the 
 event and tell her that my aunt has not unduly suffered 
 from the shock? 
 
 "Yours sincerely, 
 
 E. ERRINGTON." 
 
 He thought a moment, tore off a second piece of paper 
 and enclosed it, on which he wrote: 
 
 "Meet me to-morrow at the keeper s lodge at three 
 o clock. E" 
 
 He stuck the envelope, and then, seeing a large seal 
 on the table, he struck a light, and as he dropped the 
 wax and pressed the onyx upon the paper he saw with 
 pleasure the Errington arms stand out strong and clear- 
 cut. The dignity of an old name and great possessions 
 impressed him, and once more he rejoiced. 
 
 The interview with Elizabeth was very brief. She 
 was full of tenderness and affection, but he was almost 
 annoyed at the sympathy she lavished on his aunt. His 
 own work and responsibility, it seemed to him, should 
 have occupied her exclusively. Elizabeth was unwill 
 ing to talk of the future. It appeared to her cruel to 
 dwell on the joy of their own future home in the presence 
 of the sorrow which must send the woman forth from its 
 shelter after such long years. 
 
 Altogether the meeting did not quite fulfil Eric s ex 
 pectation, and he returned to the Hall irritated. There 
 was much business to arrange; the undertaker had 
 come. The agent, Mr. McEwen, was busy making lists 
 of London and county friends and associates in business. 
 
 He was a tall man with a frank, genial manner, and 
 was often dimly accused by Mr. Errington of being 
 the "friend of the tenants." Certain it is that after
 
 Bo UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 dinner he had often spoken very freely to the nephew 
 as to the mistakes he thought his uncle made in dealing 
 with his estate. He was always particularly confidential 
 after some of the old port a wine which was only pro 
 duced if one of the partners of the London bank came 
 down to Ilbury Hall, or on rare occasions when a country 
 neighbor or a Tory Member of Parliament enjoyed the 
 squire s hospitality. 
 
 Then Mr. McEwen would confide in the heir over a 
 game of billiards. He would give him disagreeable 
 details in a jolly way, of derelict farms, tumbledown 
 cottages, always ending with prophecies of the evil times 
 ahead for the successor to these neglected estates. 
 
 "Now Lord Oxenham, he s as near a bankrupt as 
 a man can be, but, by Jove!" said Mr. McEwen, thump 
 ing the end of his cue on the ground, "I d rather succeed 
 to those estates by a long chalk. There s been some 
 money spent on em. Farms are in pretty fair order. 
 But here! Why, the tenants only hang on because they 
 know a change is coming." 
 
 "The old man s got lots of ready," said Eric; "why 
 don t you get him to spend a bit?" 
 
 "I know nothing about his banking account," said 
 the agent; "I only know he gives me nothing to put 
 down on the place." 
 
 To-day Eric sought the agent s company as a decided 
 relief in the dreary stillness of the great house. He was 
 sitting at a large table, surrounded by directories and 
 packets of black-edged invitation cards, which he was 
 carefully filling in. 
 
 "Of course I m going by the county lists the magis 
 trates and all the principal people. I suppose most of 
 them will come," he said, looking up; "but your poor 
 uncle was not popular." 
 
 "Well, we must do the right thing," said Eric, as
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 81 
 
 he lit a cigarette. The phrase had been on his lips or 
 in his mind many times during the last twenty-four 
 hours. 
 
 Mr. McEwen made running comments on the his 
 tory of the various people to be invited, guessed their 
 income, the extent of their estates, and summed up 
 their qualities. Presently he came to a name on his 
 list among the C s 
 
 "Cave, R." he read out. "That s the lawyer," he 
 explained, "the man who holds the old man s will and 
 all his papers." 
 
 "By Jove!" said Errington, "hadn t I better see 
 him?" 
 
 "He was here to-day," said McEwen, "asking for 
 you, but you were out. He is coming again to-mor 
 row. He says he has all in readiness to open the will 
 after the funeral." 
 
 "Did he tell you who are my uncle s executors?" 
 asked Eric. 
 
 "Mr. Lamer, his late junior partner in the bank, 
 and Mr. Cave himself," said Mr. McEwen. "He s a 
 decent chap, rather starchy and stiff. I tried to get 
 him to be a bit open with me, but he was very reticent, 
 singularly so I should say. But I tell you what: I don t 
 care if your uncle s left you the fortune of Croesus, you ll 
 have to spend two years income on the estates, so you 
 had better face it, Mr. Errington. I ve managed for 
 most of the big county families, and except your uncle, 
 who was pig-headed about advice, I ve not known one 
 of them who were not obliged to spend their whole income 
 to keep up their property as it ought to be managed." 
 
 "That s hardly a recommendation for your manage 
 ment, McEwen," said Eric, laughing loudly. Then he re 
 membered, and stopped at once, and bent over the invita 
 tions again. 
 6
 
 82 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 The afternoon before the funeral Mrs. Errington 
 sent for Eric. She was sitting disconsolately in a black 
 dressing-gown by her bedroom fire. As he came in 
 she said: 
 
 "I hope you won t mind, dear Eric, if I ask you to 
 come, but they are going to close, you know, and I should 
 like to see him again, but I don t quite like to go alone. 
 Will you come?" 
 
 She stood up, a helpless little figure, and held out 
 her hands for support. 
 
 Eric disliked the request, but could not refuse; he 
 bent down and gave her his arm, and with steps as feeble 
 as a child, she tottered beside him into the passage. He 
 endeavored to dissuade her gently, but she was per 
 sistent; so he unlocked the door where the dead lay. 
 
 The afternoon sun was shining in upon the room 
 through drawn blinds, touching the faded carpet here 
 and there, lighting up familiar objects, and resting upon 
 the shining oak coffin which occupied the centre of the 
 floor, flecking with moving light the white covering which 
 concealed that which lay so still beneath. 
 
 Mrs. Errington did not hesitate. She went straight 
 to her dead husband and asked Eric to draw back the 
 sheet. Eric s hand trembled as he lifted the white cloth. 
 He possessed a strong repugnance for all ugly things, 
 and he dreaded the sight as likely to be unlovely and 
 repulsive. But death is kind to those he claims, and the 
 only touch of dignity ever possessed by the mean, narrow 
 soul, had been accorded to him as the old man lay in his 
 long sleep. 
 
 His wife seemed infinitely comforted. She looked 
 at him awe-struck and admiring, and whispered : 
 
 "He had a great mind; he grasped things most people 
 couldn t understand. I am sure he is happy now." 
 And so, as she gazed, she began to weave that little
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 83 
 
 myth which is the beautiful winding-sheet in which so 
 many dead are wrapped in the memory of their sur 
 vivors. 
 
 The next day was the funeral. A dull, drizzling 
 mist had succeeded the clear cold weather. The car 
 riages had driven up, the mourners had been duly sorted 
 by heated, eager men in black. The coffin had been 
 carried out and placed in the hearse. The family vault 
 had received the dead, and dry-eyed mourners had 
 laid the old man to rest "in the sure and certain hope" 
 which brought comfort to the heart of the faithful little 
 woman who alone sorrowed for his loss. 
 
 Luncheon was laid in the hall and dining-room. The 
 light streamed in again; and the dark rooms looked 
 almost convivial on their return. 
 
 Eric was full of courtesy and consideration, as the 
 notabilities came to him with friendly welcome to his 
 place in their midst. By-and-by the remembrance of 
 the occasion grew less vivid, and men ate, and talked 
 loudly, and laughed by stealth like schoolboys. They 
 discussed the property, the money Mr. Errington had left, 
 the probable jointure of the widow, and looked at the 
 young man with congratulatory interest. 
 
 Old Lord Oxenham, broad-shouldered, white-haired 
 and ruddy, came to Eric and wrung his hand. 
 
 "Hope we shall have some good sport together," 
 he said. "Your poor uncle wasn t a sportsman, but 
 he was always straight about his foxes. But the place 
 will be different now, and you ll bring a little life about it." 
 
 Eric thought of Elizabeth, and answered warmly. 
 He liked this fine old English gentleman; and it pleased 
 him to know how heartily he would welcome him as a 
 nephew. 
 
 The guests had almost dispersed when Mr. Cave 
 came toward him.
 
 84 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 "Shall we get to business?" he said, clasping his 
 hands, and putting his head on one side like a bird. 
 
 "Certainly, at once," said Eric, feeling that this was 
 the point of the day to which all the rest was mere 
 accessory. 
 
 The agent, the lawyer, the other executor and Eric 
 walked into the library. The room was undisturbed, 
 everything in its place, the dead man s papers and account 
 books lay on his table. His letters were sorted in little 
 heaps, tied with pink tape. It was difficult to believe 
 that the shrivelled figure would no longer bend over his 
 work, but was lying stiff and stark under the stones of the 
 dark vault. 
 
 Eric listened to the lawyer reading the will in the 
 language of the law, which sounds unnecessarily in 
 comprehensible. The gist he understood. Two thousand 
 pounds per annum was the jointure settled on Mrs. 
 Errington for her life, to revert to the estate on her death. 
 The estates were left to his heir at law, Eric Edward 
 Errington, together with all money invested in consols or 
 otherwise, and all furniture, plate, horses, carriages, busts, 
 books, pictures, subject to the choice of any dozen articles 
 to be selected by Mrs. Errington, the usual small legacy to 
 executors and none other. 
 
 "Simple, business-like and straightforward, like your 
 uncle," said the lawyer. "I congratulate you, Mr. 
 Errington." 
 
 Mr. McEwen looked down on the ground. He was 
 a little flushed ; he had lunched well. 
 
 "It s all right if there s ready money," he said, "but 
 if there s not, the place is a white elephant. I ve often 
 told you, Mr. Errington, every farm will have to be re 
 built and every cottage too. It s not my fault they 
 are a heap of ruins. You know I ve done my best." 
 
 The agent began to detail the advice he had given,
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 85 
 
 and wandered on to other estates on which he had spent 
 larger sums of money; but the moral in each case seemed 
 to be that the owner could never afford to live in his home 
 again. 
 
 Mr. Cave looked sharply at him and tried to curtail 
 the story. 
 
 "Mr. Errington," he said, with a short laugh, "was 
 a careful man. If you like," he added, putting his 
 head on one side, and looking at Eric, "we will go into 
 the question of his investments at once. Indeed, of 
 course, it will be necessary for the purposes of probate." 
 
 "Certainly," said Eric, "the sooner the better." 
 
 He felt sure that all was right, but he would be in 
 finitely relieved when surmise was changed to certainty. 
 The house was once more silent. The tables were 
 cleared and the furniture replaced. Eric crossed the 
 hall, put on his coat and hat, and set out on his way. 
 He took the same road as on that first Sunday, when he 
 set out in the hopes of meeting Elizabeth. To-day his 
 face was turned toward the red manor house, and he had 
 the same purpose at heart. The evening air was crisp 
 and invigorating. The rain had ceased, the sky w r as 
 clear, and the stars began to shine. The world was a 
 good place, he felt, and he intended to enjoy the luck 
 that came his way. 
 
 As good fortune would have it, Elizabeth was alone 
 in the drawing-room. The lamps had not been lit. 
 Miss Maynell had a bad headache and had gone to 
 lie down. Her grandmother was resting, and Elizabeth 
 was sitting on the hearth-rug in the firelight. 
 
 When Eric was announced she sprang to her feet 
 and gave him her hand, and then as the maid left the 
 room, he held her in his arms and kissed the upturned 
 face. It was a relief to feel her young, warm and 
 living after the dreary day, and to be able to speak
 
 86 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 freely of all their hopes and plans which were now so 
 interwoven. 
 
 "When may I tell?" said Elizabeth, shyly looking 
 at him. 
 
 "Next week," said Eric. "I shall have got all his 
 affairs straight, and shall know where I am. Besides, 
 it allows a decent interval." 
 
 Elizabeth sat by him in the firelight with supreme 
 content. He had never before been so Render, or shown 
 her how much he really loved her. She was almost 
 dazzled by the glory of her happiness, and her heart was 
 full of pity for all who had no experience of such joy. 
 
 Presently a rustle of stiff silk betokened the advent 
 of her aunt, and Elizabeth demurely moved to a chair 
 opposite her visitor. Miss Maynell entered the room 
 with appropriate solemnity. 
 
 "My mother and I take it as neighborly and kind of 
 you to seek us out on such a day. We are glad to welcome 
 you, Mr. Errington; I only regret that my mother cannot 
 meet you herself to-night." 
 
 "Oh, never mind," said Eric cheerfully. Then, 
 hardly knowing what to say, he added: "Lord Oxenham 
 was at the funeral, and was most kind and cordial." 
 
 "My uncle never was on intimate terms with poor 
 Mr. Errington, but the estates touch at many points, 
 and I am sure he will be glad to have you for his neigh 
 bor," said Miss Maynell, who prided herself on always 
 knowing exactly the right thing to say under the most 
 difficult circumstances. 
 
 Elizabeth listened as she looked at the prim figure 
 so wrapped in conventionality, and laughed inwardly 
 with wild exultation to think of her surprise when she 
 knew that this important man, so gifted and so great, 
 had asked her to be his wife. She knew her aunt scarcely 
 realized that any one was aware of her existence; how
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 87 
 
 delightful it would be to lay down the law and give her 
 opinion, and know that it must be listened to, not swept 
 away as wholly unimportant. She would come over 
 from Ilbury and be kind to her. She thought what fun 
 it would be to be able to tell her what she and her hus 
 band intended to do, and know that she could not forbid 
 her plans, and would not dare to throw cold water on his 
 wishes.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 A LETTER reached Errington from Mr. Cave two days 
 after the funeral to the effect that his uncle had invested 
 250,000 in a group of companies known as the Star, 
 that he was making further enquiries, and would write 
 again on the subject in a day or two. The information 
 was enough for Eric. The income from such a sum 
 would ensure ease, if not great riches; but added to what 
 he would by-and-by derive from the estate, he was cer 
 tainly justified in making his engagement known to Eliza 
 beth s family. He determined that very day to ask her 
 to speak to her grandmother, and publicly himself to 
 announce his intended marriage. He was sitting at 
 breakfast when he received the lawyer s letter. His aunt 
 still remained in her room till a late hour. The fire was 
 glowing, and the paper w r as beside him. Already the house 
 began to assume a more comfortable and inhabited aspect. 
 He was about to rise from his meal, when a telegram 
 was put into his hands. He opened it leisurely, like a 
 man who knows that he has no bad news to fear, but 
 the words made him start, as he read : 
 
 "On my way to see you. Important. R. Cave." 
 
 He asked for a time-table, looked at the hour the mes 
 sage was sent, and verified that he could be with him in 
 half an hour. What could it mean? Was there any 
 thing wrong? He felt restless, troubled, angry with 
 himself for having any forebodings of evil tidings. He 
 turned over a thousand reasons which might bring the 
 lawyer to him in haste, and rejected them all. 
 
 88
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 89 
 
 "Confound the man!" thought Eric. "Why not 
 spend a few halfpennies more and avoid this unbear 
 able suspense?" 
 
 He paced the room, unable to sit still, until he heard 
 the door-bell, then went out hastily to meet Mr. Cave 
 in the hall. He w r as taking off his coat deliberately, 
 and when he greeted him, his face was devoid of all 
 trace of expression, so that he could guess nothing. Mr. 
 Cave put his head on one side, and rubbed his hands. 
 The weather was cold, but seasonable, he murmured, 
 as he followed Eric into the library. Then the two men 
 stood still. The pussy-cat purr gave way to quick, short, 
 business-like tones, as he said: 
 
 "Mr. Errington, I ve bad news for you, very bad. 
 I m afraid your uncle has been unwise, for so astute 
 a man curiously unwise. I find the affairs of the Star 
 are involved in this World scheme, about which there has 
 been such talk lately; that it is in the hands of some of 
 the worst gamblers, such as Sugden and others on the 
 Stock Exchange, and that the whole sum, or nearly 
 the whole, is likely to be lost. Falsified balance-sheets, 
 shifting balances at the bankers and interchanging 
 audit days ; it s the old story. It s a bad job, a very bad 
 job. I am really sorry for you," and the little man 
 felt what he said. 
 
 Eric never spoke. It is difficult to grasp that the 
 happiness we held so firmly but a moment ago has been 
 dashed from our hands, that one blow has shattered 
 our hopes and scattered our possessions. 
 
 Was it all gone? He remembered Mr. McE wen s 
 account of the estate, and how the future hung on this 
 invested fortune. His voice was husky as at last he said : 
 
 "It seems incredible. Are you sure of your facts?" 
 
 Mr. Cave opened a newspaper, and pointed to a par 
 agraph which corroborated his statement.
 
 9 o UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 "When your uncle died, I remember hearing from 
 McEwen that the servants told him he had asked for 
 me, and had said something about selling out stock, and 
 mentioned the Star. No doubt this thing was on his mind. 
 He knew there was danger, but it was too late, too late," 
 he repeated meditatively. 
 
 "It is inconceivable," again said Eric. 
 
 A sort of despair was rising slowly, flooding his whole 
 mind. The thought of the worthless heritage, the gloomy 
 house with no money to maintain it, the diminished 
 influence, and long years of necessity and economy opened 
 drearily before him. Elizabeth struggling with a small 
 income, and a growing family, he living a humdrum 
 existence without shooting or society. The prospect 
 seemed intolerable. For a moment hope alternated 
 with his despair. Others had done it; they would be 
 happy in their quiet way. Perhaps they could scrape 
 2,000 a year together. He might have two hunters if 
 they were careful. And then the full force of the hor 
 rible disappointment surged over him once more. 
 
 "Mr. Errington," said Mr. Cave, "will you let me 
 hear what you wish? I will meet the directors and 
 ascertain the exact state of matters, if you instruct me, 
 and we will save what we can from the wreck, but that 
 will hardly be more than a shilling in the pound." 
 
 Mr. Cave got up as he spoke, and held out his hand 
 sympathetically. Eric took it, and thanked him. The 
 little man looked up at him, hesitated, and then said: 
 
 "You will forgive me for saying so, but you are a young 
 man of much promise, with a good appearance, a fine 
 old place and a good name. Marry a wealthy woman, 
 Mr. Errington, and you will put it all straight again. A 
 fine young man like you! Why the heiress will be lucky." 
 
 Eric did not smile as Mr. Cave grinned and winked 
 facetiously. He looked away out of the window across
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 91 
 
 the park, and thought of Elizabeth; and yet the man s 
 advice was not resented. 
 
 By-and-by, as he sat alone, he went over the whole 
 situation. It seemed only to grow more intolerable. 
 He read the newspaper paragraph again and again. There 
 was no doubt as to the truth. Was there only one way 
 of retrieving the situation? Perhaps the man was right, 
 that it was necessary to renounce happiness if duty 
 called him to build back his fortune. But could he 
 renounce her? That was the question. She was so 
 charming, so fresh, so original; no one else would ever 
 be like her. No one could have a dull moment in her 
 society. But pinching poverty, little mean economies, 
 these were ugly and repulsive. His taste was wide and 
 generous. Some men are made like that, and cannot 
 be cramped, he thought. He wished he had not spoken 
 to Elizabeth. He felt it would be unwise to announce 
 their engagement. He would find her and tell her so. 
 Anyhow, it was best to take time and to be prudent. 
 
 Telling Elizabeth was a more difficult task than he 
 had imagined. He remembered as he drew near the 
 school-house door, that she was taking a class of children 
 for some carol singing. He could see her as he passed 
 the windows, sitting at the piano, surrounded by the 
 group of boy and girls, intent on teaching them the 
 quaint air, and stopping the music to explain when the 
 singing must go softly. The children listened eagerly, 
 with the enthusiasm of those who admire their teacher. 
 She struck a chord, nodded to them to begin afresh, when 
 the door opened and Eric walked in. He bent over to 
 her, and said in a low voice : 
 
 "Shall you have finished soon? I want you." 
 
 She looked up quickly, and said: 
 
 "They will sing it once, and then I will dismiss them." 
 
 The children sang it badly, but she did not stay to
 
 92 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 correct their mistakes. They looked wonderingly as 
 their lesson closed abruptly, and then clattered off. 
 
 Elizabeth shut the piano, put on her jacket, and 
 went out into the school ground with Eric, and they 
 turned up the lane which led to the lodge gates. Eric 
 began to tell her his news. Elizabeth listened in silence. 
 When he paused, she stopped, took his hand in both hers, 
 and looked up in his face with her wistful eyes, and said : 
 
 "Eric dear, did you think it would make any difference 
 to me? I only love you the more. For myself I am 
 glad, it will give me the opportunity of showing you how 
 I love you for yourself, and not for what you have. I 
 have not been brought up in riches, and I will work and 
 plan and economize. I really shall be happy in doing it, 
 for I can show you now that you have not made a mistake, 
 but you will have at any rate a useful wife." 
 
 Eric felt irritated. He had not expected her to take 
 his news in this way, but rather to lavish pity on himself. 
 Wholly unconscious of his attitude she went on explaining 
 all that might be done, how the house could be divided, 
 how happy they could be in one corner. Misfortune 
 seemed really to have cheered her, he thought, and he 
 resented her resignation. 
 
 "Of course," he said at last, "it is very dear of you 
 to take the trouble as you do, but I cannot feel as cheer 
 ful. For a man it is a terrible blow to have no possibility 
 of entertaining his friends, or indeed of seeing them, no 
 hunting or shooting, or occupation in fact, just nothing 
 unendurable monotony in a dead- and- alive country 
 place, amidst shabby furniture, and with no prospect 
 of the situation improving till my aunt dies. Of course 
 a woman would not feel it so keenly, but for a man the 
 trial is unbearable." 
 
 Elizabeth looked puzzled. Then she said in a per 
 plexed voice:
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 93 
 
 "But Eric, dear, we have each other, and we shall 
 be happy together. Of course, I understand it is much 
 worse for you, much, much worse. It is selfish of me 
 not to have seen that; but to me the happiness of trying 
 to make you happy is such an absorbing prospect that 
 I am afraid it blocks the view of everything else in my 
 mind." 
 
 "My dear child, how foolish you are!" said Eric. 
 "Of course I feel the same, only a man has so many 
 things to consider, so much to face that a woman can t 
 understand, that I feel I must have time to look at the 
 situation all round." 
 
 When Elizabeth parted from Eric, she felt that some 
 thing had jarred upon her. She did not want to analyze 
 what it was that was wrong, but she told herself he was 
 wearied and worried, that his mind was not balanced, 
 but that once he had recovered from the shock, all would 
 be well. She was disappointed that he had again made 
 her promise to say nothing of their engagement. 
 
 Eric felt curiously irritable after his interview. How 
 odd it was that she did not in the least grasp his position. 
 She ought to make it easier for him. She ought not to 
 require to have matters so plainly put before her, or at 
 any rate she ought to have felt that it would be right to 
 offer to release him. But she knew nothing of the ways 
 of the world, or the trial of the situation to a man like 
 him. Then the pendulum of this mood would swing 
 back, and he would feel how charming she was, how 
 delicate, and how devoted. 
 
 The next day McEwen spent the morning with Eric. 
 He went minutely into accounts, and showed him the 
 estate rent roll, a sum which would only cover the neces 
 sary expenditure and Mrs. Errington s jointure; and 
 once more impressed on Eric the absolute necessity 
 of either letting the hall or shutting up the place.
 
 94 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 In the evening, as he sat alone, the full force of the 
 situation was spread out before him. He was unac 
 customed to worry. He had hitherto sufficient income 
 to enable him to amuse himself. He knew that he 
 owed a good deal more than he could pay, but he never 
 dealt seriously with his affairs. Now his thoughts ran 
 on death duties, the upkeep of landed property, the 
 amounts necessary for any self-respecting man with a 
 position to maintain. He took a pencil and paper and 
 went wearily over the figures, expenditure on estates 
 and buildings, say 4,000; agency and audits, say 500; 
 death duties and probate, a sum he could not yet ascertain ; 
 gardens and grounds, 400; game and keepers, 600. 
 
 He paused, held his pencil between his ringer and 
 thumb; of course it was a necessary expenditure; No 
 one could live in the country without it. Then he went 
 on writing. Stables, 500. What remained? So far 
 as he could see from McEwen s statement, nothing. 
 There was a chance of something being recovered from 
 the Star, but in his heart he knew it was remote. He 
 lay back and thought, and as he smoked he looked into 
 the fire. He had made a mess of things, and spoken pre 
 maturely to Elizabeth, and she did not seem to under 
 stand the situation, or realize how this miserable loss had 
 changed everything. 
 
 "Of course I might never have dreamt of accept 
 ing it, but if she had offered to release me, it would have 
 been right, and shown more understanding." 
 
 Then he fell to thinking of her, but somehow her 
 moral qualities and her personal charm receded into 
 shadow. The irksome want of money loomed so large. 
 He got up and stood before the fire. The very change 
 of attitude seemed to bring decision. 
 
 "Yes, it is damnably hard on both of us," he thought. 
 "But it is best done now before we both suffer. Poor
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 95 
 
 little girl!" he thought, and he felt for a little gold locket 
 which Elizabeth had given him at his request, a very 
 small and simple trinket, which had contained her mother s 
 hair, but into which she had put one of her own dark 
 locks, and on the opposite side had written in tiny char 
 acters, "For my beloved, from E. M." 
 
 "Yes, she was a woman any man would love," he 
 thought, as he held the little token in his hand. "I 
 could not face the thought of another claiming her; 
 and yet He closed the locket and replaced it. 
 
 "For the present there is nothing else to be done; I 
 must get away and look at it all from a distance," and his 
 resolve already seemed to have assumed the proportions 
 of heroism. 
 
 "There is nothing else for us just now, Elizabeth; 
 you will have seen this quite plainly. I know I needn t 
 ask you to be brave. We both need all the courage we 
 can muster." 
 
 Eric was standing in the lane. Elizabeth was seated 
 on a low wall, which divided one of the Ilbury coverts 
 from the road. Her face was very white. Her lips were 
 pressed tightly together, and she looked like someone 
 who had just recovered consciousness after a period 
 of insensibility. She looked at Eric while he spoke, as 
 though she hardly understood his words. He spoke 
 quickly, eagerly, as though he wanted to convince himself 
 as well as his hearer. 
 
 "Things may be better by-and-by," he said. "Who 
 knows? I may come back to claim you. In any case, 
 my darling, I shall never love anyone else. I may have 
 to marry someone with money, like the Hornden girl, 
 but you will be my ideal woman till I die my affinity 
 and I shall find you again, Elizabeth."
 
 96 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 She looked up dazed, as though the fluency of his 
 speech bewildered her. 
 
 "But if you love me, Eric, really love me as I love 
 you, can t we be happy together, even though we may 
 never be able to live at Ilbury, and never be rich?" 
 
 "My dear child," said Eric, "you don t understand. 
 There are responsibilities resting on me, the people, 
 the place. I must fulfil the calls of my position as a 
 landowner. Oh, Elizabeth! don t make it harder to do 
 right." 
 
 "I don t want to make anything hard for you. I 
 would die readily," said Elizabeth, "if my little body 
 could be a bridge over which you could pass to happi 
 ness. Only I can t quite see why you need suffer so. 
 It seems to me it might be so much simpler to accept 
 the loss of money, but not lose the fortune of our 
 love." 
 
 "My dear Elizabeth, you must trust me," said Eric, 
 with a wild longing to end the interview. 
 
 She looked so forlorn and so sad that a mad desire 
 came to him to take her to his heart and kiss back the 
 bloom in the beautiful white face that turned to him so 
 pitifully; but he refrained, and tried to believe that his 
 self-command was good. 
 
 "Elizabeth, I can t bear it. I have to leave by the 
 night train. I go out into the wilderness without you, 
 strong in the sense that it is right, but the world will 
 never be the same." 
 
 She had risen. There was a silence. He hesitated. 
 Should he take one last long kiss? Should he once 
 more know the sweetness of her yielded love ? 
 
 Footsteps on the road startled him. He dropped Eliza 
 beth s hand, and looked round. A man s figure came down 
 the lane with swinging walk, and in a moment they both 
 recognized Michael Fane.
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 97 
 
 " Good-bye, Miss Maynell," said Eric, taking her 
 hand and lifting his hat. 
 
 Michael was greeting them now, and as he shook 
 hands with Elizabeth, Eric gave one long meaning glance, 
 as he stood behind the broad shoulders and looked into 
 her eyes. 
 
 "Good-bye, Fane," he said, and he was gone. 
 
 Courage is characteristic of woman, the courage to 
 conceal, to bear and to go on. Men may lead the forlorn 
 hope, may stand by the colors, and never flinch, may 
 grasp the hand of death and never waver, when honor 
 and duty hold him to his post; but woman can smile 
 when the wolf gnaws beneath into the living flesh, or 
 laugh when she holds the asp to her white breast. Hers 
 is the courage of endurance, the power to be wounded 
 and never murmur, to hide the wound through long days 
 of suffering and go on fighting. 
 
 The rain was dripping steadily upon them, and to 
 Elizabeth it seemed as though the tears of the world 
 for her great heartache fell on her cheeks, the tears she 
 could not shed. 
 
 There was silence for a moment. A sudden under 
 standing had come to Michael; he saw the situation 
 revealed. It seemed to him he must have known it 
 all before, so vivid was the impression. He tried to 
 retrace its origin, remembered that on this very spot he 
 had met Eric, and had saved his life. The change he 
 had seen in Elizabeth was now explained. She stood 
 there still and white against the brown hedge, with the 
 gray sky above her, and he realized that she had passed 
 through the portal which separates childhood from 
 womanhood. Their eyes met, and Elizabeth instinctively 
 felt, though she could not have analyzed the sensation, 
 that he looked at her for the first time as a man looks on 
 a woman.
 
 98 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 "Little Betty, you are in trouble," he said, "can I 
 help you?" 
 
 "No, Michael, not now. Some day, perhaps, but 
 not now. I will walk as far as the Mill with you," she 
 said, and they turned down the lane together. 
 
 That evening Michael talked to his mother about 
 Elizabeth, told what he had seen and what he believed 
 she felt toward Eric. 
 
 "I don t trust him," said Michael. "I can t help 
 feeling he has some mean streak in him. He has been 
 playing fast and loose with her. Anyhow, I know she 
 is unhappy. What do you think, mother?" 
 
 Mrs. Fane paused and looked into the fire. 
 
 "Yes, I have seen it," she said. "Elizabeth cares 
 for him and she is miserable." 
 
 Michael looked up quickly. 
 
 "Can t you get her to see she is making a mistake? 
 Poor little girl; he is not a man she can trust. What 
 can we do, mother?" 
 
 "Wait," she answered; "that is all. A fire burns 
 low if it is not fed, although sometimes it smolders a 
 long time. But patience that is the only thing." 
 
 "But it s terrible she should be made to suffer," he 
 exclaimed. 
 
 She looked at him with infinite sadness, for a woman 
 recognizes the first heart-cry of her son, and interprets it 
 as unfailingly as she does his baby wail, which he lies at 
 her breast. 
 
 It was already twilight when Elizabeth walked home 
 ward. The ploughed fields showed brown against the 
 gray sky and the hedges were marked in strong hard lines. 
 The rain had ceased and stillness held the world as it 
 prepared for night. She paused when she came to the 
 crossways, and stood where she had parted from Eric 
 an hour ago. She remembered that but a few days had
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 99 
 
 passed since she had been greeted with wishes for a happy 
 year as she went down the village street and had turned 
 to use the same familiar phrase, which seemed to hold 
 for her such a beautiful hidden meaning. Now the same 
 year lay before her, but she looked out on the wintry 
 fields with other eyes. 
 
 "January is here," she thought; "cold, wintry Janu 
 ary, with nothing to mark it but growing light in the 
 gray sky. Then February will come with longer days, 
 and the earliest primroses, and March with daffodils and 
 wild flowers." 
 
 She saw them in her mind s eye already, a carpet of 
 golden color under the brown of the wood copse; and 
 April with thrush and blackbird, when the lanes would 
 be filled with the scent of violets ; and May. Her thought 
 paused. May with its clear skies, its flowers and delicate 
 green. In that month, Eric had told her, they would 
 choose the holy day which should make them man and 
 wife. 
 
 Again she saw the year stretched out before her as 
 she had thought it of that morning, like a long sheltered 
 lane. In May the way would lie between banks of 
 bluebells and campion and bright bronze oak leaves, 
 and white sheep with little long-legged lambs would 
 look down on them through the fresh green hedges as they 
 passed rejoicing. How sheltered and secure the year had 
 looked ! How quiet and peaceful the long lane of months 
 that lay before her then. 
 
 But the lane had vanished from her mind; and in 
 stead of the ordered days and months and seasons, a 
 pathless wilderness stretched out before her. The 
 familiar way had gone. There seemed no landmark. 
 She knew no friend to guide or help her; there was 
 nothing but a wide gray space, like the width of the 
 winter sea.
 
 ioo UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 Was this the real land through which she must travel ? 
 Must she walk on and on alone through the measure 
 less time that lay ahead? She could no longer catch 
 a glimpse of the familiar milestones of next year and the 
 next. Old thoughts and habits seemed to slip away 
 from her. A few hours ago she had looked onward with 
 the certainty of ordered peace. She had seen the path 
 straight ahead, with never a cross-road where she must 
 needs stop and choose the way; and now she felt like a 
 child led out of a warm, lighted room, to see for the first 
 time the "vast and silent night," and for a moment she 
 was afraid. The height and depth and width of life 
 frightened her. It was but for a moment, for like a 
 child she tightened her grasp upon the Hand she had 
 held securely through the years of her young life. The 
 sense of a trackless future died down, and once more 
 life came to her with its every-day outlook, and the year 
 stretched out ahead with its old metes and bounds. 
 
 She turned across the field which led to the Manor 
 House. A bent figure, carrying a bundle of firewood, 
 came toward her. The twigs were sharply drawn against 
 the winter sky, but the wearied figure was lost in shadow 
 beneath the burden. 
 
 Elizabeth recognized old Betsy from the cottage by 
 the gate, and quickened her steps to meet her. The 
 movement seemed to bring relief. 
 
 "Why, Betsy," she cried, as she drew near, "let me 
 carry that; it is too heavy for you"; and putting her 
 strong arms around the bundle, she lifted it and slung 
 the rope that bound the load over her shoulder, jerking 
 the faggot into its place on her back. 
 
 "Lor , Miss," said Betsy, "it ain t fit as you should 
 do like that. Indeed it ain t. Whatever would yer 
 lady grandma say?" 
 
 "Leave that to me," said Elizabeth, as she turned
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 101 
 
 toward the cottage gate. "I m glad you ve got this 
 load; I didn t know you were allowed to collect fire 
 wood." 
 
 "Well, Miss, you see, the old squire e s lying asleep 
 now, and the young squire will be much more koind, 
 they tells me, to us poor folk; and the old squire, e l 
 understand better now nor what e did, poor mon." 
 
 Elizabeth looked at the wrinkled face and the kind 
 eyes dim with years. Old Betsy s life had been hard 
 and full of pain. 
 
 "Don t you sometimes wish things had been dif 
 ferent, Aunt Betsy?" she asked, as she looked at her, 
 hoping to gain from her long acquired knowledge of 
 sorrow some strong support. 
 
 "No, dear, "answered the old, thin voice. "No, deary, 
 I doan t. It ll arl cum right, I knows that. There s 
 the three children asleep yonder in the churchyard. I 
 knows ow safe they is, and I d rather they was there. 
 We shall soon be arl together now. An there s the old 
 parson as was as good a friend to me as any ouman ever 
 ad, e s over there too. What the Lord s took E s just 
 stored up for me, an E s keeping it arl till I cum, 
 E is." 
 
 The slow, gentle monotony of the tone brought no 
 comfort to Elizabeth. 
 
 "She has nearly got to the end of it all," she thought, 
 as she laid the fagots down in the little out-house and 
 turned to the garden gate. 
 
 It was getting dark, and as the lock closed with a 
 sharp click, once more a storm of sorrow swept across 
 her heart; she felt she could not walk the hidden path 
 of submission along which old Betsy trod. She did 
 not know that souls that are called out into the pathless 
 wilderness may find light and color they could never 
 see in quiet, sheltered lanes.
 
 102 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 That night, when Martha kissed her in her bed be 
 fore she blew the candle out, she felt her face was wet 
 with tears, but she pretended she had not seen them, 
 only her kiss was perhaps more tender, and when she 
 left her she knelt longer than usual at her evening 
 prayers.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 IN the spring old Mrs. Maynell died. The flame of 
 life burnt low in the cold days, and a blast of chill east 
 wind extinguished the feeble flicker. 
 
 The hand of the great angel effaces all memories 
 save those of gratitude and pity, and Elizabeth remem 
 bered only how helpless she had been through the winter 
 months, and how she had welcomed her presence more 
 than ever before; and her heart was sore when she 
 came back after the funeral to the empty house which 
 had so long been home. 
 
 The next morning Miss Maynell solemnly summoned 
 Elizabeth. She sat by the fire in her grandmother s 
 sitting-room, looking very thin and stiff in her new crepe. 
 Elizabeth instinctively felt that this interview would 
 decide her future. 
 
 "I have sent for you," said her aunt, "to ascertain 
 what your views are as to your place of residence. Your 
 great- uncle has offered me a small house on the estate, 
 as your dear grandmother s death will make it impossible 
 for me to live here. I am, of course, willing to continue 
 the responsibility of the charge my dear brother left 
 me when you came to us. I cannot, however, be blind 
 to the fact that you have not the submission to authority 
 that I feel is due from the young to older relations, and 
 that unless you are prepared to accept my guidance, it 
 would be impossible for me to undertake the charge." 
 
 She looked at Elizabeth as though she felt she had 
 dealt a final blow to insubordination. 
 
 "I am not ungrateful, Aunt Harriet. I know what 
 
 103
 
 io 4 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 you have done for me, but may I ask if it is true that 
 I have a little money of my own ? " 
 
 Her aunt raised her eyebrows and clasped her hands 
 as though praying for patience. 
 
 "Yes, Elizabeth," she said, "you have 250 a year, 
 the entire fortune left by my dear brother." 
 
 Elizabeth looked at her. She felt desperate; she 
 must make a dash for freedom. It was now or never. 
 
 "Aunt Harriet," she said in a low voice, which sounded 
 to her far away and unreal, "please don t think I am 
 ungrateful, but I know all you have done for me, and 
 how troublesome I have often been, but I want a home 
 of my own. I was twenty-one in November, and I 
 should like to live with Nanny, and be alone. I should 
 only be a trouble to you," added Elizabeth somewhat 
 more feebly. 
 
 There was a horrible pause. Miss Ma ynell sat motion 
 less. 
 
 "So this is the return," she said, in tones unnatur 
 ally slow, "for years of patient work upon your character 
 and education the return for a happy home and self- 
 denying devotion. You want to live alone, and you 
 are twenty-one, alone with a servant?" The voice 
 grew slightly louder. "I am afraid your desire shows 
 how far you are from realizing the dignity and modesty 
 befitting a girl of your station and education, and that 
 this desire springs from no good motive. I may be 
 wrong; I hope I am." 
 
 For a moment the temptation was strong to defend 
 her position, but with the despair of one who grasps 
 at liberty by whatever means, she said : 
 
 "I am sorry, Aunt Harriet. I want to make my 
 own life now, and I think we will talk of plans later." 
 
 Miss Maynell looked up quickly. She too realized 
 what Michael Fane had seen; that Elizabeth was a
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 105 
 
 child no more. She rose stiffly, determined to be at 
 any rate mistress of the situation. 
 
 "I hardly thought that on the very morrow of the 
 day your grandmother was laid to rest, this would have 
 been the tone adopted by the girl for whom we have 
 both sacrificed so much. Elizabeth, please withdraw." 
 
 The girl turned and left the room, too thankful that 
 the deed was done, to resent the accusations of ingrati 
 tude to which she had grown callous, so often had they 
 been laid to her charge. She ran down the passage to her 
 room. Martha was sitting by the window, mending 
 stockings. 
 
 "Oh, Nanny, Nanny," said the girl, throwing her 
 self on her knees and burying her head in the woman s 
 lap. "Don t leave me. You are the only person I 
 love, and who loves me"; and she sobbed with quick, 
 breathless gasps like a child. 
 
 "Why, what silly notions have you got into your little 
 ead? Leave you? not if I never touched another 
 farthing s wage, and ad to keep myself on my bit of 
 savings for the rest of my life." 
 
 Later, when she grew calmer, Elizabeth gave the 
 history of the interview with her aunt. Nanny sat very 
 still and listened. Then after a pause she said: 
 
 "I think you was right. Summer flowers die in Novem 
 ber winds, and I believe she d just wither you up." 
 
 And so it came to pass that Elizabeth settled to leave 
 Ilbury. What should she do? 
 
 "Why, go to London, of course," said Michael, "and 
 throw herself into social work." Her great opening had 
 come, the moment for action, when her principles were 
 to turn to practice. 
 
 Mrs. Fane remonstrated that she was young, and 
 that it seemed wrong to make so deliberate a choice 
 when she had seen so little of the world.
 
 io6 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 "Nonsense," said her son; "you wouldn t say that 
 if she were going to be married. It s the only step that s 
 irrevocable; and yet no one ever begs any \voman who 
 is going to marry a rich man to pause and take her time. 
 Elizabeth has all the enthusiasm now to make her a 
 useful worker. Don t hinder her, let her have her head." 
 
 Elizabeth did not need persuasion. She pictured 
 to herself a life interesting but ascetic, full of beautiful 
 restraints and simplicity, but lived in the centre of the 
 real world where the heart of humanity beats. She 
 saw visions of large buildings of conventual austerity, 
 of quiet rooms, where work in the interest of those who 
 lived in the ugly streets outside was devised amidst 
 harmonious surroundings. 
 
 But Michael had no such visions. Indeed, it never 
 occurred to him that Elizabeth had placed her useful 
 ness in such a setting. He went to London and dili 
 gently interviewed the heads of Settlements and Mission 
 Houses, but came to the conclusion that her \vork would 
 be restricted and her outlook narrowed, and that she had 
 better receive her own impressions and mix with his set 
 where she would learn from the first the principles 
 which can make social work of real value. 
 
 He came back from London triumphant. He had 
 found the very place, a corner house in Marshom Street. 
 One side looked on the court where her work would lie, 
 for it was arranged that she was to collect the rents in that 
 district, in order to give her intimate knowledge of the 
 people, and show her the manner of life lived in a slum, 
 and so to gain experience in the housing question. On 
 the other side of the house was what he vaguely called 
 "quite a good street." A nice elderly woman kept the 
 place. She was clean and undertook the cooking. 
 Martha w r ould wait on Elizabeth, and she would be 
 really in clover. Besides which, Miss Osterley, the
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 107 
 
 lady who was on all their committees and thoroughly 
 understood all their methods, lived in the same house 
 on the upper floor. What could be better? She could 
 show her the ropes, and map out all her work and look 
 after her ; and their own place of meeting for consultation 
 and business was next door. 
 
 What was the house like? Was it furnished? Oh 
 yes, very simply. He could not remember much about 
 it, but very tidy. 
 
 Some months later. The afternoon of her arrival 
 remained in Elizabeth s memory among the tragedies 
 of life. 
 
 "The dron -room, miss," said a portly woman, as 
 she threw open the door of a little front parlor furnished 
 with a mahogany sideboard covered with crochet mats 
 surrounding a plated biscuit box and a tea caddy, a 
 mantel-piece of colored slate, the vain imitation of more 
 hideous marble, on which stood glass candlesticks re 
 flecting the afternoon sunshine in their cut pendants, a 
 horsehair sofa, and some fans on the walls trimmed with 
 plush. The centre table was spread for tea. A yellow 
 tea-pot cosy, eloquent of poisonous tannin, crowned 
 the centre. The cloth was placed corner-wise, and cakes 
 were laid upon more crochet mats. 
 
 Such was the setting of the picture of her new life, 
 and when Elizabeth was all alone, after she had gasped a 
 few words of thanks and appreciation to her smiling 
 landlady, she sat down before the tray and covered her 
 face with her hands. 
 
 The place was intolerable. The same sun that was 
 shining through the odious white curtains was shin 
 ing now on the broad avenue of beech trees, and on the 
 gray stone house so quiet and so strong, lighting the 
 calm long rooms with the portraits of those who had 
 lived their lives in that same home. All the dignity
 
 io8 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 and peace that were enshrined there came vividly before 
 her. And then she thought of Eric with his fastidious 
 taste. She could feel his contempt for the mean sur 
 roundings which now made the background of her life. 
 She bowed her head and rested it on the little common 
 cloth and cried till it ached, and her eyes felt as if they 
 had got into their sockets by mistake and were many 
 sizes too big for their swollen lids. 
 
 A knock at the door roused her, and a very small 
 woman, dressed in a plain coat and skirt with a felt 
 wide-awake hat, stood in the doorway. 
 
 Elizabeth got up and endeavored to hide the too evident 
 signs of her discomfiture. She begged the little lady 
 to come in, and said as cheerfully as she could : 
 
 "You re Miss Osterley, I am sure. Mr. Fane told 
 me I might look to you to show me how to work. Do 
 come in." 
 
 Miss Osterley held out a hand covered with a well- 
 worn dog-skin glove. 
 
 "Yes, that s my name," she said heartily in some 
 what jerky tones, "and I m glad you ve come. We re 
 very short of workers, and there s lots to do," and she 
 sat down suddenly, as though moved by clockwork. 
 
 "I hope you re strong," she said, looking at Elizabeth s 
 pale face and red eyes. "Workers get so soon knocked 
 up here. You will have to take care and live by rule; 
 not do too much one day and be able to do nothing the 
 next, but you ll have to learn the methods," and she 
 gave a short laugh. 
 
 Elizabeth began to ask eagerly about the people. 
 Were they poor? What could she do? 
 
 "We don t give anything away," said Miss Osterley 
 decidedly; "we help them to help themselves. We 
 don t believe in anything else. We try to teach them 
 what they have a right to claim, and help them to claim
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 109 
 
 it. We have a strike on now, among the lightermen; 
 many of them live in this district. We are doing all we 
 can for them. Are you good with children? That will 
 be your work at present, and that brings you in contact 
 with the women too. Of course we meet dreadful prob 
 lems. It isn t easy," and Miss Osterley looked puzzled 
 and anxious. 
 
 "What shall I do with the children?" said Elizabeth; 
 "shall I teach in the Sunday-school?" 
 
 " Oh dear no," said Miss Osterley, " we have no Sunday- 
 school; we do not work with any church. Mr. Martin 
 a clergyman, and Mr. Summer a curate, both belong 
 to our branch of the Union, but we are all free to our 
 ow r n beliefs, and personally I am not a Christian." 
 
 She jerked out the last words with some amount of 
 aggressiveness, but Elizabeth s long intimacy with the 
 Fanes had brought her in contact with very free opinions, 
 and she made no comment. 
 
 "You were very fortunate to get these rooms," said 
 Miss Osterley, looking round cheerfully. "I had to 
 wait ever so long before I got mine, and I lodged in 
 the buildings, which were very noisy. And these are 
 wonderfully comfortable and bright." 
 
 First impressions were still strong in Elizabeth s 
 mind. She smiled a rather sickly smile, and said: 
 
 "Yes, I daresay it s difficult in this neighborhood 
 to get anything," but she could not bring herself to be 
 enthusiastic. 
 
 Miss Osterley explained that she had forgotten to 
 tell Elizabeth about the work, which would be hers, 
 of collecting the rents in the court, rushed upstairs, 
 and pelted down again with little red books in her hands, 
 and breathlessly began to explain the system. 
 
 "It s splendid training," she said; "you just go in 
 and out on business, and you re able to make friends,"
 
 no UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 and then she began a long description of how the system 
 had started, and when she finished Elizabeth began to 
 feel that, if all the world had set about collecting each 
 other s rents, most calamities would have been avoided. 
 
 At last she said good-night, and added that she had 
 two committees to attend. Both appeared to be organized 
 as a living protest against some evil, the enormity of 
 which Miss Osterley endeavored to explain hastily to 
 Elizabeth. Then she went off, but in a few moments 
 came back again to beg her to be sure to see her in the 
 morning before she went out; there were some more 
 important things she would like to tell her. And then, 
 like a whirlwind, she was out again and down the street. 
 
 As the days wore on Elizabeth began to find com 
 pensation for the disappointment in her surroundings. 
 Independence was sweet. Her work was full of interest, 
 and she thought it absorbing. But perhaps she hardly 
 realized how much pleasure she gained from the fact of 
 being in the midst of people who discussed plans which 
 affected the well-being of a whole nation, and yet she 
 was appealed to for advice, her opinions were gravely 
 considered, and she knew that she was someone of im 
 portance in her world, and to her, as to many others, 
 such importance was delightful.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 Miss MAYNELL prided herself on the fact that she never 
 neglected a duty. Her niece was settling in London, 
 and it was clearly right that she should be satisfied as 
 to the propriety of her surroundings. So she decided 
 to travel to town, and wrote to tell Elizabeth of her 
 determination. 
 
 The letter brought consternation into the little lodging. 
 There was no spare room, so one must be engaged at 
 the Station Hotel, which was some way off. . 
 
 "That is a comfort," said Elizabeth to Nanny, when 
 they were discussing arrangements, "for she will have 
 to be gone some hours at any rate." 
 
 Toward five o clock on the appointed day Miss May- 
 nell drove into Marshom Street in a four-wheeled cab, 
 which was soon surrounded by a small crowd of gaping 
 children. 
 
 "Let me carry yer bag, lidy," shouted some big boys. 
 
 "Arst me fer ter ring the bell," said a small and dirty 
 girl. 
 
 "Go away, go away at once, children," snapped Miss 
 Maynell; but their attentions redoubled, and only on 
 the appearance of Elizabeth at the door did the small 
 mob disperse. 
 
 "If your work does not make these wretched children 
 more orderly," said Miss Maynell, after she had dryly 
 pecked Elizabeth s cheek, "I should say you were wasting 
 your time in this miserable neighborhood." 
 
 "It s early days, Aunt Harriet," said Elizabeth. 
 
 The sound of the familiar voice had already robbed
 
 ii2 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 her of all sense of freedom, and she felt as slavishly 
 abject as in the old school-room days, when she awaited 
 the reprimand which was never withheld. 
 
 Her aunt made no comment on the house, but ate 
 her tea in rebuking silence. Nanny came in and out, 
 but she too was treated to cold disapproval. Elizabeth 
 tried to glean small bits of village news, and asked after 
 the people at home, but the conversation was not sustained 
 and her efforts were not encouraged. Then she asked 
 about the new cottage ; was it comfortable ? 
 
 "Quite sufficiently so," said her aunt. "My wants 
 are few, and I only desire to live as a gentlewoman should, 
 and to honor the good name I bear. I have no taste 
 for modern eccentricities, nor do I desire to make a 
 show of my charitable intentions." 
 
 There was a pause, during which Elizabeth cut the 
 cake and offered it to Miss Maynell. She tasted it 
 and laid it down with the air of one who would rather 
 die than disclose the reason why she did not eat it. 
 
 "Don t you like it?" asked Elizabeth. 
 
 "No, I don t," said her aunt, and relapsed into in 
 jured silence. 
 
 "I am so sorry; what is wrong? Do tell me." 
 
 "It is made with bad butter. I should have thought 
 Martha would have remembered I do not eat bought 
 cakes, but that is a trifle, of course, like all my other 
 likes or dislikes, in her eyes and yours." 
 
 Elizabeth could bear it no longer. Her indigna 
 tion overcame her fear. 
 
 "Why did you come, Aunt Harriet? You don t care 
 to see me; I am nothing to you, I never have been. You 
 never liked me, and you always showed me you didn t." 
 
 The long pent-up sense of injustice burst its bounds 
 at last, and rushed out with a great flood tide to sweep 
 away the breakwaters of conventionality and fear which
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 113 
 
 had restrained it hitherto, as she poured out in quick 
 short sentences her deep sense of her aunt s injustice. 
 
 Miss Maynell looked aghast. She sat bolt upright 
 at the little table and listened to Elizabeth as though 
 she was in a dream. At last, when Elizabeth paused, 
 she regained her presence of mind, and said : 
 
 "I have taken a long journey in order to assure myself 
 of your welfare. Is impertinent abuse to be my reception 
 in return for my interest in you ? I have felt that although 
 there was much in your disposition to be regretted, you 
 had at any rate that well-bred reticence which has always 
 characterized us, but I find I have been singularly mis 
 taken. And indeed, since you left Ilbury, I have learned 
 with much humiliation how you have allowed your name 
 our name to be lightly coupled with a gentleman whom 
 your own ladylike feeling should have told you was only 
 amused at your too evident liking for his company." 
 
 Elizabeth s cheeks flushed, and her hand trembled 
 as she held her cup. 
 
 "What do you mean?" she said. "Please explain." 
 
 "It is not necessary," said her aunt, "you know as 
 well as I, that neither your grandmother nor I were 
 aware that you were constantly walking with Mr. Er- 
 rington, and, indeed, I am glad she should have been 
 spared the humiliation, although I am left to bear it 
 alone," said Miss Maynell, wrinkling her forehead, 
 and casting her eyes on the ground with her most ag 
 gravating expression. 
 
 "And why should I not walk with Mr. Errington?" 
 said Elizabeth, holding her head very stiffly. "I imagine 
 that you know that if I did so, he sought my company, 
 and that I did not dog his steps. You must know me 
 better than to imagine I should behave as silly girls do 
 with a curate. 
 
 "It does not seem probable that he attaches great 
 8
 
 ii4 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 importance to your friendship, as he is about to marry 
 Miss Hornden," said Miss Maynell, suddenly raising 
 her eyes and looking at Elizabeth. 
 
 Was this the reason she had come? The thought 
 flashed through Elizabeth s mind before she had grasped 
 the news she brought. If it were so, she should be 
 disappointed. 
 
 "Is he really?" she answered. "Miss Hornden is 
 a great heiress, and very beautiful, I believe. Will you 
 let me cut some bread, as you do not like cake ? " 
 
 The indifference of her manner fairly deceived her aunt. 
 
 "Heartless, utterly heartless," she thought, and she 
 continued her lecture upon propriety, good-breeding 
 and gratitude, feeling that she had played her trump 
 card, but had lost the trick. 
 
 "If your good name," she continued, "is of no value 
 to you, remember we bear the same; and I trust that 
 the regrettable lack of consideration which you have 
 shown for the proprieties of well-bred life will not now 
 be transferred to another channel, and I warn you, as 
 you have chosen this independent life, to be careful not 
 to be equally reprehensible in your conduct toward Mr. 
 Fane." 
 
 The thin voice rapped out the sentence like a hammer 
 beating on a wire string. 
 
 The news which her aunt had brought had, however, 
 begun to sweep over Elizabeth s heart, swamping all 
 other feeling and making all other things insignificant. 
 She only wanted now to be rid of her. The flame of 
 her indignation had burnt out. After all, she was really 
 free. W T hat was the quarrelsome little woman to her? 
 She almost felt a pity for her wrinkled yellow face, sur 
 mounted by her ugly black bonnet, and clad in bristling 
 crepe, with a heart that could not mourn, because it 
 could not love.
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 115 
 
 "You need have no fear on that score," she said coldly; 
 and Miss Maynell felt that her mission was ended. 
 
 After a little more desultory conversation she returned 
 in a cab to her hotel, and Elizabeth went back to her 
 daily interests and tried to believe that her love for Eric 
 was dead, and fought hard and prayed often that she 
 might think of him no more. 
 
 From time to time, during the summer, she saw Eric s 
 name in the newspaper. He had dined at some public 
 dinner; he had been to a levee or a court ball; twice she 
 read that he had been one of the guests in a great country 
 house party, where Lady Hornden and her daughter 
 were also staying. The sun had been darkened for her 
 all that day. Try as she would, she could think of 
 nothing but Eric. She pictured him sitting at the piano, 
 talking to this girl as he had talked to her, telling her 
 of his visions, unfolding to her the meaning of his music, 
 and then going out tall and strong among the men, no 
 dreamer of dreams, but the embodiment of youth and 
 power; and the dingy court looked more dreary, and the 
 little room more mean, and the lifelong separation seemed 
 more utterly intolerable. 
 
 At the end of the summer, when the baking pavements 
 made the sunshine a misfortune, tired in body and wearied 
 in spirit, news came to her which rekindled a spark of 
 hope. The evening paper, as usual, was lying on the 
 table near her tea-tray. She listlessly turned its pages, 
 when she was arrested by a headline, "Marriage of Miss 
 Hornden to Sir John Cliffe." The account of the wedding 
 followed, a description of the dresses of the bride and 
 bridesmaids, a list of presents, and half a column of the 
 names of the guests. Eric s name was among them. 
 So he had not married the heiress. The words danced 
 before her eyes. The world looked already different. 
 The afternoon sunshine made her glad. She no longer
 
 n6 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 felt tired. She wondered why he had not married Miss 
 Hornden. Could it be that after all he knew that love 
 was the only fortune worth winning? It never occurred 
 to her as possible that any man could be preferred before 
 him. She got up and went to the glass and arranged 
 her hair. She looked worn ; her face was very white. 
 
 "I will rest more," she thought. She hardly ad 
 mitted to herself that she grasped the hope of his return 
 as drowning men cling to the spar of a ship, and that 
 already it seemed possible that she might yet be saved from 
 the shipwreck of her happiness. 
 
 So joyous was her mood that when Michael came 
 later to take her to a committee meeting he thought 
 as he left her that night : 
 
 "Thank God, the cloud is beginning to lift; after 
 all, wholesome work is the best medicine for every ill, 
 and she will forget." 
 
 And then he stopped his thought; he would not allow 
 himself to wander on, for he knew that in the maze of 
 his mind it led to a spot where happiness was enshrined, 
 and he dared not go in search of it, for he had not yet 
 found the clew. 
 
 "It s war," said Michael, walking into Elizabeth s 
 little room with a newspaper in his hand. "War," he 
 repeated slowly. "We can t grasp what it means, it 
 is so long since it has touched us. It s the bitter fruit 
 we are reaping of that shameful raid, and we are going 
 to have a tougher job than they dream of, for the Boers 
 are sharpshooters and hard riders, and from their baby 
 hood have learned the veldt as a child learns its alphabet." 
 
 "Is it final?" said Elizabeth, getting up quickly from 
 her low chair by the window. "Is it absolutely certain? 
 It seems almost impossible. We have thought about
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 117 
 
 soldiers so long as playthings, haven t we? What have 
 we to gain in return for the misery it will bring?" And 
 her mind ran over the names of women she knew whose 
 sons had "gone for soldiers." 
 
 She looked out over the street where the bright October 
 sunshine was making dazzling white patches on the 
 grimy pavement. The screaming voices of children, 
 fresh from school, shrill, harsh and discordant, made 
 a babel of familiar sound in the court. It all seemed so 
 commonplace. It was impossible to believe that hun 
 dreds were feverishly turning the pages of their news 
 papers, feeling that the day of doom had dawned, and 
 that before them stretched out the dreary waste of part 
 ing and the terrors of the unknown. 
 
 "Poor things!" she said, half to herself. "There 
 will be many aching hearts to-day." And almost in 
 voluntarily she remembered with thankfulness that 
 Eric was not a soldier. 
 
 But it was policy, and not people that absorbed 
 Michael. 
 
 "If the mud in South Africa did not hold these cursed 
 baubles, and men did not think their souls well lost 
 for money," he said, "we should care nothing for suze 
 rainty. If Griqualand had no diamond fields we could 
 afford to let the Boers feed their cattle on the veldt. My 
 God! what an awful responsibility to incur! It will 
 be no light thing. It s going to be a longer struggle 
 than anyone dreams. They will call out the reserves. 
 Think what that must mean; the tearing up of peaceful 
 men from peaceful surroundings. It s horrible, horrible ! " 
 And he sat down and covered his face with his hands. 
 
 "Well, I suppose if we were patriotic," said Elizabeth, 
 "we should be shouting Avenge Majuba with the rest; 
 but a war of revenge does not seem very glorious to me 
 from a Christian standpoint."
 
 ii8 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 "Don t speak of that," said Michael; "it s profanity 
 to those who believe in it. The god of battles is not 
 the Christian s Christ, and yet every parson and minister 
 in the country will be applauding our patriotism and 
 slanging the Boers, and blowing the war flame into 
 stronger blast; people who would not have a moment s 
 enthusiasm for the battle w r hich we try to fight at home 
 for clean living and decent homes for their own country 
 men. Bah we are a nation of hypocrites." 
 
 "It s too late, Michael," said Elizabeth slowly. "If 
 we who are Socialists speak inadvisedly with our lips 
 now, when the country is in this ferment, we shall do 
 much more harm than good. Do try and keep quiet 
 about it all, and when you can t, come and vent it here. 
 But don t talk like that to people who won t under 
 stand you and will only believe you are a traitor." 
 
 "Are you afraid of my talking wildly?" he said, 
 looking at her and speaking softly. "I will be careful, 
 don t fear; but I can t be silent when I feel I must 
 speak." 
 
 He turned again to the paper with a groan. She 
 looked at his strong figure and his firm limbs and thought 
 he was cast in much the same mould as those sturdy 
 men who were fighting in South Africa, possessed by 
 the belief of the righteousness of their cause. 
 
 The door opened slowly, and they both turned to 
 greet the new-comer an old man with a face as white 
 as his hair, sharp features, sad, deep-set eyes, a firm 
 mouth, almost hard in repose, but with a smile which 
 transformed his whole expression. 
 
 Elizabeth made a step forward and took his 
 hand. 
 
 "It s war, dear Father Martin," she said. "You 
 prophesied rightly. It seems almost incredible." 
 
 "I knew it must come," said the old man, "I knew
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 119 
 
 it." He laid his hand on Michael s shoulder with an 
 affectionate gesture. "And it s a bad day, a bad day. 
 It s not the misery only," he said, with a far-away look, 
 as he stood staring out over the chimney-pots, "it s much 
 worse; it s the demoralization that follows. At first people 
 are sobered; it s a new step; there are partings, and 
 danger, and dread. By-and-by they grow accustomed 
 to all that, and then will come stupid inflation, vulgar 
 national swagger; and by-and-by everybody will grow 
 callous about the shedding of blood, and it s a scream 
 for false glory. It often becomes pitifully degrading 
 to national character, all the more so because there is 
 something alluring in the thought a victorious army 
 and the flag and English honor and those who know 
 only the sound of marching feet, and see keen young 
 soldiers in smart clothes and hear bands playing, feel 
 the swing of the thing and are carried away by it. But 
 the reality, which they never see that is the horror." 
 
 "I dread it too," said Michael. "It diverts men s 
 minds from living issues at home. Pressing questions 
 must wait until the war is over. The people can go 
 on as they are, and mugs as they have been, and every 
 one feels absolved from responsibility. 
 
 "Yes," said the old man, "it s a channel which diverts 
 the flood for a bit, and when it comes rushing back it 
 swells it tenfold and makes it more dangerous and more 
 turbid. Work will be short, and money slack, and 
 taxes high. That s the home-coming the end." 
 
 "But, Father Martin," said Elizabeth, "don t they 
 say it will open a land flowing with milk and honey? 
 Won t it make new room for our people?" 
 
 The old parish priest shook his head. 
 
 "I think we Socialists have found the truth that the 
 greater and more real the patriotism the wider our sym 
 pathy for all humanity. By-and-by we shall understand
 
 120 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 better that God has made of one blood all the nations 
 of the world." 
 
 Maurice Martin, whom Elizabeth, and indeed most 
 of his friends, called Father Martin, was one of the 
 best-known men in the poorest part of that district. 
 For thirty-five years he had toiled in this densely popu 
 lated parish. He had worked w r hen the slums were 
 unnoticed, and when no journalist described their hor 
 rors and no enthusiasts founded settlements or clubs. 
 He had watched children grow to men and women, and 
 had patiently labored often in spite of apparent failure 
 and constant fack of funds, and that intellectual lone 
 liness which is the lot of those whose work absorbs their 
 daily lives, leaving them no time for social intercourse. 
 But in the wilderness of misery where he had spent his 
 life Father Martin stood in the mind of every docker, 
 car driver or coster, no matter how drunken and worthless 
 he might be, as the very embodiment of good. He had 
 found work for them when times were bad; he had set 
 them up again when they had failed. Nobody was 
 ever so bad as to be hopeless. Nobody failed so often 
 but that he was willing to give them another chance. 
 He helped them in health, he sat by them in sickness, 
 he married them, he baptized their children, buried 
 their dead, but 
 
 " E could go for a bloke like a good un," they said; 
 and his look as he "pulled a man out of a pub when 
 his wife was dying" was one the man never forgot. "I 
 tell you, I d rather e d ave fetched me one in the oie," 
 was the way he described it. 
 
 The other clergy looked at him with suspicion. He 
 was a pronounced Socialist; he spoke in an unguarded 
 way at ruri-decenal meetings as to the responsibilities 
 of the rich and the misuse of money. He was known 
 to hold strong views on the income of bishops, and,
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 121 
 
 worse than all, he associated with men at Socialist meet 
 ings, and even admitted them into his house, who were 
 dissenters and agnostics. 
 
 It was also rumored that he was careless about the 
 boundaries of his parish, and had on more than one 
 occasion visited a sick woman who came to his church 
 but did not live within his spiritual beat; and when the 
 vicar of this parish very properly remonstrated he had 
 said: 
 
 "My dear fellow, these people have souls; we can t 
 look upon them as pheasants to be preserved, nor con 
 sider our parishes as so many coverts." 
 
 The story had been much commented on in clerical 
 circles in that part of London, and, as usual, Mr. Martin 
 had been severely criticised. 
 
 Father Martin had a sincere respect for Michael. 
 He saw in him qualities which won respect. And for 
 Elizabeth he had an almost paternal affection, which 
 she warmly returned, for he had been an anchor to 
 her faith in the midst of the flood of humanitarian sym 
 pathy which recognized no unseen agency. 
 
 Michael, as a reverent agnostic, admired the old man s 
 faith, although he had no part in his belief. He recog 
 nized the power of his inspiration, and loved him for 
 his single-hearted devotion to God and man. 
 
 Some months after this conversation took place in 
 her lodging, Elizabeth read in the local newspaper, 
 which was sent to her each week from the post-office 
 at Ilbury, that the Yeomanry were volunteering and 
 that Mr. Errington was among those who would go to 
 the front. For a moment the suddenness of the blow 
 stunned her, and she sat dry-eyed holding the county 
 newspaper, unable to feel or to think; and then a sense 
 almost of thankfulness came to her that in the midst 
 of danger and hardship she might still think of him and
 
 122 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 pray for him. He was still hers; and the peril of war 
 seemed less horrible than the great chasm which but 
 a few weeks ago she believed had divided them for ever. 
 
 Thus it came about that on the spring morning when 
 Eric sailed Elizabeth s heart was sore; but she tried 
 honestly to turn to her work with renewed sympathy 
 for those who, like herself, were constantly racked with 
 anxiety but who were obliged to face daily life with a 
 brave show of courage.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 KATHERINE HORNDEN was always quoted as one of 
 the lucky beings on whom Providence with a lavish 
 hand had showered all that can make life delightful. 
 
 As soon as she appeared in London, chaperoning 
 mothers whispered to each other as they sat in the corners 
 of ballrooms, that she would succeed to a large fortune 
 when she was twenty-one; those who had sons said she 
 how lovely she was, and how well she had been brought 
 up; but those who had only daughters looked on her 
 less favorably, and criticised her mother, whom they 
 pronounced frivolous and artificial. 
 
 But their praise or blame affected Katherine but 
 little. Everything was new and exciting; everyone 
 appeared delighted to see her; and she suddenly realized 
 that she was a person of importance in the eyes of many 
 people. 
 
 Her mother was enjoying the early autumn of life, 
 a considerable remnant of good looks and a large for 
 tune, left to her by her husband. Her house in Park 
 Lane was renowned for its dinners, and her beautiful 
 castle at Lentham was celebrated for its Italian gardens, 
 and the luxury which she provided for her guests. Lady 
 Hornden had few enemies and many whom she called 
 friends, that is to say, many people who cared to know 
 her, and enjoy her hospitality, for she was always kind 
 when it cost her no personal inconvenience. 
 
 She honestly believed that she had sacrificed her 
 self to the welfare of her child, and certainly she had 
 watched over her health and her looks with real assi- 
 
 123
 
 124 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 duity. When the little girl was ill, specialists were 
 summoned to advise on the most trivial ailments. She 
 was surrounded by anxious governesses and nurses, and 
 her nurseries and school rooms, her carriage and her 
 ponies were the envy of every other governess and nurse 
 in the park or the square where Katherine played. But 
 the child s enjoyment was tempered by the drawback 
 of being the object of such extreme anxiety, and she 
 would gladly have exchanged her possessions and privileges 
 for an hour s unrestrained wholesome play. 
 
 When she returned from the sea-side, Lady Horn- 
 den was in despair because she was brown and freckled. 
 A skin doctor was consulted, and henceforth she was 
 smothered in gauze veils when she dug her castles in 
 the sand. 
 
 As regards her education, Lady Hornden had been 
 very particular about her French and her German, and 
 from time to time she questioned her governesses as 
 to her progress. She had during Katherine s child 
 hood taken every precaution that no foolish or romantic 
 ideas should be allowed to get dominion over her. Once 
 she had discovered, almost providentially, that an English 
 governess had been talking wildly and putting silly ideas 
 into the girl s head as to her future, the way she should 
 spend her money, and utterly unpractical and really 
 dangerous principles about poor people. Lady Hornden 
 had acted, however, with great promptitude, and the 
 mischief was stopped, although Katherine, who was 
 impressionable and imaginative, had been quite bitten 
 by the "romantic twaddle," as Lady Hornden described 
 it, and her action was only just in time. 
 
 When the year came for her to be presented and make 
 her appearance in society, her mother determined that 
 she would spare no pains to make her debut a success. 
 Indeed, she spent almost as much time on the details of
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 125 
 
 Kathcrine s dress as on her own; and Katherine was as 
 ready to enjoy ordinary pleasure, and as eager to be 
 amused, as any other girl who has good looks, and money, 
 and all that makes life desirable. 
 
 But a few weeks only served to reveal to Lady Horn- 
 den the rocks which lay ahead. Young men began 
 without loss of time to endeavor to engage her daughter s 
 affections. Toward the end of the summer the question, 
 she realized, had become acute. She returned from 
 the last ball of the season in a state of bewildered per 
 plexity. 
 
 She was sincerely anxious to "do the best" for Katherine, 
 and that night, having put on her dressing-gown and 
 dismissed her maid, she sat down to think an occu 
 pation in which she seldom indulged. She had, of 
 course, discussed the merits of possible sons-in-law with 
 intimate men friends, in whose judgment she trusted, 
 but now she wanted to pass them quietly in review and 
 really settle her own mind who she would encourage 
 or discard before leaving London. 
 
 There was young Lord Munro. Of course he had 
 the advantage of being a Duke s son; that was cer 
 tainly in his favor, but then he had no money. She 
 heard that he played heavily at the Turf Club every 
 night, and then, although no sensible woman expected 
 any young man to be an ascetic, still there were stories 
 afloat which showed that even his admiration for Katherine 
 had not yet brought about any readjustment of his private 
 life, for Lotty Case appeared in new diamonds every 
 two or three months, and all the world knew that they 
 were the advertisement of his devotion. 
 
 Then there was Mr. Fordwick. He was a clever 
 and rising man. They said he would be sure to be in 
 the Cabinet some day, and he would have a good income 
 by-and-by, when he succeeded his father, Lord Severton.
 
 126 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 But he was plain and silent, and Katherine disliked 
 him, and, after all, girls tastes must be consulted. 
 
 Then her mind travelled quickly to a name around 
 which gathered many disturbing elements, Eric Er- 
 rington. He was singularly good-looking and fascinat 
 ing, but his uncle had speculated away all his money; 
 he had a big white elephant of a place which would only 
 be an incubus, and he had not sufficient position to 
 counterbalance the disability of poverty. He was un 
 doubtedly brilliant, and very popular, but her whole mind 
 said that this thing could not be. She remembered how 
 eagerly Katherine welcomed Eric when he called, or asked 
 her to dance, how pink she had grown that very evening 
 when he came to take her to supper, and she felt that 
 she must take care that things did not go any further. 
 It seemed a relief to have settled that point, for it left 
 her free to turn to a thought which brought far more 
 security to her mind, and it was a real rest to begin to 
 think about Jack Cliffe. 
 
 She wondered she had not arrived long ago at the 
 conclusion that he really was the best man. He had 
 no great position to give Katherine, but he came of a 
 very old family, and a very large family too. Half 
 the big names in London were his relations. It would 
 be a great thing for Katherine to be thus surrounded 
 by powerful people. It would be a solid marriage. He 
 was a man everybody liked. The regiment was devoted 
 to him, she had heard that a thousand times. He cer 
 tainly was not very rich, but then he was not very poor. 
 He was in the right set and knew everybody. 
 
 The more Lady Hornden thought about it the more 
 the idea commended itself to her sense. No girl could 
 possibly fail to like him, he certainly was delightful. 
 Perhaps he was not clever, but that did not matter. 
 Girls with money, like Katherine, did not need to marry
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 127 
 
 a genius. She had hovered round this thought many 
 times before, but to-night she decided that Jack was 
 really the best man by far; it must be Jack. 
 
 Katherinc, sleeping in her little bed in her pretty 
 bedroom, was supremely unconscious of her mother s 
 decision. She certainly liked Eric better than any man 
 who came to the house, but then they were all charming, 
 and so long as she had a good time, she was almost as 
 happy with one as with another. 
 
 By-and-by, when they left London, she did not perceive 
 that Eric came less to the house and Jack more frequently, 
 that whenever they went to Lentham it was Jack who 
 always happened to turn up, and Lady Hornden was 
 always equally surprised when she received a telegram 
 to say he was coming. And so it happened that one 
 evening, walking under the long pergola that led from 
 the formal terraces to the Italian gardens, Jack asked 
 Katherine to be his wife, in a very simple straightforward 
 and manly way, and was supremely happy when she 
 said "Yes," and Katherine found herself very happy 
 too. 
 
 It was delightful to be engaged, to engross all Jack s 
 thoughts and all Jack s time, to find how much interest 
 everybody took in her, and to go with her mother to 
 Paris, where she spent more money and time with the 
 dressmaker, than even she desired. 
 
 One day, shortly before her marriage, somebody 
 told her that Eric was unhappy. It had never occurred 
 to her that he cared for her, and it seemed most wonderful 
 that she should be the object of such a romance. So 
 she sent a great many consoling messages to him, and 
 wrote a very charming note when he sent her a little 
 bracelet with God be with you in diamonds. 
 
 She did not meet him again until her wedding-day; 
 and when she came down the church she saw him in
 
 128 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 the crowd of people and smiled at him, but noticed that 
 he looked white and drawn. For a moment she felt 
 a great compassion for him, but soon forgot all about it 
 when she went out into the world with Jack. 
 
 Some months afterward, when Katherine met him 
 again in a country house, he told her one evening under 
 the stars out in the garden after dinner how he had suffered ; 
 and then she tried to persuade herself that the sight of 
 his pain had to a large extent marred her happiness on 
 her wedding-day. For she, like many others, began 
 to look back on the past with new eyes, and she saw 
 some things which certainly had escaped her at the time. 
 
 The knowledge that Eric cared for her seemed almost 
 to give piquancy to the happiness of those early days. 
 It was good to know that, although Jack was so devoted 
 to her, there were other people who cared for her also, 
 and it only served to make her realize her worth and to 
 impress her with the favor she had done her husband in 
 marrying him at all. But on the whole they were very 
 happy, and certainly no cloud of jealousy ever rose on 
 Jack s horizon to mar his content. 
 
 The days after Jack s departure seemed very long 
 to Katherine. For the first time the door of fate had 
 been shut in her face, that door which has no handle, 
 which forces us to remain outside. 
 
 The experience was a new one. Her happiness had 
 hitherto been the aim and object of everyone round her; 
 the preservation of her health a religion, her enjoyment 
 a duty. Now and then she had fancied that she would 
 like to be free, even from those who labored to make 
 life lovely, to go where she would without consulting 
 any other will, to be able to start on the spur of the moment 
 for Italy, when yellow fog descended upon London, to 
 migrate like the birds to Egypt, and wake in the sunshine 
 of the Nile Valley; or suddenly to sail to the fiords of
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 129 
 
 Norway when London life, transplanted to the Scottish 
 moors, became irksome. Complete independence seemed 
 to her a wonderful possession, because it was probably 
 the only one she did not own. She would talk glibly 
 of the joys of bachelor life in a flat, although the services 
 of twenty servants barely sufficed to carry out her wishes. 
 She sometimes envied women who earned their money 
 and their freedom, when her dressmaker s bills would 
 have been a sufficient income for several families; and 
 now that temporary independence had come to her she 
 could devise no means of using it. She wanted some 
 one to consult as to the best plans for new pleasure. 
 
 If only Eric had stayed, she thought, as she looked 
 at the collie lying on the rug beside her, we could have 
 had some good times. And then she fell to thinking of 
 his good-bye, and wondered how things would have 
 been, if, instead of marrying Jack dear good, faithful 
 old Jack she had opposed her mother and insisted on 
 marrying Eric. 
 
 She remembered days in the garden at home, when 
 he had talked to her of art and of music, and had read 
 Shelley and Swinburne. No other man had ever talked 
 to her in the same way. He was so reverent, so enthusi 
 astic. She had felt sure that none had ever touched 
 his heart but herself. How often he had told her that 
 she had come, as Beatrice had come to Dante, a revelation 
 of womanhood; but that was after her marriage, when 
 he described to her his despair. 
 
 Poor Eric! She had made him suffer, and his was 
 a sensitive nature; such suffering was torture. How 
 well he understood her in all her moods. Dear old 
 Jack knew nothing of her real nature, of her aspira 
 tions after the ideal, of her artistic temperament, which 
 Eric had often told her was the world s blessing but the 
 possessor s curse. 
 9
 
 130 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 Yes, if Eric had not gone, these months would have 
 been a time for expansion. She would have breathed new 
 air, and opened to a new consciousness of power. Life 
 would have ceased to be commonplace. She was tired 
 of the chatter of London society, of Bridge, of dress. 
 She saw herself the centre of a sterner world, in a setting 
 of exquisite simplicity, the rubbish of life cleared away. 
 
 After a little consideration she determined to make 
 a holocaust of it as relentlessly as a Savonarola. She 
 would tolerate only the best pictures, the most perfect 
 furniture, the most precious ornaments. She would 
 dress differently, drape herself in long, straight garments, 
 and twist her fair hair into Greek coils. She threw 
 herself in thought into a part she felt that she could play. 
 She saw Eric walking with her in her dream. She knew 
 how serenely happy he would look when he saw how 
 her surroundings had changed, when she sat talking 
 to him on his return against a background of white lilies. 
 But dear old Jack! Where would she put his whips 
 and golf sticks? How ill at ease he would be! How 
 little he \vould understand her mood or enter into the 
 scheme of beauty she had planned. 
 
 She thought of the two bears he had shot in the Rockies, 
 which stood in the hall. He had them stuffed to hold 
 electric lamps. Of the rare Indian monkey he had 
 given her, which hung by a silk cord from the ceiling in 
 her sitting-room, and she shivered. Eric had taught 
 her that such things were a transgression against the 
 first canons of art. Therefore, of course, they must be 
 sacrificed at once. She \vould set about making these 
 changes now; it would interest her to lay the foundations 
 of a new career. She w r ould buy books and read diligently 
 while Eric was away, and by-and-by, when he returned, 
 he would find her in this new w r orld, full of intensity and 
 color.
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 131 
 
 Uplifted by this ideal of artistic severity, combined 
 with luxury and beauty, she determined to lose no time 
 in setting about her work. How Eric would rejoice in 
 her complete understanding of his principles. 
 
 Katherine drove that very day to one of the most 
 famous decorators in London, renowned for the extreme 
 costliness of his simplicity. She was anxious to spend 
 some hours in thoroughly imbibing the sentiment of the 
 style that was new to her. She wanted to make no 
 mistakes, but she felt that deep down in her real mind, 
 if she were honest, she would be obliged to admit that 
 much of what she saw found in her no appeal stiff flowers 
 and long straight stalks, attenuated birds and subdued 
 color. She sighed for more obvious representations 
 of roses and daisies and lilies, interlaced with bright 
 ribbons. The severity of the furniture was chilling, but 
 she allowed no glimpse of her real taste to appear. The 
 tall young man in a pale green tie, was didactic. 
 
 "This cabinet," he said, pointing to a straight upright 
 cupboard in gray-colored oak, "is designed by Lowry. 
 It is absolutely pure in taste. The lock is a gem." 
 
 Katherine looked at the square of beaten silver, and 
 could see very little to admire. 
 
 "The curve of that," said the young man, holding 
 out a key with a heart-shaped handle, "is singularly 
 happy." 
 
 Katherine thought of her buhl cabinets which Eric 
 abused, and knew that she saw their merit, but the charm 
 of this unadorned gray wood was like a language she 
 did not understand. She passed from room to room, 
 until she came to a corner furnished for the instruction 
 of aesthetic neophytes. Here the young man paused. 
 
 "This," he said, "is very true." And Katherine 
 knew that although she had uttered no word he had 
 gauged her ignorance.
 
 132 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 Of course, according to this example, every corner 
 of her house was wrong. The shape of the windows, 
 the curtains, the carpets, all must be remodelled. She 
 felt no hesitation as to the necessity; and indeed, next 
 day, when the tall young man called upon her, the terrible 
 silence he had preserved as she led him through her 
 rooms made the urgency of such a change more obvious. 
 
 How much Eric must have suffered, she thought, 
 as she saw the expression in the young man s face as 
 his eye rested on a Minton china pug dog with a blue 
 ribbon round its neck which sat by the fireplace in her 
 boudoir. She remembered being really pleased with it 
 when it was given to her, and thought it singularly life 
 like and ornamental. 
 
 After a while the tall young man began making notes, 
 and at last vouchsafed to say in a slow, soft voice : 
 
 "Of course, my lady, you are aware the whole house 
 is so absolutely - incorrect that it will be best to 
 make a scheme, commencing with the ground-floor 
 rooms, and work upward, as the structure will want 
 radical alteration; the shape of the windows, the fire 
 places," and he waved his long hand, as though to include 
 all things in his condemnation. 
 
 "Yes, I see," said Katherine. "Let us begin with 
 the downstairs. Get designs ready, and let me see 
 them. But I am in a hurry; no time must be lost." 
 
 He looked at her critically. As a tradesman the 
 sentiment suited him; as an artist it was reprehensible. 
 But he bowed and withdrew. 
 
 Katherine looked round at the gay chintzes and colored 
 cushions and damask curtains, and sighed. Still Eric 
 should find her in the setting which appealed to his taste 
 and knowledge. 
 
 She would say nothing of her intentions; she could 
 not bear the protestations of her mother, or the jeers of
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 133 
 
 i 
 
 Anne. She determined to slide gradually into her new 
 
 part, and make the change imperceptible. 
 
 That day she lunched with Lady Hornden, and after 
 ward Anne fetched her for afternoon shopping, and at 
 five o clock they agreed to call on Lady Augusta Leaven, 
 a mutual relation, a visit they deemed a troublesome 
 duty, and therefore seldom performed.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 LADY AUGUSTA LEAVEN was at home, and delighted 
 to see her "kinswomen," as she called them. She was 
 conscious that they lived in a coterie more modern than 
 her own, but she argued that after all the passing fashion 
 of an hour has no real significance; it is birth only which 
 really sets distinction on the individual, and worth, she 
 would have added, for she believed that she possessed both. 
 
 The western sun was pouring into the drawing-room 
 in which the three women sat at tea, lighting up the 
 banal Dresden figures and small herds of china animals 
 which crowded every table and bracket. 
 
 "I put aside two days in the week for doing good," 
 said Lady Augusta, as she poured out tea with her fat, 
 jewelled hands. 
 
 "How satisfactory such a consciousness must be," 
 said Anne Rodney. "It would be a real comfort to 
 have such a certainty." 
 
 There was a slight inflection in her voice. It was 
 not a sneer, but it was like the suggestion of cold caused 
 by a momentary draught of air on a sultry day. 
 
 Lady Augusta looked up quickly, but detected nothing. 
 She was not keenly appreciative of shades; she only 
 understood what was acutally stated, or what she thought 
 had been stated. 
 
 "Yes," she continued, "of course it is. I go to the 
 East End, where I conduct a class of mothers. One 
 hundred women under my direct control. I tell them 
 what they should do, how to manage their homes. I 
 keep them from drink, and then, you see," she said, as 
 
 134
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 135 
 
 though she had reached the crowning height of beneficence, 
 "I show them how impossible it is for the masses to exist 
 without the classes." 
 
 "How interesting!" murmured Lady Cliffe. She 
 could not find any more suitable expression. She 
 knew that Anne was criticising her hostess, and she felt 
 that she must show her appreciation and yet reserve 
 her opinion. 
 
 At that moment the door opened and a small middle- 
 aged woman, with a round, genial face and friendly 
 manner was announced as Mrs. Dorine. She shook 
 hands warmly with Lady Augusta, and appeared delighted 
 to greet the two visitors. She murmured little rippling 
 sentences about "ages since they met," and the difficulty 
 of finding friends in London, and finally settled herself 
 into a chair, and took the cup held out to her, turning 
 and chirping and twittering like a bird in spring. 
 
 "We were talking of my work," said Lady Augusta, 
 "and I was saying how interesting, indeed how ab 
 sorbing, it becomes. I have no fears of socialism," she 
 continued, looking at Lady Cliffe, as though the inter 
 ruption should not debar her from hearing the weighty 
 things she had to tell her. "The lower orders are per- 
 ferctly aware of the value of the aristocracy. It is the 
 middle classes that bring about the trouble. I believe 
 we shall have no peace until we deal entirely with the 
 people, and ignore the assumptions of those who are 
 trying to push upward." 
 
 "Will not that be rather a difficult task?" asked 
 Mrs. Rodney, as she stirred her tea gently, looking at 
 Lady Augusta with half-closed eyes. 
 
 "Oh, not at all," answered Lady Augusta. "Once 
 the people understand who are their true friends they 
 will rally round us. It was so in the French Revolu 
 tion," she added vaguely.
 
 136 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 "They rallied round their heads a little too late to 
 accept active leadership!" said Mrs. Rodney. 
 
 "Of course," continued Lady Augusta, ignoring 
 the last remark, "it requires experience to deal with 
 the scum." 
 
 "Scum always rises to the top, doesn t it?" asked 
 Anne Rodney provokingly. 
 
 Lady Augusta looked puzzled for an instant. 
 
 "Oh no, it doesn t," she said; "they have no leaders; 
 and besides, drink keeps them down. 
 
 "I see. Then it seems to be as well to keep on the 
 stirring process." 
 
 Mrs. Dorine had been listening with her head slightly 
 poked forward. She felt that the air was electric, and 
 that storms threatened. 
 
 "Have you seen that delightful girl," she said in her 
 most bird-like tones, "who is working in the slums, as 
 you are so constantly in the East End, dear Augusta?" 
 
 "No," said Lady Augusta, rather loftily. "What 
 girl? I don t understand you, Fanny. There are 
 so many girls in the East End." 
 
 "Why, Elizabeth Maynell, Lord Oxenham s niece. 
 She has gone to live right among the poor, and they 
 say she is almost worshipped. Such a beautiful, refined 
 creature. I think she must be a saint." 
 
 Lady Augusta looked annoyed. 
 
 "Oh, Elizabeth. Of course I have known her all 
 her life. I call it ridiculous exaggeration, and more 
 over, from my knowledge of the people, not at all likely 
 to win respect, as they know the gulf between us quite 
 as well as we do." 
 
 "Oh yes, of course, dear," answered, the chirping 
 voice, "only she tries to do good, and it s very touch 
 ing. It may nt be quite our way, but really it s very self- 
 denying an ugly lodging-house, and poor little rooms."
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 137 
 
 Lady Cliffe looked up sympathetically. 
 
 "I call it beautiful," she said. "I should like to 
 know her. She must be a modern Saint Francis." The 
 idea appealed to her imagination. She could understand 
 the fascination of being beloved and reverenced. "Will 
 you let me drive you down there, Augusta? I want to 
 see Saint Clara. That is the only female complement 
 to St. Francis I can think of." 
 
 "Oh, dear Lady Cliffe, how delightful!" said Mrs. 
 Dorine. "Of course, she will be enchanted. Her 
 life is very restricted, and she ought to see people of 
 her own class. Some society would be good for her. 
 Dear Augusta," she added, feeling she had committed 
 an unpardonable breach in diverting the stream of at 
 tention from her special channel, "you will be sure to 
 give her this great pleasure?" 
 
 "Yes, some time; but really, when I go to the East 
 End it is to undertake serious duties quietly, not to see 
 these young ladies who make themselves conspicuous 
 as modern saints." 
 
 Katherine Cliffe looked at Anne and smiled furtively. 
 
 "How tired you must get!" said Mrs. Dorine, sym 
 pathetically. "You have your daughters to take out, 
 and your house to manage, and all the thousand things 
 that a London season entails. It must be very hard to 
 keep pace with such work besides." 
 
 "Yes," said Lady Augusta, beaming out again from 
 the momentary cloud behind which she had for a while 
 hidden her complacency, "but I have a strong sense 
 of duty, and I have brought up my girls to feel all they 
 owe to society, and they are fond of work among the 
 poor. I am thankful to see how happy they are in quietly 
 doing good. I disapprove so much of these noisy move 
 ments that force women to the front. I always tell them 
 that we can do so much more by our influence, than by
 
 138 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 rights and all that sort of thing. Besides," she added, 
 turning to Lady Cliffe as more likely to understand her, 
 "men dislike these modern ways so much. They talk 
 to these girls, and laugh with them, but the nice men 
 don t marry them." 
 
 "I don know about that," said Mrs. Rodney. "Look 
 at Mr. Asperton, who has just married Miss Dorothy 
 King. No one was more independent or unchaperoned 
 than she. She was a regular hooligan girl, and he is a 
 nice man; he certainly must have twenty thousand a 
 year." 
 
 "Well," said Lady Augusta, "in my day that girl 
 would never have been looked at. The men have de 
 generated under the influence of these modern women, 
 and certainly it is a struggle for real conscientious mothers." 
 
 "They are not tempted severely," said Mrs. Rodney, 
 "because when the partis don t propose their love of 
 pure gold is not tried as by fire." 
 
 At this point both women rose, and, holding out her 
 hand to her hostess, Mrs. Rodney said: 
 
 "Good-bye, dear Augusta, I must go. I have to see 
 my sister, who cannot go out, as you know her father- 
 in-law is dead." 
 
 "Yes," said Lady Augusta eagerly, "I know. Of 
 course death is so sad in a house," and then, after a 
 pause, she added, "So of course they succeed now?" 
 It s a splendid position. What a lift for them!" 
 
 Lady Cliffe smiled, and Mrs. Rodney, who stood 
 beside her, laughed outright. 
 
 "Yes, it must be like the mad moment when you 
 leave the servants hall and move to cheese in the 
 housekeeper s room. Human nature is all the same, 
 from the scum to the dregs. Good-bye, Augusta. Take 
 me some day to see your hundred women. I should 
 love to hear you talk to them."
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 139 
 
 Lady Augusta hesitated for a moment, uncertain 
 as to the sincerity of the remark, and then, as the certainty 
 of her right to praise, prevailed, she answered cordially, 
 as she turned to ring the bell. 
 
 A moment afterward when the door was closed, and 
 the two women descended the broad dark London stair 
 case, which was the facsimile of every other staircase 
 in every house in that conventional row, Anne Rodney 
 said: 
 
 "That woman amuses me more than I can say. She 
 is an interesting study. I m always wondering if she 
 really admires herself profoundly, or if she believes that 
 you will only take her at her own valuation, and puts all 
 her wares in the window. Whichever it is, it is very funny. 
 She takes herself seriously as a great philanthropist. If 
 she really were one, she would probably be an intolerable 
 bore ; but as it is, her mind is like a lucky bag, you never 
 know what you are going to draw out of it." 
 
 "I always feel sorry for her when she makes a fool 
 of herself," said Katherine. 
 
 "How young!" said Anne, "or rather, how old, for 
 the young are generally frankly brutal. But what really 
 interests me is to study in her a fine natural snob. It 
 sits on her with all the ease of one who is born to it." 
 
 "I think she means to do good," said Katherine. 
 
 "I cannot so much as mention the road which is paved 
 with such intentions. Anyway, it leads, in her case, 
 to Whitechapel." 
 
 "I want to see the real thing," said Katherine, "little 
 Saint Clara in her slums. What a terrible problem life 
 must be to her!" 
 
 "Yes," said Anne, as she got into her carriage, "but 
 we re not called to solve it, and certainly Augusta never 
 will." 
 
 The streets were blocked with carriages as Katherine
 
 140 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 Cliffe drove toward her house in Hill Street. The rhyth 
 mic trot of the smart ponies in her victoria was constantly 
 brought to a sudden halt by the wave of a policeman s 
 hand, as long lines of cabs, carts, omnibuses and foot 
 passengers were allowed in turn to cross where the thor 
 oughfares met. 
 
 As she watched the passers-by mechanically her thoughts 
 turned to the conversation in which she had just shared. 
 Of course it was very well meant of Augusta, she thought, 
 to try and do some work for the poor. She could not 
 quite approve of the sneering way in which Anne spoke. 
 It was very difficult to do good in London, one was so 
 likely to be taken in. She recollected certain warning 
 notices sent out by the Charity Organization Society, and 
 she felt a strong sense of how extremely careful rich 
 people should be not to harm the poor, who were so prone 
 to prey on their generosity. Still, when she went back 
 to Chillam she would do more for the village. Of course 
 it was quite right to help the cottagers, it was only in 
 London that one had to be so particular. 
 
 Then her thoughts reverted to the conversation again. 
 Whitechapel ! What a long way off that sounded! She 
 wondered what it was like, and how the people lived. 
 
 The dull roar of carriages rose and fell. For a moment 
 it seemed like the bewildering grind of machinery that 
 manufactured human life. How strange that she should 
 be driving down Piccadilly that sunny afternoon, and 
 there should be within this city another, with teeming 
 millions, about which she knew nothing, a people as 
 foreign as though they spoke another language, who 
 lived a different life and little children Why 
 should she think of it ? The thought was not agreeable, 
 and it must be wrong to trouble over that which none 
 could remedy. 
 
 She looked up at the trees that shaded one side of
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 141 
 
 the long street. They were vividly green, with their 
 blackened trunks and boughs, and then the thought 
 came to her, she would send some flowers to a hospital, 
 the Children s Hospital, perhaps. The idea seemed to 
 bring relief. Yes, she could do that; it would entail 
 a note to her gardener, and she must remember to send 
 a servant to fetch them at the station when they arrived. 
 
 She lay back enjoying the evening air, as though she 
 was absolved from some weight that rested on her con 
 science, and she returned to her plans for beautifying 
 her house with increased content.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 A CARRIAGE in Marshom Street was almost an unknown 
 excitement. Once or twice cabs had stopped at Miss 
 MaynelPs door, but when a "kirridge as ad no orses, 
 and a driver man and another bloke all dressed aout in 
 buttons and shiny caps" drove to the corner of the court, 
 as by magic, a crowd of children suddenly gathered, 
 and when one of the men got down to ring the bell, a 
 circle of eager, excited faces crowded round the two 
 ladies who occupied the car. 
 
 "It s a mauter car," said one, as though possessed 
 of all knowledge. 
 
 "It s got a machine inside of it as mikes it go," said 
 another. 
 
 "Ain t it bloomin foine?" said another. 
 
 "Tike me for a roide, lidies," said a bold little imp, 
 with his head on one side. 
 
 " Old yer jor. Dessay it s the rorerl fam ly," called 
 another. 
 
 "She s a good un," was echoed in chorus, as Lady 
 Augusta stepped down from the high step on to the 
 dirty pavement. 
 
 Katherine followed her. She looked at the children 
 with wonder and repulsion. How dirty and noisy they 
 are, she thought. How ugly and gloomy and dull it all 
 looked, this hideous little house; no one with an artistic 
 temperament could bear it. 
 
 Lady Augusta was already in the narrow passage, 
 talking to Martha. 
 
 "Tell Miss Maynell," she said in a resounding voice, 
 
 142
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 143 
 
 "that Lady Augusta Leaven has come to see her, and 
 that she has brought Lady Cliff e to call on her." 
 
 Without any hesitation Martha opened the door of 
 the stuffy little sitting-room and asked the ladies to 
 please be seated, and went to find Elizabeth. 
 
 "Lady who?" said Elizabeth, when Martha gave 
 her the message. She had just come in, and was standing 
 in her small bedroom. 
 
 Martha repeated the name. 
 
 "Lady Cliff e Katherine Hornden? How strange 
 that she should come! What did she know? Had 
 Eric ever spoken of her?" And curiosity leaped up 
 quickly in her heart. 
 
 In another moment she was shaking hands with them 
 in her ugly sitting-room. 
 
 "I was telling Lady Cliffe the other day of your work 
 and mine. She was so much interested she wanted to 
 see it for herself. She has never been in the East End 
 before, and does not know the people as we do," said 
 Lady Augusta, with a patronizing smile. 
 
 So Eric had not spoken of her, was Elizabeth s first 
 thought, and she turned and looked at Katherine with 
 the interest every woman feels for another who has 
 been associated in any way with a man she loves. 
 
 Katherine, tall, slim, and fair, looked very fragile 
 and refined in the midst of the sordid surroundings 
 of the little lodging. Her pretty fluffy golden hair framed 
 her oval face with its delicate pink and white coloring, 
 and the large gray eyes looked at Elizabeth with un 
 disguised interest and admiration. 
 
 She had not expected to find a tall high-bred woman 
 with a head set like a queen s on the long white column 
 of throat, and velvety dark eyes with pupils that changed 
 and distended as she spoke. What history could have 
 brought her here? she wondered. Could it really be
 
 144 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 from love for these people, or some great unsatisfied 
 passion which drove women into convents in despair? 
 
 Utterly unconscious of such conjectures, Lady Augusta 
 threw herself into an arm-chair. She had come to show 
 Elizabeth off, and she did not mean to be deterred from 
 her object. 
 
 "What can Lady Cliffe see of your work, my dear?" 
 she asked. "She has come all the way from Mayfair, 
 and has been so anxious to know you, and to see the 
 East End, ever since I described what you are doing." 
 
 "I hardly know," said Elizabeth smiling. "The 
 work is very humdrum and ordinary." 
 
 "Oh, not at all," said Lady Augusta; "I always 
 hold that your mother s meetings, and mine in Beth- 
 nal Green, are as interesting as any in London. Mine 
 is smaller, but of course I can t give much time to it. 
 The calls of a thousand things are such a drag on me. 
 Indeed, my children all tell me they can never under 
 stand how I manage to compass all I do." And Lady 
 Augusta sank back into the arm-chair large and com 
 placent. 
 
 "I wish you would tell me what you do, Miss Maynell, 
 here in these horrible streets," said Katherine. She 
 looked eagerly at Elizabeth; she was really interested. 
 
 "I don t do much," said Elizabeth a little stiffly. 
 She was not inclined to be exhibited. "I live here, 
 and these people are my friends, just as the people are 
 yours among whom you live." 
 
 "Hardly that," said Lady Augusta disapprovingly. 
 "However kind one may wish to be, one can never be 
 really friends with people of another class; but of course 
 it must do them good to know you take an interest in them," 
 she added more blandly. 
 
 "They do me good," said Elizabeth. "Their patience 
 and courage and unselfishness are a constant reproof.
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 145 
 
 I could tell you of women here whose husbands are 
 reservists and have gone to South Africa, and they are 
 struggling to get daily bread, with seven and eight children, 
 all depending on them, and half mad with anxiety about 
 him, and yet you never hear a word of complaint ; they 
 just go on." 
 
 Katherine was listening with glistening eyes. 
 
 "My husband is in South Africa," she said. "I 
 wish I could do something for them. Do you know 
 anyone who has gone? I mean anyone near to you." 
 
 "Yes," said Elizabeth; and then there was a moment s 
 pause. 
 
 "The difficulty I find," said Lady Augusta, who 
 had not been listening, "is to get any idea of thrift into 
 their heads. They are so wasteful in their cooking, 
 and in dress, and in fact in everything. They will not 
 learn to make a pot au feu with broken bits, or how to 
 cook little dainty things which can be made so cheaply 
 without meat, in my Thrift Club 
 
 "What do you say to that?" said Katherine, inter 
 rupting the details which she felt must follow, and turning 
 to Elizabeth. 
 
 "I feel," said Elizabeth, looking at Lady Augusta, 
 "that we really do not understand how difficult the 
 women s lives are. Think of the rooms in which they 
 have to exist; look at the grates in which they cook; 
 the horrible handicap of everything. I don t wonder 
 that they don t do better." 
 
 Lady Augusta was shocked. 
 
 "There is no excuse," she said; "it s drink that keeps 
 them in this horrible state." 
 
 "Yes," said Elizabeth, "very often it is; but then 
 remember the conditions in which they live, in which 
 they sleep five or six in one room in a dark little street. 
 Think of waking in such an atmosphere. Do you wonder
 
 146 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 every taste is vitiated? I don t. I hate drinking as 
 much as you do, but I often feel that if I were in their 
 place I should do the same." 
 
 Lady Augusta shut her eyes as though overcome 
 with pain. 
 
 "Well, but what s the cure?" said Katherine eagerly. 
 She was very susceptible to the influence of enthusiasm. 
 
 "The awakening of public conscience, and more 
 power in the hands of those who know, instead of those 
 who theorize," said Elizabeth. "A better fed, better 
 housed generation would soon have different tastes." 
 
 "Would you feed the children in the schools?" said 
 Katherine, plunging unknowingly into a vexed ques 
 tion. 
 
 "Certainly not," said Lady Augusta. "Decidedly 
 not. All the bishops are against it." 
 
 Katherine looked inquiringly at Elizabeth. 
 
 "Yes," she said, "with certain safeguards, I would. 
 You must create a new generation, better bred, more 
 intelligent, with a higher standard of living, before you 
 are going to get much further." 
 
 "That s socialism rank socialism," said Lady Au 
 gusta, getting out of her chair; "and socialism will be the 
 destruction of religion, and I mean to stand by my Church, 
 no matter what the persecution may be." 
 
 "I don t think we shall all be led out to lions and 
 tigers," said Katherine. "Besides, Tolstoi says that 
 Christ was a Socialist, doesn t he?" 
 
 "Tolstoi is not a Churchman, or indeed a Christian," 
 said Lady Augusta decisively. "Now, Elizabeth, what 
 can you show us?" 
 
 "I am afraid, Lady Augusta, I have nothing to-day 
 till our girls meet to-night at the club. I could take 
 you through the court to see some of the people, if you 
 like," she said to Katherine. But the proposal was not
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 147 
 
 eagerly met. Katherine had visions of dirty staircases 
 and ill-smelling rooms. She would much prefer to stay 
 and talk to Elizabeth. 
 
 "No Band of Hope, or Mothers Meeting, or Cloth 
 ing Club?" said Lady Augusta. "I should have thought 
 that there was never an afternoon without some meeting 
 or other." 
 
 "To-day is Saturday," said Elizabeth, "and we are 
 all busy cleaning and getting ready for to-morrow." 
 
 A knock at the street door interrupted her and she 
 got up and went into the passage. 
 
 "Why, Sally," she said, as a tall lanky child stood 
 on the threshold, "do you want me?" 
 
 "Yes, Mrs. Maynell," said the child. "Please, Mrs. 
 Maynell, will you come over and see mover to-night? 
 She says as ow she wants yer particler." 
 
 "What s the matter, Sally?" asked Elizabeth. 
 
 "Oh, nofink; only I know as ow she does want yer 
 perticler. Will you please to come?" 
 
 "Yes, I ll come," she said, "but it may be late." 
 
 "All right," said Sally; and the pale face lit up with 
 a smile of friendly understanding, for she remembered 
 the grand visitors that were inside, as the "moto was 
 a standin at the door with two driver men a waitin ," she 
 afterward explained on her return. 
 
 Elizabeth went back to her room where Martha had 
 brought tea. Katherine was anxious to know about 
 the child, whose voice she had heard in the passage. 
 
 " She and her brother are two of the wildest imps in the 
 alley. The father and mother both drink, and yet those 
 children, who haven t a chance, humanly speaking, are 
 the most warm-hearted darlings that ever lived," said 
 Elizabeth enthusiastically. 
 
 "It s the dirt that must be so trying," said Kathe 
 rine.
 
 148 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 "Oh, you can get used to anything," said Elizabeth, 
 pouring out the tea. 
 
 The conversation drifted during the meal to the ex 
 cellence of the hot buttered toast and the value of such 
 a servant as Martha, and both visitors declared that to 
 have one servant was really the only comfortable way 
 of living, neither of them having tried the experiment. 
 
 "Good-bye, my dear," said Lady Augusta, kissing 
 Elizabeth. "It has been very delightful to see you, 
 and next time we shall hope to see your work." 
 
 "I may come again," said Katherine, holding Eliza 
 beth s hand. "I should like to talk to you all alone. 
 I should like to help you, if I could. While Jack is 
 away I should be very glad to do something useful. I 
 couldn t undertake what Lady Augusta does, but I 
 should like to feel I could be some tiny use to you." 
 
 "Thank you," said Elizabeth; "I am sure you would 
 like to help. It really is a great happiness." 
 
 She watched her as she crossed the pavement. So 
 that was the woman who wanted to marry Eric, she 
 thought, and a great hope grew in her heart as she won 
 dered why he had resisted so much charm and so much 
 wealth. 
 
 Elizabeth waved good-bye as she stood in the dingy 
 little street, and the brougham purred softly and glided 
 away to the other end of the great perplexing city. 
 
 It was nearly nine o clock when Elizabeth got back 
 from the Factory Girls Club. She was expected at a 
 Committee meeting and she went to it late. As she 
 opened the door of the club-room a strong smell of to 
 bacco met her. Michael got up to meet her, and three 
 other men rose to shake hands. 
 
 "We came early," said Michael, "as we had a good 
 many things to discuss. Sumner has just come back 
 from seeing the men on strike, and he has some terms to
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 149 
 
 put before the masters to-morrow, and we want to get 
 them into shape." 
 
 Mr. Sumner, a thin, pale young man, with large clear 
 grey eyes, was dressed in rather seedy clerical clothes, 
 and he looked as though he had inextricably knotted 
 his long limbs together, as he sat in a low chair smok 
 ing a brown pipe. 
 
 "Yes," he said, twisting his body as he spoke. "I 
 think I may do something for the dear fellows; they re 
 almost at the last ditch, but it doesn t do to say so. We 
 must not give in till we have tried all our resources." 
 
 "What does Jim Scott say?" said Michael, naming 
 a well-known labor leader. 
 
 "Oh, he came down and gave them splendid advice," 
 said Sumner, "if they will only take it." 
 
 "I wish they wouldn t hold their meetings at the 
 King s Head, " said Elizabeth. "They haven t got 
 a penny to take home, and yet somehow they find enough 
 to spend and to treat each other with, when they get 
 there." 
 
 "I don t believe in that," said Sumner. "Men meet 
 at their club and no fault is found. I don t see why 
 they shouldn t meet at the poor man s club." 
 
 "Well, I m not going to argue that again. If you 
 don t know, you ought to," said Elizabeth, with the 
 freedom of good comradeship. 
 
 "She s quite right. You know I don t hold with you 
 a bit there," said a broad-shouldered, dark-complexioned 
 man, who sat at the opposite side of the room. He had 
 a short rough beard and deep-set brown eyes. "I know 
 too well what it all means; there s too much rattling of a 
 box round the streets nowadays to please me. I like 
 the old ways best, hold hard and sit tight. I don t 
 believe in processions and collections. I like to leave those 
 to the Salvation Army and the hospital funds."
 
 1 50 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 Wolfe was in the printing business, a man of few 
 words, much respected by the little group of reformers, 
 strong, uncompromising and straightforward. 
 
 The third man was a fair-haired visionary. He had 
 been an accountant, but had lately been a journalist 
 on the staff of a socialistic newspaper. He was now, 
 however, very strongly under Mr. Martin s influence, 
 and, from a somewhat noisy agnostic, he had become 
 a very pronounced churchman, and in consequence of 
 the aggressively antichristian attitude of the paper, had 
 just been obliged to renounce his job. 
 
 In the midst of this group sat Father Martin, very 
 silent, looking at one and another, and listening to each. 
 Michael began to explain a situation which he thought 
 threatened labor in the House. He showed how the 
 measure concealed its true purport, and the men fell to 
 discussing how best to arouse their friends and avert 
 the danger. 
 
 Miss Osterley seized the opportunity to argue that 
 the measure was really intended to hamper and hinder 
 women workers. She had mounted her favorite hobby, 
 and was off at a gallop, in which the others did not attempt 
 to follow her. 
 
 Elizabeth listened for a while, and then went to the 
 door. 
 
 "I have promised to go and see Sally s mother," she 
 said. "I daresay I shall find you here when I get back." 
 
 Michael followed her into the psasage. 
 
 "You are tired," he said, looking at her. 
 
 "Not in body, but in spirit," she said. 
 
 "Why?" he questioned. 
 
 "Only the visit of people from another world," she 
 answered. "I will tell you when I get back. I shall 
 not be long," and then she turned down the court. 
 
 The rain had begun to fall, and the streets were clear
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 151 
 
 at an early hour. In the long narrow court, where Sally s 
 mother lived, all the street doors were shut but the one 
 nearest to the lamp, and a child was sitting on the door 
 step. She was gazing in front of her at the wet pavement, 
 her elbows on her knees, her face resting on her hands. 
 Her hair, dripping with rain, fell over her ears, and 
 between the heavy curtains her face looked old and 
 serious. 
 
 Through the open door behind her she could hear 
 from the first floor sounds of wakefulness, someone 
 walking to and fro, and now and then a woman s voice 
 talking in a loud tone. Once she had heard a soft low cry, 
 and she had started up from her scat listening eagerly, but 
 the woman s voice was all she could hear, so with half a 
 sigh she sat down again on the wet step. 
 
 Presently a small boy came swinging along, whistling 
 softly to himself. He did not see the girl till he almost 
 fell over her. 
 
 " Ellow, Sal! Wort yer arter this time a-night ? Mover 
 boozed agin?" The child started. 
 
 "Oh, is that you, Billy? I ve bin wytin for yer! 
 Somefink s appened." 
 
 "Wot, father copped?" 
 
 "No, e s indoors that drunk e doesn t know esself." 
 
 "Waal, out wi it, wot s up?" 
 
 She looked straight at him, and said slowly : 
 
 "Mover s gorn and borned a biby!" 
 
 The boy looked at her doubtfully for a moment, and 
 then spat through his teeth on the pavement. 
 
 "Wot a liar yer air, Sal," he said. 
 
 "Billy Catchpole, as sure as my nime s Sally," she 
 said, "mover s borned us a biby, and that s Gawd s 
 truef. Mrs. Maynell s in there, and she can tell yer, 
 ef yer don t believe me." 
 
 Billy did not reply, but stood looking down the court.
 
 152 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 Again a low cry came from the first floor front, the cry 
 of a little child, and Elizabeth stood in the doorway. 
 
 "Is it trew, Mrs. ?" he said. 
 
 "Yes, Billy, it s quite true. You will be good to her, 
 won t you, because you are strong and big?" 
 
 "My Gawd, Sal, a real born biby of our wery own," 
 said Billy, as he sat down on the doorstep beside her, 
 after Elizabeth had gone. 
 
 "Yaas," replied Sal, "ourn." 
 
 Elizabeth walked slowly back through the rain. The 
 mystery of life was in her thoughts. Why had another 
 child come to share the curse of those already born? 
 Why did God send such tender things into suffering 
 and sin? 
 
 She opened the door of the institute, and walked into 
 the committee room. Only Michael and Father Martin 
 remained. She sat down wearily and took off her hat 
 without a word. Michael looked at her interrogatively. 
 
 "You re worn out, Elizabeth," he said. "We will be 
 off. You ought to go to bed." 
 
 "No, don t go," she said; "I can t sleep yet. Father 
 Martin, do help me," she turned to him almost entreat- 
 ingly. "Why are children born? Why should more 
 people suffer?" And then she told them of the Catch- 
 pole baby, and the visit of the two women that after 
 noon. 
 
 "How can we understand?" said Father Martin. 
 "It is a mystery, like the ether which is bound round 
 us, and which we cannot see, or the giddy pace at which 
 we whirl through space, which we cannot feel. But 
 when our lessons are over in this standard, and we pass 
 on to the next, if we have learned our task, we shall be 
 ready to take our place in the next class and learn more 
 fully." 
 
 "What are our lessons?" asked Elizabeth.
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 153 
 
 "Duty," said Father Martin slowly. "I have come 
 to think that is the great foundation of all true life." 
 
 "It s such a hateful word," said Elizabeth. " Sacrifice, 
 asceticism, are all picturesque, but duty somehow 
 sounds like Watts hymns." 
 
 "The thing which our hand finds to do," said the 
 old man. "I think it embodies all that was ever great 
 or ever shall be; it s the secret of content, if we only 
 understood it, if we could only go back to simple, natural 
 things. We make life complicated, and then we complain 
 of results which we ourselves have brought about." 
 
 "I am sure you won t mind my saying," said Michael, 
 "that I always feel we must blame what is called religion 
 for that ; we have sc often heard personal sacrifice extolled, 
 that most people forget that it is not the suffering of good 
 people that will help humanity, but their honest work to 
 bring about just conditions for everyone." 
 
 "What you want to get back," said Father Martin, 
 "is the right understanding of natural life. Christ came 
 to common people. He taught through what we call 
 common things things that go to make up the life of 
 every man. The spirit of His teaching is as all-pervading 
 as the sunshine. The world, as we understand the word, 
 isn t Belgrave Square or Limehouse, it s the atmosphere 
 created by each individual, who carries about with him 
 his own world, and in the inner workings of his own heart 
 creates a force for good or evil. Yes, if we could only 
 get rid of preconceived ideas, and go back to the sim 
 plicity of children, we should get free from the artificial 
 folly which chokes our growth." 
 
 "There is so much cant nowadays about the simple 
 life that I am really weary of it," said Elizabeth. "I 
 know people who will discuss for half an hour whether 
 it is compatible with the simple life to eat mashed potatoes, 
 or whether they must he boiled. It sickens me."
 
 154 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 "I don t know," said Father Martin. "When a 
 new idea is in the air it finds all sorts of absurd expres 
 sions, and parodies are only possible when a subject is 
 well known. I don t mind that; the trouble is, people 
 can t be simple, and they won t see it is not the way 
 potatoes are cooked which will make them so. It is when 
 the life is in harmony with the will of God, so far as we 
 apprehend it, that the joy of life is understood. Even 
 the Epicurean saw that excess would ruin the happiness 
 he aimed at. No one knew better than the Greek that 
 he must avoid extremes ; it is the basis of their philosophy ; 
 and this thought of the simple life is the revival of their 
 teaching. It s all right, it will make for good. Only 
 don t fret, Elizabeth; the Hand that holds the world 
 in its course will take care of the little baby, and of you, 
 and me, and the ladies who understood so little of the 
 suffering here, and manage the whole lot of us," said 
 the old man, with one of his rare smiles. "Now good 
 night. I shall prose on till midnight, and you are tired." 
 
 When he had gone Elizabeth turned to Michael and 
 said: 
 
 "The dear man has got the heart of a child himself." 
 
 "Yes," said Michael slowly, "he has got a great pos 
 session a heart and a faith." 
 
 "And you have got both, Michael," said Elizabeth, 
 as he took her hand, "but you are only aware of one." 
 
 Elizabeth s regret at the advent of the Catchpole 
 baby was certainly not shared by all the members of its 
 family, for the next day Sally triumphantly carried the 
 baby through the court, pausing every few steps to throw 
 back the corner of a dirty shawl and exhibit the new 
 comer to her envious friends. 
 
 Finally, it was carried to the Catchpole s doorstep, 
 and there all the youth of the neighborhood gathered. 
 Sally, puffed with pride, smiled complacently, remarking
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 155 
 
 to Polly Jones, who shared a seat on the doorstep with her, 
 " Taint orfen as my mover do born a biby, but when she 
 does it s somefink like a biby!" 
 
 "Gar long, Sal Catchpole!" exclaimed a sharpfaced 
 child who was standing near. "Yer d fink ter ear yer 
 talk nobuddy s mover iver borned a biby but yourn!" 
 
 " Old yer jawr, Liz Smif!" retorted Polly, supporting 
 the horrified Sal. 
 
 "All right, Polly Jones," sneered Lizzie, "yer not 
 in wi Sal fer nofink, I bet!" 
 
 "I ll smack yer dirty jawr if I comes arter yer," growled 
 Polly. 
 
 "Come an do it!" shrieked Lizzie, retreating with 
 her face toward the group on the doorstep, and inter 
 spersing her remarks with grimaces. 
 
 "Yah! Go ome an ide yerself," Polly replied. 
 "I d be shimed ter siy nasty fings abart a biby wot carn t 
 speak for itself." 
 
 "Whose biby?" demanded Billy, appearing at that 
 minute round the very corner where Lizzie had contem 
 plated making good her escape when she had made the 
 court too hot for herself. 
 
 "Yourn!" yelled Polly. "Lizzie Smif siyed wot 
 yer biby 
 
 She paused, partly because she did not remember 
 what Lizzie Smith had said, partly because there was 
 no need for more words. Lizzie was off, with Billy at 
 her heels.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 THE weary waiting at Cape Town was ended; the 
 Blankshire Yeomanry had been ordered to the front. 
 Troops had been pushing northward all the day. The 
 great "spring forward" had taken place, and men were 
 heartened, for at last they were moving on. It looked 
 like a big thing, they said, and all were eager to get well 
 into the work of war, and have done with it. 
 
 It was bitterly cold, and so dark that Eric, who was 
 riding with the subaltern beside him, momentarily ex 
 pected a fall, as the stones stuck out at right angles from 
 the scrubby rough ground. 
 
 Presently the first streaks of light stretched across 
 the distant horizon, pale gleams at first in the velvet 
 purple of the night sky, then broadening into pale gray, 
 and making the low bushes and green shrubs visible, and 
 then, a rare thing in South Africa, with the first light a 
 few birds sang. 
 
 "That s a good sound," said Eric, as they turned 
 into a small village, and halted to water horses and to 
 breakfast. 
 
 Eric and the subaltern walked to the army bakery, 
 and ate bread and cold meat as they sat in the sun, which 
 had risen to warm and cheer the hearts that needed it 
 so sorely. They fell to talking with the man who ran 
 the place. He told them that his brother kept a little 
 "pub" on the Thames called "The Wedding Bells." 
 How strangely familiar the name sounded. The peaceful 
 spot rose before Eric s eyes. How often after canoeing 
 had he lunched there, and then lay smoking on the grass, 
 
 156
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 157 
 
 and looking up the long reach of quiet river. How 
 far away it seemed from this land where they rode to-day 
 to find a fight. Then on again, through clear air and 
 dazzling sunshine to the next halt, where many troops 
 were already encamped, a very panorama of war. Great 
 naval five-point-seven guns had arrived, and a sound 
 of bugles was everywhere, and the tramp of the marching 
 of fatigue parties. 
 
 Then the orders were to ride on and join a corps of 
 Indian horse, encamped to the northward. They found 
 on arrival that they had already had their first blooding, 
 and were eager to give accounts of the fight. The officers 
 who had been dining were sitting in a knot, and eagerly 
 welcomed the new-comers, as they sat smoking and 
 talking to them, while they ate that most welcome meal. 
 
 The man next to Eric had taken out a knife, and 
 was carving the name of Sloane on a piece of board. 
 It was the tombstone of a brother officer, buried near 
 by, and he talked of the fight as he chipped the 
 wood. 
 
 Then on for another two miles to join the division 
 on the northeast of the river bed, until the cold night 
 closed round them. All day long it had seemed to Eric 
 he had ridden in a dream. The longing for a big fight 
 was on him; it was the fever which consumed them 
 all, to end the war, he would say; but the sensation was 
 new, and he could not analyze its strength. He only 
 knew it seemed just then to be the object of existence. 
 
 The day before at a farmhouse he had sat on the 
 stoop where the troops had rested for breakfast. The 
 women were crying; one young, tall and dark, had 
 reminded him of Elizabeth. She looked at him with 
 the same wide-open eyes brimming with tears which 
 did not fall. The women asked if the troops would 
 burn the farm?
 
 158 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 "Our hearts beat fast from fear," said the young 
 woman, who could speak some English. "Oh, do not 
 burn our house." 
 
 He got out of his chair and stood up before her, and 
 assured her all was well. 
 
 "The white flag is over you," he said, "although 
 all the same, your men fired from here yesterday." 
 
 "Ah, we are sick of the war," she said, "sick, sick." 
 Then she spoke of her husband. Was he safe? How 
 she longed to hear! Eric tried to console her. Somehow 
 this straight slim figure brought vividly before his mind 
 the thought of another day when he watched a woman 
 weep. She put her hands over her face and said: "Ah, 
 I am sad. War war is not pretty to see." 
 
 And then he tried to tell her that she must persuade 
 the men to have peace; but the other w^omen had joined 
 her, and the pride of nationality shone in their eyes as 
 they shook their heads. The oldest, withered and 
 shrivelled, with a skin like parchment, said words he 
 could not understand, holding up thin hands that had 
 toiled unceasingly on that lonely farm on the veldt. 
 
 "The Tante says the English are mighty, but God 
 is Almighty," explained the younger woman. 
 
 And now as in the darkness they still moved on, 
 the woman s words kept ringing in his ears, "God is 
 Almighty." The road showed faint and sand-red, across 
 the gray green of the veldt, and at any moment he 
 expected a long range shot from a distant kopje, or a 
 challenge from the enemy who hung upon their flank. 
 
 At last came the end of the interminable march, and 
 the vast camp of two divisions lay stretched out waiting 
 for the day. Eric shivered with the cold. The baggage 
 wagon had not yet come on, and he lay down under 
 a bare covering on very uneven ground, over which 
 in the darkness he stumbled every step he took. In
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 159 
 
 the almost unbearable cold he looked up into the clear 
 night sky. He thought of the weeping women, and 
 heard their wail until it died away, as he crept into the 
 quiet land of rest. When morning came he woke, wonder 
 ing where he was. What was he doing there on the hard 
 uneven ground? Then he saw against the first faint 
 light that all round him were little wooden crosses stand 
 ing very black against the sky, and he knew the meaning 
 of the mounds over which he had stumbled, for he had 
 slept among the graves of the men who had fallen in the 
 fight on that spot, two months ago. And as he looked 
 at the poor little wooden memorials, the remembrance of 
 the Boer woman s words came to his mind. 
 
 "It is true," he thought. "War is not pretty to see." 
 
 But it was to be a big day, and there was no time 
 for thought. The great five-inch guns were in posi 
 tion. The Guards had already marched out in the dark, 
 and the Blankshire Yeomanry had orders to follow, 
 taking the route of the pass two miles to the north. 
 
 Out and on over the vast plains the various detach 
 ments were scattered like herds, moving in the distance 
 toward the river-bed; and where the sunlight gleamed 
 there was a glitter of arms, while the air was filled with 
 the rumble of the great gunwheels, and the clatter of 
 cavalry and mounted infantry. The infantry were 
 spread out in open order wide moving lines. The 
 batteries were clustered into black dots upon the plain, 
 and then at last the ball opened. 
 
 "The Boers are giving hell with a Long Tom," said 
 Eric to a brother officer, as he rode up to him; and as 
 he spoke he pointed to where the shells were bursting, 
 and hid the guns in clouds of dust, and then the dull 
 thud of explosion followed. 
 
 Eric saw the infantry crawling forward one long 
 unbroken thread upon the wide plain, without a scrap
 
 160 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 of cover. He saw the sharpnel shells burst in the air, 
 and heard the shrill scream of the bullets as they struck 
 the earth. Fascinated by the soft puffs of smoke against 
 the green background, he felt as though he were watching 
 Eton fireworks on the fourth of June again. 
 
 Then word came to move on and on, four miles more, 
 until the plain tilted down to the river-bed. Behind 
 and beyond the river were some low kopjes. All over 
 the plain, as by magic, battery after battery of artillery 
 swung up, swung round, unlimbered, and began 
 bang, bang, bang. 
 
 The enemy were in the river, and their guns on the 
 kopjes. The naval guns had opened deafening loud. 
 The whole country ahead simply shouted fire. The 
 man next to Eric was shot dead. He turned his head 
 a moment as he saw him fall, but the hills were ablaze 
 with shells, and he could spare no thought save for this 
 sight of the wrath of war pulverizing man, and the ful 
 filment of the orders to move on. The Boer shells were 
 coming unpleasantly thick, when up came a British 
 pom-pom. 
 
 "Thank God it s ours," called Eric to a lieutenant. 
 "They re all right so, but they re the most cursed things 
 when they re against us." 
 
 It soon began its work. The little shells scraped 
 the dust all round the enemy s guns. They made a 
 stand against it for a while, then were in full retreat. 
 It was a splendid moment. The order was given to 
 advance and dismount. The men of the Blankshire 
 Yeomanry fired very coolly. The bullets whistled and 
 bustled round them, but the men s nerves had grown 
 steady, and they seemed no worse to them than big hail 
 stones. It was nearly the end; only stragglers remained. 
 Eric turned to give the order to remount. Something 
 came toward him with a shrieking noise. Was it a blow ?
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 161 
 
 He never knew, only when he woke a doctor was holding 
 him and the blood was pouring out of his mouth. 
 
 A voice which seemed to come from an immeasur 
 able distance spoke to him and told him he was better, 
 but the hot blood welled up again and nearly choked 
 him. Was he wounded? Was he dying? The thought 
 flashed through his mind, but everything seemed so far 
 away it scarcely mattered, and his only care was to get 
 air air. This suffocating weight was hideous. His 
 coat was torn open ; the doctor was binding his side. A 
 rumbling, rolling noise was close to his head, then dark 
 ness for a moment. Was it death or sleep? And then 
 more choking agony. The doctor s voice again, kind 
 and consoling; then another figure was bending down. 
 
 " Poor old chap ! Will he pull through ? " 
 
 "Yes, I think so." 
 
 "Thank God! You re going to be all right, Eric, 
 old boy." 
 
 The voice was Jack s. He remembered now. He 
 was holding him. 
 
 "Your men have done magnificently. Linklater says 
 they did the trick. That last stand was ripping." The 
 doctor had taken Eric s wrist. "He s giving you 
 morphia," said Jack. "You ll be in less pain then." 
 
 Eric put his other hand to his throat, and as he did 
 so he felt a bit of chain, and something hanging from it. 
 He held it for a moment, and then he took Jack s hanJ 
 and whispered: 
 
 "Take it; give it " then darkness. 
 
 They had lifted him up, and Jack stood with his hand 
 grasping Eric s legacy, for whom he knew not, while 
 the ambulance jolted slowly over the ant-hills and was 
 lost, a white speck in the distance.
 
 i6 2 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 The London season had begun, and people were taking 
 amusement furtively. Those who ought to be sad but 
 felt no real oppression from their anxiety, arranged small 
 dinners and went to the play, and flocked to country 
 house parties from Saturday to Monday. Those who 
 were restless and miserable tried vainly to forget, and 
 went about as usual. And others who had no anxiety, 
 and from whom no sorrow was expected, felt it "the 
 thing" to take pleasure surreptitiously, and enjoy small 
 doses of amusement very constantly. But it was dis 
 turbing to hear hoarse cries ringing down the streets, 
 and only catchwords like "Great bat ! orrible loss 
 of loife!" They were months of tension and suspense, 
 to some almost unendurable, and to all uncomfortable 
 and disquieting. 
 
 A week after her visit to Marshom Street Katherine 
 Cliffe was sitting at her dressing-table. The June sun 
 shine filled the room, and the gold brushes and ornaments 
 and glass bottles reflected the light in miniature rainbows, 
 twinkling and changing and glistening, throwing flicker 
 ing lights on the long wavy masses of fair hair that fell 
 to Katherine s waist, as she sat wrapped in some delicate 
 lace garment awaiting the hairdresser. The man was 
 late, but presently her maid ushered a pale little French 
 man into the room, who was soon busy combing out her 
 bright glossy locks. 
 
 "Miladi has good news of Sir John?" he asked, with 
 the respectful familiarity of an habitue of the 
 house. 
 
 "Oh yes," answered Katherine, "I had a letter yes 
 terday. He is well, and has seen a lot of fighting. That s 
 why they went, you know," she said, looking at him 
 in the glass. 
 
 "Oh, fighting assuredly they will have soon enough. 
 For me, I never could see a man urt or killed, but
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 163 
 
 on s> habitue a tout" he said, slightly shrugging his 
 shoulders. 
 
 "Miladi wish her hair dressed igh or low?" 
 
 "I don t care," said Katherine; "whichever you like 
 best." 
 
 "Oh, for that, miladi is always nice. I will do the 
 double knot in the nape of miladi s neck. Miladi as 
 many engagements? The season is spoiled, positively 
 spoiled," he went on. "Families are in mourning, 
 and some people are anxious; or if they are not, they 
 want to be thought vere anxious, and only enjoy them 
 selves priveate, vere priveate," and he stretched out 
 his long hands as though to close doors. "Oh, for that, 
 there is some gone not wanted ome at all; and there 
 is some gone that omes will be desolated if e not return." 
 Then, breaking into French, he gave Katherine his views 
 on war, which he felt was incompatible with civilization. 
 She listened with an amused smile. "And zen ze season 
 is spoilt becorse all ze ladies must go out nursing. Ah, 
 c est tres joli, un bonnet de garde malade, tres coquet, 
 mais fa ne fait pas mon affaire. Miladi ere ow 
 Lady Bramley ze s gone, and ze Honble. Mrs. Kinhurst 
 is gone, and Miss Hirtwick is gone. Oh, zey are like 
 ze swallows, zey go to find ze flies. I see ze paper zis 
 evening, miladi, a young officer wounded. Vere sad, 
 such a good-looking young man, vere young." And he 
 stopped combing, put the comb in his mouth and felt 
 in his pocket. "Ah, ere is ze papare, miladi not seen 
 it?" And he pointed to a crumpled paragraph where 
 the words caught her eye. 
 
 "Mr. Errington of the Blankshire Yeomanry severely 
 wounded," and other names followed, but they were 
 of no interest to her. She looked at his name terror- 
 struck. The remembrance of his admiration for her 
 came back very vividly. How strong and well he looked
 
 164 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 the day he said good-bye to her at Waterloo. Now he 
 was lying there in some hospital on the veldt. 
 
 "Ah, e vill be veil nursed; vere fine young man." 
 
 Who was nursing him? thought Katherine. The 
 man s words had ceased to interest her. He was in 
 tolerably slow. She wanted him gone. Poor Eric! 
 
 she thought, as she read it again. Could he be ? 
 
 Oh no; that was horrible. 
 
 A deep sigh made her look round. The big tawny 
 collie on the hearth-rug had risen and was stretching 
 himself. 
 
 "Laddie!" she called to him. "Poor old beast!" 
 And she felt almost as though the caress must reach 
 his master through the telepathic lines which connect 
 the thought of those who are united by that subtle thing 
 we call sympathy. 
 
 Her hair was done and she was dressed. She had 
 telephoned to a man she knew in the War Office to 
 find out all particulars and call her up when she re 
 turned home; and she went out feeling tired and list 
 less, caring very little what befell her. 
 
 She had never thought that her friendship for Eric 
 could have held so real a place in her life. She pictured 
 him thinking of her, looking at the photograph she had 
 given him. She saw the grave look in his eyes, and the 
 clear curve of his mouth. She remembered the quiet 
 tenderness of his manner, and how white he was when 
 she told him she was engaged to Jack, how he turned 
 away and said quite low, "God bless you." She saw 
 his face again on her wedding-day. She remembered 
 how she had told Jack, and he had said: "Poor old 
 chap! I m afraid he was hard hit; I m awfully sorry 
 for him." And now he was in pain alone, where? 
 
 She almost wished she had joined the nursing throng. 
 Oh, it was horrible, this war, when it came home to one
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 165 
 
 like this. She went to her party and stayed till twelve 
 o clock. Then she came home again, and rang up the 
 telephone, and learned that Eric was at the hospital at 
 - and that a cable had been received saying 
 that so far things were going well, but that nothing could 
 really be foretold as to his recovery for another few days. 
 
 She went up to her room and wondered how Jack 
 was before she went to bed, and then thought again 
 of Eric before she went to sleep. 
 
 For days no more definite information was to be 
 gained. Katherine was a very constant enquirer at 
 the War Office. She could hear no more details, and 
 she consoled herself as best she could with the saw, 
 that "no news is good news." Still she was restless 
 and troubled. Her house was given over to workmen 
 and decorators and she almost hated the sight of the 
 alterations, and felt superstitious as to whether she 
 had brought bad luck by carrying out the designs des 
 tined to please Eric. 
 
 During these days of stress her thoughts turned to 
 Elizabeth. She imagined her like some calm Madonna 
 soothing the woes of the world. It was a picture that 
 appealed to her, this young and beautiful mater con- 
 solatrix amid the sorrows of the slums. She determined 
 to brave the horrors of the neighborhood alone, and to 
 find Elizabeth and enjoy the charm of that atmosphere 
 which had so strongly impressed her imagination. 
 
 As good luck would have it, Elizabeth had chosen 
 that afternoon to do her club accounts, so that when 
 the electric brougham glided up to the door she was 
 sitting surrounded by books of all shapes and sizes, 
 puzzling out the small sums which went to make up 
 the very large total for which she was responsible. She 
 had already added the columns again in pursuit of a 
 small sum which would not come into its proper place.
 
 166 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 "That loathsome fourpence," she said aloud, "it s so 
 careless of Miss Smith to have put it into the wrong book." 
 Her head ached, and she was just about to begin the 
 weary search again, and it was a real relief to see Kath- 
 erine in her pretty gown get out of her carriage. 
 
 "I ve come to see you," she called out while she was 
 still in the passage. "I was fascinated by you, St. Clara. 
 In spite of the ugliness and the gloom, I felt I must see 
 you again, and so here I am," and she rustled into 
 the room. "Are you doing accounts? What a hor 
 rible thing," she said, as she saw the pile of little red 
 books. "Why do you waste your time; you should 
 send for Miss Robinson. She would look them all 
 through and give you a balance-sheet. You would 
 never understand it, but it looks splendid. I never 
 could do an account in my life. Two and two always 
 make five with me, and really I have come to the con 
 clusion it is no use. Banks are made to be overdrawn, 
 and as to bills, I always say they breed. You start 
 with two or three, and in a few months you have a pack 
 of them. Poor dear Jack is always rowing about it; 
 but I say that there are many things you must have, 
 which you really never can pay for. Of course railway 
 tickets and anything you lose at bridge and things like 
 that, you have to pay for ready money, and that s bad 
 enough." 
 
 She laughed, and showed her white even teeth. Eliza 
 beth loked at her as if she were some tropical bird whose 
 plumage was an artistic delight, but whose note 
 jarred. 
 
 "I don t understand," she said. "If one doesn t 
 pay it isn t honest." 
 
 "Oh, but one does pay," said Katherine. "Trades 
 people charge ever so much more than the things are 
 worth, so that in the end they come out square. I sup-
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 167 
 
 pose I am extravagant, but there are some things I never 
 can resist, principally hats. I always feel that the way 
 to hell for me will be paved with hats. And just now 
 I m doing up my house, and the expense is perfectly 
 appalling. I really don t ask what they are going to 
 charge, because if I did it would spoil all my pleasure. 
 Besides, I am doing away with all sorts of unnecessary 
 things, and I am going in for what a friend of mine calls 
 restrained beauty. That means everything fearfully 
 expensive and fearfully simple." 
 
 "Are you going to be simple?" said Elizabeth in 
 credulously. 
 
 "Oh dear yes," said Katherine. "Everybody is 
 simple now. I dined out last night, and five people 
 cut of twenty were simple fooders, ate no meat, and 
 wanted all sorts of things no one ever heard of. It s 
 the most complicated life there is, but it s absolutely 
 the rage." 
 
 " Simple lifers seem to have as much trouble in settling 
 their principles as a church council," said Elizabeth 
 laughing. "They all differ, and yet everyone is certain 
 that his dogma is right. If they came here the difficulty 
 would be settled, for most of us belong to the do without 
 everything section. I don t mean that I do, for I have 
 all I want." 
 
 "Don t you want beautiful surroundings? I couldn t 
 live a day in this house," said Katherine. 
 
 "So I thought when I first saw it," said Elizabeth, 
 "but you get used to anything. I sometimes think 
 I hate it still," she added truthfully, "but there s no 
 help for it, so I make the best of it." 
 
 "It must be very wonderful to live for other people," 
 said Katherine. "I wish I could, but we are so hedged 
 in with conventionality, it s impossible to get free, but 
 I wanted to come here to-day to be comforted. I am
 
 168 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 anxious about a friend who has been wounded, and 
 anxiety and uncertainty are so hard to bear." 
 
 "I am so sorry," said Elizabeth sympathetically, 
 "but I am glad Sir John is safe," she added, hardly 
 knowing what to say. 
 
 "Yes, dear old Jack is well. I had a cable to-day. 
 But my friend is a very charming man, so artistic, and 
 with such a wonderfully poetic nature. He is a very 
 dear friend," and Lady Cliffe sighed, and took off her 
 pretty gloves. 
 
 "I suppose he was in the Coldstream Guards in the 
 fight at Houtnek? I saw the account last night." 
 
 "No," said Lady Cliffe, "he was in the Yeomanry, and 
 he was wounded in a mere skirmish at the Zand River." 
 
 Elizabeth looked at her. She felt her heart throb 
 like a hammer. She saw Katherine sitting there with 
 her glistening rings, and her white hands folded on the 
 table, and she longed to seize them and wring the name 
 from her, but she answered in a voice which sounded to 
 her hoarse and unlike her own: "The Blankshire 
 Yeomanry? I know many of the men; they came from 
 my home." 
 
 "It is Mr. Errington who is wounded," said Katherine. 
 "I don t suppose you have met him, as he never lived 
 at his place; but he is delightful, and I feel so anxious." 
 
 "Have you had news lately?" said Elizabeth. She 
 stood as though she had turned to a stone. 
 
 "Oh yes, to-day I heard through the War Office. 
 He is at hospital, and really better. He 
 
 will be invalided home directly he is well enough." 
 
 After her terrible fear Elizabeth felt a great storm 
 rise within her. Who was this woman, that she was 
 able to learn every detail? Had she loved and suffered 
 like herself? Why should she assume that detestable 
 proprietorship? Oh, for freedom to speak, to say all
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 169 
 
 that Eric had been to her, was to her at that moment. 
 Her pulses throbbed, and the blood rose to her cheeks, 
 but she turned away and looked out into the court to 
 hide the feeling which would betray her. 
 
 "He is a perfect dear," continued Katherine, un 
 conscious of anything unusual in Elizabeth s manner. 
 "So musical, with such a glorious voice. Jack is very 
 fond of him, but of course he doesn t the least understand 
 anything artistic but he has been my friend for years, 
 long before I was married. You have someone out there, 
 haven t you ?" she said, as Elizabeth still stood looking out 
 of the window. "Is he all right?" 
 
 "Yes, thank you," said Elizabeth dryly. Words 
 seemed to have lost meaning. She only longed to be 
 alone; to be able to think of Eric as hers; to shut out 
 the picture of this beautiful woman who talked of him 
 as though she owned him as a part of the great heritage 
 she already possessed. 
 
 Then Katherine began to speak of herself, of her 
 plans for the people at Chillam. She consulted Elizabeth 
 on every point, and the subtle charm of being admired 
 was not lost upon her, and she began to relent. 
 
 "You will help me, St. Clara?" she said. "When 
 I am with you I want to be of some use, and you are 
 the only person I know who makes me really want to be 
 good. .It has always seemed to me, that everyone I meet 
 who does good work, is horribly dull and dowdy; but 
 you are so pretty, and you would be so much admired. 
 You must be a saint to be buried here, just living for 
 your shimmies. You will help me?" 
 
 They discussed many plans. Katherine was in 
 telligent as well as sympathetic, and Elizabeth felt that 
 all resentment toward the woman was gone, only a dull 
 aching anxiety lest Eric should, after all, find in her 
 brilliant society something that was missing in her hum-
 
 i yo UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 drum life. But then Katherine was good; she was 
 really fond of Jack, and she told herself the fear was fool 
 ish, and when she left at last with many expressions of 
 affection, the predominant feeling in her mind was thank 
 fulness for his safety, and the blessed relief of knowing 
 that he was coming home.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 THE gardens at Lentham were celebrated. They had 
 been copied from a fine French design of the seventeenth 
 century. Broad marble steps glittered on the green 
 banks of grass, and white balustrades bordered the terraces 
 which divided the stretches of formal flower-bed. Bays 
 cut to resemble orange-trees stood in long rows, and 
 beneath each terrace was a pergola, giving welcome shade 
 under its cloistered roof of roses. 
 
 Beyond the terraces was a large sunk flower garden, 
 gay with geraniums, calceolarias, verbenas and begonias 
 the garden not of one who loves flowers, but rather 
 designed for a mosaic effect of color; and in the midst 
 of this brilliant parterre marble fountains, with fine groups 
 of bronze figures, stood white and gray and massive, against 
 the green slope which was bordered by beech-trees, where 
 the garden touched the park. The whole was a triumph 
 of artificial taste, carried out in such great proportions 
 as to justify its pretensions. 
 
 On a glowing summer afternoon late in August a 
 group of people were sitting on the upper terrace in 
 front of the white Georgian house, with its steps and 
 porticos and balconies. A carpet had been spread on the 
 gravel. They had gathered round a table laden with 
 every conceivable five-o clock fare. Lady Hornden, 
 tall, handsome and beautifully dressed, pretended to 
 make tea. The work was, however, really accomplished 
 by the servant, who with admirable tact supplied each 
 cup, watching his opportunity to take the tea-pot while 
 the hostess, absorbed in conversation, forgot her duties.
 
 172 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 "I often wonder," she was saying, "why we don t 
 stay in the country all the summer; it s positively in 
 sensate to spend such months in London in the really 
 heavenly time of the year. Don t you think so, Sir James ? " 
 she said, turning to an elderly man, who had sunk into 
 a chair beside her. 
 
 "It s delightful to-day, in this place and at this hour, 
 but I always feel that there is something terrible in the 
 country when one is alone. It is like being with a silent, 
 observing friend, whom you feel is taking stock of your 
 shortcomings. The hour the French call crepuscule is 
 appalling. You may have the most marvellous cook 
 in the world, the deathly stillness of the country when 
 you are alone would take away your appetite." 
 
 "I am not at all sure I agree with you," said Lady 
 Hornden. "I remember a summer I spent here the year 
 I was a widow. It was wonderfully soothing. Of course 
 I was in deep mourning. Dear Mr. Fordwick, do have 
 something to eat. Won t you have some raspberries? 
 Help Mrs. Rodney; she has none. I used to sit here 
 looking out over the garden, evening after evening, and 
 the peace was delicious. I mean, of course, in my great 
 sorrow. Oh, how well I remember it! Put some hot 
 water in the tea-pot, Shorter," she said to the groom of 
 the chambers, who was hovering near her, attentive and 
 imperturbable. "How I used to look out and wonder 
 what the world could hold for me, and what my child s 
 fate would be." 
 
 "And how soon she could decently get back to London," 
 said Anne Rodney in a low voice to the man who sat next 
 to her. 
 
 "Well, it s lucky for us you didn t go on dreaming, 
 but woke up and came back to life. The world would 
 certainly have been poorer if you hadn t given dinners 
 which everyone who has ever eaten them must remember,"
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 173 
 
 said Sir James. "I have always said that the creme de 
 volatile which your cook invented wrapped round quails 
 is the best thing I have ever eaten of the sort. Ah, it s 
 perfect!" he said, half closing his eyes as though he saw 
 a creation of great beauty. "And his caneton Voisin 
 far better than Voisin s, upon my honor it is." 
 
 "Dear Sir James, you are so kind," said Lady Horn- 
 den, "and of course you are the best judge in Europe. 
 Oh, everybody knows that," she added, as he made a 
 deprecatory gesture. 
 
 "It makes me miserable to see the way good things 
 are positively ruined by most cooks," he continued. 
 " Ton my word, I dine out, and half the time, with a 
 menu a quarter of a yard long, there is absolutely nothing 
 edible. Food for the million is the destruction of our 
 English cooking, but 
 
 "Tea, dear Mr. Farningham?" said Lady Hornden 
 to the tall limp man in gray who had just come up to the 
 table. "Fresh tea, Shorter. I can t allow you to drink 
 this* tannin is absolute destruction to the digestion." 
 
 "How heavenly this is," said Mr. Farningham, sink 
 ing into a vacant chair on the other side of Lady Horn- 
 den. "As I came up the terrace you made a beautiful 
 picture, a group by Watteau or Boucher; those lovely 
 colors" and he touched the pale lavender lisse gown 
 in which Lady Hornden was dressed "and Mrs. Rod 
 ney in that note of blue against the green grass; it is 
 perfect," and he helped himself to foie gras as well as egg 
 sandwiches. 
 
 Sir James looked across at him, and said: 
 
 "It is positive profanity to eat tea when you are going 
 to have a dinner cooked by the most perfect cook in 
 England." 
 
 "Am I?" said Mr. Farningham. "Well, I daresay 
 I shall manage both," and he laughed. "Where is
 
 174 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 Lady Cliffe?" he said, looking round the table. "Is 
 she taking care of the invalid? How delicious for 
 him." 
 
 Mr. Farningham was sometimes unfortunate in his 
 remarks, and Lady Hornden looked annoyed. 
 
 "I don t know; he is resting, I suppose, and Katherine 
 had a headache. Poor darling! She worries a great 
 deal about Jack, and they are expecting more fighting. 
 Has Lady Cliffe had tea?" she said, turning to the man 
 servant. 
 
 "Her ladyship sent for it to the little summer- ouse 
 in the rose gardin," said the man, and then he added: 
 "And Mr. Errington was taking his with her ladyship." 
 
 "Very sensible," said Sir James diplomatically; "his 
 wheeled chair is difficult to get up and down these banks." 
 And the conversation turned to other channels. 
 
 After tea Mrs. Rodney, walking in the pergola with 
 Mr. Fordwick, said, as she smoked her cigarette : 
 
 "How silly it is of dear Lady Hornden to keep up 
 this absurd farce about Katherine and Jack. I never 
 saw a woman more engrossed with any man, or a man 
 more head over ears in love with a woman. She has 
 countenanced everybody else s little affairs for years. 
 Why is she to pose in this way about her daughter?" 
 
 "Because she is really a very sentimental woman, 
 and she has settled that Katherine is to be a model wife 
 to the man she chose," said Air. Fordwick, with a little 
 bitterness in his tone. 
 
 "Model wives don t exist," said Anne, "except in 
 Brixton or Clapham. They are as extinct as the dodo 
 in London." 
 
 "Our London," said Mr. Fordwick, "is a very little 
 bit of the world." 
 
 "Oh, of course, you look at things from a politician s 
 point of view, the empire on which the sun never sets,
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 175 
 
 and all that sort of bunkum ; but I mean the world I know, 
 and live in, and frankly love," said Anne. "I don t 
 pose, whoever else does." 
 
 "No, you don t," said the young man; "but still 
 you know, there is such a thing as the pose not to pose." 
 
 They were soon joined by Mr. Farningham. 
 
 "What a pity dear Lady Cliffe affiches this sort of 
 thing so much," he said. "I m really sorry for Lady 
 Hornden. Just now, too, it s not good taste, with the 
 war and all the chances it brings going on, and the ill- 
 natured way people talk." 
 
 "You mean," said Anne, "that people will think 
 she hopes to hear Jack s dead?" 
 
 "Oh, Mrs. Rodney, I never said that. I have known 
 Lady Cliffe ever since she was a baby." 
 
 "No," said Anne, "but you implied it; I know you re 
 an old friend of the family, and privileged, no doubt." 
 
 Mr. Farningham afterward said he liked most people, 
 but Mrs. Rodney was coarse, and he never could bring 
 himself to like a coarse woman. And Anne Rodney, 
 speaking of him later to Mr. Fordwick, said: 
 
 "How I hate that old cat; he comes and laps up 
 all the scandal, and then scratches us and purrs all the 
 while." 
 
 The rose garden was bathed in the afternoon sun. 
 The second bloom of roses was particularly good, and 
 the entrance to the little summer-house was nearly 
 smothered with Laurette Messime , and a maze cloud 
 of William Allan Richardson climbed in riotous con 
 fusion over the roof. A small tea-table was spread at 
 which Lady Cliffe sat, becomingly clad in a simple white 
 washing gown, looking particularly slight and girlish. 
 
 In a wheeled chair opposite to her sat Eric. His 
 face was very white and his features pinched. Pain 
 had undoubtedly set its seal upon him. The waxen
 
 1 76 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 color and the evident shortness of breath clearly showed 
 that the lungs had not yet recovered. 
 
 "It would have been a deal nicer at Chillam," said 
 Katherine. "There would have been no tiresome visitors, 
 and we should have just done as we liked; but mama 
 suddenly took into her head that it was not proper. 
 Jack would have loved you to go." 
 
 Eric looked across at her. He wondered that she 
 should speak of Jack. Surely she must know what he 
 felt for her. Why bring Jack into the question at all? 
 But he said: 
 
 "You know how I should have loved it; still, I dare 
 say Lady Hornden is right. I mean she is right to think 
 of you. My life is broken, it does not matter what hap 
 pens to me. But you are a treasure to be guarded," 
 and he put his hand on hers as she held it out to lift some 
 thing off the table. 
 
 "Guarded guarded? I am tired of hearing that," 
 said Katherine. "When I was a little girl I was guarded 
 always; no play with other children, because I was 
 guarded from risk of infection or unsuitable companions. 
 When I came out, just the same thing, guarded against 
 an unsuitable marriage, and I was guarded with a ven 
 geance; mama kept a hawk s eye on me; I had no will 
 of my own," and Katherine sighed. 
 
 "What made you marry Jack?" Eric asked suddenly. 
 
 "Dear old Jack," said Katherine, "he asked me to 
 marry him, and he was the first man who ever spoke 
 to me in a sort of manly upright way. He w r as so 
 strong and straight," and Katherine looked up at the 
 long rose-covered way under the terrace, and for a moment 
 she wavered, and felt that Jack would tell her she was 
 not "playing the game." 
 
 But Eric was persistent. He bent forward and looked 
 into her eyes.
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 177 
 
 "Tell me," he said, "tell me the real truth. Do you 
 love him? Is his step the music that sets your heart 
 beating and pulses tingling? Do you feel you want 
 to be on a desert island with him, and see him only and 
 no one else? That s love; the only thing that any dare 
 call by that name." 
 
 Katherine leant back in her chair and was silent. 
 
 "Do you, do you?" persisted Eric. 
 
 "No, not in that way. I ve been married more than 
 two years, and of course now no, I never did feel 
 all that. You know the proverb, Un qui baise et Vautre 
 qui tend la joue. I suppose I have held out my cheek." 
 
 "Of course you have, and he has worshipped you, 
 because he has seen the wonderful thing that is his," 
 said Eric quickly. "But I think if the cheek had been 
 held out to me I should have so kissed it that I should 
 have won more than passive love. I could fancy a man 
 who laid his whole life at your feet winning from you all 
 the passion of love of which you are capable, for you 
 have a mine which has never yet been discovered 
 glowing treasure no one has ever owned. Katherine, 
 do you know it?" 
 
 His face was flushed and his eyes sparkled. His 
 whole being seemed to have gathered strength. As 
 he spoke he took her hand and held it tightly, grasp 
 ing it with his long feverish fingers. 
 
 She made no answer. She felt half frightened, half 
 pleased, and yet she had not intended he should speak 
 to her so directly. 
 
 "Do you know," he went on quickly, "how I love 
 you have loved you, as I have never loved another 
 woman? Do you know how I thought of you out on 
 the veldt at night, and that it seemed to me you looked 
 down on me like one of the unattainable stars that shone 
 so resplendent and so far away, so far above me? And 
 
 12
 
 178 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 when I came back a weary burden, only half living, 
 how you made me long for life life to throw at your feet, 
 to be only a slave to your happiness. Do you know it 
 and understand it all, Katherine?" 
 
 "Eric, Eric," said Katherine, standing up, "don t, 
 please don t; you must not tell me. We were so happy, 
 and if you say it all, it is not fair to Jack. Let us keep 
 it as a sacred thing." 
 
 "Then you do understand it feel it; oh, my love!" 
 
 Eric took again the hand that hung by her side, and 
 covered it with kisses. She stooped and laid the other 
 on his shoulder. 
 
 "Eric, don t make me say it, only let us be happy 
 together while we can." 
 
 The long shadows were lying across the quiet garden, 
 and the faint mist of the late summer evening was be 
 ginning to rise, when a nurse crossed the lawn, and 
 coming toward the summer-house said: 
 
 "I think Mr. Errington ought to go in, my lady. Don t 
 you think so, sir? The damp is rising now." 
 
 "Yes, nurse," said Lady Cliffe quickly. "You are 
 right." And it was with almost a feeling of relief that 
 she watched the wheeled chair pushed toward the 
 house. 
 
 "How puzzling life is," she thought, as she walked 
 slowly after it. "Why should the wrong people care 
 so much? Jack cares; but lots of women would have 
 done as well, whereas Eric has an affinity which he 
 could find in no one else; a passion; a devotion never 
 satisfied before, and what can I give in return? I won t 
 let him talk again as he has done to-day," she thought; 
 "but of course we can understand each other without 
 words." 
 
 And then she dressed for dinner, and came down, 
 looking radiant, with eyes that shone as though lit by
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 179 
 
 an inward flame, and with the far-away look and the 
 absent manner of one who has seen a vision. 
 
 Lady Hornden was seriously disturbed. She did 
 not want Katherine to make a fool of herself in Jack s 
 absence. She had no very high ideals of conduct, and 
 she was always glad that "the right people should meet" 
 at her house. But a maternal instinct made her wish 
 to protect Katherine, and her intuition told her that Eric 
 would be selfish and vain. She remonstrated with 
 Katherine to no purpose she found she could make 
 no lasting impression. 
 
 "I don t see," she said to her mother, "why you want 
 me to be different to other people. You never make 
 any fuss when Mrs. Rodney meets Jimmy Blacker, or 
 Mary Winnington has Arthur Warley as her best friend. 
 Why am I to have no fun ? " 
 
 "Because," said Lady Hornden, "you re a fool, Kath 
 erine. You will make a tragedy of a thing which ought 
 to be a mere passing amusement, and Eric is absurd. 
 No man need look as though he were going to be executed 
 directly you talk to anyone else, and somehow he is more 
 compromising with all his die-away airs than any man 
 I ever met. I wish to goodness he would get well and 
 go away." 
 
 " Jack s very fond of Eric," said Katherine. 
 
 "What has that got to do with it?" said her mother. 
 "Do you suppose Jack, with all his straight-laced prin 
 ciples, would tolerate him if he thought he was making 
 love to you? You know very well he would be just the 
 sort of man to send the woman he loved to the right 
 about if he thought she was not keeping square. He 
 has the most high-flown ideas about honor and women 
 and all that sort of thing. When he comes back again 
 if you choose to have Eric as a hanger-on and he does not 
 compromise you, but behaves sensibly, that is another
 
 i8o UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 matter; but, believe me, if Jack gets wind of all this 
 while he is away, there will be a fearful row when he gets 
 home. I know what I am talking about. Of course 
 these good men are splendid and faithful, but you can t 
 fool about with them, and Eric has got no common sense. 
 I loathe artistic men, they re always mean." 
 
 Katherine tried lamely to defend Eric, but deemed 
 it prudent to argue no more, and settled to go back to 
 London as soon as she conveniently could. Eric must 
 get rooms, and then she could see him at her own house 
 and avoid constant comment. The decorator had 
 finished his work and demanded her presence, she told 
 her mother. 
 
 And so in September, when London was compara 
 tively empty, she returned, and Eric, who was making 
 good progress, and could walk a little, took rooms off 
 St. James s Street, where an excellent manservant re 
 placed the services of a nurse. 
 
 The changes in Katherine s house were a constant 
 occupation to both, and he was enchanted at this evidence 
 of the ascendency which his mind and taste had acquired 
 over hers, even at a time when he had scarcely suspected 
 it. 
 
 During the pleasant early autumn days they drove 
 together to Kew Gardens, motored to Hindhead and 
 Haslemere, read together and talked endlessly. Eric 
 had not again openly spoken of his love for her, but 
 there was a tacit understanding between them, which 
 perhaps fed the flame of their affection more effectually 
 by reason of the restraint laid upon it. As each day 
 passed their plans were made only with a view of being 
 together, and the quiet hours of rest and reading in the 
 harmonious surroundings of the beautiful house had 
 all the charm of domesticity, and none of its prosaic 
 responsibilities.
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 181 
 
 Katherine had divided her mind into compartments, 
 and was careful not to open those which might reveal 
 anything to disturb her peace. She sometimes had 
 an uneasy feeling that if she were to search deep enough 
 she might come upon a hidden hope, stowed in the farthest 
 recess of her heart, that everything might remain as long 
 as possible just as it was, and she knew that this involved 
 an indefinite delay in Jack s return. She tried to ignore 
 the existence of this region, to avoid introspection, and to 
 drift on day by day without looking forward. 
 
 Her correspondence was her greatest difficulty. She 
 was never a good letter-writer, and therefore the length 
 of her letters did not vary very much; but it became 
 more and more impossible to reiterate hopes that the 
 war would speedily end and that soon Jack would be 
 home again. So she took refuge in telling him that 
 "all was well," that he need have no anxiety about her, 
 and that she was so glad (with many dashes) to hear he 
 was "getting on all right," that the war was "horrible," 
 and wasn t he "tired, poor dear, of being so uncomfort 
 able?" (more dashes). Once she added a postscript to 
 say she had seen Eric and that he was nearly well, but 
 she closed her letter quickly and did not re-read it, and 
 afterward wished she had not written Eric s name. 
 
 Poor Jack used to take these letters out as he lay on 
 the veldt, and try and piece them together and read 
 between the lines all he wanted to find, but the task was 
 not easy.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 ELIZABETH had seen in an evening paper the fact that 
 Eric was invalided home, and had arrived in London, 
 and then a great curtain of silence had fallen, and she 
 knew nothing of his health, his movements, or his plans. 
 They were hard days. Michael had gone on a visit of 
 inspection to some German factories, and she had been 
 for a few weeks to stay with her uncle, Lord Oxenham. 
 The old man was alone, and glad to have his niece to keep 
 him company during the early days when cub-hunting 
 had not begun, and he had no shooting to fill his time. 
 
 "I didn t ask your aunt, my dear," he said, much 
 to Elizabeth s relief. "She is a good woman, but a 
 bit fussy, and I thought we should get on better with 
 out her." 
 
 So Elizabeth lay under the big elm-trees and read 
 and dreamed, and revelled in the large cool rooms and 
 the sense of leisure and quiet, which were a blessed con 
 trast to the crowded court and baking streets; but early 
 in September she told her uncle that she must return. 
 
 He could see no urgency, but she insisted. Cub- 
 hunting had begun, and he was already much absorbed 
 by the performances of his young hounds, and so with 
 some ineffectual remonstrance from him, she returned 
 to London, where the heat was overpowering, and the 
 smells well-nigh intolerable. 
 
 She went out into the court to find Billy Catchpole 
 nursing Louisa. That was the name given to the baby. 
 Sally, by right of her superior years, was chief nurse, 
 but on those rare occasions when she was obliged to put 
 
 182
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 183 
 
 in a day at school to avoid a summons, her duties fell 
 on Billy. It went sorely against Sally s inclination to 
 trust him with such a charge, but there was no help 
 for it. Mrs. Catchpole said she was too busy to be 
 bothered with the child, and there was no one else but 
 Billy to mind her when Sally was away. So reluctantly 
 Sally would depart for school, and harrow herself all the 
 way by thoughts of what might await her arrival at home. 
 
 Billy s character was none of the best. He had been 
 known to doss out for a week at a time. If the mood to 
 roam came on while the baby was in his care, she knew 
 that as likely as not, rather than stay at home, he would 
 take the baby with him. He might fight with the baby 
 in his arms; it was his boast that he could beat any boy 
 of his own size, and some bigger, with one hand. He 
 might be run over in the street. Sally s mind had no rest 
 till Louisa was back in her arms. 
 
 Before the appearance of the baby, Sally had been 
 the best singer in the court. When she had a penny 
 to spare,she laid it out on a song-book, and from it she 
 sang the fashionable ballads of the day; but Elizabeth 
 noticed that, by some strange sense of the fitness of things, 
 she never sang these ballads to Louisa. There was 
 evidently not one she considered fit for her ears, so she 
 confined herself to a Salvation Army chorus, called "The 
 Lion of Judah," and a hymn she had picked up at a 
 mission hall. And she marvelled still more at the child 
 when she saw that Polly, with a voice not half so good 
 as Sally s and a bad memory for last verses, had taken 
 her place as singer to the court; but Sally shook her 
 shaggy head, and seemed to think she could afford to per 
 mit it, for her hymns and choruses were, she believed, 
 charms to ward off evils from Louisa. 
 
 Billy, who was lacking in all religious feeling, jeered 
 at Sally s piety, and sang to Louisa the only street song
 
 184 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 he knew, which was "Her golden hair was hanging 
 down her back," and the baby opened her eyes and 
 rolled her helpless little head, and appeared to prefer 
 it to Sally s hymns. 
 
 Elizabeth stood on this sultry day and watched Billy 
 nursing the baby. His quick bright eyes were following 
 the movements of half a dozen urchins who were playing 
 pitch and toss, and his little black hands clasped the 
 ragged bundle as he rocked it to and fro on his knee, 
 which was showing a grimy pink through his torn 
 trousers. 
 
 Presently he caught sight of Elizabeth, and with a 
 broad smile he looked up, and said: 
 
 " Ullo, Mrs. Maynell." It was the usual greeting 
 of the children of the court. 
 
 "How s baby, and Sally?" said Elizabeth. 
 
 "Sally s elping mover," he said. "Ain t no school; 
 it s olidays. Lots on em s gorn into the country." 
 
 "Would you like to go?" said Elizabeth. 
 
 Billy looked up quickly. He had heard so much 
 about it from the boys who had been there. They had 
 told him of the thousands of fields where everyone might 
 play, and the woods full of bears and gipsies, and wild 
 horses that you might ride if you caught them, of the 
 fish they had seen jumping out of the river, and worms 
 going about at night with lamps on their heads. 
 
 "Just think as I should!" he said, as the remem 
 brance came quickly like a passing panorama. 
 
 "I ll try and get you a ticket," said Elizabeth, and 
 left Billy in a state of bewildered happiness. 
 
 She walked on a while to see some of her friends and 
 some sick folk who were caged up in their horrible little 
 rooms, which smelt worse than usual. And then, with 
 a sort of despair, she turned her steps to the great thor 
 oughfare, walked about a mile, and then down some
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 185 
 
 more narrow streets, and stood before a gaunt red-brick 
 house, with many windows and no curtains. She was 
 presently sitting in Father Martin s study. He was 
 bending over a large writing-table, in his small writing- 
 room, but got up, stretching out both hands to greet her. 
 
 "I m glad you re back. Sit down," he said, clearing 
 a chair of a pile of books and papers. "Are you better 
 for your rest? I have often thought of you in the cool 
 green of the summer woods. Yes, it s quite right, 
 
 If Eden be on earth at all 
 
 Tis that which we the country call. 
 
 And yet it is not Eden we are seeking; it s only external, 
 after all. The kingdom of heaven is within you. Now 
 tell me about yourself." And he looked at her with his 
 kind penetrating eyes. 
 
 The look of weariness on her face did not escape him, 
 but he knew too much of human nature to forestall a 
 confidence. 
 
 "Yes, the country was heavenly," said Elizabeth, 
 "but " and she hesitated. 
 
 "You wanted to take all the world with you," he 
 said. 
 
 "Yes," said Elizabeth, "I believe the worst form 
 of selfishness is that which wants to make others happier 
 in order to enjoy one s self more fully," and she laughed. 
 
 "I wish to God people were usually affected with 
 that .form of selfishness," said Father Martin. "But 
 Elizabeth," he said, leaning his head on his hand, "you 
 are discovering the oneness of the human family, that 
 happiness and sadness which affect one creature really 
 affect all; but I want you to find out something else 
 which changes life still more completely: that you and 
 I and everyone are working out some great beneficent 
 plan, evolved not by a Creator who plays with us like
 
 i86 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 pawns, and moves us to suit His game; but that we are 
 a part of Himself, and indispensable to His great end, 
 and that as we understand this we intelligently lend our 
 selves to His schemes, and co-operate with Him; and the 
 more this sense of our union with God develops, the 
 more true understanding we have of what the redemp 
 tion of man really is." 
 
 Elizabeth listened. 
 
 "Things we can do seem so poor and so tiny and 
 so insignificant," she said. 
 
 "Nothing is insignificant," said Father Martin. "The 
 builder puts brick upon brick, whether he is going to 
 build a tenement for the herded poor in Whitechapel, 
 or a palace for the doges in Venice. It s design which 
 signifies, the ultimate idea. You are putting your work 
 into the right design. Have patience," he added gently. 
 
 "Darwin says the earth-worms transform the world, 
 but they don t know they are doing it," said Elizabeth, 
 "only wriggling blindly through their work. I find 
 it so hard to wriggle," and she laughed, but her eyes 
 were full of tears. 
 
 "Not blindly," said Father Martin, "not blindly. 
 There is the light that lighteth every man. The great 
 personal love, beyond which we can never go, and beautiful 
 human affection, which is a very integral gart of it." 
 And he looked at her and thought of Michael. 
 
 "Human affection? I wish we could be born without 
 it. That is what makes life hard and bitter and sad," 
 said Elizabeth, and she got up to go. 
 
 "Was that the reason she came to work in the slums?" 
 thought the old man. But the conversation was abruptly 
 interrupted. Miss Osterley rushed into the room. She 
 had scarcely time to give a breathless greeting to Elizabeth 
 when she produced from under her arm a roll of papers. 
 
 "I have come, Mr. Martin, to ask your signature.
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 187 
 
 A most atrocious thing is being done, and some of us 
 are getting up a timely protest. I can t explain the 
 details before Elizabeth, but it s a real disgrace to our 
 civilization, and the Home Office should be approached 
 without delay." 
 
 Father Martin took up the long paper, and as he read his 
 brows knit, and a look of grave care came into his face. 
 
 "Of course I will sign the sense of this," he said, "but 
 I confess I don t like the form." 
 
 "It s no use watering it down," said Miss Osterley, 
 "we must be plain, or else these men don t understand 
 us. We can t take a pair of gloves to suit the fastidious," 
 she said, eagerly looking at him. 
 
 "I will go through it with you presently." He shook 
 hands with Elizabeth, who was prepared to go, and 
 opening the door, he said to her as she passed, "Courage 
 and faith and patience, these three things I shall pray 
 for, for you." 
 
 "Thank you," she said. "I need them all." 
 
 Then he returned to his table with a sigh, and listened 
 while Miss Osterley poured out the vials of her wrath 
 upon man in general, but governing man in particular. 
 
 October came, with cool air, bright mornings and 
 golden afternoons drawing suddenly to a close, as the 
 violet distance changed into grey mist, a time of diffused 
 sunlight and quivering shadows, the beginning of the 
 year s old age, when careful preparation must be made 
 for the day when work will cease in rick and barn, the 
 gathering in of all that has been, the setting of the world s 
 house in order for what is still to come. 
 
 Day after day Katherine took Eric through the deep 
 lanes of Surrey, out over the heather fields of Sussex, 
 across the sweep of the Hampshire downs, traversing
 
 1 88 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 miles as the motor flew. Often they would sit for hours, 
 speaking scarcely a word, content to be together, and to 
 watch the constantly changing beauty of the autumn 
 world. 
 
 The very sense of his presence beside her seemed 
 to hold Katherine in a spell; she felt she had all she 
 wanted, except one thing, the permanence of her hap 
 piness. How could she live when these days were over 
 when Eric was well again, for his strength was returning 
 to him fast? But she tried to forget that such a time 
 must come, and to live only in the sensuous pleasure of 
 the sunny present. 
 
 "What a sense of preparation there is everywhere 
 now," said Eric to her, as they passed the farmhouses 
 set in golden ricks, and the apple orchards where the 
 sunlight flickered through the branches, making a net 
 work of shadow on the grass, and touching the scarlet 
 and yellow apples which lay in heaps beneath the trees. 
 "Doesn t it all seem to speak of fulfilment and success, 
 the ingathering of the world s work?" 
 
 "No, not to me," said Katherine. "It seems to me 
 to be inexpressibly sad, for even the sunshine is only 
 the light of a dying summer. Some people like old people ; 
 to me they are horrible. I hope I never may be old ; there 
 seems to me to be no satisfaction in remembering hap 
 piness; it can only bring a mad wish to have it all over 
 again." 
 
 "Do you think so?" said Eric. "I think I have 
 seen old people who were happy." 
 
 "Only while they were not sure they were really old," 
 said Katherine. " Don t let s talk of it ; old age is always 
 hideous; I can t bear it. The beginning of the years 
 of old age, when the beautiful days are over, and when 
 the joy of it all is gone," and she shuddered as she won 
 dered how soon that would be.
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 189 
 
 The weather suddenly changed and relentless rain 
 set in. The country was blotted out in mist, sodden 
 and forlorn, and Katherine wondered what could fill 
 the wretched afternoon, and remembered Elizabeth. 
 She had not thought of her lately, but with the recol 
 lection, she determined to take Eric to Marshom Street. 
 It would be a new experience, this meeting with St. 
 Clara. She ordered her electric brougham, and as she 
 stood after luncheon in the hall, drawing on her long 
 gloves, she said: 
 
 "I am going to take you for a new drive to-day. We 
 can t motor into the country, so I am going to take you 
 to the slums." 
 
 "Good heavens! How horrible! What have you 
 and the slums got to do with each other? I have a 
 horror of smells, and I never could get up any enthusiasm 
 for dirty people." 
 
 "Ah, but I m not going to take you to dirty people, 
 but to see a saint who lives in a court, in order to help 
 them by being there." 
 
 "I hate saints, too," said Eric. "It s only when a 
 woman has lost her looks and her youth, that she takes 
 to good works to make the scales balance by throw 
 ing in a few good deeds. I know the sort of people. 
 Can t we go to Dowdeswell s galleries to see those heavenly 
 drawings of Miss BlackwelFs instead?" 
 
 "You wait until you have seen my saint," said Katherine. 
 
 "Oh, I know the whole tribe," said Eric, "beastly 
 bores, in bad clothes, who are always trying to reform 
 somebody else." 
 
 "Wait," said Katherine laughing. 
 
 The brougham made its silent passage through the 
 mazes of mean streets lined with costermongers barrows 
 and crowded with dirty people, until it came to Marshom 
 Street, and stopped at the corner house.
 
 i 9 o UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 Elizabeth was visiting in the court. She had sent 
 Martha out with some soup to a sick woman, and the 
 small person known as "the girl" opened the front 
 door, and looked up into the face of the liveried servant 
 who stood before her. 
 
 "Miss Maynell was out, but she didn t believe as 
 she would be long gone." 
 
 Katherine, who heard the message, did not wait for 
 it to be repeated, but got out of the brougham, crossed 
 the muddy pavement and beckoned Eric to follow her. 
 They entered the little parlor and sat down. 
 
 "Good heavens!" said Eric. "This room stamps 
 your saint. How could any individual be found to 
 live in such unmitigated ugliness?" 
 
 "Wait," said Katherine again. 
 
 A few photographs were on the mantelpiece and a 
 great many books on the shelves. These were the only 
 additions Elizabeth had made, but Eric did not trouble 
 to get up and look at them, but sat thinking how pretty 
 Katherine looked, even with so squalid a background. 
 
 Presently the front door opened and Katherine went 
 into the passage to meet Elizabeth. 
 
 "Dearest St. Clara," she cried, "what ages since I 
 have seen you! I had to come to-day; I felt I must 
 not lose sight of you, and I have brought you a visitor." 
 
 Elizabeth looked tired and pale. There had been 
 a great deal of sickness in the district after the hot weather. 
 She was genuinely glad to see Katherine; it seemed like 
 a breath of air from a wider plane, and the thought had 
 sprung up in her heart that she might get news of Eric. 
 So the color came into her face as she took her hand, 
 and Katherine kissed her cheek. She was so sorry to 
 hear there was someone with her. She was afraid she 
 might not speak of Eric, but Katherine took her arm 
 and drew her into the parlor.
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 191 
 
 The afternoon light was dim, as the day was dark, 
 and the tall figure of the man sitting against the window 
 got up as they came in. Eric recognized Elizabeth a 
 moment before the consciousness of his presence had 
 reached her. 
 
 "Great Scott!" he thought. "What will she do? 
 Will she say she knows me, or will she not?" 
 
 He stood up, tall and hesitating. Elizabeth looked 
 for a moment, then the fact came flooding up round 
 her, and she felt as though she was losing hold of real life. 
 
 What had he come for? was the first thought in her 
 mind; but Katherine s words quickly dispelled any 
 illusion on that score. 
 
 "St. Clara, I have brought my great friend, Mr. Er- 
 rington, to see you. He is devoted to everything artistic, 
 and I wanted him to see that a jewel is always beautiful, 
 even in a horrible setting. Mr. Errington, this is St. 
 Clara Miss Maynell." 
 
 The pause that followed seemed an eternity. Elizabeth 
 did not look at him, but she bowed toward the place where 
 he stood, and turned to Katherine. 
 
 Eric s first feeling was one of relief, and then he re 
 sented the reception. 
 
 "So she no longer cares a button," he thought. "How 
 like a woman!" 
 
 Katherine was disappointed. She felt Elizabeth s 
 want of courtesy. She ought to show more consider 
 ation to her guests. But she went on talking to her, 
 trying from time to time to draw Eric into the conversation. 
 
 "By the way," she said, "you come from the same 
 country. Miss MaynelFs home is at Ilbury," turning 
 to him. "Only, I suppose, as you never lived there, 
 you could not have met; but I expected you knew his 
 old uncle, didn t you?" she said, smiling encouragingly 
 at Elizabeth.
 
 I 9 2 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 "I have met him." Then a dead pause. Eric felt 
 as though his tongue was parched and as hard as a parrot s. 
 He tried in a harsh tone to make some remarks about 
 that part of London. He did not address Elizabeth 
 directly, but talked through Lady Cliffe, as though she 
 occupied the chair. 
 
 Elizabeth sat very white and still. 
 
 "She must have had some sorrow," thought Katherine, 
 and then she said: "Mr. Errington is invalided home; 
 he was badly wounded. You remember I told you. 
 Have you good news of your friend in South Africa?" 
 she asked hesitatingly. 
 
 "He is dead," said Elizabeth shortly. She felt it 
 was true as far as she was concerned. 
 
 "How shocking!" said Katherine. Of course that 
 fully accounted for Elizabeth s extraordinary manner. 
 The sight of another man who had safely returned was 
 too much for her. She took Elizabeth s hand and held 
 it. "I am so sorry," she whispered. 
 
 Eric looked out of the window. Katherine rose to 
 go, and Eric stood up by her side. 
 
 Never before had such a burning anger possessed 
 the soul of Elizabeth. Had he come to insult her? 
 Had he come here with Lady Cliffe to show her the 
 woman for whom he had left her? She hated him as 
 women only hate those whom they really love. . 
 
 "I may come again, dearest," said Lady Cliffe, as 
 she kissed her on both cheeks. "I am so awfully grieved. 
 May I come and talk it over?" 
 
 "No, don t," said Elizabeth. "I have not time, 
 indeed I haven t," she answered almost passionately. 
 
 Katherine looked bewildered, kissed her again and 
 turned to go. As she passed out of the door Eric paused 
 an instant, and said in a hurried whisper: 
 
 "I didn t know, believe me, I didn t, or I would not
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 193 
 
 have come without your permission. You know that, 
 don t you?" 
 
 Elizabeth made no answer, held open the door and 
 let him pass out, and then turned and flung herself 
 down dry-eyed and buried her head in her hands. 
 
 "So that is the end," she said "the end." And 
 her heart ached till it was physical pain. 
 
 "You mustn t judge her," said Katherine to Eric as 
 they drove away. " She s not a bit like that usually ; it must 
 be the death of her friend. She seems terribly cut up." 
 
 "Does she?" said Eric vaguely, and began to talk 
 of other things. 
 
 That evening Eric dined at Hill Street. A wood 
 fire burned in the grate, for the evening was still chilly 
 and they were glad to find it when they came up from 
 the dining-room. A shaded electric light stood on the 
 table near Katherine s chair. The rest of the room 
 was in shadow, lit only by the flickering light from the 
 fire. Katherine, dressed in a long white gown-tea, bent 
 over her work, and Eric sat smoking in a chair on the 
 other side of her table. 
 
 The room was filled with the scent of hothouse flowers 
 brought from the conservatories at Lentham, and Eric 
 leaned back with a sense of special enjoyment. 
 
 By-and-by he went to the piano and began playing 
 Tannhauser. The magic of the music possessed him, 
 but now and then he would pause and call to her : 
 
 "Don t you remember how this goes?" and hum a 
 bar and play again. "And this and this?" and he 
 played on. "Why, in that song, there is the whole 
 passion of the human heart." 
 
 Katherine rose and leaned over the piano. He did 
 not look at her; he seemed to see nothing. By-and- 
 by he fixed his eyes on her with an eager, hungering 
 look, but still played on.
 
 i 9 4 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 "Dank deiner Huld gepriesen sei dein Lieben!" 
 
 "Ah, that s when it comes," he said, "that cry of 
 the heart!" 
 
 "Ich lass dich nicht! Du darfst nicht von mir ziehen!" 
 
 And then he turned suddenly from the piano, and 
 put out his arms and folded her in them, raining kisses 
 on her lips and throat. 
 
 "You know it. Say you know it, the wonderful 
 glory of love. My darling, my fair one, look at me, 
 look at me. Say just one word, I love you ! 
 
 Katherine felt blinded, bewildered. His arms held her. Her 
 whole being was overwhelmed by the torrent of his passion. 
 
 "You know," she murmured, "you know. Oh, 
 don t blame me. I can t, I am helpless. What can I 
 do? Yes, yes, I love you, but don t ask me any more. 
 Let me go. Even though it is pain, I must not stay." 
 
 "But your heart says stay here, in the place appointed 
 for you from the beginning of the world." 
 
 "Eric, Eric," she whispered, putting her face close 
 to his, "it is; I believe it is the only place where I could 
 find the fullness of love, but I have forfeited it. Don t 
 let me forget that I want to be straight. Oh, help me 
 Eric," and with a sort of desperation she wrenched herself 
 from him and left the room. 
 
 Upstairs she flung herself on her bed. She felt his 
 kisses on her face, and the pressure of his arms; the 
 charm of his whole being invaded her; then, as she grew 
 calmer, she got up and w r alked about the room. A 
 picture of Jack was on her dressing-table. She did 
 not want it there, nor did she like to move it. By-and- 
 by, when her excitement subsided, it seemed as though 
 she had lost something. She felt she was not, as she 
 had been an hour ago, fearless before all the world. 
 There was something to hide, and she was ashamed.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 LADY HORNDEN had come to London to get her autumn 
 clothes, and also because she was really anxious about 
 Katherine. She was standing in her bedroom in Park 
 Lane, surrounded by bandboxes, which her maid was 
 feverishly unpacking. 
 
 "Please, my lady, there s a person from Madame 
 Lili with hats," said the servant. 
 
 "Tell her to wait," answered Lady Hornden, "and 
 I m expecting some from Madame Albert. Tell them 
 to leave them on approbation. Now go on, Henriette, 
 make haste and let me see if these things are fit to wear." 
 
 She tried on gown after gown, as Henriette released 
 them from the network of tapes with which they had 
 been secured by the careful French packer in the great 
 Parisian house from whence they came. Lady Hornden 
 stood before the long looking-glass. 
 
 "The sleeves are not right," she said critically, looking 
 at herself. It would have been difficult to define where 
 there was a fault on account of the apparent absence of 
 that part of the gown. 
 
 "Look, Henriette, thou seest this velvet should have 
 been two inches lower. Cela m engonce," she said in 
 French. " The lines are bad." 
 
 "My lady is wrong," said the maid, "Jest par fait, 
 c esl d un chic. Le corsage est ravissant! Miladi est 
 moulee." 
 
 "Of course," said Lady Hornden, "so it ought to, 
 coming from Vendre", but there should be no fault, and 
 thou must be blind not to see the decolletage is wrong."
 
 196 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 She stood there, tall and good-looking, absorbed in 
 the clothes, when a knock called the maid to the door. 
 A telegram lay on the silver tray the manservant held. 
 She took it to Lady Hornden, who laid it on her dressing- 
 table, while once more she twisted round, holding her 
 handglass to take another critical look at the back. 
 
 "II demande s il y a une reponse, miladi" said Hen- 
 riette. 
 
 Still absorbed in the scrutiny, she held out one hand 
 for the telegram and tore it open. As she read it she 
 gave a cry and sat down suddenly on the stool at her 
 dressing-table, with the pink paper in her lap. 
 
 "I deeply regret to inform you that among the list 
 of casualties just received from South Africa is the name 
 of Sir John Cliffe, who was killed in the action at Diamond 
 Hill. Please convey news to Lady Cliffe. List will be 
 published to-night. Rainsbury." 
 
 "My God!" said Lady Hornden, very white. "How 
 horrible!" And then her thoughts flew to Katherine. 
 How would she take it? Would she marry Eric at 
 last, after all the trouble she had taken to prevent it? 
 Dear old Jack the very best man she knew dead. 
 Her mind was in a tumult. Katherine must be told 
 at once, before the papers came out. It was one o clock; 
 there wasn t a minute to be lost. 
 
 "Order the brougham," she said in an unsteady voice. 
 "Bring me some brandy and soda," she added feebly. 
 Her strength was going; her knees trembled. She sat 
 there, white as death, with her evening gown on in broad 
 daylight. 
 
 "Quick, Henriette, get me out of this; give me a 
 black gown, anything, quick! I have got to get to Lady 
 Cliffe."
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 197 
 
 Never had she dressed with such haste. Henriette 
 read the telegram as it lay on the table when she went 
 to fetch a buttonhook to put on miladi s boots, and re 
 doubled her haste, working with quick sympathetic 
 fingers to get her ready. 
 
 "C esi accablant!" she muttered to herself, as Lady 
 Hornden left the room. " Mon dieu! 11 elait si bien, 
 Sir John." 
 
 Jennings was waiting in the hall; she stopped and 
 spoke to him. 
 
 "I have had very bad news. Sir John has been killed. 
 I am going to Lady Cliffe; it will break her heart." 
 
 The man stood very upright, with his arms hanging 
 straight to his sides. A look of real concern came into 
 his face. 
 
 "I am very sorry, my lady, very sorry indeed. Sir 
 John was a gentleman. I am very sorry." 
 
 She drove to Hill Street. The short distance never 
 seemed so long, the stepping horses never so absurdly 
 slow. 
 
 Was Lady Cliffe in? She waited feverishly for the 
 servant to cross the pavement. 
 
 "No, my lady," said the footman. 
 
 Lady Hornden called the servant to speak to her 
 at the carriage door. When had she gone out? When 
 would she be back? Where was she? The questions 
 came crowding out, bewildering the man. He looked 
 puzzled. 
 
 Her ladyship had left early; gone out alone, he said. 
 She might be in to lunch or she might not. 
 
 Where did he think she had gone ? 
 
 "I believe the place was Marshom Street, or some 
 such name," said the man. "It wasn t in any neighbor 
 hood I know of, but I think it s some charity er ladyship 
 goes to."
 
 198 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 Marshom Street? Lady Hornden had never heard 
 of it. Could he find out from the maid when she would 
 be back? He went upstairs; he seemed to be gone 
 a lifetime. Then he returned with an address scribbled 
 on paper. 
 
 "This is where the maid thinks er ladyship is, my 
 lady," he said. The address was in the East End. 
 
 "Good heavens!" said Lady Hornden. "Where is 
 that? How long will it take me?" 
 
 "The best part of an hour," said the man. 
 
 "Then I will come in and wait." I may only pass 
 her on the way, she thought, and she will see the paper. 
 
 By-and-by the servant came to her with an open book. 
 
 "I see there is a telephone in the ouse; shall I send 
 a message?" 
 
 "Ring them up, and I will speak," said Lady Hornden, 
 thankful to have something to occupy the anxious moments. 
 
 Louisa had measles. Mrs. Catchpole was very com 
 placent about the baby s illness, but Billy and Sally thought 
 seriously of the matter. Measles had raged in the court 
 all the summer; it was measles the Murphy s baby had, 
 and something else that measles brought along with it, 
 and the Murphy baby died. It was measles too that 
 had given Sarah Green s baby the blight, and left it blind 
 with one eye. 
 
 Mrs. Catchpole said Louisa would soon be well. She 
 wrapped her in a blanket, and told Sally to keep her in 
 doors for a day. So both Sally and Billy stayed in and 
 played with Louisa, and felt the importance that was 
 theirs in the eyes of the court, there being some distinction 
 in having illness in the house. 
 
 But even such an event as measles was thrown into 
 the shade by the fact that Elizabeth had called to see
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 199 
 
 Mrs. Catchpole, to say that a place had fallen vacant 
 at the last moment in a party of children who were going 
 off next morning into the country for a fortnight s holiday. 
 They were late this year, she said, but special permission 
 had been given. 
 
 Mrs. Catchpole was amiable enough to consent to 
 this plan. Elizabeth turned to go, but paused on the 
 threshold. 
 
 "Of course there is nothing infectious in the house 
 Mrs. Catchpole? I generally have to get a doctor s 
 certificate, but as there is so little time, you must give 
 me your word." 
 
 "Not such a thing in the ouse, miss," replied Mrs. 
 Catchpole. "Biby ere s got a bit of a cold, but that s 
 the only thing as I knows of in the ouse." 
 
 In the excitement of getting ready, Billy quite for 
 got Louisa s measles, and when he went to bed that 
 night his conscience reproached him. 
 
 "Sal," he said, "I don t fink it s fair of me to go awiy 
 an leave the kid." 
 
 "She ll be all right," said Sally. "Why, she s much 
 better a ready." 
 
 "I ll bring er back all sorts of fings," he muttered, 
 as he fell asleep. 
 
 Next morning he was up at six, bathed himself in 
 the bucket, brushed his clothes, and made Sally s boots 
 which she had generously lent him for the occasion 
 shine as they had never shone before. His mind was in 
 a bewildering state of happiness. 
 
 While Mrs. Catchpole put the finishing touches to 
 his toilet, Sally sat by the fire in her shift, nursing Louisa, 
 and giving Billy instructions as to the care of her boots. 
 
 "Now mind ycr don t spile them, an be sure an 
 tike em orf if yer goes on the grass." 
 
 " Yaas, an I won t iver go fishing in them,"
 
 200 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 "Yer d better not. Wy, thct d spile cm et onst." 
 
 Mrs. Catchpole was trying to fasten a paper collar 
 round his neck while he kept twisting his head that he 
 might smile at Louisa. But Louisa was peevish, and 
 refused to say good-bye, and even cried when he per 
 sisted in kissing her. Mrs. Catchpole remembered 
 when he had gone that she had forgotten to warn him not 
 to mention measles. 
 
 There was a long interval to wait after his toilet was 
 complete, but Billy walked off his excitement up and down 
 the broad thoroughfare, where he passed many of his 
 friends, but was too full of importance even to stop and 
 "pass the toime of diy." 
 
 The train was to go at eleven, but the children were 
 to meet at ten, in order to walk together to the station, 
 and as Billy turned the corner of Marshom Street, on his 
 way to the school-house, where they were to gather, he 
 saw the electric brougham glide up to the door. He 
 was too busy with his prospects to think of stopping, 
 although at any other time the "moto" had a strong 
 fascination for him. 
 
 Katherine was rarely out so early, but she had resolved 
 to see Elizabeth again, for the sight of her white face 
 had tormented her, and she was very anxious to try and 
 be of some comfort to her. She felt almost unnaturally 
 good when she got up half an hour earlier, and ate a very 
 hasty breakfast in order to get to Marshom Street and 
 return before Eric came to luncheon. 
 
 Her self-complacence was, however, somewhat damped 
 when she found Elizabeth still strange and distant, and 
 it seemed as though no endearments would break down 
 the barrier which had been so suddenly built up between 
 them. 
 
 "Does she think I neglected her?" thought Katherine, 
 and she began elaborately giving Elizabeth all sorts of
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 201 
 
 reasons why so long an interval had elapsed between 
 her visits. 
 
 "I did not expect you," said Elizabeth, "don t trouble 
 to tell me. I was not disappointed, because I never 
 thought you would come." 
 
 Katherine felt impatient. Why should she take the 
 trouble to get up so early and come right across London 
 to sympathize with Elizabeth, and then be snubbed and 
 snapped at in this way ? But she felt so strong a belief 
 in her powers to win that she was not easily baffled, but 
 redoubled her endeavors to recapture Elizabeth, though 
 without any seeming success. 
 
 Presently Martha opened the door, and in came Father 
 Martin. Elizabeth introduced him, but he did not catch 
 her name. He bowed and began asking her if she was 
 familiar with that part of London. 
 
 She talked enthusiastically of Elizabeth and her work, 
 and of the admiration she had for all who lived in "these 
 horrible streets." 
 
 He smiled one of his slow smiles, and looked at her 
 with his kind eyes. 
 
 "We are not to be pitied," he said; "we have our 
 compensations, haven t we, Elizabeth?" 
 
 "Oh, of course you must feel all the good you are 
 doing," she answered quickly. "I know that must make 
 you happy, but the misery and dirt and smells would kill me." 
 
 "Oh no, they wouldn t; you would get used to them," 
 he said. "What you never get used to, is the joy of 
 being loved by these dear folk. That s a thing no one 
 ever tires of; it makes up for everything. You think 
 so, don t you?" he said, turning to Elizabeth. She did 
 not answer. 
 
 Katherine colored. 
 
 "Yes, I can understand no one would tire of that," 
 she said.
 
 202 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 There was a pause. The sun had come out and 
 shone into the little room, lighting up the maroon paper 
 with pale patches of light. The court was more silent 
 than usual, and Katherine began to think of going. 
 She certainly had had no success with Elizabeth, but 
 she liked this kind old man. 
 
 Suddenly the air was filled with a hoarse cry, and 
 the sound of hurrying feet. 
 
 "Full account of the ingigement at the Vaal River! 
 List of the killed and wounded!" and then a little fainter 
 came the words from a greater distance, "Full account of 
 the " 
 
 Father Martin went to the door, and called the boy 
 back, and brought in the pink paper, and looking down 
 the long list, he began slowly reading aloud : 
 
 "Killed, the Hon. C. Grover, Major Hollowell, Captain 
 Sir John Cliffe, Lieutenant - but Katherine had 
 seized the paper from his hand. 
 
 "Where, where? Let me see. It isn t true it can t 
 be! Let me see! Oh, my God! My God!" As her 
 eye caught the words she sank down beside the table 
 with a long wailing cry. 
 
 The old priest bent his head and clasped his hands. 
 There was a silence, and then Elizabeth knelt beside 
 her and put her arms round her, and whispered some 
 thing to Father Martin. 
 
 Katherine laid her head on Elizabeth s shoulder like 
 a sick child, and let her lead her to the armchair. She 
 seemed dazed unable to hear or see. She did not cry, 
 but her face was set and white. 
 
 "Killed! Jack killed?" she said, and looked up 
 with wide-open, startled eyes. 
 
 Father Martin knelt down beside her. He was praying 
 in a low voice. Then he turned to Elizabeth, and 
 said:
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 203 
 
 "Go home with her." He stooped and took her 
 hand ; it lay limp in his. 
 
 "My child," he said, "I am a stranger to you, but 
 I am a priest, and my mission is to help men and women 
 in all times of sorrow. If I can be of comfort to you, 
 may I come to you at any time? God bless you and 
 strengthen you, and help you to understand that there is 
 no death, it is only life which has moved on a little faster, 
 for a while, than we can travel." 
 
 He spoke with the conviction of one who knows, and 
 Katherine listened like a child learning a new lesson. 
 
 Then he was gone. She got up from her chair; she 
 was deadly white, but she stood very straight, and her 
 voice was calm. 
 
 "Elizabeth, I must go." 
 
 "The telephone, miss," said Martha, as she put her 
 head into the room, as the imperious bell rang in the 
 passage. Elizabeth reluctantly went out. The door 
 stood open, and Katherine heard her say in answer to 
 the inaudible question: 
 
 "Lady Cliffe is here; she is coming now." 
 
 Katherine went into the passage and stood beside 
 her. She took the instrument from Elizabeth s hand 
 and listened. 
 
 "It is my mother," she said. 
 
 "Get her to come soon. Don t tell her, but I have 
 bad news." 
 
 Lady Hornden did not know the listener had changed. 
 
 "I know it," answered Katherine, "Jack s dead," 
 and she laid the receiver down. 
 
 "Jack s dead! Jack s dead!" That was what the 
 throb of the electric motor said to her, "Jack s dead!" 
 She heard it above the grinding traffic. 
 
 The vivid remembrance of his strong, straight figure 
 filled her mind. Where was he now? Under the green
 
 204 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 veldt. How did he die? Did he suffer? Did he think 
 of her? Other memories crowded in, but she thrust 
 them out. The thought of Eric seemed far away; the 
 last months were blotted out gone. Only Jack filled 
 her thoughts. 
 
 Elizabeth put her arm round her. It was a comfort 
 to feel some human care was near her. She did not 
 speak; she only sat looking dumbly out until they reached 
 Hill Street. 
 
 "Come again soon," she said, as she kissed Elizabeth. 
 
 "I am so, so sorry for you. If I can be any help I 
 will come," she answered, "but it is worse for me than 
 for you, if you only knew." 
 
 "What a hatefully selfish thing to have said," thought 
 Elizabeth, as she saw Katherine totter into the house 
 to meet Lady Hornden, \vho clasped her in her arms. 
 Then she turned away, and took the underground back 
 to East London, but all the way she felt strong remorse 
 for the wretched egotism of her last words, and hoped 
 Katherine had not heard them. 
 
 Elizabeth returned to Marshom Street with despair 
 in her heart. She imagined that her trouble mainly 
 arose from the fact that she had behaved in a crisis with 
 what she called despicable \veakness, but the certainty 
 that Jack s death would mean the final destruction to 
 her hope, was really at the bottom of her misery. 
 
 She went into her little bedroom to take off her hat, 
 and sat down upon the side of her bed. The events 
 of the last few hours passed before her. The intense 
 pity that she had felt for Katherine began to give way 
 to a feeling of resentment. It was certainly a shock, 
 but it only meant that she would be free to marry the 
 man with whom she had been flirting for weeks. The 
 man who lay dead had really been displaced long ago, 
 and after all the uncertainty, after all the hopes and the
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 205 
 
 fears, after all Eric would marry this woman. Then 
 she looked up, and saw the crucifix hanging on the bare 
 wall above her bed. I have not even religion left, she 
 thought, for I have hatred in my heart. If I knew what 
 love really is, I suppose I should be glad that he will be 
 happy. But I can t, I can t, I am so bad. And she 
 threw herself on her knees and tried to pray. 
 
 Presently she heard Martha s voice calling to her. 
 
 "Miss Elizabeth, please to come down, you are wanted. 
 Something s appened while you was out. They want 
 you quick." 
 
 "It s only a fight," she thought, as she got up from 
 her knees and put on her hat. "Surely I might be 
 spared more horrible times! I am coming," she called. 
 "Tell them I am coming."
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 KATHERINE had been put to bed. In moments of great 
 sorrow, when action is of no use, it is probably the most 
 comforting place, as one can feign sleep which stills talk, 
 and talk at such times is the one intolerable thing. 
 
 Lady Hornden rustled in and out on tip-toe, bringing 
 in port wine and jelly, food which is generally believed 
 to be appropriate in times of affliction. Then she would 
 clasp Katherine in her arms, and tell her that life still 
 held much happiness, and that her beautiful darling 
 would get over it. It was the shock that was so cruel. 
 
 She spoke in loud whispers, came back into the room 
 after she had left it to draw blinds down, or to put wood 
 on the fire, for Katherine had shivered with the cold that 
 comes from desolation. Then she would turn to the bed 
 again to see if she slept, but she lay still and white, with 
 wide-opened eyes which looked at nothing. 
 
 "If she would only cry," she said to the maid. "It 
 is so unnatural; I have cried without ceasing ever since 
 I heard it." 
 
 By-and-by the servant came to tell her Mr. Erring- 
 ton was m the drawing-room. She hesitated what 
 she had better do, whether she would go down to him 
 or send him a message, but finally settled to see him. 
 She felt a little nervous, went to the glass and arranged 
 her hair, and powdered her face. It was an awkward 
 interview she thought; but it s no use arranging what 
 to say, it s better to trust to the spur of the moment. 
 
 As she opened the drawing-room door she saw at 
 once by the startled look on Eric s face that he had not 
 
 206
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 207 
 
 heard the news, and could not understand her presence 
 there. She came across the room with her hand stretched 
 out, held his for a moment, then sank into a chair and 
 covered her face. 
 
 "I see you have not heard," she whispered. 
 
 "Heard what? Is Lady Cliffe ill? Heard what?" 
 
 "The tragic news," she said. "We are overwhelmed. 
 Read that," and she put the telegram into his hand. 
 He went to the window. There was a pause. 
 
 "Great Scott!" he said under his breath. The words 
 swam before his eyes. Katherine free ? Was it possible ? 
 Was he after all to have this unspeakable luck - Then 
 the remembrance of Jack came to him, the sound of his 
 voice as he held him when he was wounded on the veldt, 
 the strong figure, so full of exuberant vitality, and with 
 it the remembrance of the dead he had seen lying with 
 upturned faces came before him; the still, stiff figures, 
 with all individuality gone. Then the thought of Kath 
 erine came back to him, the slender figure, the beautiful 
 face. How did she feel? Did her love for him over 
 master at this moment all other feeling? He turned 
 to Lady Hornden, whose head was bowed, although 
 he knew she had been watching him until the moment 
 he looked round at her. 
 
 "This is awful," he said, "Poor old boy! The best 
 man and the best soldier I have ever known. How is 
 Lady Cliffe ? When did she hear it ? " 
 
 "She saw it in the paper. Poor darling! She is 
 utterly overwhelmed, she hardly speaks, and is as white 
 as a lily-blossom. Of course, I am utterly heartbroken. 
 The sight of her grief overwhelms me. He was the 
 best husband, and the best son," and she buried her 
 head in the soft cushion and cried. 
 
 Eric felt uncomfortable. He was sure Katherine 
 would wish to see him, was longing for his comfort,
 
 208 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 and yet he did not know how to convey this to Lady 
 Hornden. 
 
 " Can I be of any use to Lady Cliffe?" he said. 
 
 "Thank you," said Lady Hornden. "I have asked 
 my brother to go to the War Office to hear particulars, 
 and see about things. No, I don t think there is anything." 
 
 "Will you tell Lady Cliffe I am ready to do her bidding, 
 if she would care for me to come if she asks for me?" 
 
 "She has not mentioned you," said Lady Hornden, 
 secretly delighted to be able to say it. "If she does, 
 I will tell her." 
 
 Eric felt puzzled. " She is probably dazed," he thought. 
 "I will go home and write to her. She will want me 
 when she has recovered from the shock." He felt a 
 sense of proprietorship which made conventionalities 
 seem intolerable. He wanted to break them down as 
 soon as possible, to assert the supremacy which he felt 
 was his right. Why should anyone stand between him 
 and Katherine? With difficulty he mastered his re 
 sentment, and replied: "Oh, of course she can think 
 of nothing yet, but tell her I am ready at any time to do 
 anything for her." Then he questioned her as to how 
 Katherine had heard the news. 
 
 "She was at some charitable place in the East End," 
 said Lady Hornden. "I don t quite know what. A 
 lady answered me through the telephone." 
 
 The color came into Eric s face. So she heard the 
 news of Jack s death at Elizabeth s! How extraordinary 
 life is. He wondered what had passed between the 
 two women; how Elizabeth had behaved; what Kath 
 erine had said? 
 
 He listened to Lady Hornden s explanation of her 
 own feelings after the telegram; her fears of being too 
 late; how she meant to break it to Katherine; her agony 
 at finding she already knew, but how her love for Jack,
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 209 
 
 and her own great grief, had to be smothered on account 
 of Katherine, to whom she was now everything. Then 
 his mind reverted to the strange coincidence at Marshom 
 Street. 
 
 "How extraordinary life is!" he said again, as he 
 shut the front door. 
 
 Katherine did not recover strength. Doctors came 
 and went. They said Lady Cliffe s nervous system 
 had undergone a severe shock, and prescribed a rest 
 cure. For days Katherine lay in bed listless and silent. 
 She asked for no one, and she cared for nothing. Through 
 the waking hours, when her mind turned to the memories 
 of the past months, she tried to slam the door on the 
 recollection, and to shut it out as completely as she had 
 excluded all remembrance of Jack during those days 
 with Eric, but she found it so difficult that she set to work 
 to make herself believe that she had never felt anything 
 more for him than pity and friendship. 
 
 When the remembrance of his words and his look 
 returned to her, she told herself that she had renounced 
 him forever. Jack seemed to her more present than 
 when he was really living. She had a strong feeling 
 that now he knew all she was feeling and doing, and 
 that she did not mean to disappoint him. The belief 
 she had in his goodness made her detest the thought 
 that she had been treacherous or unfaithful, and Eric, 
 judged by Jack s standard, lost considerably in her 
 estimation. 
 
 Her future seemed to her clear. She would spend 
 it in a dignified solitude. She was never happy unless 
 she could place herself in a position where she could 
 fulfil the role which appealed to her at the time. With 
 Eric the tie had been one of aesthetic cultured intimacy 
 she would not call it love. Now life had changed. She 
 would go away and live among Jack s tenants, a solitary 
 14
 
 210 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 and pathetic figure, bringing happiness to others, though 
 life held no more happiness for her. When once she 
 had thus framed herself, she began, almost unconsciously, 
 filling in details she would dress always in black, close- 
 fitting, with long clinging lines. 
 
 She must have one interview with Eric and tell him 
 that to expiate the past they must part forever. Jack 
 would know that she had done this for him. She felt 
 sure that, unseen, he would be present at the parting. 
 A myth was gradually forming round the memory of the 
 pleasant matter-of-fact Englishman, with the true heart 
 and guileless nature, and he was taking on in her memory 
 complicated forms and subtle qualities which he had 
 never possessed. 
 
 Lady Hornden was at her wits end; she could not 
 understand the situation. If Katherine would only 
 talk, would only give her some idea of what she intended 
 to do. She was puzzled because she did not ask for 
 Eric. In one way she was of course glad, but on the 
 other hand, when she saw her so wan and thin and life 
 less, she would almost rather have heard her ask for him 
 and desire his presence, than lie there day after day, 
 apparently wanting nothing on earth. 
 
 "It is really maddening to me as a mother," she ex 
 claimed to Mr. Farningham, "to feel so absolutely help 
 less. To show you how bad things are, I can t interest 
 her, even in her mourning. I got Vendre to come from 
 Paris with the most divine black tea-gowns, and she 
 would not look at them, and said when she was better 
 she was going to Freeder, who makes all those trapsey 
 high-art clothes. It s despairing!" And she clasped 
 her hands. "I told her the other day that I was sure 
 it would do her good if I asked a few people to dinner, 
 really intimate friends who would understand if she 
 laughed a little, and not be ill-natured, but she only
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 211 
 
 seemed vexed, and I dropped the subject. It s wearing 
 me out." 
 
 "It s most trying," said Mr. Farningham soothingly, 
 "but dear Lady Cliffe never does anything ordinary 
 or expected. Everybody was saying that of course 
 poor Sir John s death would not come as a great grief, 
 but they were wrong, for really she is much more cut 
 up than Lady Burley, who positively worshipped her 
 husband." 
 
 "You must be a fool, and so must everybody who 
 doesn t see that Katherine adored Jack." Lady Horn- 
 den was really annoyed. "Lady Burley," she said, 
 "showed her grief in a sort of middle-class meowling 
 way all the time he was away, which would have been 
 impossible to Katherine; but now I should like to know 
 if the ill-natured idiots are not satisfied that Katherine 
 is really broken-hearted." 
 
 "They ought to be," said Mr. Farningham, feeling 
 he had made a faux pas. "I told the Duchess of Lowest- 
 oft the other day that Lady Cliffe had not seen Errington, 
 and that she lay dangerously ill and would see no one." 
 
 "What did she say?" said Lady Hornden, a little 
 mollified. 
 
 "Oh, she said she supposed she would recover in 
 time. She is very prosaic, you know, and can never 
 understand anything thrilling." He did not add that 
 he and the duchess had arranged just how long a time 
 would elapse before Katherine married again, and that 
 he had added that he thought it very clever of Katherine 
 to keep Eric at a distance and not to fall at his feet like 
 a ripe plum. 
 
 During the third week after the news of Jack s death, 
 a letter came to Katherine, written two days before 
 he was killed. She held the envelope with the well- 
 known writing in her hand.
 
 212 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 "May I be alone, please?" she said to her mother, 
 who at once burst into tears, and said it was not natural. 
 
 She would surely want to have read it, she thought, 
 leaning oh her mother s breast, but Katherine was silent, 
 and she felt she had no choice but to fulfil her wish. 
 
 The letter lay before her, the last she would ever 
 get. With a pinching feeling at her heart she remem 
 bered that sometimes lately when they had come, she 
 had gone out before opening them, and left them on the 
 hall table. She took up the blue envelope and kissed 
 it. 
 
 "Oh, Jack," she said, as she stroked it softly, "I do 
 love you; you believe it, don t you?" But the ticking 
 of the clock was the only answering sound. Then her 
 thin white hands tore open the cover, and she took the 
 letter out and read it. 
 
 "Mv DARLING, 
 
 "I must write you a very short letter, as I am pushed 
 for time. We have just come out of a little fight, not 
 interesting, and hardly to be called a fight, more like a game 
 of long bowls with guns. We had very few casualties. 
 I was unfortunate enough to be next to a man fairly 
 squashed by a shell. He was sitting on a wagon, poor 
 dog! and the shell landed full in his chest. They took 
 him away in a sack. I don t know why I tell you, only, 
 I suppose, because the horrid sight is still so vivid. I 
 am all right. I have ridden 150 miles in six days, and 
 am as fit as a fiddle. 
 
 "I am sending you this early, as, thank goodness, we 
 are on the move again. The Guards went to-day, look 
 ing splendid, and I go to-morrow at 4 A.M. If only the 
 Boers will stand anywhere, there will be an end of it, 
 but I am afraid we shan t have any more big battles, 
 and if so we shall go dragging on. As the men passed
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 213 
 
 to-day I heard a Tommy say, we shall all be dead soon. 
 It s true of thousands, but the rest will do the job O.K. 
 "Take care of your dear self, and don t forget your 
 
 "Loving old 
 
 " JACK. 
 
 "P.S. Got the cigarettes all right and the chocolate 
 and soap, and blessed you a thousand times." 
 
 The postscript went home like a knife. Jack s sister 
 had sent these things. She had meant to do it, but had 
 put off going to the shops. The letter seemed so living. 
 Was it possible that since he had written it, his hand 
 was stiff and cold. She shut her eyes and tried to picture 
 him dead. She had done so many times before, but the 
 remembrance of his voice or his laugh was much more 
 present. 
 
 She put the thin blue paper down again and lay back. 
 She could not cry, only the dull heartache was physical 
 pain, and she pressed both her hands to her side, and 
 felt faint and giddy. 
 
 Lady Hornden soon rustled into the room again with 
 the nurse, bringing beef-tea and toast, and she was almost 
 thankful for the break in the unending sadness of her 
 thoughts. 
 
 At length Katherine recovered sufficiently to leave 
 her bed and to go downstairs. With a return to daily 
 life, she knew that she must see Eric and tell him how 
 things must stand between them in the future. 
 
 He had written to her several times, very tender and 
 considerate letters. She had only scribbled her thanks 
 in pencil, and had not attempted to answer them. He 
 looked at the shaky handwriting with mixed feelings, 
 pity for the poor prostrate little body, and some impatience 
 with the weakness that could not shake off the physical
 
 214 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 effects of a shock, which could have no deep mental 
 meaning. 
 
 At last he heard, on his daily enquiries at the house, 
 that she was able to come downstairs, and he knew 
 that the hour of their meeting would not be long delayed. 
 It was therefore no surprise to him to get a telegram 
 asking him to call next day at five o clock. 
 
 Katherine constantly corresponded by telegram. It 
 saved trouble, and on this occasion she did so, because 
 it avoided definite expressions. She spent the next 
 morning in mentally rehearsing the scene between herself 
 and Eric. She would not prolong it, she thought, but 
 briefly tell him her determination as regarded the future. 
 She would dwell as little as possible on anything that had 
 happened in the past. It was the great moment of her 
 expiation, she felt, and she was preparing for the sacrifice, 
 and yet so great had been the revulsion caused by the 
 news of Jack s death, that she knew in her own soul that, 
 at that moment, it was no sacrifice. 
 
 For the first time for weeks she took an almost feverish 
 interest in her dress, arranged her hair with care, and 
 went downstairs looking pale and transparent, but with 
 an ethereal beauty which gave her added charm. 
 
 She stood by the window waiting for Eric to come. 
 The moments seemed days. What could she say to 
 him? He would take so much for granted. 
 
 The door opened, and Mr. Errington was announced. 
 She turned as he came in, and held out her hands, a 
 slender figure in her long black drapery, with sleeves 
 which reached barely to the elbow, showing her arms 
 thin and white. Her face w^ore an expression which 
 Eric at once recognized as foreign to his remembrance 
 of her. 
 
 "Are you better?" he said, eagerly seizing her hand 
 and kissing it, and holding it between both his
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 215 
 
 own. "I have been mad with anxiety. Are you really 
 stronger?" 
 
 "Yes," answered Katherine in a voice so low it was 
 almost a whisper. She felt as though she was being 
 strangled. Now that he stood before her and looked 
 at her with his appealing eyes, what could she say ? 
 
 "Sit down," said Eric, with an expression of com 
 mand. "Don t stand, it s bad for you. Don t tell 
 me anything, I know it all; I understand it all. Only 
 tell me about yourself, your health, your wishes." 
 
 She sat down at a little distance from him. 
 
 "Eric," she said, looking up, "I can t tell you all 
 that has happened, but I see and know I ought never 
 to have let you come as you did. I ought not to have 
 allowed your friendship to make people think I did 
 not care for Jack, because I did really." The last words 
 were said very feebly, she hardly knew how to get them 
 out. Eric was watching her. 
 
 At first he felt an almost uncontrollable impatience. 
 Then as he saw her so frail a thing, he knew this could 
 only be a phase that would pass, if he played carefully. 
 He would not draw the line to snapping point, but let 
 her expend this mood, and then she would be his. 
 
 "Of course no one really thought that," said Eric. 
 The words were a great effort. "Everybody knew 
 you were sorry for me, because I was lonely and ill. 
 Dear old Jack himself would have been the first to under 
 stand." 
 
 Katherine caught at his words with new hope. 
 
 "Yes," he said, "you re right; he would, wouldn t 
 he?" and the situation seemed to adjust itself in a way 
 it had not done before. Then she began to explain 
 her plans, speaking very fast, and playing nervously 
 with her chain. 
 
 "Well, that seems wise," said Eric, when she paused.
 
 216 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 "You will go into the country, as you say. I believe 
 that is probably best. After all, solitude teaches us 
 many lessons we can t learn otherwise." 
 
 Katherine looked up startled. Was he prepared 
 to take her great renunciation so lightly? The scene 
 somehow was not what she had expected. She wondered 
 vaguely why she did not find it a relief, but somehow 
 she did not. 
 
 "Jack s home will be the best place," he continued. 
 "I think I understand all you feel, only remember, when 
 you want me, I am on sentry duty out in the world, watch 
 ing to do your bidding." 
 
 "He certainly has wonderful qualities," said Kath 
 erine when he was gone. "So much intuition and tender 
 ness. He never needs one to put dots on the i s and to 
 cross the t s; he understands, and fills in all the blanks." 
 
 "Poor little soul!" said Eric, as he sat looking out 
 into the street from the windows of his club. "She 
 is in a very exaltee state, but she will come back to the 
 every-day world; only I must have patience; and that s 
 the very devil." 
 
 After her interview with Eric, Katherine sent a note 
 to Elizabeth, asking her to come and see her, and, some 
 what against the grain, Elizabeth obeyed the summons. 
 She was shown into Lady Cliffe s long low room lined 
 with oak. A fire burned in the hearth between beautiful 
 Italian dogs, and above it, let into the woodwork of the 
 chimney-piece, was a portrait by Van Dyck of a woman 
 in white satin and fur. Some low bookshelves ran along 
 the wall below the square oak panelling, and a green 
 damask sofa was wheeled near the fire, and by its side 
 stood a table with hot-house flowers in silver cups, among 
 the many bibelots and ornaments. 
 
 Katherine came in almost directly, and took Elizabeth s 
 hand and kissed her, and both sat down on the sofa.
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 217 
 
 "Oh, Saint Clare," she said, "I can t talk about it 
 all, but I m going away from London, and I want your 
 advice. I m going to live in the country and try to 
 help the people. I shall be all alone all the rest of my 
 life, and I want to try to make somebody else happier." 
 
 She began explaining many schemes. Elizabeth 
 listened. She was half carried away by Katherine s 
 enthusiasm, and half distrusted the duration of her 
 resolves. 
 
 "Michael would say," she said, after listening to 
 plans for almshouses, and children s homes, and refuges, 
 "that you had better go round your own cottages and 
 look after the water and the drains, and the number of 
 rooms, and find out what rent they pay." 
 
 "Oh, what a dull, tiresome person he must be," said 
 Katherine. "The agent does that, doesn t he? I 
 don t want to become a sort of sanitary inspector." 
 
 " Do go down first and see it all. Don t fix on anything 
 definite till you get there, and then you will judge better. 
 Mr. Fane could help you splendidly," said Elizabeth, 
 "and so could Father Martin." 
 
 "That dear man I met that day?" said Katherine. 
 "Oh, I loved him. Do you think he would?" 
 
 "I know he would," she said. 
 
 Katherine was rather damped by Elizabeth s very 
 practical advice. She had expected to find her en 
 thusiastic over the schemes she proposed, and she did 
 not at all like her very prosy view. Cottages? Of 
 course they would be all right, they had no poetry or 
 charm; but long, low almshouses, with a beautiful line 
 of roof, a harbor of refuge for the old and sad, like Walker s 
 charming picture that was delightful. "They get into 
 grooves, these good people," she thought, "but I fancied 
 Elizabeth had more imagination. I must see Lady 
 Augusta, and hear what she says."
 
 218 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 All the while Katherine was talking, Elizabeth 
 wondered what part Eric took in all this. She could 
 not bring herself to ask, but Katherine made no allusion 
 to him, and Elizabeth could not understand it, and went 
 away completely mystified.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 % 
 
 BILLY stood on the platform among the screaming, 
 shouting children, on his best behavior, at the railway 
 station. He remained immovable where he was told to 
 stand, with his hands behind his back, watching the 
 trains come and go. When the older children crowded 
 into the carriage Billy waited till they were all in, and 
 then sat down quietly beside the master in whose care 
 they were to be. The young man tried to talk to him, 
 but Billy was shy. He sat with his arms folded, looking 
 out of the window. 
 
 At last their station was reached, and the whole party 
 rushed out in mad disorder. A wagon had been sent 
 to meet them, and they clambered in over wheels and 
 sides, like a swarm of ants. Billy secured a seat on the 
 front beside the master. 
 
 The wagon started and away they went, rumbling 
 through the little town. It was a quaint old town, little 
 more than a village, with red-roofed houses and narrow 
 streets. The sky was unclouded blue, and the whole 
 scene was full of vivid color to Billy s eyes. Trees grew 
 in all sorts of unlikely places. Here a big chestnut-tree, 
 with golden and pale-green leaves, threw its shade over a 
 red gabled roof. There a row of pollard elms stood in 
 the open street. There were still flowers, Michaelmas 
 daisies and late-blooming roses, in the little patches of 
 garden. One rose he saw had been pushed through the 
 railings, and nodded its head in the street. The mild 
 air was warm, and the smell of the earth, and leaves, 
 
 219
 
 220 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 intoxicated him. He leaned back in his seat and gave 
 way to uproarious laughter. 
 
 "What s the matter with you, youngster?" asked 
 the master. 
 
 "Nufink," said Billy; but he changed his laugh to 
 a silent smile. It was all that they had told him and 
 more, this wonderful country. He could see the fields 
 velvety green, the hedgerows cool and shady. The 
 creak of the wagon was music to him. What would 
 Sally say if she could see him now ? Then he remembered 
 Louisa, and the picture clouded over. 
 
 "Our biby s gort measles," he said sadly, looking 
 into the master s face. 
 
 "What?" said the master. 
 
 Billy repeated his remark in a frightened voice. 
 
 "Where? \Vhen? Why was this not known before ?" 
 the master raved. 
 
 Billy was aghast. He told him all about Louisa, 
 with a growing fear that he had made a mistake. In 
 less than two minutes he was standing on the road watch 
 ing the wagon slowly creak up the hill without him. 
 
 "Come along, youngster," said the master, "I must 
 send a telegram; you ll have to go home." 
 
 The wagon turned the corner. Billy silently watched 
 it. Was this to be the end of his dreams? Was it for 
 this he had got up early and bathed in the bucket ? There 
 was no more joy in Sally s boots, in the new paper collar, 
 or the bright blue bow. There were the fields before 
 his eyes, and hedgerows and flowers. Bears, he knew, 
 were waiting in the woods, and fish in the river. The 
 sun shone gaily on the little town, but the wagon had gone, 
 and Billy s sorrow had almost stunned him. 
 
 Mrs. Catchpole sat on the bed fanning herself with 
 her apron. She had just come back from "The Red 
 Lion," where she had been drinking with a neighbor.
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 221 
 
 Louisa, who was declared by her mother to be con 
 valescent, sat on Sally s knee by the open window, watch 
 ing with the vacant eyes of extreme youth the children 
 at play in the court below. 
 
 "Lord, ain t it ot?" said Mrs. Catchpole. "Who d 
 think as it were October?" 
 
 "Yaas," said Sally absently. She was thinking of 
 Billy, and wondering how far he would be on his journey, 
 wishing a little enviously that she could have gone too. 
 
 "I m as dry as ole Any eself," went on Mrs. Catch- 
 pole. 
 
 Sally did not reply. Mrs. Catchpole rose. 
 
 " Ere, Sal, cut acrorst ter The Lion, an bring me 
 a pint of arf an arf. Arst the man ter stick the liabel 
 on, an yer can git it." 
 
 Sally rose reluctantly, and laid Louisa on the end 
 of the bed which stretched across the window. 
 
 "Waal, then, yer must see ter the biby while I m 
 awiy," she said, as she took a can from the table and 
 departed for the beer. She walked leisurely, for her 
 thoughts were still absorbed in the longing to share 
 Billy s outing. 
 
 Sally had barely left the room when Louisa began 
 to cry. It w r as bad enough to have measles, but to be 
 suddenly put down flat on a bed out of the nice fresh 
 air, was more than a baby could bear, and she howled 
 loudly. 
 
 Mrs. Catchpole was too hot to be bothered with nursing 
 the child, so she took the dirty pillow from the other end 
 of the bed, and sat her on it, on a level with the window- 
 sill. 
 
 "There, now, chuck that rar, and behive yerself," 
 she said, and seated herself once more on the bed. 
 
 Sally sauntered along, swinging the can by her side. 
 At the end of the court she met Polly, and stopped to
 
 222 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 speak to her. Polly was selling lemons, and too busy 
 to talk. Sally watched her for a few minutes, and then 
 strolled into the public-house. Coming back she stopped 
 again, this time to watch a fight, but the arrival of a 
 policeman put an end to the dispute. She turned the 
 corner of the court, and was lazily proceeding on her 
 homeward way, when a shrill scream of terror startled 
 her. She looked up just in time to see a fluttering bundle 
 fall from an open window, to hear a sickening thud as it 
 struck the pavement. A moment later the court was 
 crowded with people. 
 
 "Tike it ter the orspital!" shouted one. 
 
 "Go for a copper," shouted another. 
 
 Sally pushed her way through the crowd. She knew 
 what it meant. That thud was throbbing in her ears. 
 She pushed roughly past the people. It was her baby, 
 her very own ; no one had a right to touch it but she. 
 
 When she reached the centre of the crowd she saw 
 Mrs. Catchpole sitting on the pavement, with the still 
 body of Louisa on her lap. 
 
 It must have been quite three hours later, when the 
 excitement had died away, that Sally, sitting on the 
 bed in the empty room, felt an odd stiffness in her hand 
 she looked down, the can of beer was still clutched in 
 her fingers. 
 
 They had taken the shattered little body away. Mrs. 
 Catchpole was next door with Mrs. Green, being con 
 soled with repeated half-pints. Outside the sun still 
 shone with the pale gleam of an autumn evening. The 
 children had exhausted the subject of the accident and 
 had gone back to their games. Sally looked at them 
 with a far-away feeling of unreality. She saw a small 
 boy come slouching up the court, unnoticed by the other 
 children. She thought she knew him, there was some 
 thing familiar about the blue bow at his neck. He turned
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 223 
 
 in at the street door. She drew back into the room and 
 looked round in a quick, frightened way. He was 
 coming upstairs. 
 
 "Billy, it warn t my blime," she said with a little 
 whine, as the door opened and he came in. 
 
 Elizabeth found them huddled together on the bed. 
 Neither cried, but there was a look in their faces which 
 told a sorrow deeper than tears. 
 
 She sat down between them and put her arm round 
 each. She tried to tell them of the angel that had taken 
 Louisa in kind, strong arms away above the grimy 
 streets and smoky chimneys. 
 
 "I expect it s like the country," said Billy, with a dry 
 sob. 
 
 The darkness gathered, but she sat on, and they clung 
 to her with their little rough grimy hands. Her own 
 heartache taught her to understand better, and as she 
 walked home she felt that somehow this had happened 
 before, and recollected the child under the stars the 
 night Eric sailed. 
 
 "Is that what sorrow is for?" she thought. 
 
 Two days afterward Mrs. Catchpole was blocking 
 up the narrow passage in the house in Marshom Street 
 with her big body. 
 
 "Well, miss," she said, "I ain t got nofink ter bury 
 er with, I ain t, it s the Lord s truf." And she wiped 
 her inflamed eyes on her ragged apron. 
 
 "Now Billy and Sal is insured, an I was allays a 
 meanin to insure the por biby, but Mr. Catchpole, e s 
 bin aout a work, an I that porly iver since she was borned, 
 I hain t done a stroke, as trew as I lives." 
 
 Elizabeth felt convinced that the last fact could be 
 proved to the hilt. 
 
 "Well, you see, miss, it s this wiy. I did siy ter Mrs. 
 Finchley, thet s my landlidy, I says, I ll ev ter go ter
 
 224 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 the parish abaout er. I ain t got enuf for tcr bury 
 cr, and she says Don t you do that, Mrs. Catchpolc, 
 you ll regret it all the diys of yer loife, she says. And 
 my Billy and Sal, they was near ravin abaout it, 
 and says as they d go awiy if Louisa isn t buried decent. 
 So I goes ter Mr. Wright, in the Cornford Road, an I 
 says, What ll yer do it for? An e says, Three poun 
 ten under the feet, an I says, If I can get the money 
 I m done with you, I says, for under the feet, you see, 
 miss, for a hinfant is quite respectable." 
 
 Elizabeth listened. She was too well acquainted 
 with the sight of constant funerals not to know that 
 "under the feet" meant the combination of hearse and 
 carriage which tucks the coffin under the driver s box. 
 She hesitated. She was always strongly warned by 
 Miss Osterley to give no funeral money, but this once, 
 she thought, just once; and the remembrance of the two 
 children overcame her scruples. 
 
 "I ll give you two pounds toward it, Mrs. Catch- 
 pole, if you can find the other thirty shillings." 
 
 "I dare say I could do that much," said Mrs. Catch- 
 pole, carefully concealing her content; "I m sure I m 
 very griteful to yer." And the business over, Mrs. 
 Catchpole fell to weeping again, as was proper for a 
 mother in bereavement. 
 
 That matter settled, Elizabeth went back to her room, 
 but the next Saturday, as she went out on her rounds, 
 she passed a black carriage with the driver wearing a 
 white streamer, black figures inside, and two little faces 
 gazing from the window. It was an hour of importance 
 and pride. The drive up the long road past all sorts of 
 familiar faces, such as the church and the school, was 
 of such supreme interest, that, for a time, pleasure almost 
 overmastered pain; and it was only when the grand 
 carriage had gone, and the black, lent for the occasion
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 225 
 
 by sympathetic neighbors, had gone too, that Billy and 
 Sally, wandering out into the court, realized the fact 
 again that Louisa was "awiy there under the ground," 
 and would never crow nor cry any more; and their arms 
 and hearts felt very empty. 
 
 "I shall be off on the doss a bit, Sal," said Billy. "I ll 
 come back, I promise yer, but this yer s orrible, and I 
 must git aout." 
 
 " Oh, Billy, mind you come back," sobbed Sal. 
 
 Michael Fane was at all times a busy man, with a 
 mind which gave itself whole-heartedly to the interest 
 of the hour. He had acquired a habit of work so stren 
 uous that deviation from his routine seemed to him a 
 waste of energy, and he had almost brought himself to 
 believe that any indulgence of his own tastes or affections 
 was equally a deflection from the straight line of self- 
 suppressing duty, which he followed relentlessly. 
 
 He had for Elizabeth and for -his mother so loyal a 
 devotion, that any sacrifice for their welfare which he 
 felt was right, would be to him not only possible, but 
 welcome. But he looked on his love for them rather 
 as a weakenss than a gain, and often denied himself 
 the delight he had in their society, because he had an 
 almost morbid dread of allowing pleasure to acquire 
 any power over him. He was not analytical about 
 himself, but if two ways were open, he generally felt it 
 right to take the one which afforded him least satisfaction. 
 
 He was unhappy about Elizabeth, when he allowed 
 himself to think. He saw that she was languid and 
 depressed, that she had less spring and vitality than 
 when she first came to London, that she had lost belief 
 in the outworking of remedies, which he held would 
 eventually do much to heal existing ills. He did not 
 know how to advise her, but in order to help her to over- 
 is
 
 226 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 come her depression, he was continually encouraging 
 her to do more work. He was puzzled to know where 
 the trouble lay. Was she still thinking of that fellow 
 Errington? That seemed to him to be almost a lack of 
 self-respect. What could she hope for from a man who 
 had deliberately left her from the most sordid motives? 
 Was the work she had undertaken distasteful? He 
 felt sure this could not be the case, as he saw daily the 
 evidence of her real love for the people among whom 
 she lived. 
 
 It was all an enigma. He would give worlds to shield 
 her from trouble, and yet he saw each day the look of 
 sadness become more habitual, and he turned back to 
 work with a dull ache, which seemed to him lamentable 
 weakness. 
 
 At last he decided to talk the matter out with Father 
 Martin. He found him late one Sunday evening when 
 church was over. He was sitting in his study by a fire 
 which his housekeeper had insisted on lighting, in spite 
 of his remonstrance that the season of fires was not yet. 
 He was very white, and the lines which seamed his face 
 were strongly marked in the flickering light, but the 
 smile with which he welcomed Michael made him look 
 almost young for a moment. 
 
 The two men sat together discussing Michael s errand 
 to Germany, the state of German factories, their system 
 of insurance, and some troublesome complications among 
 unions at home, when suddenly Michael said : 
 
 "The fact is, I did not come to discuss these things; 
 I came to talk to you about Elizabeth." 
 
 Father Martin looked up quickly. Then he said, 
 as he stooped to poke the fire: 
 
 "I am glad of that. I am not very happy about 
 her; she looks harassed and troubled." 
 
 Michael found the subject more difficult to tackle
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 227 
 
 than he had imagined, but he gave a short outline of 
 what he believed had happened at Ilbury. 
 
 "She was the most joyous child you could imagine," 
 he said, "till she met that young jackanapes who played 
 fast and loose with her, and then went off on the pretext, 
 I believe, that his uncle s fortune wasn t as great as he 
 thought; and now, I hear, that he has come back from 
 South Africa, and has been flirting with Lady Cliffe, 
 whose husband has just been killed." 
 
 "Poor child!" said Father Martin slowly. "But 
 Lady Cliffe was at Marshom Street the day she heard 
 of her husband s death. She was broken-hearted; I 
 don t think she can have been to blame." 
 
 "I don t know anything about her," said Michael, 
 "only I believe they were always together while her 
 husband was away. But it s Elizabeth I want to help. 
 What can be done? " and he glanced up eagerly. 
 
 Father Martin sat looking into the fire, his hands 
 on his knees, a figure bent and shabby, but with a head 
 which stood out against the darkness of the room, when 
 the light shone fitfully from the flames, with all the dignity 
 of one of Angelico s saints. 
 
 "Does she know you care?" he said after a while. 
 
 "I don t know," said Michael. "I never told her so." 
 
 "There are other ways beside speech," said Father 
 Martin. "Does she know you care to be with her? 
 Do you find time to have long talks?" 
 
 "I have very little time," said Michael, looking at 
 Father Martin wonderingly. "I am always hard pressed; 
 but Elizabeth knows that; she knows I never have a 
 moment, and she has very little time, too." 
 
 "But of course you have some leisure? You must 
 have that. Does she know that you consult her, care 
 for her opinion, get her help? Don t you understand 
 what I mean? To know that you are indispensable to
 
 228 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 another human being is the direct road to love. De 
 pendence is the first gate. Women are made with a 
 desire to help; it s the mother instinct in every real 
 woman." 
 
 Michael looked again at Father Martin. His brow 
 was knit; he was thinking hard. 
 
 "By Jove!" he said, "that s a new idea. No; when 
 I have been to her, I have always given her advice and 
 laid down the law. You see I have known her ever since 
 she was a little girl; it never occurred to me " 
 
 "No, I suppose not," said Father Martin smiling. 
 "It didn t occur to you that the little girl, grown into 
 a woman, is probably a great deal wiser than you are, 
 that she can protect you quite as much no, a great 
 deal better than you can protect her; that we are all 
 just the children of every good woman." 
 
 "Well, but what must I do to save her from this man?" 
 said Michael, as though anxious to come back to first 
 principles. 
 
 "Show her how necessary she is to you, that you lean 
 on her, want her, that the blank without her will be 
 unbearable. I expect she thinks now that you very 
 kindly spare her a little time when you can, in order to 
 give her good advice and keep her going along your lines." 
 
 "Yes, 1 " said Michael slowly, "I suppose she does." 
 
 "That will never make any woman love," said Father 
 Martin, looking into the fire again. "You have to ask 
 her to give, and you may get the greatest treasure the 
 world can bring you ; but treasure is sought for deep and 
 long; you can t turn it up with your foot, and if it is 
 worth finding, it is worth looking for." 
 
 "I expect I have been a horrible conceited prig," 
 said Michael, throwing himself back. "I seem to see 
 that I have. The question is whether I can ever undo it." 
 
 "No, not that, not that," said the old man slowly;
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 229 
 
 "only you ve put, what you think is your work, out of 
 proportion in your life. There are so many sorts of 
 work. It doesn t all mean grind. There is a beauti 
 ful tender work which some are given, and the great 
 mistake is to imagine that that doesn t matter. The 
 happiness of humanity is a splendid thing, but some 
 times it has to be thought out en bloc, sometimes just 
 for one person. But happiness, to bring it, to give it, 
 that is the great aim of life. The mediaevalists have 
 thought that suffering was the gift of God, but it is joy 
 to give which is the very essence of divine life, for it 
 contains the foundation of every good. Who could be 
 joyous who defrauded his brother, or soiled his soul, or 
 was cruel and bitter all these things kill joy. Only to 
 the child-heart is joy possible. I suppose it is uncon 
 scious superstition which still makes us mistrust hap 
 piness, and give a merit to suffering." 
 
 "I expect you are right; you always are. I will begin 
 again. God knows I don t know that I could ever make 
 her happy, but I d give my soul to try." 
 
 "Well try," said Father Martin. "Be human, and 
 make her feel she is wanted as much by you as by the 
 child in the court who clings to her." 
 
 "Thank you," said Michael, standing up. "If it 
 isn t too late, I ll try." 
 
 "God bless you," said Father Martin. "I wouldn t 
 say that, if I didn t feel that; though you are groping 
 about in the dark, and can t see Him, your heart is as true 
 to Him as the needle to the pole." 
 
 The two men shook hands, and Michael turned to 
 go. After he shut the door, the old man got up and 
 knelt at his prayer desk before the ivory crucifix, the 
 only beautiful thing in the grimy room, and thought of 
 the man and woman, in the immediate presence of the 
 God who is love.
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 Two months after Sir John Cliffe s death Major Outline 
 was invalided home ; he was an old friend of Lady Horn- 
 den s, and had known Katherine ever since she was a 
 child. He had written to tell her that he would himself 
 bring Jack s personal things. He felt sure that she would 
 rather he took charge of them, and therefore he would 
 keep them for her until he could give them to her. 
 
 He wired on the day he landed to say he would be 
 with her next day, and on the following afternoon he 
 was sitting in her room by the fireplace, and opposite he 
 to him on the green sofa she was listening to all the details 
 could give her of her husband s death. 
 
 The elderly soldier, with a skin like parchment and 
 cheeks hollow from his recent fever, was very gentle, 
 and very sorry for the woman who sat so white and 
 still while he told his story. It was never an easy task, 
 he thought, but this was dreadful. He tried again and 
 again to bring her some comfort, it was so horribly sad. 
 
 "The poor boy ought not to have been killed it 
 was not a battle, only a little skirmish. He was with 
 a patrol, and they met a small body of Boers, probably 
 not more than twenty. A man was wounded, and Jack 
 stopped for him and put him on his horse, and a Boer 
 turned as the rest scattered and fired a rifle. It went 
 straight through his heart and he fell stone dead; he 
 could not have suffered a moment. He was such a good, 
 good chap the best," said Major Guthrie, as he ner 
 vously turned and twisted a paper-knife he had taken 
 from the table, near the sofa. "I couldn t tell you," 
 
 230
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 231 
 
 he went on slowly, "how the men loved him, officers 
 and men always cherry and good company, and kind 
 by Jove! he was a real good fellow." 
 
 He put out his hand to take hers, sympathetic and 
 protecting. Katherine put her thin hand in his for a 
 moment. She could not cry; she could not believe in 
 the reality of the scene. It seemed to her as though 
 she was acting a part. The curtain would soon go down, 
 and then she would get up and go back to real life. 
 
 The fire hissed and crackled in the hearth, and for 
 a few moments this was the only sound. Major Guth- 
 rie took a small parcel out of his coat pocket and cut 
 the string, liberating the packets which were wrapped 
 separately. 
 
 "Here," he said, "are the little things they found. 
 I thought you would rather no one else touched them. 
 I felt I should like to bring them myself." He laid 
 the parcel on her lap. 
 
 She took up each little packet and unwrapped it. 
 There w r as his watch. His mother had given it to him 
 when he went to Oxford; the words "from mother" 
 were engraved inside the case. She remembered he 
 had shown it to her, saying how characteristic it was 
 that the inscription should be so short; he must have 
 inherited his curt ways from her. The watch-chain 
 she had seen so often, and a pencil he always used, hung 
 from it. The sleeve-links she had given to him when 
 they were engaged, plain gold with an engraved crest, 
 for Jack had a horror of wearing stones. 
 
 There was still another packet. Major Guthrie had 
 got up when she opened the parcel, and had stood with 
 his back to her, looking out of the window. She opened 
 it slowly a locket with a chain. She held it wonderingly. 
 She had never known he possessed this. 
 
 "Was this found too?" she said.
 
 232 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 "Yes," he answered, turning for a moment, "they 
 were brought straight to me." 
 
 She looked at it again, and tried to open it, but the 
 catch was stiff. 
 
 "I never dreamed," she thought, "he would care like 
 that. I wonder where he got it," and she almost smiled 
 to think of Jack, with his horror of sentiment, wearing 
 this little love-token. It was open now. The light was 
 not good hair, and some writing in small printed letters, 
 which she could not read. She bent down over it, and 
 turned it to the firelight. Hair black as night! What 
 did it mean ? She felt a sort of sick dismay, then clasped 
 the locket and held it tight in her hand. 
 
 Major Guthrie had left the window and sat down 
 opposite to her again. She put a strong check on her 
 self, and said : 
 
 "I can t tell you how I thank you. It was so dear 
 and good of you to bring them. I should not have liked 
 to have had them from anyone else." 
 
 Somehow, unconsciously, her tone had changed; it 
 was harder, drier than before. He felt the difference, 
 but did not try to account for it. She is overcome, he 
 thought, and does not want to give way. 
 
 "My mother wants to see you," said Katherine; "will 
 you go to her? She is downstairs. I am sure you will 
 understand if 1 say I want to be alone. Don t let her 
 come to me. She will care so much to hear all your news." 
 
 He got up and looked down at her. The watch and 
 chain and sleeve-links lay on the sofa. The locket she 
 still held tightly in her left hand. 
 
 "I can t thank you enough," she repeated wearily; 
 but the words seemed almost to push him from the room. 
 
 She walked with him to the door and shook hands 
 again, and then, as he shut it, she went quickly to the 
 window and wrenched open the locket once more. Yes,
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 233 
 
 there was no mistake hair black as her gown, and 
 opposite, in tiny printed writing, the words: "For my 
 beloved, from E. M." 
 
 She felt stiff and cold. What did it mean? Her 
 head reeled; she could not think. Every power seemed 
 paralyzed. Outside, the carriages rolled in dull mo 
 notony. The well-dressed people were driving just as 
 they did an hour ago the happy people who had no 
 pain the shops were full of pretty things, and the theatres 
 would soon begin. The world was going on, and on, 
 all round her. The winter afternoon was closing in, 
 night was coming. She leaned her head against the 
 window-pane. It was not the same world as it was. 
 Everything was gone. Jack what did it mean ? Jack, 
 whom she loved because he was good and different from 
 other men. Was he really just the same as everybody 
 else ? Had he some vulgar intrigue, some history, which 
 made him just like other people, only much worse, be 
 cause he was always by way of being different? She 
 could not place him in this light, try as she would. Her 
 thoughts turned back and back. The days and minutes 
 were shrinking; time seemed to have ceased; life all one 
 day. It seemed as though this morning they had stood 
 together under the roses in the long garden, with the 
 summer sun over them. She saw him, straight and strong, 
 look down on her, and stoop and take her hand, and tell 
 her she must have guessed what he was going to say, 
 and then, when he had told his love, how he had lifted her 
 face under her garden hat, and she had felt the dice 
 of fate rattle out of the box as she cast it, and said that 
 she would be his wife. Could he have been deceiving 
 her? Could he have loved someone else then? Was 
 he deceiving her through the short days of their married 
 life, when he used to talk to her of the ideal he wanted 
 her to fulfil, when he constantly said that life was a serious
 
 234 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 thing, with serious duties, and spoke of their responsibili 
 ties; and all the while was he leaving her for this other 
 woman, who called him "Beloved?" 
 
 She felt like a child who had built up its house of 
 cards bit by bit with careful hand, and then suddenly 
 some careless passer-by had shaken the foundation, 
 and the whole had tumbled into ruin, and nothing re 
 mained only a few useless memories. She walked 
 to the fire and sat down. She still held the locket. 
 
 "E. M., E. M. ?" she said. It was degrading even to 
 \vonder what it meant. "Let the ugly secret be buried," 
 she thought, "and let me never remember it again." 
 
 Then the destruction of the plans she had made came 
 sweeping over her. There was no memory now to care 
 for, no expiation owing to him for her folly. There 
 would be no sense in spending a life mourning for Jack, 
 who cared for someone else while he was alive. It was 
 all hollow humbug; and she rubbed out the picture 
 which she had drawn, with feverish haste. 
 
 For a while her icy desolation left her in a solitude 
 so complete that -the thought of no other human being 
 found its way into the dreary region of her future, but 
 at last, as her mind began to readjust itself, she thought 
 of Eric, and it was almost with a sense of triumph that 
 she resolved to close the door of memory, to drop the 
 burden of remembrance, and go out empty handed to 
 grasp all that the future held for her, and walk the ways 
 which might lead her into happiness. Only she knew 
 that her belief in God and man had gone, and instead 
 had come a reckless longing for a life which should help 
 her to forget. 
 
 Katherine stood in Elizabeth s room. She had ordered 
 the brougham and had driven straight across London. 
 She must tell her at once that the plans she had built 
 up were shattered. As she whirled through the lamp-lit
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 235 
 
 streets she could not decide whether to tell her the whole 
 story, or only to say vaguely that she had changed her 
 mind. Both appeared to her unsatisfactory. 
 
 To Katherine, who had always stood in her world 
 as the woman admired and adored, it seemed a ter 
 rible humiliation to confess that she had found some 
 other woman, or even the memory of another preferred 
 before her. And yet, if she altered her plans from mere 
 caprice, she could see the pitying look in Elizabeth s face 
 for a woman so unstable. She felt, as she had often 
 before, that she must let the matter be decided on the 
 spur of the moment. 
 
 Elizabeth was out. Martha thought she would be 
 back in half an hour. Katherine was restless, and 
 walked up and down the little gas-lit room. She could 
 not bear these waiting moments. Thoughts were torture, 
 and solitude intolerable. She tried to detain Martha, 
 but after a few answers to her questions, Martha, who 
 had a deep respect for "titled people," believing her 
 presence an intrusion, withdrew into the kitchen. 
 
 She looked round the room. There were Elizabeth s 
 books as she had left them. What had she been reading ? 
 Two new novels, " Green s History of the English People," 
 a book on the Boer War, and a series of essays on social 
 questions. Katherine opened them one after the other, 
 then laid them down, sighed, and walked about the room 
 again. Presently she stood before the writing-table, a small 
 heap of tradesmen s books, the club books, and mothers 
 meeting accounts. How deadly, thought Katherine, 
 as she looked at them. Her eye caught a small worn 
 book which lay by their side, a Bible with the usual 
 black binding. She took it up. The gilt had long gone 
 from the edges. The paper was yellow. Elizabeth 
 must have used it all her life, she thought. The book 
 was full of photographs, little religious prints and dried
 
 236 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 flowers. I wonder what meaning they have for her? 
 thought Katherine, as she carefully turned the pages. 
 The fly-leaf was covered with fine writing and minutely 
 printed quotations. At the top of the page, the initials 
 were written "E. M.," and underneath, in fine printing, 
 the words, "Beloved, if God so loved us, we also ought 
 to love one another." 
 
 Katherine read them through twice. What did they 
 recall? She was sure she must have held that book 
 before, then trooping through her brain, reeling out in 
 hot haste, came the memories of the afternoon, and with 
 half a cry she put the book down, opened the little purse 
 bag she had slung on her arm, and with trembling fingers 
 disentangled the locket from its wrappings, wrenched 
 it open again, and laid it on the book. There was no 
 doubt, the writing was the same, "E. M." and the word 
 "Beloved." It could be no mere coincidence. She 
 bent down and looked again. Yes, every fine stroke and 
 careful trick were identical. 
 
 "Elizabeth," she said, almost as though she saw her 
 standing there, her face framed in the dark hair. 
 
 Then she sat down again, her feelings for a moment 
 dulled. She must think it out. What clew had she? 
 What could she piece together to tell her she was right ? 
 She tried to remember all that Elizabeth had ever told 
 her of her life. It was not much, Katherine remembered. 
 She had mostly spoken of her own concerns, had asked 
 her a few questions. She recalled the days when she 
 had spoken of Jack. Elizabeth had always seemed 
 indifferent, and yet somewhere hidden in her memory 
 there was something she could not recall. Carefully 
 she went over and over the day when she had heard of 
 Jack s death. What was it she vaguely recollected? 
 
 "I have it, I have it!" at last she said, almost aloud. 
 "It was in the carriage when she kissed me, and said
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 237 
 
 it is worse for her than for me," and she threw the book 
 on the table, as though she would hurl the vehemence of 
 her scorn at the good people whose idols she had set up. 
 
 Then she fell to wondering again, with her head pressed 
 in feverish hands. What could the story be? When 
 had they met ? How was it possible that Elizabeth, with 
 her clear transparent eyes, could have deceived her all 
 the while? And yet, why should she doubt? If Jack 
 was false, why not this girl too ? 
 
 Bit by bit she remembered how she had said the friend 
 she knew in South Africa was dead. Had she received 
 earlier news? She could not think clearly enough to 
 know if this were possible. She recalled how, on the 
 very morning of his leaving, Jack had gone out and left 
 her alone. Was it in order to see Elizabeth, to have 
 a farewell with one who called him her beloved, while she, 
 Katherine, was waiting for him? The evidence of her 
 senses failed her; white was no longer white, or black 
 black. Her mind was in a tumult as the waves of recol 
 lection surged up. One moment the whole thing seemed 
 a preposterous folly, the next, so convincing there was 
 no loophole of escape from her conclusions. 
 
 At last the key scraped in the keyhole of the street 
 door, and Elizabeth stood on the threshold. 
 
 "Oh, I am so, so sorry; I never thought you would 
 come, or I could have got through the class twice as 
 quick. I just made out the time, thinking there was 
 only supper to look forward to." 
 
 She came toward Katherine, both hands outstretched; 
 but Katherine stood quite still, a straight line of black, 
 by the writing-table. 
 
 "I came," she said, and her voice was very hoarse, 
 "to ask you one question. I think I may be certain 
 you will answer me truly." She looked straight at 
 Elizabeth, who looked in return at her with wide-open
 
 238 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 eyes of wonder, as though she thought her sorrow must 
 have turned her head. 
 
 "I want to know if this is yours?" and she held out 
 in the palm of her black-gloved hand the little gold 
 locket with its broken chain. 
 
 Elizabeth looked down at it for a moment. She 
 had grown very white. 
 
 "Mine?" she said. 
 
 "Yes, yours," said Katherine, and she almost pushed 
 the locket open, into her hand. 
 
 In a moment the color flew to Elizabeth s cheeks, pass 
 ing over them as the setting sun may touch a cloud at 
 sunset, and then leaving her face white and set again. 
 She looked at it for a moment. How had she found 
 it? Among Eric s things? Of course she was probably 
 now engaged to him, and she thought with scorn of all 
 Katherine s grief. 
 
 "Yes," she said, looking up at Lady Cliffe. "Yes, 
 this once w r as mine." 
 
 "When did you give it?" asked Katherine. 
 
 "I can t be questioned about it," said Elizabeth, 
 standing very straight. "I refuse to say one word. I 
 have told you what you asked. The past which that 
 belongs to is mine, it is dead and gone, and I will not 
 drag it into light. It can do no good, only hurt me, and 
 perhaps hurt you." 
 
 Katherine was silent. She had not expected this answer. 
 
 "Don t you see," she said at last in cold even tones, 
 "that if you refuse to say anything you may wrong some 
 one, give a false impression?" and she looked at her 
 almost appealingly. 
 
 "I can give no false impression; there is none to 
 give. I gave it to the person in whose possession you 
 found it. I can t say any more, and you mustn t ask me." 
 
 There was dead silence.
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 239 
 
 "You can, of course, refuse to tell me more, but before 
 I go I want to say that to-day all my ideals have been 
 killed. I believed in him and I believed in you, and 
 now I know there is no such thing as a good man or a good 
 woman ; that I shall never see a man who professes to be 
 honorable and true, but I shall feel that deep down in 
 his heart he is deceiving, if someone trusts him he will 
 betray him; he is nothing but a coarse animal, like the 
 rest of them, with low intrigues. And I shall never see 
 a woman who is supposed to be doing good, that I shall 
 not know it is a pose, and that she too has her miserable 
 squalid love affairs, and will snatch a man from another 
 woman as ruthlessly as a dog will steal a bone. Thank 
 God, my eyes are open. I see the world as it is, in all 
 the slime and dirt of its hypocrisy." 
 
 Elizabeth stood still as though she was turned to 
 a stone. What did this outburst of jealousy mean? 
 It was horrible. Could any woman so lose her dignity? 
 She at any rate would keep command of herself. She 
 was perfectly silent for awhile, and then said : 
 
 "I cannot talk to you as you have talked to me. I 
 have told you all I ever mean to say, and beyond that 
 I have nothing to tell." 
 
 "Good-bye," said Katherine. She was gone, and 
 Elizabeth was alone. 
 
 Michael had thought again and again of Father Martin s 
 advice. He seemed to have shed a new light on his 
 intercourse with Elizabeth. He was right, no doubt. 
 It was his own selfishness which had hitherto spoiled 
 his affection, and she had only seen a self-absorbed man, 
 with whom she had infinite patience. With characteristic 
 violence he threw himself into this view, and determined 
 that from henceforth she should see the fruits of his 
 repentance.
 
 2 4 o UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 Filled with this thought he went to her room at nine 
 o clock. Supper would be over he knew. It was the 
 time, and the day, when leisure might be reckoned upon 
 for both. The door was opened by Martha and he 
 walked into the sitting-room expecting to find her reading 
 by the fire in her accustomed place, but Elizabeth was 
 sitting at the writing-table, her head in her hands, and 
 the outline of her figure suggested the most absolute 
 dejection. Michael hesitated; then she turned and got 
 up, and held out her hand. 
 
 "I didn t know you were free," she murmured. 
 
 He looked at her quickly. She had not been cry 
 ing, but she looked as if she had seen a ghost. He sat 
 down, awkward and silent. He was no diplomatist, 
 otherwise he would have so dexterously handled her 
 that he would have led her gently round, and she would 
 have found herself speaking of her grief before she was 
 aware he had approached the subject. 
 
 The strong figure sat in the firelight, and the eager 
 eyes were fixed on her, and then at length, in almost 
 beseeching tones, he said: 
 
 "Little Betty, you are unhappy. Do let me help you. 
 Tell me if I can." 
 
 The touch of human sympathy broke down the barriers 
 of Elizabeth s reserve, and bit by bit she told her story, 
 touching lightly on her engagement to Eric. 
 
 "You see," she said, "he could not help it; there 
 was the place to keep up, and the money was not enough 
 to justify his marriage." 
 
 Then in broken sentences she told him about Katherine. 
 He put a strong control on himself, and he did not show 
 the deep resentment he felt toward the "mean dog," 
 as he inwardly called Eric. 
 
 At last, when she paused, he looked up at herj and 
 his eyes glistened strangely, as he said:
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 241 
 
 "Poor little Betty! Have you been carrying this 
 big burden all alone? Could I do nothing to lighten 
 it for you?" 
 
 "I knew how full your thoughts were of other things," 
 she answered, and her words carried a reproach, of 
 which she was unaware. 
 
 Michael winced. 
 
 "It s a damnable business," he said, as he looked 
 again into the fire. "Of course it will sound rot to you, 
 but I can t help saying it. Do try and put the whole 
 crew out of your mind. It seems to me that you will have 
 no peace till you have done it. This man and woman 
 ought not to spoil your life." 
 
 " Oh, I know, Michael, I know," said Elizabeth. " You 
 will tell me there are others to live for, and so there are, 
 but sometimes it seems almost impossible to care for 
 dull duty, it is such a dry, hard thing; and then every 
 thing is ugly, oh, so ugly," she said, holding her hands 
 up, as though she were warding something from her, 
 "horrible streets, hideous houses, and often such ugly, 
 ugly lives. It s this dead level of ugliness which almost 
 kills me, and it all seems as though we were doing no 
 good, only robbing our own lives of things that make 
 them worth living." 
 
 Michael sat silent. At any other time he would have 
 fiercely argued the point with her, but he began to realize 
 that the social work, which to him was absorbing, com 
 bined as it was with the interest of his profession, was 
 a daily sacrifice to her. His mind was essentially Puritan 
 in mould; to him principles were as the breath of life. 
 He had no passionate desire for beauty ; in his daily ex 
 istence the incentive to unceasing toil was to bring ultimate 
 blessing to the world; in the better ordering of life, he 
 found his ideal. He saw the beauty of a spring morning 
 or a summer night, but it was an unimportant fact, a 
 16
 
 242 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 pleasure he enjoyed as a change from serious work. It did 
 not possess his soul, and fill him with a great longing to 
 live near to the heart of that which gave it birth. He 
 had not a quick sight to catch every transient mood of 
 sky and cloud, of light and shadow, every delicate texture 
 of the changing seasons, but he had eyes for the sadness 
 of humanity. 
 
 He took in at a glance the horror of an unsanitary 7 area, 
 the poverty hidden beneath a thin layer of respectable 
 cleanliness. He could diagnose the symptoms of the 
 ill-fed, and pick out children from a crowded class, with 
 unerring judgment, who were ill-treated or half-starved. 
 It was, therefore, to him an effort to throw himself into 
 this longing after what he would call material beauty, 
 which so possessed the soul of Elizabeth, and yet he tried 
 to understand. 
 
 "You ought to get away oftener," he said. "You 
 ought to go into the country. My mother is longing 
 for you to go to her. It would give you change and 
 the surroundings you care for." 
 
 "But don t you see," she answered, "that s the whole 
 difficulty. I can t get away. It is not my body that 
 wants to be free, it s my mind. If I go among fields, I 
 see before me the streets and the children; and when the 
 flowers are round me, I smell only the dreadful houses 
 and the baking streets. I can t forget; I can t get away; 
 I feel chained to the horror of it. Don t think me foolish 
 and hysterical," she said, as she put her hand up with an 
 almost imploring gesture, "but I sometimes think that to 
 have seen it all, to have known it, eats the heart out of 
 life." 
 
 "I don t understand," said Michael, but he spoke 
 very gently, "how you can really logically look at it all 
 quite like that. I have no certainty as to the individual 
 direction of the affairs of our little planet, other than
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 243 
 
 that which we as intelligent beings can bring about; but 
 you, Betty, believe in a Supreme Will, which orders good 
 and evil. Can t you leave the arranging of it to higher 
 knowledge?" 
 
 Elizabeth turned round and looked at him. 
 
 "Michael," she said, "I do believe, I do try to believe, 
 but it is so hard to think that the wrong which we would 
 not for a moment allow is permitted by a Being infinitely 
 good." 
 
 Talk to Father Martin about it," said Michael help 
 lessly. "I am sure you are not looking at things from 
 a strong sane standpoint, and your own sorrow dims 
 your vision about everything in the world just now." 
 
 "Perhaps you are right," she said. "I sometimes 
 feel that only the very happy should work in these sur 
 roundings." 
 
 "I wish to God I could bring that into your life," 
 said Michael, as he looked at her, and the strength of 
 the purpose which possessed him shone out as he spoke. 
 
 "Dear old friend," she said, and she laid her hand 
 on his shoulder as she got up and stood beside him, 
 "you have made me ever so much better and stronger 
 by letting me talk to you to-day. I don t know how 
 Vesuvius feels after an eruption, but I m sure its fiery 
 heart must be relieved, and my crater seems less pent-up 
 with furious thoughts, and burning hate, and all sorts 
 of bad red-hot things," and she gave a mirthless little 
 laugh.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 "I M certainly glad; I may have had objections long 
 ago. Katherine was a mere child, she did not know her 
 mind. It s a mercy that after the stress and strain through 
 which the poor lamb has passed she should have found 
 a fold to anchor in," said Lady Hornden, her metaphors 
 getting a little mixed. "It has certainly brought me 
 relief, and Eric is really very charming, a little too 
 artistic," hesitating for a word, "but very delightful." 
 
 Anne Rodney was sitting in the house in Park Lane 
 some weeks later. She had just heard of Katherine s 
 engagement to Eric, and she had been intensely anxious 
 to discover what had so suddenly dried her tears, and 
 \vhy, within a few months of Jack s death, her engagement 
 was privately announced to her intimate friends. 
 
 "I am delighted she is happy. I don t like Eric Er- 
 rington, but that s a detail. It s a mercy we are not all 
 made alike, otherwise the scrimmage for one man would 
 be appalling. But do tell me how it is that Katherine, 
 who was heart-broken, has so suddenly got over poor 
 Jack s death?" 
 
 "She was not heart-broken," said Lady Hornden, 
 valiantly abandoning the position she had so persistently 
 maintained. "It was a terrible blo\v, and of course 
 no one can be married to a man without feeling" she 
 felt she was becoming involved "terribly shocked, and 
 Katherine is very sensitive; but dear old Jack, whom 
 I really was devoted to, was almost too matter-of-fact 
 for her, she is so poetic and so full of ideals, and all that 
 sort of thing," she added vaguely. 
 
 244
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 245 
 
 Anne looked at her with her steely blue eyes. She 
 longed to remind her that she had always told her 
 Katherine did not care for Jack, but she refrained. 
 
 "Is she happy now?" said Anne. "When I saw 
 her I thought somehow she looked worn, but perhaps 
 that s only the effects of the shock." 
 
 "Katherine s a shadow; I can t make it out. I ve 
 taken her to Dr. Reader, the specialist, and he says 
 he will watch her. He didn t understand what was 
 wrong. He put her on beef-tea and port. She wasn t 
 a bit better; so then I insisted on her seeing Argon, and 
 he took away all meat, and makes her eat toast and drink 
 milk. What are you to believe ? It s worse than religion. 
 They all differ absolutely, and they are all so certain they 
 are infallible." 
 
 "And what has become of the girl in the slums Katherine 
 was so mad about?" 
 
 "I don t know," said Lady Hornden. "I suppose 
 she hasn t time to think about her. I have heard nothing 
 of her, and I m glad. I don t want her to go to those 
 nasty typhoidy places, smelling bad smells, and carrying 
 back microbes in her skirt. Oh, how good of you to 
 come, Sir James," she said, as she held out her hand to 
 the newcomer. 
 
 "Whose skirts carry microbes?" said Sir James, 
 after he had shaken hands with both women. "Is it 
 indiscreet to ask?" 
 
 "The women who are foolish enough to go to the 
 slums," said Lady Hornden. 
 
 "Good Lord," he answered, throwing up his hands. 
 "I ve seen many new manias, from crinolines to motor 
 cars, but upon my soul, that taste beats me altogether. 
 Everybody s mad. I met that pretty Sherringdon girl 
 the other day, looking tired, with her face dirty, and as 
 draggle-tail as possible. Where had she been? Oh,
 
 246 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 to Whitechapel or Limehouse, or some such hole. What 
 good do you think you do ? I asked her. Oh, nothing 
 much, she said; but everybody goes now. Ton my 
 word, it s absolutely preposterous. Why not stick to our 
 end of the town, and enjoy what the gods send us?" 
 
 The conversation was interrupted by the advent of 
 Katherine. She looked pale and thin, but her eyes 
 were large and bright, and her presence as usual had 
 a brilliance which always seemed to surround her with 
 an atmosphere of success. 
 
 She laughed when she saw Anne, held out her face 
 to be kissed, and said: 
 
 "I don t expect you were awfully surprised. I knew 
 mama would tell you, though I don t want it blazoned 
 out just yet." She shook hands with Sir James, who 
 murmured his congratulations. 
 
 "Are you going to take Eric slumming?" said Anne, 
 "in order to show him the only side of life I am sure he 
 hasn t seen." 
 
 "No," said Katherine, "I am going to spare him 
 that. We are going down to Ilbury to see what has 
 to be done to the place. His aunt is living there, just 
 to keep the house together, but he has gone to-day to 
 break the fatal news to her, and ask her as delicately as 
 possible to withdraw." 
 
 "So I suppose you are going to give up East End 
 saints, and doing good?" said Anne. "We were talking 
 about this mania for East Ending before you came." 
 
 "Well, there s something to be said for mixing philan 
 thropy with pleasure," said Katherine, the color coming 
 into her face, as she stood before the glass above the 
 chimney-piece, untwisting her veil from her large black 
 hat, and unscrewing the little knot under her chin, "be 
 cause when pleasure fails, as you grow old, philanthropy 
 will receive you into its house, and you end your days
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 247 
 
 as a distinguished good-doer," and she gave a bitter little 
 laugh. 
 
 "When I see the sort of women who start out to do 
 it, I am fairly puzzled," said Sir James. "I daresay 
 I m old-fashioned, but I can t see the point of doing 
 good between evil; it seems to me both are spoiled." 
 
 Anne laughed. 
 
 "It s on the no-drink-between-meals principle, which, 
 if it became universal, we are told, would mean that 
 meals would go on all day, and so digestion would be 
 ruined as well as brain." 
 
 "At any rate, let s have our meal now, even if it does 
 not last till dinner," said Katherine, as luncheon was 
 announced. 
 
 "With all my heart," said Sir James fervently. 
 
 "What I always say," said Lady Hornden, with an 
 air of finality, while they were eating hors d &uvres, 
 "is, that it is really impertinent to go poking about other 
 people s houses. Fancy if anyone called to tell us we 
 were not to play at bridge, or motor and golf on Sunday." 
 
 "They do try to tell us," said Katherine; "only luckily 
 we don t hear them. If they attempted to come and 
 give advice in the house of anyone whose income was 
 over two hundred a year, the owners would call the 
 police." 
 
 "Where is your slum saint, Katherine?" said Anne. 
 "Are you going to ask her to Ilbury with a selection 
 of her converted costers?" 
 
 "No," said Katherine shortly, and turning to Sir 
 James she asked him if he had heard the new opera, 
 which had been given on the previous night. 
 
 "Indeed I have, and thank heaven that there is still 
 a man who can write melody, instead of producing the 
 clashing of milk-cans on the pavement, in the early 
 morning, and calling it music. Here was music which
 
 248 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 Grisi and Malibran could have sung, and not the throat- 
 destroying yells which people will listen to for seven 
 hours, and pretend they enjoy it." 
 
 Anne and Lady Hornden differed, and the conver 
 sation drifted into a long discussion on the merits of 
 "The Ring" versus what Anne called the "organ grinder 
 airs of the Italian." 
 
 The argument lasted long after coffee and cigarettes 
 were brought, and ended only with the parting of the 
 guests. 
 
 % s{c ^c :jc ;}: ;Jc ^ 
 
 The gray stone house stood still and solemn in the 
 sunshine. Here and there the light caught a window- 
 pane which glistened diamond-like; beneath the heavy 
 eaves dark shadows hung, making a long splash of violet 
 color against the gray. 
 
 It was springtime and there was a dance in the air, 
 a sound in the woods, which told of that enchanting 
 season w r hen Persephone, aroused from her long slumber, 
 steps forth to meet Demeter, who, through the dull dark 
 days, has waited patiently for the gladdening sight of her 
 lovely face, and, as she treads the green young grass, 
 the blossoms bloom, and her coming is hailed in chorus 
 by the winged lovers of the woods, for the world is once 
 again touched into life, and kissed into beauty. 
 
 Katherine and Eric had driven up from the station, 
 and as the carriage turned out of the avenue, he stopped 
 it before they reached the entrance. 
 
 "Don t go into the house now," said Eric, "this is 
 not a day for gardens and lawns, but for orchards and 
 woods," and he slowly drew Katherine toward the gate 
 which led into the park. "We can come back to the 
 old place later, but this heavenly spring morning calls us 
 with such an irresistible voice." 
 
 He put his arm round her, and together they wandered
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 249 
 
 out across the long sweep of park until they came to 
 the uplands where hawthorn-trees were already beginning 
 to show "milky pearls" among the vivid green of the 
 spiked boughs, the yellow celandines were holding out 
 their golden cups to the sun, and a blackbird sang above 
 them. 
 
 "It s a day that makes me long to shout," said Eric; 
 "to tell the whole world I m glad to be alive, that I have 
 all the good I want. Don t you feel it, Katherine, this 
 sense of life pulsing and beating through all creation, 
 and making the world beautiful for you and me?" 
 
 Katherine looked at the tall, \vell-built man, broad 
 of shoulder and clear of eye. 
 
 "I m happy of heart," she said, "but I don t feel 
 physical energy enough to shout; but it s glorious, glori 
 ous." And she looked out over the golden gorse to the 
 blue distance of hazy hills. 
 
 They sat down together on the bank. The warm 
 sunshine wrapped them round and the air was filled 
 with the hum of insects brought to life by its vitalizing 
 power. They were very still for a moment, then Katherine 
 said: 
 
 "I should like nothing ever to happen any more, 
 the world to go on just like this, I m so sick of events." 
 
 "I want one event to happen," said Eric, looking at 
 her, "just one, and then a truce to everything else." 
 
 Katherine was lying full length on the grass, watching 
 tiny insects crawl in and out among the stalks. She 
 was very silent, absorbed apparently in her occupation. 
 
 "What are you looking at?" said Eric. 
 
 "I am looking at these wonderful things," she said. 
 "I can see the ant here wandering in the trackless forest. 
 How awfully rough the road is to her. Look, she is push 
 ing and carrying her load. Now she is stopped, and four 
 others have come to help her. There is a giant mountain
 
 250 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 before her, she has passed over it and is working for all 
 she is worth, going long distances to avoid a thick clump 
 of grass. Poor little busy thing ! How important it must 
 all seem to you." 
 
 "Why do you settle that it is a female ant?" said 
 Eric. 
 
 "Because she is really doing the work of her world, 
 and I bet some male ant is getting the credit." 
 
 Eric was watching too. 
 
 "I often thought in South Africa," he said, "that 
 is what we all looked like, crawling over the veldt in 
 the lively of the earth, hosts of tiny things bent on de 
 stroying each other." 
 
 "It s what all the world is," said Katherine, "pig 
 mies carrying their burdens and fighting their way through, 
 meeting all the horrible obstacles, and still climbing on, 
 because they think there is something to be gained in the 
 end." 
 
 "Nothing or everything," said Eric, taking her hand, 
 which was parting the grass tufts. 
 
 "Yes," she said, still looking down, "or everything. 
 If minds could only be wiped clean like a school-room 
 slate, after the sum is finished. That s life s great 
 Nemesis. That is why the first youth is the only time 
 for real happiness. After that, disillusionment comes 
 on the heels of trouble. Oh, it s no good saying it 
 doesn t it does," she said, as he made a gesture of 
 dissent. "All my life I have felt that I am ever so 
 many people, that I was born with a sort of transmi- 
 gratory power, which could get in and out of different 
 sorts of minds; but the impressions I get in all these 
 different characters stay with me, and I want to be rid 
 of them." 
 
 He listened wondering. He had not known her in 
 this mood.
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 251 
 
 "Life is so full of illusions. I can remember each 
 one, as they brought their hateful awakenings. The 
 first I ever had," she said, sitting upright and smiling, 
 "was once when I was ill, as a child. Mama told me 
 I might send out and buy whatever I liked, and I made 
 the nursery maid put on her bonnet, I couldn t wait a 
 moment, and bring me back a Noah s ark. I longed 
 to have one; I had not played with one for ages. And 
 she came back with the huge parcel," and Katherine 
 made a motion with her hand to indicate the big bundle 
 under the woman s arm, "and then she opened it, and 
 I had a little tray all ready, and stood the animals upon 
 it. One by one I took them out, the gray elephants, and 
 spotted tigers, and scarlet foxes. I never smell fresh 
 paint now that I do not think of it. And then when 
 they were all ranged in rows, and Mr. and Mrs. Noah 
 too, it suddenly came to me I did not want it, I had out 
 grown it, it gave me no pleasure, and I lay back with 
 such a horrible aching feeling of disappointment, and 
 cried to myself. And so often since then, things have 
 been like that Noah s ark." 
 
 Eric came nearer to her. 
 
 "You shall not find any disillusionment now, Kath 
 erine darling. The rainbow is set in the clouds, the 
 token of all good things." 
 
 "Ah, but I have had so many, so many disillusion- 
 ments." 
 
 "Only because you never met anyone who really 
 understood you, became a part of your mind; until 
 then, no life is complete." 
 
 They talked on a while, then turned to go to the house. 
 
 Katherine was full of admiration. She saw the dignity 
 of the place, and the possibilities which under Eric s 
 taste and knowledge it possessed. 
 
 Old Mrs. Errington welcomed her shyly. She had
 
 252 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 been living in a corner of the house, and the ugly boudoir 
 was still her sitting-room. 
 
 "Eric told me," she said, holding out her hands to 
 Katherine. "I was so glad it would have made his 
 uncle very happy. I am really glad he can live here. 
 Of course it may want a few things; they say houses 
 
 nowadays perhaps some electric bells and new 
 
 chintzes 
 
 Katherine smiled kindly. 
 
 "I am only sorry that I should seem to displace you." 
 
 "Oh, not at all, not at all," said Mrs. Errington, show 
 ing the way to the dining-room. "Every dowager leaves. 
 My dear brother told me when I settled here, dear Eric 
 
 was sure to Indeed, I am so glad he is happy, 
 
 he deserves it so. I shall always remember - Dear 
 Lady Cliffe, what will you have, chicken or cutlets?" 
 And the remembrance was lost in the business of the 
 moment. 
 
 The days were very pleasant. Eric was tender and 
 understanding, and the interest in planning the remodel 
 ling of the old house was really delightful. The long 
 drawing-room was to be panelled, and the pictures were 
 to be taken from the dining-room, and set in the wood 
 work. 
 
 Eric sketched cornices and designed ceilings, and 
 they discovered in the attics some really fine tapestry, 
 which had been discarded in the early part of the nine 
 teenth century for the horrible flock paper which dis 
 figured the morning-room. This was spread out upon 
 the grass, and Katherine and Eric went into raptures 
 over the borders and design. 
 
 The last day of her visit had come, and Katherine 
 was more hopeful of the possibility of happiness than 
 she had felt since the day when she said she had ceased 
 to believe in man or woman. To Eric, the days had been
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 253 
 
 as a dream, from which he almost dreaded some awaken 
 ing. Everything had come to him money, and conse 
 quently the enjoyment of his own possessions, and with 
 it one of the most beautiful women in London, and the 
 envy of every man who hoped to have been in his shoes. 
 He looked at the old house with grateful pride. He had 
 no money, but certainly he had a great place to give her, 
 and she appreciated beautiful things, and saw its worth. 
 
 Now and then the remembrance of Elizabeth came 
 to him as they turned along the way which led to the 
 red manor house, but it was dimmed and blurred, and 
 he only felt how great a mistake it would all have been, 
 and had no doubt that she also realized it by this time. 
 
 "We will have one more walk, the last until you come 
 back to the old place as home," said Eric; and Katherine 
 willingly consented. 
 
 The afternoon sun was shining on the grass slopes 
 as they crossed the park, making their way between 
 the stalks of the ferns, still tightly rolled. At last they 
 came to a fallen tree which lay across the valley through 
 which ran the winding stream. The shadows quivered 
 among the branches of the trees, as a chill wind parted 
 the young green leaves. Katherine sat down on the 
 fallen trunk. Eric was engrossed in his talk. They 
 were discussing ethical questions, and Eric was main 
 taining that there was beauty in abstract goodness. 
 
 "There is no such thing as abstract goodness," said 
 Katherine. "What may seem good to you would be 
 counted wickedness in another age, or to another people. 
 There is nothing worth living for but happiness or bicn 
 etre, as the French call it. The only thing to be really 
 desired is to be pleased with one s self and one s sur 
 roundings. Don t let s talk high-falutin stuff about 
 goodness, Eric, it s always odious and generally hypo 
 critical."
 
 254 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 "Why are you so cynical?" he said. "It s bad enough 
 in a man, but it s impossible in a woman." 
 
 "I m not cynical," she said. "I m only matter-of- 
 fact. Life makes us that. It s unthinkable that, after 
 twenty, anybody can keep up illusions, and I am twenty- 
 three." 
 
 "Happiness will bring them back." 
 
 "Never," she answered quickly. "Not the same; 
 others, perhaps, but not those that are crushed out." 
 
 She looked up at him, a frail little figure in her black 
 tailor-made gown and big hat. It seemed to him pitiful 
 that she should speak of disillusionments at a time when life 
 should be dawning on her through a haze of happiness. 
 
 "But, Katherine, darling, I don t understand," he 
 said, kneeling beside her. "You have had bad days, 
 you have not been understood, your artistic side has 
 been dwarfed, your idealism suppressed, but good 
 ness was not wanting. You can t have learned to dis 
 believe in that?" 
 
 He felt as he spoke. How generous he was to con 
 cede so much to the past! 
 
 "Don t speak to me about it," said Katherine fiercely. 
 "I have seen hypocrisy, and have recognized how hideous 
 a thing it is seen it in man and w r oman. I, who always 
 thought that I was first with all w r ho loved me, have found 
 that I was deceived, betrayed. I can t talk of it, only 
 never let me hear again of pure men and saintly women, 
 for I should cry out loud, hypocrite! hypocrite! till they 
 ran away to hide the shame that I had laid bare." The 
 color came and went as she spoke, and her eyes grew 
 bright and large. 
 
 Eric looked at her almost with fear. What was it 
 that so possessed her? Why had this thought so filled 
 her mind and being? She waited a moment, and saw 
 that he looked at her with undisguised amazement.
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 255 
 
 "Sit down," she said, "beside me" she spoke in 
 little short staccato sentences "and I will tell you. 
 You think I am mad, but I am not, only awakened. I 
 had not meant to say anything till till we were married, 
 but I can t let you think you are going to marry a crazy 
 woman, so I will tell you now," and then she told her 
 story. 
 
 For a moment Eric did not understand, but as she went 
 on to tell him of her interview with Elizabeth, the memory 
 of the day in South Africa swept over him. He felt Jack s 
 arm round him, and he recollected how before he had 
 gone into the darkness he had put this thing into his 
 hand. The history of that day had always been dim 
 and blurred, but now the remembrance came flashing 
 back, making him feel dazed and giddy. 
 
 "What did Miss Mayncll say?" he said, and his 
 heart beat. 
 
 "There was no getting away from it," said Katherine, 
 "she could say nothing. I asked her if it belonged to 
 her, and she said yes; I tried to get her to tell me when 
 she had given it, but she would not. She was as dumb 
 as a dog, and she stood there, looking me in the face, 
 and would not say a word. I have never seen her again. 
 Now you don t wonder that I am disillusioned about 
 good people, do you?" 
 
 Eric was silent. What could he do? If he told 
 her the truth, he must tell her the whole story of his 
 engagement to Elizabeth, and she would probably go 
 back to her absurd romance about Jack, and the pros 
 pects which were now so fair would be ruined; and yet 
 it was dreadful to allow the dead who could not defend 
 themselves to be wrongfully accused. Of course that 
 must not be. W 7 hen she was his wife, at some future 
 time, he would tell her all about it. It was a horrible 
 predicament, and it was hard thus to injure his own sense
 
 256 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 of honor. Then he recollected how he had heard that it 
 was a man s duty to deceive sometimes, for the protec 
 tion of a woman. Of course this was an instance when it 
 was really right, and he must certainly sacrifice everything 
 to her ultimate happiness. 
 
 "You must not be disillusioned," he said lamely. 
 "There may be some great mistake, some engagement 
 before he met you. Such things have been, and poor 
 old Jack may have looked on this thing as a sort of mas- 
 cotte." 
 
 "Men don t carry love tokens, given to them by other 
 women, if they care for their wives, and Jack of all men 
 in the world! It s too absurd," and there was some 
 contempt in her tone. "He was not a man to hang 
 himself out in charms. If he loved this girl, he wore 
 her hair because he was really devoted to her, for no 
 other reason on earth. She was eating her heart out 
 about some man in South Africa all the winter; I saw 
 that, and you yourself heard her say he was dead." 
 
 Eric winced, as her words came quick and convincing. 
 It was evidently no use arguing. So he put his arm round 
 her, and told her very tenderly to put the whole question 
 from her. 
 
 "Let the dead bury their dead," he said, "and let 
 us be happy in the living present." 
 
 "I am glad I have told you all about it," said Katherine, 
 as she rose and stood before him. And then, as she held 
 out her hands to him, Eric remembered that on this very 
 spot he had tried to comfort another woman, whose 
 name to-day he had allowed to be done to death, and the 
 coincidence appeared to him ill-omened. 
 
 "Mr. Cave is in the library, sir," said the servant, 
 as they returned to the house. 
 
 "Tell him I will come," said Errington. "I must 
 leave you for a few minutes, darling. It is my solicitor.
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 257 
 
 He has come about the settlements. I shall not be long. 
 You will rest, won t you?" 
 
 "No," said Katherine. "I don t want to rest. It is 
 still so lovely I will wander about a little, and wait till 
 you are free. Don t hurry, I am all right. I will come 
 in for tea," and she turned back into the garden. Eric 
 shut the library door. 
 
 Katherine intended to stroll leisurely through the 
 flower-beds, and plan what she would have planted for 
 this summer, until she could get designs that suited 
 her taste better than the existing old-fashioned parterre. 
 
 Presently she noticed she had lost her glove, and decided 
 to walk back to the tree in order to find it. She went 
 leisurely over the way she had come, discovered her 
 property close to the fallen trunk, and turned to retrace 
 her steps. She thought she could find a quicker way 
 by taking a grass-path which diverged to the left, and 
 which led, she remembered, to a lane into which one of 
 the garden gates opened, for it was the shortest road to 
 the village. 
 
 The shadows were growing long, and the wind was 
 keen, so she walked faster, but somehow she had missed 
 the turning, and instead of finding herself opposite 
 the gate, when she emerged from the lane, she was 
 high up the hill, looking over a wide sweep of open 
 country. 
 
 A grass-field crossed by a narrow field-path lay before 
 her. She looked round to see if anyone was near, from 
 whom she could enquire the way, but the rooks were 
 flying overhead noisily, returning to their rest, and no 
 human being was at hand. Presently shuffling footsteps 
 came behind her, and the bent figure of an old woman 
 in a rusty brown gown, her face hidden under a sun- 
 bonnet, came slowly up the little hill. She did not look 
 at her as she passed, she seemed intent only on getting 
 17
 
 258 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 sufficient strength to go on her road ; so Katherinc touched 
 her arm. She looked round startled. 
 
 "Can you tell me the way back to the Hall?" she 
 asked. 
 
 The old woman stopped, and pointed down the hill. 
 "Straight on till yer cum ter the grass road, an then yer ll 
 see a little gaite on yer left and. That s the garden gaite, 
 but maybe yer wants the great gaites?" 
 
 "Oh, no," said Katherine, "the garden gate will be 
 all right." 
 
 "Be yer a-stayin wi the old laidy?" and the withered 
 face looked curiously into hers. 
 
 "Yes," said Katherine, "but only till to-morrow." 
 
 "Ah, they tells me she s a-goin , por old laidy! Young 
 squire s a-coumin ome, a-goin to be married, or sume- 
 thin." 
 
 " Yes," said Katherine, enjoying the incognito. "You ll 
 all be glad he s coming back, won t you ?" 
 
 "Well, if e s good to we, we shall be glad, but we 
 doan t know nothin aboat im, we doan t, but there is 
 only a little time as sum of us will be goane. There s 
 foar o mine in the churchyard, lady, an I m a goin there 
 soon, so it doesn t much matter to we." 
 
 "Who is he going to marry?" said Katherine, anx 
 ious to hear the village verdict. 
 
 "Ah doan t know. Sum gran lady, they says, wi 
 a power a muney. Ef e d only married the right one, 
 as iverybody thought e would, it ad been a lucky day 
 for us poor folks. Ah, she was a good lady, she was, 
 but I dessay she d not a been appy wi im too good 
 for im, I believe, an then we re all a-goin so soon, it 
 doan t matter much what appens. You re a pretty 
 lady," and the old dim eyes set in a web of years looked 
 up again, "but we re arl a-goin the same way, right ter 
 yonder," she said, pointing to where the church tower
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 259 
 
 stood grey against the white sky, "an they re a-carlin of 
 us to cum, they be." She bent down over her stick and 
 shuffled on, and Katherine heard her murmuring as she 
 went, "they re a-carlin of us." 
 
 She shivered and turned her steps back in the direction 
 the old woman had told her she would find the gate. 
 "They re a-carlin " she kept on hearing the words 
 as her dress rustled over the grass. 
 
 That evening she chaffed Eric about the "right lady" 
 who was it? 
 
 "What rot!" he said, as he laughed too. "She s 
 an old crazy woman. You should not encourage her 
 idiotic talk." But the old woman s words troubled 
 him. Katherine must be kept from these foolish people, 
 otherwise some village gossip might reach her and 
 spoil her content. 
 
 They had wandered after dinner into the conservatory, 
 which led out of the uninhabited drawing-room, and 
 were standing near a fern-grown pool of water. 
 
 "Do you see that tiny plant?" said Eric. 
 
 "Which, the one with the long stalk floating there?" 
 said Katherine, pointing to the spiral flower. 
 
 "Yes; there is a whole romance there. That is the 
 female flower; the male grows low down in the dark 
 ditches, but one day he detaches himself, rises upward, and 
 goes to seek his love. He wanders down the water till 
 he finds her, and floats with her for a happy while. Then 
 she leaves him, and her stalk contracts and takes her down 
 into the water, where the seeds ripen in safety." 
 
 "But where does he go?" said Katherine. 
 
 "He has no life in himself; he has broken his own 
 life to go to her, and dies without her." 
 
 "We will not part like that," said Katherine with a 
 happy laugh; "we will sail on together."
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 ERIC spent a wakeful night. He went over the events 
 of the day again and again. He tried from every point 
 of view to look at them in a satisfactory light. Nothing 
 pleased him. How other could he have acted? What 
 could he have said ? Silence was as betraying as speech. 
 He could arrive at no conclusions. 
 
 "The whole thing is damnable," he said, as he pulled 
 up his blind; but the heavens were still starlit, there 
 was not a ray of dawn. 
 
 Then terror seized him. What if she ever found 
 out? She was hysterical and emotional; she would 
 probably despise him, and never realize how he had 
 acted for her good. There would be no knowing the 
 consequences of such a discovery. He had entirely 
 forgotten that at first he himself had settled to tell her 
 the whole truth, when once they were man and wife. 
 Then he thought of Elizabeth, and once again fear pos 
 sessed him. If the two women should meet, it might 
 be fatal. It was very strange that she had not spoken 
 of their engagement what could it mean? 
 
 Then he sat still for a long time thinking. At last a 
 plan presented itself, and the more he thought of it the 
 more the idea commended itself. 
 
 Why not see Elizabeth ? She was still devoted to him. 
 It seemed almost incredible, even to him, but he had 
 every evidence that she still cared. Why not appeal 
 to her generosity to keep his secret? It might please 
 her to know I wore her locket, he thought, and no harm 
 will be done. She is the only real danger, and that I 
 
 260
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 261 
 
 am sure not wilfully, but just through indiscretion. I 
 believe she is really fond of Katherine,* although she 
 evidently lost her temper, and spoke to her most fool 
 ishly. 
 
 He walked about the room arranging all he meant 
 to say. It seemed not only feasible, but the only way 
 out of a tight place, and after having arrived at that con 
 clusion, he lay down and slept. 
 
 The next day he travelled with Katherine to London; 
 he had arranged to dine with her in the evening. 
 
 "Till to-night," said Katherine, as he stood on the 
 platform, at her carriage door, "I ve had a really heavenly 
 time. You ve been an angel to me, and I m ever so 
 much better," she added cheerily. "I love Ilbury; it s 
 a paradise. God bless you. Good-bye," and she waved 
 her hand and drove away. 
 
 Eric stood for a moment looking after her as the car 
 riage drove off; it seemed to him as though some spell 
 were broken, as if with the disappearance of Katherine 
 there came an awakening from a long and happy dream. 
 Then he called a hansom. 
 
 "I ll drive straight to Marshom Street," he thought. 
 "I ll not give myself time to change my mind. I ll 
 nerve myself, for her sake." 
 
 The cabman had never heard of the street, and de 
 murred at the distance, but finally drove off far to the 
 cast. Through the never-ending drive, Eric tried to 
 arrange first one opening speech, and then another. 
 All seemed wonderfully inadequate. 
 
 "I must be tender w T ith her," he thought, "and must 
 just throw myself on her compassion. She will surely 
 understand." 
 
 The cab at last took the turning that led to Mar 
 shom Street, and he found himself at the door of the 
 corner house. The long spring day was still light,
 
 262 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 although the afternoon was wearing into evening. Martha 
 opened the door, and started on seeing Eric. 
 
 "He s come to tell her he can t live without her, in 
 spite of the pretty lady with all her money," thought 
 Martha proudly. 
 
 "Yes, Miss Maynell was having her tea. Would 
 he please to step in?" And she opened the parlor door 
 and announced him. 
 
 Elizabeth was sitting on a low chair before a little 
 tea-table. The evening paper was propped against a 
 jug in front of her, as she leisurely ate and read. She 
 looked up, expecting to see Miss Osterley or Michael, 
 or someone from the district, and the color came with 
 a hot flush to her cheeks, as Eric stood before her. She 
 got up and did not ask him to sit down, but looked at him 
 with her clear eyes, but with a slight expression of con 
 tempt in the corners of the mouth. 
 
 "Why have you come?" she said. She was de 
 termined to give him no help. 
 
 As Eric stood there every sentence he had carefully 
 arranged vanished from his mind. 
 
 "I have come," he said hesitating, "to ask you a 
 great favor. Elizabeth, I am sure you won t deny it 
 to me, for auld lang sync s sake." 
 
 She was silent, and he went on haltingly: 
 
 "The fact is, I don t think you half know how awfully 
 fond I was of you, and what a terrible thing it was for 
 me when we had to part; but you see, it was absolutely 
 necessary, wasn t it, and if one does the right thing, or 
 the wise thing, it is best in the end, isn t it?" 
 
 "Is that what you came to tell me?" said Elizabeth 
 coldly. "You really might have spared yourself the 
 trouble." 
 
 "Not exactly," said Eric; "it s one of the things, 
 but not all. Katherine tells me that she came here to
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 263 
 
 ask you some silly questions about a locket that you once 
 gave me, and which I prized very much." 
 
 A faint smile of pity flickered over Elizabeth s face. 
 
 "Don t you think you might omit these details," she 
 said, "and get to the point?" 
 
 "Well, it is a really horribly difficult situation. You 
 see I m engaged to her now. After poor old Jack s 
 death she shut herself up, and wouldn t see a soul, and 
 got all sorts of romantic notions into her head, and I 
 knew she was going to be miserable for life. Well 
 oh, it s a hateful story," said Eric, striking his hands 
 together. "They brought her back poor old Jack s 
 things, and this locket, and then she took an entirely 
 different turn, and resolved to be happy, and of course 
 it s really meant everything to her, because now she 
 looks forward to a really good time again." 
 
 "I fail to understand you. What had the thing I 
 gave you to do with Sir John Cliffe s and his wife s 
 happiness?" 
 
 How dense she is, thought Eric; she has no intuitions. 
 Then he said: 
 
 "I always wore your charm. Indeed, indeed, Elizabeth, 
 you were always so near to me, protecting me and helping 
 me; I always felt you would keep me safe, and you did. 
 But when I was wounded, I gave it to Jack to bring back 
 to you, and when I was invalided home, the poor chap 
 was shot, and he had it with him when he was killed, 
 and it was brought to her, with his things." 
 
 A strange light came into Elizabeth s eyes. 
 
 " Do you mean that the locket with my hair and writing 
 was brought home to Lady Cliffe?" 
 
 "Yes," said Eric, "and you see how it means every 
 thing to me, that she should know nothing." 
 
 "I don t think I understand yet," said Elizabeth. 
 "What do you want me to do? Lady Cliffe knows
 
 264 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 that it was once mine, and she must, therefore, know 
 now I gave it to you." 
 
 "No, she doesn t. Don t you see? Why don t you 
 help me when it s all so hard?" he said, almost im 
 patiently. "She thinks it belonged to poor old Jack." 
 
 "But where do I come in?" she asked again. 
 
 "Why, she fancies you must have given it to him. 
 It can t mean much to you, but it means everything to 
 me." 
 
 Elizabeth s face became perfectly rigid and very white. 
 
 "Am I to understand," she said, "that in order that 
 you may marry Lady Cliffe, you want me to let her 
 think that I had some low intrigue with her husband?" 
 
 "No, no," said Eric lamely, "but that perhaps you 
 knew him before he married, and you cared for each 
 other." 
 
 "And that he continued to love me after he was married, 
 and that probably I did too, and that he died with my 
 gift round his neck, and that although she came here 
 constantly, I never told her that I knew him? My God! 
 What do you take me for ? For a being as mean, and with 
 as rotten a sense of honor as yourself?" 
 
 "There are times when untruth is almost right, in 
 order to guard another s happiness," he said almost 
 pleadingly. 
 
 "Happiness her happiness, to be married to a man 
 with a lie on his lips, and a lie about the dead, because 
 they can t rise up and show how poor and worthless a 
 thing he is? Do you mean to tell me," she said, and 
 each word fell clear and distinct, like a single drop of 
 cold water on a stone, "that you are going to let her 
 think her husband a blackguard, and that I am a con 
 temptible piece of deceit, in order that she may have the 
 happiness of marrying you? I can conceive no worse 
 fate befalling any woman, no more horrible awakening.
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 265 
 
 Oh, I know you will say the grapes are sour, that I wanted 
 to marry you myself," she said, standing very erect, and 
 coming a step nearer to him, "but I, who have cared and 
 cared for you, will tell you this: You filled all my waking 
 thoughts, and I thought I could never have lived when 
 you left me, but now I thank God for that day." 
 
 Eric looked at her as though she had struck him. 
 
 "Don t say such things," he said. "You will be 
 sorry; don t say anything we shall both regret." 
 
 "I regret nothing; I say it deliberately," said Elizabeth, 
 speaking quickly in a low voice. "I see now why it was 
 best I should suffer, and I am thankful. No, I will not 
 lie to please you; I will not blacken my honor and an 
 honorable man s memory, in order to make it possible 
 for you to step into his shoes, but this I will do willingly, 
 joyfully I will never see either of you again. You go 
 your ways, only let me never know that you exist, never 
 hear your name. I could not bear to remember that 
 the being lived so mean as to take all a woman had to 
 give, and then to ask her to stand under such a charge in 
 order that he might marry another woman. Now go," 
 she said. 
 
 "Then you will say nothing?" he murmured, not 
 looking at her. 
 
 "I have told you that I do not want to remember that I 
 ever knew you." And with that, she opened the door, 
 and he, feeling as though he wished he could vanish 
 under the scorn of her look, passed out into the street. 
 He almost ran against a man who was coming toward 
 the door, but he did not turn to see who it was. 
 
 The cab was gone. How was he to get back ? 
 
 "Are there any cabs ?" he said to a child on the pavement. 
 
 "Kebs?" said the boy. "None nearer than Aldgate. 
 There s the trams down the road," and he pointed in 
 the direction of the great thoroughfare.
 
 266 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 Presently, seated next to a large Jewess and opposite 
 another, he slowly jogged toward Aldgate. 
 
 "What ave j er got in j er bundle?" said one, as 
 she looked at the horrible packet the other held. 
 
 "Chicken s pluck," said the other, and opened a 
 corner to show the hideous contents. 
 
 As Eric crouched among the dirty passengers it seemed 
 to him that his humiliation was complete. 
 
 Michael recognized Eric as he walked out of the house, 
 and he determined to hear what had brought him to 
 Marshom Street. 
 
 "What did he come for? I must ask you. I beg of 
 you to tell me," said Michael, standing before Eliza 
 beth, who had hidden her face in her hands. 
 
 "Oh, don t ask me; don t make me say. I have 
 never felt really humiliated before. I have never believed 
 that anyone could think I was mean and dishonorable. 
 Was Aunt Harriet right? Did I let him despise me?" 
 
 "Don t be silly, Betty," said the man, with a set look 
 in his face. Then changing his tone, he said: "Tell 
 me the truth. Let me help you let me share it all. 
 By heavens! what right has that skunk to come here, 
 and leave the poisonous stink of his beastly presence 
 behind him? Oh, I know," as she put up a hand to 
 stop him, "I daresay you think me unrefined, but at 
 any rate I am a man, and not a mere shilly-shallying, 
 whining hound like that. What is it, Elizabeth? For 
 God s sake let me help you! What has he ventured to 
 say?" 
 
 But the effort to tell Eric all the indignation she felt 
 had been too much for her nerves, and she sat down and 
 sobbed helplessly. 
 
 Michael felt distracted. He did not know what to 
 do. He wondered how he could stay this paroxysm of
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 267 
 
 crying, and finally came to the wise conclusion that he 
 had better wait until the force of her grief was spent. 
 
 Then he stood with his back to her, looking out of 
 the window. Presently the sobs grew fainter, and 
 Elizabeth sat like a tired child, and tried to speak, but 
 it was an evident effort, and she almost gasped for breath 
 between her words. 
 
 "Michael, dear old friend," she said, "you will forgive 
 me. I have made a fool of myself, but it has been so 
 horrible and the awakening to what he really is has 
 been so hideous." 
 
 He turned and went to her and took her hand. Little 
 by little she grew calmer, and, by questions and answers, 
 he at last got from her the gist of the interview. 
 
 "He wanted," said Michael slowly, "to allow Lady 
 Cliffe to imagine that you had some love affair with 
 her husband, in order that she might think badly of him, 
 and that it might never appear that Errington had been 
 engaged to you himself?" 
 
 Elizabeth nodded ; she had no voice to speak. 
 
 "I always thought badly of him, but I could never 
 have conceived anything so mean. What did you pro 
 mise?" 
 
 "I said I did not wish to remember that he ever lived," 
 said Elizabeth in a whisper. 
 
 "But all the same you would remain under this odious 
 accusation? I could never have imagined such real 
 villainy, the damned cub! said Michael almost under 
 his breath. 
 
 Then he said no more about him, but tried to com 
 fort Elizabeth. He told her to do as she had said 
 forget him. 
 
 "After all, the Christian Scientists have one great 
 truth, and that is, that the mind should never be allowed 
 to think of anything evil or ugly. Try to feel that you
 
 268 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 loved a beautiful ideal whom you created; it was not 
 this man. It was all that was great and good and pure 
 in you that gave him qualities which were not his, but 
 your ideal must not be destroyed, you must not let him 
 shatter it." 
 
 Elizabeth listened quietly. It seemed to her as though 
 feeling were numbed, as if she had outspent emotion, and 
 had no more affection to expend on anyone. 
 
 "Don t let him spoil your life, Betty. You have so 
 many useful years before you." And as he said the 
 words, he felt how prosaic and tiresome they sounded, 
 but it was hard to know how to brace and comfort her. 
 
 "I am not going to be foolish, Michael," she said. 
 "Indeed I am not; only give me time, just a little time." 
 
 When Michael left Marshom Street he went to the 
 nearest post-office, and asked for a directory. Looking 
 carefully through the C s, in that section which calls 
 itself the Court Guide, he scribbled down a number in 
 Hill Street, Berkeley Square. Then he went out into 
 the street. He was in no undecided mood. He knew 
 what he intended to do, and had no hesitation whatever 
 as to the wisdom of his plan, for it appeared to him the 
 only straightforward course. 
 
 :{c ijc $ ;|c |c 
 
 Katherine was sitting at her breakfast the morning 
 after her return to London. Eric had dined with her 
 the night before. He was not well, she thought; he 
 had been moody and sad all the earlier part of the evening, 
 and had devoted all the latter part to endeavoring to shake 
 her decision as to the date of their marriage. 
 
 She had settled it was not to take place till the autumn ; 
 he prayed that it might be in the early summer. Why 
 delay? It was a mere conventionality, He had pleaded 
 so well, that at last she agreed to a compromise; she 
 would be married in August. It would be a very quiet
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 269 
 
 wedding; everybody would be out of town. Besides, 
 after all, she thought, what does it matter whether or no 
 I respect Jack s memory? It is all a sham. I have no 
 real respect for him, why should I pretend ? 
 
 Then Eric began to make plans to occupy the time 
 between this and August. Why not go away? Shut 
 up the London house and live between Lentham and 
 Ilbury? It would be delicious, a quiet summer in the 
 heart of the country. 
 
 "No, Eric," she persisted, "you will get tired of me 
 before the time. There is a glare in the country on 
 mind and body, which shows up all defects. Let us 
 stay here and see people, and meet every day. There 
 are all sorts of charming things, music and plays, which 
 we can do together. We will keep the country as a luxury, 
 not for a steady diet." 
 
 "Just as you like," said Eric, yielding reluctantly, 
 with a strong foreboding of ill. The summer, he knew, 
 would be a time of constant anxiety. 
 
 But Katherine, calmly eating buttered roll, and read 
 ing the Morning Post, was supremely unconscious of the 
 mental trial through which he was passing. 
 
 She was dressed in a long loose morning gown, with 
 a deep collar and soft and very beautiful lace. She 
 still wore black, and her fair hair and white skin, with 
 its effect of opal and gold, was enhanced by the sober 
 setting. 
 
 Her maid was standing in the room with some hats 
 in her hand. 
 
 "Lady Hornden has sent these for your ladyship to 
 see. She says she thinks they are what you want just 
 now, miladi." 
 
 The woman laid a slight emphasis on the words "just 
 now" which was not lost on Katherine. She looked up 
 and said:
 
 270 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 "Yes, I daresay she is right; she is always infallible 
 about dress. Let me see." 
 
 The hats were exaggerated, tortured and twisted, 
 with none of the simplicity of line which is not a question 
 of fashion but rather a knowledge of art. Katherine 
 stood up before the glass, and threw them down one by 
 one. 
 
 "They are all horrible! Tell Lady Hornden I could 
 not wear them. I look like a monkey without his organ." 
 
 The maid looked shocked. 
 
 "Give her my love," Katherine corrected herself, 
 "and say that they really don t suit me; and she would 
 think so, too, if she saw them on." 
 
 The man-servant came in to fetch the breakfast tray. 
 
 "Please, my lady, there is a gentleman. He says he 
 wants to speak to your ladyship very perticler." 
 
 "Is he a tradesman, or what?" said Katherine. 
 
 "Well, my lady, I reely couldn t say. E s dressed 
 like some sort of a hartist; looks to me more like that 
 than a gentleman." 
 
 "Oh, I expect it s the man who is to restore the pictures 
 at Ilbury. Yes, show him up," said Katherine. " Bundle 
 all those hats out," she said to the maid. 
 
 A few minutes later the door opened, and Michael 
 was shown into Katherine s sitting-room. 
 
 She looked at him and thought at once that he was 
 probably an artist. His clothes did not appear to her 
 cut quite on the common pattern, but he certainly was 
 a gentleman. 
 
 "I think you have come to see me," said Katherine, 
 "about the Vandycks at Ilbury. Mr. Errington is 
 coming later, but I have the description of the pictures 
 here. Our idea is to take them out of the frames 
 
 "No, I have not come about the pictures," said Michael. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," said Katherine, turning round
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 271 
 
 from the writing-table where she was hunting among 
 the papers. "I thought 
 
 She felt she had made a mistake. What was he? 
 He could not be the surveyor of the Electric Light Com 
 pany who had to undertake the work at Ilbury. She 
 would hazard no more guesses. She wondered if she 
 ought to ask him to sit down, but he gave her no time. 
 
 "I have come to see you, Lady Cliffe, on a matter 
 which is important, as it concerns the good name of 
 someone who is at present involved in an unjust and 
 disgraceful way. My name is Fane. I am a neigh 
 bor of Mr. Errington s at Ilbury, and I should be grateful 
 if I could have a few moments, if you can spare the time." 
 
 Fane, Fane Where had she heard the name? 
 Eric must have mentioned it. 
 
 " Do sit down, Mr. Fane," she said warmly. 
 
 Some little trouble among the tenants, she thought, 
 as Michael obeyed her. 
 
 "I cannot well tell you how hard it is to me to come 
 to you at such a time, but Mr. Errington has given me 
 no choice. I must defend a woman who has no one 
 else to do it." 
 
 She drew herself up stiffly and said : 
 
 "I don t understand. What woman?" But in her 
 heart she knew. She only said the words as one might 
 put up a hand to ward a blow. She felt intuitively he 
 spoke of Elizabeth. 
 
 "I would far rather have left the explanation to Mr. 
 Errington," said Michael, "but I can t trust him to tell 
 you the details as fully as I wish. You brought a locket 
 some time ago to Miss Maynell, and you asked her if 
 it was hers, and she told you that she had given it to the 
 man to whom she thought you knew it belonged. She 
 had no idea that it had been brought to you by Major 
 Guthrie, or that it had been found in Sir John Cliffe s
 
 272 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 possession. She imagined you knew it belonged to Mr. 
 Errington, and that she had given it to him when they 
 were engaged, nearly two years ago. Mr. Errington 
 called to inform her what had happened, and to beg her 
 to conceal the fact that, when he was wounded and be 
 lieved himself dying, he gave it to Sir John, and asked 
 him to bring it back to England." 
 
 Katherine sat perfectly rigid. She had never moved 
 since Michael began to speak. 
 
 "He begged her not to give him away," he continued, 
 "as he said he was going to marry you, and that it would 
 ruin his chances if the mistake was discovered ; but I de 
 termined you should discover it, as I could not allow Miss 
 Maynell to bear such a weight of calumny. I am very 
 sorry I have been obliged to give you pain." 
 
 "What proof have you?" said Katherine, still sit 
 ting motionless. 
 
 "I knew of her engagement; everyone at Ilbury knew 
 that he paid her attention. I could get a hundred proofs," 
 said Michael; "but if you wish it, let me see Mr. Er 
 rington in your presence." 
 
 Katherine was silent. What had happened? Where 
 was she? She felt like a person who had just recovered 
 from a state of unconsciousness produced by an anaesthetic 
 dazed, undone, yet anxious to keep a strong hold upon 
 herself as her senses slowly returned. 
 
 "Miss Maynell never met Sir John Cliffe in her life," 
 said Michael doggedly. He felt the profoundest pity 
 for this frail woman, but he was determined to do his 
 work, and clear Elizabeth. "But if you doubt the facts 
 I can get the duplicate locket which Mr. Errington gave 
 to Miss Maynell. He has perhaps forgotten that she 
 possesses it. I should not have known it, but her old 
 nurse told me of the fact." 
 
 He spoke deliberately, and it seemed almost mercilessly.
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 273 
 
 "I shall not want any evidence," said Katherine. 
 She longed to be alone, and Michael guessed her unspoken 
 wish. 
 
 "Good-bye, Lady Cliffe," he said. "I wish I had 
 not had so sad a task to perform. I feel that it has 
 wounded you." 
 
 The tone was so kindly, and his honest eyes looked 
 down on her so sorrowfully, that her pride yielded to 
 the desire to find help from someone who was honest 
 and true, as she instinctively felt this man to be. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Fane," she said, "do you know what it 
 is to have everything shattered before your eyes? When 
 it first happened I thought I could build my life back 
 again, and now, for the second time I am turned adrift. 
 He has lied about the defenceless dead. Oh, it is horrible, 
 horrible!" 
 
 But the very strength of the constraint she had put 
 upon herself had made the tension too great, and she 
 fell back in a dead faint. 
 
 Michael lifted her up and put her on the sofa, violently 
 rang the bell, and stood before her in despair. What 
 had he heard should be done ? He could not remember. 
 Ought her head to be high or low ? Surely water should 
 be dashed on fainting people. He had read that. He 
 looked round distractedly. Then the servant came. 
 
 "Lady Cliffe has fainte.d," he said, "fetch the maid." 
 And presently a whole army of servants surrounded 
 the unconscious woman, and Michael walked down the 
 stairs. 
 
 In the hall the two men met. Eric had come to keep 
 an appointment with the celebrated picture restorer. 
 All sorts of tradesmen were coming and going, so he 
 evinced no surprise at seeing a man walk across the hall, 
 although the hour was early; but as Michael turned to 
 pick up his hat they stood face to face. 
 
 18
 
 274 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 Eric almost lost his self-command. Then, quickly 
 regaining his balance, he said: 
 
 "How d you do, Fane? I did not know you were 
 in London." But the extended hand was ignored. 
 
 "I have no acquaintance with you, Mr. Errington," 
 he said. 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "Just what I say. When she has recovered, no doubt 
 Lady Cliffe will tell you." 
 
 "You damned scoundrel, what do you mean?" said 
 Eric, losing his self-control. "What have you been 
 saying to Lady Cliffe ? How dare you come to this house ? " 
 
 "Stop a moment," said Michael, standing still and 
 looking at him with unflinching eyes. "I have come 
 to tell Lady Cliffe that her husband was not unfaithful, 
 that Miss Maynell is a perfectly innocent woman, and 
 that you are a blackguard who would betray the dead; 
 and now I have done my duty." 
 
 He turned, crossed the hall, and was gone, and Eric 
 was left alone.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 "I AM absolutely in despair," said Lady Hornden, 
 sitting, four months afterward, in the summer gardens 
 at Lentham. "I have been really almost beside my 
 self with anxiety and trouble." 
 
 Sir James looked down on the ground, and drew 
 patterns on the gravel with his stick. He murmured 
 from time to time a few sympathetic ejaculations, as 
 Lady Hornden grew more confidential. 
 
 "There is positively no one, dear friend," she said, 
 "I could talk to as I have talked to you. Men are so 
 absurdly matter-of-fact; they can t see the hidden springs, 
 under the surface of life, which are the real power, and 
 there have been so many causes at work to produce all 
 this terrible trouble. Of course," she continued more 
 fluently, "I told Katherine when she first came to tell 
 me she had broken with Eric, that no one would ever 
 understand ; that she had changed so often, the chameleon 
 wasn t in it. Then she told me some story about a lock 
 of hair which was brought home with poor Jack s things, 
 and it had turned out that it was some love affair of 
 Eric s. It s all very involved, but the long and the short 
 of the whole thing is, that she has broken off her engage 
 ment, and I warned her how much people would blame 
 her; but she is so romantic. I don t mind romance, 
 if people will only do the common-sense thing. They 
 may talk as much as they like, it doesn t hurt anybody, 
 and it s really rather nice and individual. But when 
 it comes to upsetting all your life for some foolish fancies, 
 I really have no patience." 
 
 275
 
 276 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 "Lady Cliff e expects every man to be a sort of Sir 
 Galahad. It s all very well, but the world would be 
 an infernally dull place if there were no Lancelots 
 and others 
 
 "Of course it would," said Lady Hornden eagerly. 
 Then she changed her tone, and the real trouble was 
 apparent. "To tell you the truth, I wouldn t mind 
 how often Katherine changed her mind if she was happy 
 and gay about it all, just played a game of battledore 
 and shuttlecock, which is de son age, and very natural, 
 while she is young. But she is so miserable and so ill, 
 I can t bear to see her. I am going up to consult a 
 specialist with her to-morrow. She is a skeleton, and 
 pale and listless. She cares for nothing, but just sits in 
 her room half the day with her hands in her lap, thinking. 
 I try to cheer her up and take her out, but even when she 
 goes to the play, she doesn t seem to hear or see anything. 
 She won t leave London or come here; she says she wants 
 to be alone." 
 
 "Oh, that will all pass," said Sir James. "She ll 
 get sick of that sort of moated grange existence. By- 
 and-by she ll cheer up, and really, my dear lady, she 
 could do much better. Eric Errington is, to my mind, 
 an affected young ass. I ve no patience with him, and 
 you may be sure, apart from any little histories, she has 
 grown sick of him. Women who are in love don t break 
 with men because they learn there s been somebody in 
 the field before them; not a bit of it. She s just tired 
 of him. She ll come out all right. Get her to Homburg 
 or Aix-les-Bains, and make her go through a cure, then 
 she ll believe she s better, and will get quite well." 
 
 "You are always so full of wisdom," said Lady Horn- 
 den, looking gratefully at Sir James. "I daresay you re 
 right; but I m superstitious. I can t help it; it may 
 be silly, but two things oppress me. Jack, poor old dear,
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 277 
 
 who was just a matter-of-fact Englishman, gave Katherine 
 an opal engagement ring; and she broke her looking-glass 
 the day she was married. They didn t tell me at the 
 time, but I found it out afterward from the housemaid. 
 This has always made me feel she was somehow doomed. 
 
 "Oh, tommy rot!" said Sir James unsympatheti- 
 cally. "Lady Cliffe has not been really unfortunate; 
 she has got all her life before her. She is beautiful and 
 rich, and she has a delightful mother." And as he turned 
 and smiled, the wrinkles deepened round his eyes, but 
 their expression was kindly. 
 
 Lady Hornden got up with a sigh. She did not appear 
 convinced, and they walked toward the house, where 
 she was entertaining a large party or guests. 
 
 The next day Lady Hornden arrived at Hill Street 
 in time to meet Sir William Hayward, the celebrated 
 specialist, who had been summoned to see Lady Cliffe. 
 
 Katherine sat in an arm-chair in her room, and her 
 mother paced about while they were waiting for Mr. 
 Graham, who had for years been their family doctor, 
 to bring the great man upstairs. At last steps sounded 
 in the passage, and the doctors were admitted. 
 
 Mr. Graham led the way, and introduced his more 
 famous colleague. He was tall, a striking man, with 
 that purring professional voice which is supposed to 
 have a soothing effect on the patient, and inspire un 
 hesitating confidence. Then followed the series of 
 questions and answers, known to all who submit to a 
 physician s consultation. 
 
 When the main symptoms were reached Sir William s 
 manner changed. He asked in quick phrases for details 
 and dates. His look became alert, and he appeared 
 oblivious of the individuality of the sick person. It was 
 the trail of the disease he was hunting, and he was lost 
 to all other sense. How long had this state of things
 
 278 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 existed? Mr. Graham had only been recently aware of 
 it. Then he questioned Katherine, looking at her with 
 keen kind eyes. 
 
 Lady Hornden tried to put in an occasional word, 
 but he attached little importance to her interpolations. 
 It was the patient who absorbed his thought. 
 
 At last he turned to Mr. Graham, and said: 
 
 "Well, I think you and I must have a little talk." 
 
 Katherine remembered the hundreds of times he 
 must have repeated this sentence, and wondered how 
 often he had said it with the knowledge of his own help 
 lessness. 
 
 When they were gone Lady Hornden became more 
 restless. 
 
 "Of course he may be a great man, but he is not in 
 fallible. If I am not satisfied I shall call in Lambert. 
 He is magnificent, they say; upsets everybody s theories, 
 and cures so many people that the other doctors hate 
 him. I think this man has too much a sort of bottled 
 all-wisdom appearance, to impress me. I, as your 
 mother, must know about you better than anyone, but he 
 would hardly let me speak." 
 
 Katherine sat listlessly in her chair. 
 
 "I don t care," she said. "I will see anyone you like, 
 if they don t rout me out, and drive me hither and thither 
 in search of the unattainable; I am content, only I want 
 to be left alone. But remember, mama," she said, 
 gathering strength as she spoke, "remember I mean to 
 hear the truth. I am not going to be put off with all 
 sorts of nonsense, as though I were a cowardly child. 
 I want to know how things really are with me. You 
 promise me, for I will know. I am ill, I think; I feel ill. 
 It may be nothing, but I wish to be told everything there 
 is to know." 
 
 By-and-by both doctors returned. Sir William had
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 279 
 
 resumed his first manner. He took a chair and held 
 his hands together, and in a slow, sweet, pompous voice, 
 he began to explain to her that he quite hoped to be able 
 to gather strength back. 
 
 "You are weak; you want watching, and rest, and 
 feeding." 
 
 Katherinc listened, but said no word. 
 
 Sir William strung sentences together which appeared 
 to mean very little. 
 
 "You will go into the country," he continued. He 
 hesitated. 
 
 Lady Hornden was standing beside Katherine, and 
 said decidedly: 
 
 "Her own home, of course; it is always open to her. 
 Where better than to her mother?" 
 
 "Exactly. That would be the very thing. To your 
 mother s country place," and the doctor turned again to 
 Katherine, "and then you will have rest, and a simple 
 treatment which I have arranged with Dr. Graham, to 
 be given by one of our nurses, and then I hope, with time 
 and care, we shall do wonders for you wonders; only 
 you must be patient, and give yourself up to rest and 
 nursing." He turned to Mr. Graham and then to Lady 
 Cliffe. "You have been admirably treated hitherto 
 by my friend here, who will watch you and report to me. 
 Good-bye," he said, extending his hand with a little curved 
 swoop, which seemed to hint at a benediction, and then, 
 turning to Lady Hornden: "I should like a word as 
 to details of treatment with your ladyship." Another 
 smile and he was gone. 
 
 Mr. Graham remained a moment to bend over Kath 
 erine in his most irritating way, and said : 
 
 "He has nothing but good to prophesy. We are 
 going to make a splendid cure." 
 
 "Is that all he said?" Katherine looked at him
 
 2 8o UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 with large searching eyes. "You know I have told 
 you before, I don t care. I only want to know how 
 I really am." 
 
 The cross-examination to which Lady Hornden was 
 subjected on her return was severe. 
 
 "What does he say is the matter with me?" asked 
 Katherine. 
 
 "Oh, general weakness," said Lady Hornden vaguely. 
 
 "Nonsense, mama; that does not account for it," 
 and she named the special symptoms which had arrested 
 the doctor s attention. 
 
 "He is certain that it does," said Lady Hornden 
 decisively. "He says weakness may produce anything, 
 everybody knows it can." 
 
 "When shall I be well?" said Katherine. 
 
 "Oh, my beautiful, darling child, you will be well 
 soon, only you must do every single thing he says, and 
 then he is to sec you again. I am just going to fetch 
 Marguerite, I want to see her before she goes out shop 
 ping," and she almost ran from the room. 
 
 "They are deceiving me, but I will know," thought 
 Katherine, as she lay back in her chair. 
 
 % 5fc: ^ % ;fc 
 
 Eric sat in the club window. He looked out on the 
 cabs and omnibuses and motors and carriages, and on 
 the people walking on the pavements, but it was to 
 him as a vain show. He saw none of them. Over and 
 over again he had been wondering how best he could 
 act. Katherine s note was in his pocket. 
 
 "Please do not come to me," she wrote, "I would 
 rather not see you. I know the truth. I do not want 
 to characterize your action other than to say that my 
 ideas of confidence and of honor differ so widely from 
 your own, that it will be best we should part. I have
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 281 
 
 no other word to add, except, that the suffering I must 
 endure arises, I know, partly from my own folly in the 
 past, and on that score the blame is not wholly yours. 
 
 "K.ATHERINE CLIFFE. 
 
 "P.S. If these words appear to you hard, you must 
 remember that there is nothing so bitter as to be deceived." 
 
 He had written at least twenty answers, and had 
 destroyed them all. None were to his mind satisfactory. 
 Directly he tried to explain the situation, the incident 
 looked more regrettable. When he wrote of penitence, 
 the words seemed unreal and strained. The only strong 
 thing, he decided, was to be silent. There is a wonderful 
 power in silence, he argued. The very uncertainty will 
 keep me in her mind, and who know r s that she may not 
 think better of this absurdly strained situation, and 
 come back to real life and take things as she finds them. 
 
 He was genuinely distressed. Never had he so nearly 
 approached a sincere love as during these last months. 
 There was something so appealing in that fragile figure, 
 so delicate and dependent, and then of course there 
 was so much besides. Life would have been so easy, 
 so delightful. He would have had such scope for his 
 taste and his talent. He was envied by everybody. He 
 was the lucky man who had drawn a big prize. And 
 now confound it! How hard it is on a fellow just 
 one false step. It seems too heavy a punishment. And 
 he puffed his cigarette and clenched the arm of the chair, 
 as if he were in bodily pain. 
 
 What had he better do? He could not loaf about 
 London; he must make some plans. But this con 
 sideration was interrupted by a voice behind him saying: 
 
 "Hullo Eric, old boy! I m awfully glad to see you. 
 You ve had horrible luck. I hear she s broken off her 
 engagement. Poor old chap!" And a small, well-
 
 282 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 groomed man sat down astride on a chair, in front of 
 him. No one else was in the room, so the greeting caused 
 him no embarrassment. 
 
 The speaker was Lord Munro. When she first came 
 out, he had himself admired Katherine, and had hoped 
 to rebuild the fortunes of his impoverished house with 
 her fortune. But apart from this sordid motive, he had 
 a really sincere admiration for her beauty and charm, 
 and had retained her friendship. 
 
 "It s deuced hard luck," he said again. 
 
 "Yes, it is, only you know, my dear fellow, I m not 
 sure I take it as final. She is a little changeable, and 
 some officious fool told her a pack of stories, which she 
 swallowed wholesale," said Eric. " But, still, I m terribly 
 cut up and the uncertainty is horrible." 
 
 "Her mother told me she was awfully ill," said the 
 other man. "They ve had a perfect bevy of doctors 
 to see her, and she does not get any better. Poor Lady 
 Hornden is half beside herself." 
 
 Eric sat up in his chair. 
 
 "I hadn t heard she was really ill." He looked white 
 and worried. "After all," he thought, "perhaps she 
 is fretting at the break. It may be a good thing. I 
 fancy my not writing was rather a stroke." But out 
 loud he said: "Do go round by-and-by and enquire. 
 You see, I can t, although I am half mad with anxiety. 
 I wish you d tell Lady Hornden you have seen me. It 
 is so hard to be shut out, and get no news. My dear 
 fellow, I tell you it s breaking me up," and he got up, 
 and for the moment he was so convinced of the truth 
 of his words that his face looked drawn and wizened. 
 
 The other man was genuinely sorry for him. 
 
 "I can t bear it much longer," Eric went on. "I shall 
 go to America in the autumn anywhere, anywhere 
 to get away."
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 283 
 
 "I ll be sure to tell her. She s a really kind sort, 
 a bit silly, but good stuff," said Lord Munro. "Don t 
 get ill yourself. I daresay you re right, and that things 
 will all come round. Lady Cliffe was always a little 
 exaggerated in her views. Nobody can afford to take 
 romantic ideas in this every-day, jog-trot world. Got to 
 take things as we find em," he said, with a cigarette 
 between his teeth, in the intervals of lighting it. " Don t 
 go to America, it s a horrible place, no sport and nothing 
 to do. Where shall you hunt next winter? I ve got 
 awfully cosy little quarters, and a ripping stable near 
 Uppingham. I wish you d go in with me. I ve got 
 three spare loose boxes." 
 
 And then the conversation drifted on to horses and 
 hounds, and the usual hunting talk, which is only of 
 interest to the sportsman.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 LIFE was very monotonous to Katherine, as she lay 
 on the sofa in her sitting-room at Lentham. She rose 
 late, had her luncheon on the tray, walked as far as 
 the garden attended by her nurse, or sat in her chair 
 on the terrace, then returned to her sofa till dinner. 
 
 "I might be eighty-five," she said to her mother with 
 a sorrowful little smile, "and yet you tell me every day 
 that I am getting better." 
 
 "So you are, my darling," reiterated Lady Hornden; 
 but the tone in which she said it was not convincing. 
 "What you need is rousing, you mope far too much. I 
 am hoping that a little brightness may come to you when 
 Anne arrives, and a few others who will be here next 
 week." 
 
 "Are there people coming?" said Katherine des 
 pairingly. "I am so sorry. I want to be quiet; I am 
 so often in pain, and always in discomfort. Until I am 
 better, don t ask me to see anyone." 
 
 "My sweet child, you are morbid," said Lady Horn- 
 den. "You are not yourself. It is quite unnatural 
 that you should shut yourself up. After all, even if you 
 are not well, you can be charmingly dressed. A soft 
 tea-gown with plenty of lace, or one of Doucet s saut de 
 lit, is just as pretty as any gown. Indeed, illness is 
 quite interesting, if it is not disfiguring. It will be a joy 
 to them to see you, and my crushed flower will lift up her 
 head, more beautiful than any of them," and she made 
 a brave show of mirth. 
 
 "Oh, it isn t clothes," said Katherine, clasping her 
 
 284
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 285 
 
 hands together, and looking out beyond her mother. 
 "The fact is, the people don t interest me; I don t want 
 to see them. I don t care to hear them talk; it s always 
 the same thing, and it s deadly dull and commonplace. 
 Well, perhaps I don t know what I want," said Katherine, 
 as she saw her mother look pained and puzzled. "I 
 daresay it will be all right, only I am so tired, and I can t 
 find rest anywhere." 
 
 When her mother left her, she lay back and closed 
 her eyes. She saw a wide sweep of country, fading 
 away into the long streaks of blue, a broad field and a 
 narrow path, and she heard again the cracked voice 
 of an old woman saying: 
 
 "They re a-carlin of us, they re a-carlin ." 
 
 "I wonder if they are?" she thought. 
 
 By-and-by, when the expected guests came to Lentham, 
 even Lady Hornden saw that it was too much for Kath 
 erine. She became more restless and nervous, and her 
 nurse was disturbed. She was "losing ground," she 
 said. 
 
 Dr. Graham was summoned from London, and it 
 was finally arranged that sea air would be the best restora 
 tive, and that Katherine was to go away, accompanied 
 only by her nurse. 
 
 A large cottage was taken on the east coast of Kent, 
 and Katherine, with a retinue of servants, began that 
 search for health which takes us over such weary and 
 often unending ways. 
 
 She had not seen Elizabeth since her interview with 
 Michael, neither had she written. It seemed to her 
 impossible to re-open the question. She had bitterly 
 repented her hasty judgment, and had again and again 
 called out into the silence, to beg Jack s forgiveness, 
 but no assurance came in answer to her appeal. But 
 although the tide of her love and respect for him had
 
 286 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 swept back over her life, she still felt a resentment toward 
 Elizabeth which she could not overcome. She had 
 caused her, unintentionally, she admitted, untold suffering. 
 Why had she not frankly told her of her engagement to 
 Eric? she unreasonably argued. It would have saved 
 all misunderstanding. 
 
 It was unjust, she almost admitted to herself, to extend 
 no forgiveness to Elizabeth, but the thought that she 
 had not always held, as she imagined, supreme sway 
 over Eric, annoyed her. She had always believed that 
 the romance of his life centred in her, and with the sen 
 sitiveness of those who possess other than personal at 
 tractions, she began to think that possibly her fortune 
 had played a larger part in his desire to marry her than 
 in reality it had. She still felt a mistrust of Elizabeth s 
 sincerity, and consequently a bitter dislike to the interests 
 with which she had surrounded herself. Michael had 
 seemed to her straightforward, but he only sought to 
 vindicate Elizabeth; she had occupied the position of 
 importance in his mind, and although he had been sorry 
 for her own pain, it was a necessary evil he had inflicted, 
 in order to gain her justification. 
 
 She thought constantly of Eric, and of the long days 
 they had spent together, and although her heart had 
 resumed allegiance to her unseen love, her soul cried 
 out for the expression of it which she had found with 
 Eric, for the sense of protection which his presence gave 
 her, for the spoken word and the warm, living touch. 
 Then she remembered how he had deceived her. She 
 would spell over in memory every word that bore on his 
 misrepresentation of Jack, and it seemed to Katherine 
 as though she loathed the very love for which she craved. 
 The silence he had maintained had troubled her. She 
 had sent him one short note, immediately after she re 
 covered strength enough to write, after her interview
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 287 
 
 with Michael Fane. But since that day never by word 
 or by letter had he sought to change her decision, or to 
 justify his conduct. 
 
 Perhaps he was wise. What was there to say? But 
 still, she would have preferred to have had some recogni 
 tion or remonstrance. It was like throwing a letter out 
 into the dark. She would even have been glad to hear 
 that he was angry, if only she could hear something. 
 But it was like Eric; he was always complicated and 
 mysterious. 
 
 Then she turned once more to the thought of Jack. 
 She remembered that during the short year they were 
 together, the honest expression of his love had some 
 times bored her; but now she realized that in spite of 
 this, she trusted in him implicitly and believed in him, 
 and there was the solid rock which is the foundation 
 of all lasting love. 
 
 The thousand ways in which he had shown his de 
 votion to her came to mind, little acts, unnoticed at the 
 time, but full of that deference which a strong man 
 feels for the woman who gives herself into his care. She 
 longed passionately to picture him in that strange region 
 beyond. Had he carried his love for her yonder? Had 
 he forgiven her? It almost seemed to her that now 
 and then she caught some glimpse of the way out of the 
 haunted chamber of memory, into those wide places 
 where dreams mingle with reality, and time and eternity 
 arc one, as she lay in the little garden in the cool of the 
 summer evening, listening to the hiss of the returning 
 tide. 
 
 By degrees the invigorating air brought to Katherine 
 some fresh strength, and with it came a greater interest 
 in her surroundings. At first the presence of the nurse 
 was a comfort, and it was a rest to leave herself in her 
 hands; but when she had thoroughly established an
 
 288 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 invalid routine, the thraldom began to be unspeakably 
 irksome. She had, however, no other companionship, 
 and she became the only human interest. 
 
 During the tedious process of daily electric massage 
 Katherine would listen to her talk with a mixture of 
 weariness and amusement, and would question her 
 about her life and her hospital experience. Then she 
 would try and extract her opinion as to her own progress to 
 ward health ; but here she came on a professional bedrock. 
 
 "Am I better, nurse?" she would say, after the daily 
 weighing. "Have I gained anything?" 
 
 "We can never tell our patients; we are never allowed 
 to give particulars," said the nurse mysteriously. 
 
 "But you can tell me what you think," said Katherine 
 peevishly. "It s absolutely ridiculous." 
 
 "You mustn t think at all, my lady," she would answer. 
 "You have been a very good patient up to now. You 
 must ask Dr. Graham next time he comes." 
 
 "What did Dr. Graham tell you was the matter with 
 me?" queried Katherine. 
 
 "He told me just what he told you." 
 
 "Oh, that is nonsense," she replied impatiently. 
 "That does not account for the symptoms you are watch 
 ing. He only said it was weakness, and that I should 
 grow stronger." 
 
 "That was just what he told me," said the girl dip 
 lomatically. 
 
 Katherine looked suspicious and said no more, but 
 the nurse, although reticent about Katherine s ailments, 
 was certainly not reserved about her own experiences. 
 The "cases" she had attended were minutely described; 
 the triumphs she had achieved over disease, the recoveries 
 which were the direct result of her care, were all told in 
 detail. Her "gentlemen patients" appeared to be the 
 most interesting charge.
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 289 
 
 "I have never had any trouble with them," she said, 
 as she kneaded Katherine. "They are lovely to me." 
 And a little reminiscent smile played round her mouth. 
 "Sir William, for whom I have nursed a lot, said, You re 
 the very nurse for gentlemen; I would trust the most 
 difficult case to your care and tact. " 
 
 "Aren t they impatient and troublesome sometimes?" 
 Katherine questioned. 
 
 "Oh dear no; not after the first. I have sometimes 
 a good bit of bother with the wives; they want to be 
 fussing in and out, but I won t have it. After opera 
 tion cases I keep them out altogether." 
 
 "Don t the husbands ask for them?" said Katherine. 
 
 "Not after a bit," said the little nurse. 
 
 She was young and rather good-looking, and Katherine 
 pictured the wives frenzied with anxiety and jealousy, 
 haunting the ante-chambers guarded by this relentless 
 little siren. 
 
 "You see, we get a good deal behind the scenes. Gentle 
 men have often thanked me for allowing no one to come 
 to them. Very often the wife worries them, and they can t 
 tell her so. We see rather amusing things sometimes." 
 
 "Rather squalid, I should think," said Katherine. 
 
 "Oh, not now," said the nurse. "I ve given up all 
 district work, since I finished my training. I never 
 nurse anyone but people of good family." 
 
 "That would not prevent it," said Katherine; but 
 she did not trouble to explain to her that she felt there 
 was just as much squalor among rich people, as poor, 
 and that it is not only outward dirt which makes things 
 squalid. 
 
 At other times she would ask her minutely about 
 her hospital life, about the out-patients and the sick. 
 
 " Do the doctors tell poor people the truth ? " Katherine 
 questioned.
 
 2 Qo UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 "Not always," said the nurse, "it depends. If they 
 really want to know, because they ought to, then of 
 course they tell them, but not otherwise. Still, they 
 are more open with them than with private patients, 
 no doubt." 
 
 Katherine made her describe again and again with 
 the utmost minuteness all the details of the hospital 
 routine. 
 
 "Now tell me from the beginning," she would say. 
 "A woman comes with a letter what is it you call it? 
 Yes, an out-patient s letter, and she has to sit hours and 
 hours." 
 
 Then the nurse would explain the hospital regula 
 tions, and she would question and cross-question her 
 on every detail. Sometimes the nurse wondered at 
 her great eagerness, but finally settled that she perhaps 
 intended to leave money to the charity, or build a new 
 ward, and so she took pains to give her all the information 
 she demanded. 
 
 The nurse prided herself that she could generally 
 "place" her patients, but Katherine completely mystified 
 her. She was young, she was rich, and she was beautiful. 
 She possessed more expensive clothes than any she had 
 ever seen. Every wish that she expressed was gratified, 
 and yet she seemed to care for nothing. It was certainly 
 a bad sign, and the woman wondered why she showed 
 no desire to see her friends. The loss of her husband 
 might account for this apathy. Her grief might have 
 shattered her, for the disease from which she was suffering 
 would not yet have so undermined her strength as to 
 hinder her desire for change and enjoyment. But she 
 had never spoken of her grief, or behaved in the manner 
 bereaved people invariably did, according to her ex 
 perience. It was very odd, she would say to herself; 
 and a feeling of profound pity almost akin to contempt
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 291 
 
 possessed her, when she thought how little use this woman 
 made of the good things of life which were scattered 
 round her in such profusion. 
 
 The object of her pity was, however, supremely un 
 conscious. Katherine was low-spirited and nervous. 
 The future had for her no charm; the past seemed to be 
 a series of mistakes. She held the threads of life with 
 tired fingers, and had no energy to disentangle the skein. 
 
 $ & $ # # 
 
 August is a deadly month in the slums. While other 
 children scamper over the heather or paddle by the sea, 
 the children in the court sit on the baking steps, leaning 
 weary heads against the door, too tired or too ill to play. 
 Many a child drops out of the ranks before the spell of 
 heat is over. 
 
 Elizabeth longed for change and country, but decided 
 to remain in Marshom Street until late in the autumn. 
 She felt she could not leave the children, and it seemed 
 to her that one place was the same as another. She too 
 had little desire for enjoyment, besides which she had 
 many cases of illness in the district, and the work was 
 heavy. 
 
 Billy had returned. He was mysterious as to where 
 he had spent his time. His hair was clipped close to his 
 skull, and his ears stood out like handles. His shirt and 
 waistcoat were sizes too small for him now. "They 
 fits me too soon," he explained to Elizabeth; and his 
 trousers ended in a fringe. 
 
 He had got some work at a greengrocer s, and with 
 all the deficiencies of his attire hidden under a long 
 and dirty apron, he scrubbed the doorsteps of the little 
 shop at the corner of the court, unpacked the hampers 
 of cauliflowers and cabbages, and carried boxes of bananas, 
 with an air of solemn importance. 
 
 Sally used to hover round the shop, but Billy, with
 
 292 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 true professional instinct, took no notice of her until 
 work was over. He was only employed in the morn 
 ings, so in the afternoons they would go off together 
 to the "burying ground"; there were trees there and 
 little patches of grass, and they used to sit and listen 
 to the stories told by the other children, of their experi 
 ences in the country. Many of them had been away 
 for a fortnight, and brought back glowing tales of the 
 flowers to be had for the picking, of the fields "where 
 yer could tumble ead over eels withaout no bloomin 
 copper chasm yer," of the "sneaky green grass wot 
 nipped yer bare legs," while the brother and sister sat 
 and drank in every word. 
 
 Elizabeth, mindful of the boy s disappointment, and 
 the tragic sequel, had promised that if possible she would 
 try and get them away, but there were many sick, and 
 their turn had not come before the funds were exhausted. 
 One never to be forgotten day, however, she had given 
 them sixpence, and they went for a ride on the tram as 
 far as Leytonstone. Then they got out and walked 
 along the road toward the forest. They could not go 
 very far, but they had seen trees and grass, and "little 
 white flowers wot grew among it," and Mr. Green had 
 given them some rotten fruit instead of throwing it away; 
 so they sat down and had a splendid time "a-eatin of 
 them plums and bernardos," as Sally afterward described 
 it. 
 
 But the weather grew hotter, and Sally fell sick. Billy 
 did all he could for her. He used to take her every day 
 to the "buryin ground" and put her under a tree. She 
 was too ill to eat, but she enjoyed the cold water from the 
 drinking fountain, and she lay there until he came to fetch 
 her in the evening when the cemetery was closed. 
 
 Elizabeth heard of Sally s illness from Billy, when 
 he was taking down the shutters early one morning,
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 293 
 
 and she hastened off to find Sally under her tree. She 
 sat down beside her. The child was very white. She 
 took the bit of cake of Elizabeth brought her, and tried 
 to eat it in order to please her, but it was an effort. Her 
 head ached badly, and Elizabeth asked her about her 
 nights. 
 
 "We ve slep out, Billy an me, most o nights. Mover s 
 bin boozed, an took the key wif er, so we couldn t git in. 
 Oh no, we likes it," in answer to Elizabeth s question 
 as to whether the doorstep was not very hard. "Billy 
 lies on is back, and e looks at the stars, e does, a big 
 un and two little uns, and e says the little uns winks 
 at im, but the big un just looks clear at im, it does. 
 Worst on it is, mofer comes back boozed, an last night 
 when she seed us she kicked Billy, and she it me, an 
 she siys as it was a disgrice to er, us slcepin outside; 
 an Billy an me cried out, an Mrs. Jones she put er 
 ead out of the winder, and she asted mofer ef she warn t 
 fit ter look artcr er children, she did, and she called er 
 nimes. And mofer in course she turned, and we ad a 
 job tcr keep er from goin at er. Wicked, meddlin 
 ole cat, she said she d tear ivry air out of er ead." 
 
 Sally repeated the every-day occurrence in a quiet, 
 matter-of-fact voice. 
 
 "Oh, Billy, e is good ter me," she said, as Elizabeth 
 changed the subject. " E s right down good ter me. 
 Iver since bibydied, Vs bin that kind, e as." 
 
 Then Elizabeth tried to draw her thoughts away from 
 the court, and the dirt, and the drink. She told her 
 about fields, and birds, and flowers, and how next year 
 she hoped to get her away. 
 
 Sally listened. Her face was small and very white. 
 She had an old, worn, anxious look, and there were 
 some wrinkles already round her dark eyes. Her gown, 
 if it could be dignified by such a name, consisted of a
 
 294 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 torn and sleeveless bodice, and a skirt which draggled at 
 her heels; a rusty black cape stretched across her narrow 
 shoulders, succeeded in covering her arms to her elbows, 
 and a shapeless pair of boots, which belonged to her 
 mother, covered her feet. 
 
 She sat there, so sad a little figure, that Elizabeth s 
 heart went out to her with infinite pity. What could 
 this life hold for her? she thought. So she began talk 
 ing to her about the world where it was always country, 
 which nobody had spoiled. 
 
 "Ain t no pine there?" said Sally, looking up sharply. 
 
 "No," said Elizabeth, "and nobody s ever drunk 
 there or naughty." 
 
 "Nobody s boozed? Why, wo goes ter the public 
 ouse?" she asked. "Ain t none?" she questioned. 
 "Why, that s funny!" 
 
 Then Elizabeth talked of the great Painbearer who 
 understood all about her weakness. Sally listened, 
 but there was a doubting expression on her face. Then 
 they fell to talking about the graves and the great mystery 
 of death. 
 
 "Is they all appy?" asked Sally. "Is they all 
 a-livin ?" 
 
 "Yes, they re happy," said Elizabeth, "or else they re 
 learning more lessons which will teach them how to be 
 happy." 
 
 Again Sally looked doubtful. 
 
 "The old woman as mide me puddings when I was 
 bad told me as God burned bad people to red ot cinders." 
 She looked up as though she had caught Elizabeth this 
 time. " She says as ow ef yer tells lies yer gets burned up." 
 
 Elizabeth tried to improve Sally s theology, but seeing 
 that her statements were taken with some measure of 
 reserve, she began "reading the writing" with Sally on 
 the different tombstones.
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 295 
 
 "This is the one I loikes," said Sally, pointing with 
 her thin dirty little hand, as she read aloud in a slow, 
 nasal voice: 
 
 "Who best can drink ce s cup of waoe 
 Triumfat over pyne, 
 Who pashunt bears ee s cross belaow, 
 E follows in ee s tryne." 
 
 Elizabeth s eyes were dim. "The steep ascent to 
 heaven" seemed to her a toiling journey, but this frail 
 little figure had a harder path to travel. Perhaps it will 
 be shorter, she thought, as she kissed the pale thin cheek, 
 and told her she would come again. 
 
 "Mind yer do," said Sally smiling. 
 
 On her way home Elizabeth saw Michael coming 
 toward Marshom Street. She had seen a great deal 
 of him lately. He had been in and out more than usual. 
 He had, however, told her nothing at all about his inter 
 view with Katherine, but he said casually one day that 
 he had heard that her engagement with Eric was broken, 
 and Elizabeth imagined that after all perhaps Eric had 
 the grace to tell her the truth, but her hero worship was 
 ended. She had seen Eric in a new and very different 
 light, and she mourned only the loss of an ideal which 
 she now recognized had no relation to reality. But still 
 her heart was sore. Her very mistake brought with it 
 a sense of humiliation, although she tried resolutely to 
 turn to her work, and had already begun to plan for the 
 coming winter with renewed energy. Her dream was 
 over, she told herself. She could, therefore, no longer 
 afford to be drowsy. Life must be lived, and realities 
 faced, but the world seemed very gray. Still, there were 
 moments when she recognized that the awakening was 
 good. She knew that it was inevitable, but it might 
 have come too late, and she allowed herself no illusions 
 as to Eric s character.
 
 296 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 Elizabeth wondered why she did not hear from Kathe- 
 rine. Surely she owed her some word to tell her of her 
 mistake. She resented the silence at first, and then she 
 heard of her illness through Lady Augusta, and was filled 
 with pity and a real desire to be allowed to comfort her. 
 
 Michael looked worried and anxious as he stopped 
 in the entrance of the court to speak to her, and in his 
 hand he held a telegram. 
 
 "I have had bad news. Mother is ill," he said, "and 
 I am off to Ilbury by the next train." 
 
 " How ill ? " said Elizabeth quickly. " Not seriously ? " 
 
 "Yes, I am afraid so. The telegram is from Dr. 
 Hood, and he asks me to come to her. She must be 
 very ill," he said, and his voice trembled a little, "not to 
 send herself." 
 
 "How soon is your train?" 
 
 "Now, at once. I am just going to Liverpool Street. 
 Betty, if she wants you, you will come, won t you?" 
 
 "Yes, any moment," said Elizabeth. "Only do 
 send at once if I can help her." 
 
 "Shall I take a message?" he said, still lingering. 
 
 "Tell her, Michael, how I love her. That is the 
 only message worth taking to anyone." 
 
 " God knows you re right," said Michael, as he turned 
 to go.
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 As autumn advanced the October wind was often too 
 boisterous for Katherine to sit in her garden with comfort. 
 
 "Only the very young and the very prosperous like 
 wind," she said, as the awning of her little wooden shelter 
 filled and flapped with a strong gust. 
 
 "Then I am sure, my lady, you ought to like it," 
 said the nurse. 
 
 The remark was intended to please, but Katherine, 
 wrapped in furs, with her face as white as the ermine 
 of her cloak, laughed a little bitterly, and said : 
 
 "The number of our years doesn t make us young, 
 and prosperity doesn t mean money. Haven t you 
 learnt that?" 
 
 But the woman thought it best to keep to generali 
 zations, and said : 
 
 "Call me if you re cold, please, as you must not get 
 a chill," and, putting her book down by her side, she 
 left her. 
 
 Katherine looked out over the expanse of sea where 
 long green lights were stretching across the dark gray 
 water. The wind bowed the heads of the dahlias and 
 michaelmas daisies almost to breaking point. The 
 little stunted trees shook beneath it, bent and dwarfed 
 by their battles with this strong enemy. The seagulls 
 were screaming and darting down to the waves, then as 
 they reached the water they sank upon it, quietly swim 
 ming as though rocked by a careful hand. The great 
 sea heeded not the wind. The infinite strength of the 
 
 297
 
 298 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 waters struck her afresh. The wind battered only the 
 weak things, but strength gave calm. 
 
 When she looked back on her life, during this time 
 of leisure, everything seemed dwarfed and puny. She 
 longed for things that were big and enduring. 
 
 "I shall make new interests," she thought, "solid 
 things that won t fail, if 
 
 How strange that word had lately come into her life. 
 Formerly she had just settled what she meant to do, or 
 be. Was there, then, something so strong that, like the 
 sea, it could resist the currents of our will, she wondered. 
 
 On the following day Dr. Graham came from London 
 to see her. His visits were a source of aggravation to 
 Katherine. The whispered talks in the adjoining room 
 with the nurse, and the futile accounts she afterward 
 gave of the conversation, annoyed her almost past bearing. 
 
 This time, however, after the usual mysterious con 
 sultation, he returned to her, and taking a chair he bent 
 toward her, and said : 
 
 "I hope you will believe implicitly w r hat I am going 
 to say. You are better, decidedly better. Your strength 
 has gained, and your general condition much improved, 
 but I should like you to see Sir William again. I don t 
 want the responsibility of your winter plans, and I should 
 be glad if you would authorize me to ask him to come. 
 Moreover, we may have to consider whether we can help 
 you before you go abroad." 
 
 "Why don t you talk English?" said Katherine in 
 a hard, dry voice. "Why don t you say outright that 
 you may operate? I know just what you are thinking; 
 I am no fool and no coward." 
 
 My dear Lady Cliffe, you are one of the very best 
 patients but Katherine interrupted the coming 
 compliment. 
 
 "I shall, of course, arrange to see Sir William, but
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 299 
 
 not here. I shall go to London. You say I am stronger, 
 so I can easily bear the journey, and I prefer it." 
 
 The nurse, who was standing in the room, shook 
 her head, and Katherine, looking at her, and then at 
 the doctor, said : 
 
 "I mean to go, so that ends it." 
 
 Three days later, Katherine found herself in Hill 
 Street. The house looked deserted, but the library 
 on the ground floor had been hastily arranged, and 
 flowers from Lentham made the room cheerful. 
 
 On the following day after her arrival the consul 
 tation was held. Sir William brought with him another 
 celebrated specialist, and the three doctors examined 
 and cross-examined the patient, giving no hint as to 
 their opinion, and finally retired for their conference. 
 
 The excitement and pleasure of the nurse was an 
 added annoyance to Katherine. Lady Hornden had 
 come to London in order to be present, and endeavored 
 while they were waiting to get out of her all the information 
 that she could. 
 
 What did she think the doctors would say ? 
 
 She could not tell. She did not know, and even if 
 she had her own opinion, she was not at liberty to say 
 it. 
 
 "Has she gained any weight?" asked her mother. 
 
 "Well, yes, perhaps a little, I think," she said, smiling 
 at Katherine. "We have gained two pounds, but we 
 have been very good. Sir William ought to give us a 
 medal for perseverance," she continued, but the dreary 
 little joke did not make her patient smile. It gave Kathe 
 rine a very real pleasure, however, when, on his return, 
 Sir William said somewhat curtly: "You can go, nurse," 
 and sat down by her. 
 
 "Well, dear lady," he began, "you are doing well. 
 We should like you to go on just the same, to persevere.
 
 300 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 We don t want to interfere with nature. Lady Cliffe 
 has gained strength" he said, turning to Lady Hornden 
 "gained strength," he repeated absently, still looking 
 at Katherine. 
 
 "Well, that is a great deal in her favor, is it not?" 
 
 "De cidedly; decidedly," he repeated. 
 
 But Katherine was not satisfied. 
 
 "Why can t you tell me what is the matter with me, 
 if you know it," she added, "or are you in the dark?" 
 
 Sir William paused, put his hands together, looked 
 up at the ceiling, and then, without meeting her eyes, 
 said: 
 
 "It would be really almost impossible. These attacks 
 of neuritis are so difficult to diagnose. The final recovery 
 depends on general health. We must maintain that. 
 You have youth on your side, and a desire to get well, 
 and I believe that is the real secret of recuperation. By- 
 and-by, perhaps, we may make searching analysis, but 
 there is nothing to cause you anxiety. Keep a quiet 
 mind and you will get strong." 
 
 He still did not look at her, and as she turned quickly 
 to her mother, it appeared to her that she looked grave 
 and rigid and, after shaking hands, Sir William left the 
 room with Lady Hornden. 
 
 In the afternoon Katherine \vas resting, lying on 
 the sofa in the library. The nurse had gone for her 
 afternoon walk. It was part of the hospital rules that 
 she should have fresh air during the day. Lady Horn 
 den was not expected till dinner-time, and it was only 
 four o clock. She got up and rang the bell, and when 
 the servant came, sent for the housekeeper. 
 
 "What servants came up from the cottage, Blunt?" 
 she said to the curtesying woman in black silk. 
 
 "The chef, my lady, and two ousemaids and one 
 kitchenmaid, and the menservants."
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 301 
 
 "Did the other kitchen girl stay behind?" 
 
 "Yes, my lady, she did. I got a charwoman in to 
 help in the scullery." 
 
 "Who is she?" questioned Katherine, to the sur 
 prise of Mrs. Blunt. 
 
 "She s a person as was recommended to me by Lady 
 Augusta s ousekeeper. She comes from the East End, 
 I believe, but reely I don t know, I never asked her. 
 She s a very good woman to work." 
 
 "Tell her I want to speak to her," said Katherine. 
 
 The housekeeper looked dumb with surprise. "A 
 char to go to the librey!" It seemed impossible, but 
 "when people is ill they takes all sorts of fancies," she 
 thought, as she descended the stairs to the kitchen. 
 
 A quarter of an hour later a stout woman with a shiny 
 face, round and motherly, was standing before Katherine. 
 She folded her red swollen hands on her apron, and looked 
 at her. 
 
 "There sat the lidy all dressed in lice with the beautiful- 
 lest air yer ever see, but I knew as she was hill, very hill," 
 she said, as she described the interview on her return 
 home. 
 
 "I don t know what your name is," said Katherine, 
 sitting up on the sofa. 
 
 "Mrs. Etherington," said the woman. 
 
 "Do you come from the East End?" 
 
 "Yes, yer lidyship." 
 
 "What do you get for your work here?" 
 
 "Three shillin s a diy and me food, yer lidyship." 
 
 "Have you children?" 
 
 "Yes, I ve five little children, all a-goin to school, 
 an my por usband e carn t do no work, e s bin bad 
 this three year, a-goin to the orspital once a week, an 
 the stuff as they give im ain t a-done im no good, but 
 then they telled im so, they did. We can t do nothin
 
 302 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 for yer, they says; an ter-day I left im awful bad, and 
 e cawfed that bad as I thought to see is lungs lay on 
 the floor, I did, yer lidyship. It s the truf, every word as 
 they said about im." 
 
 "Did they tell him the truth at the hospital?" said 
 Katherine; and a slight color came into her face. 
 
 "They did, yer lidyship. They said as ow none 
 but the Almighty could elp im." 
 
 "Look here, Mrs. 
 
 " Etherington," said the charwoman, as Katherine 
 hesitated. 
 
 "I will give you five pounds if you will do just as I 
 tell you. Please bring me to-morrow a bonnet, not 
 your best, and a cloak or a shawl, and a pair of boots; 
 but if you tell anybody in the house I shall not give you 
 the money. I want to send a woman to the hospital, 
 and she has nothing to wear." 
 
 "She can t be right in er ead!" thought the woman, 
 eyeing Katherine; but the thought of five pounds made 
 it worth while to humor a lunatic. 
 
 She quickly passed her scanty wardrobe in review. 
 Her dolman with the beads had been deposited in pawn 
 some time back, at the corner shop. She could borrow 
 a bit to get it out. Her bonnet wasn t up to much, but 
 she d clean it to-night, and as to her boots, well, Mrs. 
 Davey as "lived above er was an obliging body, she 
 would elp er for a shillin " she felt sure. So she promptly 
 replied that everything should be ready. 
 
 "Put it in a brown paper parcel and tie it up, and leave 
 it on the hall table." 
 
 "Yes, yer lidyship," said the woman. "I ll put it in 
 the all directly I ve cleared the breakfast." 
 
 Katherine looked puzzled. 
 
 "I don t have breakfast in the hall." 
 
 "No, yer lidyship, but the servants does."
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 303 
 
 "Oh, I see," said Katherine. "No, I mean the front 
 hall here, not the servants hall. Ring the front door 
 bell and put it there." 
 
 "I ope as you ll explain, yer lidyship, ter Mrs. Blunt 
 as I took no liberty. I shouldn t like for to lose my 
 bit o work." 
 
 "I ll take care of that," said Katherine. 
 
 The next morning Katherine stood ready dressed to 
 go out at eleven o clock. 
 
 "I shall want that in the brougham," she said to the 
 servant, pointing to a rather bulgy-looking brown paper 
 parcel on the hall table. 
 
 The footman lifted it gingerly and placed it in the 
 carriage. 
 
 "I shall not want the nurse. Tell her to go out. I 
 may be late coming back," she added. 
 
 The man waited for orders at the brougham door. 
 
 "Go toward the City, I can t remember the address," 
 she said; and the horses heads turned eastwards. 
 
 When she got to Aldgate Station she stopped the 
 carriage, told the coachman to wait, and called a cab. 
 
 An hour later a tall figure with a rusty black mantle 
 and a black velvet bonnet, on which quivered a shabby 
 jet ornament, a plain black skirt, some worn and shape 
 less boots, and a pair of clean, well-made gloves, took 
 her place among the out-patients of the great hospital. 
 
 The room was nearly full. The people sat on hard 
 benches, grouped under the printed names of the various 
 doctors who were to see them. She would be called 
 when her turn came, the porter explained, when she 
 presented her letter. 
 
 Katherine crouched down, fearful of even raising 
 her head. Her heart beat very quickly; she had never 
 felt so alone in her life as in this dreary crowd. 
 
 By-and-by she began to take an interest in the people
 
 304 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 round her pale anaemic faces, with the desparing look 
 of those haunted by the knowledge that, if health failed, 
 their one asset in life was gone. Hunger and ill-health 
 had brought many of the impotent folk to this modern 
 Bethesda; drink and debauch had sent others; disease 
 and age had added their list. Many little children were 
 among the waiting crowd. Some toddled in and out 
 of the benches, lifting up grimy faces, and smiling at the 
 sorrow-laden strangers; children with heads bandaged, 
 telling of burns or bruises, with bent legs or wasted frames ; 
 tiny babies as white as wax, in their mothers arms, who 
 cried unceasingly as the hours went on. 
 
 "There, deary, don t yer cry;- you shall ave it by- 
 and-by," said a woman with a baby wrapped in a dirty, 
 tattered shawl. "She likes er little sip, and misses it, 
 she do. I lets er finish the glast, I does, it mikes er 
 sleep a bit," she said, with some pride to her neighbor 
 on the bench, as she patted the yelling child. 
 
 A murmur of voices filled the room, as in low tones 
 the sick people were telling each other of their different 
 diseases, or explaining the peculiar illness of the relation 
 they had brought. 
 
 Katherine sat quite silent. Never had she felt the 
 horror of physical suffering to be so unbearable. The 
 sisters in their pretty dresses and clean aprons, with 
 streaming ends to their caps, flitted in and out ; occasion 
 ally they stopped and noticed a child, and asked the 
 mother about its age, but their cheerful interest is only 
 surface, thought Katherine; how can they care, when 
 they meet this army of suffering every day. The doctors 
 in white linen coats came in and out of the consulting- 
 rooms, and spoke to each other or to the sisters on the 
 business of the morning. 
 
 The hours dragged on. Two o clock had struck, 
 and still she had not been called. Katherine felt in-
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 305 
 
 exprcssibly weary and faint. She tried to gain courage 
 by the thought that if she were really told that nothing 
 serious was the matter, she could go back to the world 
 and do some real good. She must help these people, 
 she thought, as she looked round on them, as they sat 
 there waiting in hopes that their burden of suffering might 
 be taken from them. The sadness and horror of the 
 picture were not lost upon her, and her vivid imagination 
 rilled up the blanks. 
 
 "It s a long time ter wite," said a pale-faced man 
 sitting opposite to her across the narrow gangway which 
 divided men from women. "I ve bin ere since ten this 
 morning. No, I ve got no work; I kep on as long as 
 I could, and then I ad to give in. The wife she went 
 aout washing, and lucky she was ter get it," and a hollow 
 cough w r hich shook the bench on which he sat, interrupted 
 him. "I ve bin in ere for a month, but they couldn t 
 keep me no longer; said there wasn t no ope; but I 
 come ere to-diy ter try an get a drop o medicine for 
 ter mike me sleep, I m that bad," and he coughed again. 
 
 "Yes, it s a awful time ter wite," said the woman 
 next to her. "I m a-comin in, I think. I ve got to see 
 the doctor to get a horder. They hoperate, they siy, 
 on me next week," and she sniffed and wiped her nose 
 on her shawl. "It s very ard, I as foar little uns, and 
 my eldest girl as minds them s only ight. My usband 
 works at the brewery, but e don t git much wiges." 
 
 Katherine listened. The walls of this house of pain 
 were closing round her. She seemed stifled by the sorrow 
 which was in the very air. At last a sister came to her, 
 took her paper and read it, and then led her into a room 
 divided int6 two cubicles. 
 
 A young doctor was standing leaning against a high- 
 back chair, intelligent and alert. He asked Katherine 
 some questions in a short brisk way. She answered
 
 3 o6 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 in a few words, telling him the symptoms as briefly as 
 she could. He asked her to step behind a screened 
 partition and to remove her dress. When the beautiful 
 silk underclothes were revealed under the dirty dolman, 
 he looked across at the sister with a meaning glance, and 
 she nodded. 
 
 He put more questions, and finally said : 
 
 "Dr. White is going his rounds now. You can see 
 him before you go. I should specially like to pass you 
 on to him; you must stay a little longer." 
 
 Then she wrapped her cape round her, and went 
 back again to her dreary watch, sitting with the group 
 who were to see this specialist. 
 
 Another hour, and both doctors were making minute 
 examination, speaking quickly in low tones to each other. 
 
 "That is all," said the junior doctor to Katherine. 
 "We will give you some tonic medicine." 
 
 "I want you to tell me the exact truth," said Kathe 
 rine, standing very upright and pale, with her delicate 
 features and fair curly hair surmounted by the ugly 
 black bonnet. "I must know; the welfare of other 
 people depends upon it indeed, everything depends 
 upon it." 
 
 "Who can she be?" thought the elder man. "She 
 is not a working woman; her hands are delicate and 
 white. She has shabby clothes but beautiful linen. 
 What does it mean?" he wondered. "Could she be 
 among the richer ranks of London s sorrowful army?" 
 He could see no trace of such a career in her clear eyes 
 and refined face. But many more were waiting, and he 
 could not stay to think. 
 
 "Can I get well?" she asked, and stood there like 
 a prisoner awaiting sentence. But there was to be 
 no reprieve. 
 
 "We fear not. The disease is diffused, malignant
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 307 
 
 and advanced. We could do little good by operating. 
 But you will not suffer pain." 
 
 "How long?" 
 
 "Oh, that must depend on how strength is main 
 tained." The voice was kind. 
 
 "But forgive me under favorable circumstances, 
 do you think a year?" 
 
 "Perhaps, yes, possibly a year." 
 
 Out in the broad street the cab was waiting. Her 
 own cloak and hat lay on the seat, and a pair of pretty 
 French shoes. 
 
 "Back to Aldgate Station," she said, as she shut the 
 door, and mechanically took off the worn clothes. 
 
 The sun was shining, and the great hay-carts were 
 rumbling slowly behind the tram-cars. The people were 
 moving east and west, a constant stream of life. 
 
 A year a year, she thought, as she watched the living 
 panorama. She felt numb. It seemed to her that, after 
 all, no great change had come to her, except that now 
 nothing mattered; she need not trouble about plans, for 
 nothing now was worth a thought. 
 
 But as she drew near Aldgate and paid the cabby, and 
 got into her carriage, the very familiarity of her own inti 
 mate surroundings, her cardcase and notebook, the paper 
 she had read in the morning, made her realize the real 
 force of the news she had heard. She took the looking- 
 glass out of the case in front of her, and looked at her face. 
 Somehow it appeared to her as though she had never seen 
 herself before. She looked with curiosity at the large 
 bright eyes which met her, the perfect oval of cheek and 
 chin, the transparent skin with its almost waxy texture, 
 and the soft fluffy hair which moved a little in the draught 
 from the open window. 
 
 A year and nobody would see it any more; it would 
 all be hidden away, shrunken, horrible, loathsome to look
 
 3o8 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 upon. She put up her hand and touched her cheek. It 
 seemed incredible. Where would she be Katherine 
 who was so real ? And she tried to set her ideas in order. 
 
 Another life. The thought had always been perfectly 
 vague something to do with angels and golden thrones. 
 Fra Angelico s beautiful "Paradise" came to her mind. 
 A copy hung in her bedroom happy winged beings danc 
 ing with joyous monks, whose days of penance ended, 
 were revelling in the gure delights of the new Eden. It 
 was a charming piece of naive art, but it had no appeal to 
 her; it brought no sense of reality. If that was heaven, 
 she had no desire for such happiness. Perhaps, then, 
 there was no future. She wondered. Jack had never 
 answered her when she called to him. All had been a 
 blank silence. The idea of passing to nothingness did not 
 seem to terrify her, only she was filled with an infinite 
 pity for herself, that she should so soon leave a world 
 that had given her such a capacity for happiness, and 
 snatched it away so soon. 
 
 She thought of the days she had lived only a year ago, 
 of the sunshine, the sweep of the keen air, the strange 
 sense of completeness which filled those hours when Eric 
 was beside her, and they rushed on and on through the 
 peaceful land, content to be thus side by side in the lovely 
 country world. Poor Eric! Resentment seemed to have 
 died on the hospital steps. What a pity he should have so 
 spoiled his soul and hurt his honor for such a fleeting 
 thing as her short life. 
 
 Her tears were falling now. After all, she thought, it is 
 perhaps just as well as it is; he would have been even 
 more unhappy if we had married. And a sense of utter 
 desolation swept over her with the knowledge that no 
 human hand could help her, that she stood on the thresh 
 old of that gate which leads to the Unknown, through 
 which each must pass alone.
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 309 
 
 They were driving through the City now, and the gray 
 walls of London s great cathedral rose before her. Flying 
 pigeons swept across the grim stone buttresses, and were 
 lost in the mysterious shade which wrapped the angles. 
 Great and still amid the roar and movement it stood, the 
 monument of things immutable. 
 
 She pressed the little button which bade the coachman 
 stop, and when the servant opened the door, with slow 
 steps she ascended the long stone stair, pushed open the 
 heavy door, and stood for a moment filled by the sense of 
 space and calm. She looked down the broad aisle to the 
 dim chancel where the shadows hung like blue draperies. 
 The sense of vastness began to disappear as the building 
 became more familiar, and finally she was aware of a 
 growing feeling that this too seemed dwarfed and puny, in 
 comparison with the immeasurable space toward which 
 she was hastening, and again a sense of desolate awe pos 
 sessed her. Involuntarily her mind clung to the one being 
 familiar to her, who was perhaps out beyond space, and, 
 as she walked up the aisle and sank into a chair, her heart 
 cried out: 
 
 "Oh, Jack, help me, do help me!" How long she sat 
 almost immovable she did not know. Here and there 
 other figures were dotted about, little black specks under 
 the vast dome. An old man with bowed head was at her 
 right. How still he is ! she thought ; but when she looked 
 again she saw he was asleep. A few chairs from her own 
 a woman sat, a heavy middle-aged face with many lines, 
 and coarse gray hair drawn tight under her bonnet. She 
 turned round for a moment when Katherine came in, and 
 then looked again straight before her, dull-eyed and care 
 worn. 
 
 Presently a stream of light fell from an upper window 
 across the sanctuary, and the shadows lifted as though 
 drawn by unseen hands, and for one moment the sunlight
 
 3 io UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 lit the figure of the Christ upon the Cross. Katherine 
 noticed only the dramatic effect, the change from the blue 
 dimness to this dazzling piercing shaft of quivering white 
 ness. Then her eyes rested on the illuminated figure, the 
 embodied pain of all humanity. 
 
 "That has been the comfort of desolate men and women 
 through the ages," she thought. "I wonder if it will be 
 mine." 
 
 The woman near her had also seen the change of light. 
 A long sigh came form her lips, as though she, also, 
 wanted relief. 
 
 Katherine looked at her, and yielding to her impulse 
 said: 
 
 "You are unhappy too." 
 
 The dull eyes turned to her. A faint color came into 
 the yellow cheeks. 
 
 "I m very ill," she said, "and I m tired, and I came in 
 ere to rest. I ve got a daughter, and I have to work to 
 keep her, but it s difficult to get, and I m not much good 
 they tells me at the places where I go." 
 
 "I m ill too. I m going to die," said Katherine, and 
 she took the hand in the shabby glove. The very contact 
 with a human being seemed to bring relief. The woman 
 looked at her wondering. 
 
 "I m sorry," she said. "Its ard to suffer, and you re 
 very young. I m sorry." 
 
 The words were so kindly said, the tears came into 
 Katherine s eyes. She turned to go, but stopped a mo 
 ment and passed behind the woman s chair, and slipped 
 a five-pound note into her lap. 
 
 "Take rest while you can get it," she whispered, and 
 was gone. When she came out in the sunlight her heart 
 was less sore.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 Miss OSTERLEY with flying bonnet strings and a per 
 turbed look on her face stood in Elizabeth s room. 
 
 "Called away, do you say, dear, to his mother? How 
 unfortunate! I am very sorry. I had quite hoped he 
 would have helped me about a most important case, one 
 of the most flagrant I have come across. I am to go to 
 the County Council about it. No, Father Martin s no 
 use," in answer to Elizabeth s suggestion; he is too 
 timid. I must be plain," she said, standing with her hands 
 clasped behind her, "besides which, he is steeped in all 
 sorts of ccclesiasticisms about marriage, which narrow his 
 views as to the rights of women. I have got beyond all 
 that. I see quite plainly that our present system is utterly 
 rotten." 
 
 Elizabeth tried to avert the explanations which she felt 
 sure were coming. 
 
 "Can I do anything, Miss Osterley, to help you?" 
 
 "Well, it s hardly a case for you, I m afraid; although 
 I m sure young women ought to know all the horrors that 
 go on. In our society, we have some really very plucky 
 girls, who go disguised to all sorts of places, and bring 
 back most valuable evidence. Indeed, the very case I 
 have now, was got for me by a girl younger than you. 
 She " 
 
 "Oh don t, Miss Osterley. I would really like to help 
 you, but I don t want to be used as a sort of moral ferret 
 to rout out horrors." 
 
 "That s where you re so cowardly, Elizabeth," said 
 
 3"
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 Miss Osterley, pulling violently at her bonnet strings, and 
 tying them into a hard stringy bow. "What other girls 
 suffer you ought not to mind knowing; but, after all, you 
 are all what men make you, just puppets trained to do 
 their will, until you re sold into that moral slavery called 
 marriage. Oh, I ve no patience with these wretched con 
 ventionalities. Such things as I am attacking could not 
 be, if every honest woman were not afraid of the opinion 
 of some man, and would speak out. Well, I have very 
 little time. I must go and meet the editor of the Night 
 Watch. He is one of us, and is quite ready to organize a 
 campaign." 
 
 At this moment Martha came in with a telegram. 
 
 "I expect it s from Mr. Fane, Miss Elizabeth. I should 
 like to hear how Mrs. Fane is." 
 
 Elizabeth opened the yellow envelope, and read : 
 
 "Too late. Please come; bring Martha." 
 
 "Oh, poor Michael!" said Elizabeth, sitting down. 
 
 " Lor*, how sudden !" said Martha. "Poor lady! lam 
 really grieved. Shall I get ready to go?" 
 
 "Yes," said Elizabeth, "get ready, Nanny, and look 
 out a train. We will go at once." 
 
 "Poor Mr. Fane!" echoed Miss Osterley with real feel 
 ing. "He will be terribly cut up. His affection for his 
 mother was really beautiful. It made him genuinely care 
 for women s welfare. He is one of the few men who will 
 unselfishly work for their good. I am very sorry. She 
 was a cultivated, broad-minded woman, I hear." 
 
 "She was a perfect angel," said Elizabeth, and she 
 went away to pack, with a heavy heart. A tender com 
 panion and a link with her childhood had gone from her 
 she knew, but she thought most of Michael. 
 
 On the little platform at Ilbury an anxious white face 
 was waiting for her, with heavy blue lines round the eyes. 
 Elizabeth had never seen Michael other than cheerful and
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 313 
 
 strong, and she took his hand and patted it with a great 
 desire to comfort him. 
 
 Martha looked after her box, and Michael and Eliza 
 beth walked away across the fields toward the Mill. The 
 elm-trees were raining their yellow leaves on the damp 
 grass. The country looked very brown and gray and 
 cheerless. A flight of rooks were cawing noisily as they 
 winged toward home. The way was very familiar, and 
 yet everything seemed strangely altered. Michael spoke 
 in short broken sentences, as though afraid to trust him 
 self. 
 
 "She was in her garden, putting her flowers to bed, 
 you remember she used to call it, at this time of the year, 
 when she turned giddy and faint, and fell down. The 
 girl heard her and ran out, and called Rawlins, who was 
 working in the kitchen garden, and they carried her in 
 and laid her in the parlor. She never knew any one, and 
 just before I got here she sighed and was gone. It seems 
 so terrible, Elizabeth, to see the place without her. I 
 have never been home that she did not meet me at the 
 gate. I always felt like a boy with her, just the same as 
 years ago. I told her everything, and she always under 
 stood." 
 
 Elizabeth listened, with a sympathy deepened by her 
 experience of his mother s rare character, and they dis 
 cussed quietly and naturally all that made her so winning 
 and so wise, until they got to the white gate which opened 
 on the narrow brick-path bordered by the beds where 
 flowers no longer bloomed. Here Michael paused. 
 
 "Betty, I have taken rooms at Miss Holdsworth s for 
 you and Martha. I thought you would rather, but please 
 come in now." 
 
 She walked up the well-known way she had so often 
 trodden. No blinds were drawn, nor any token of mourn 
 ing, only the tall motherly figure did not come into the
 
 314 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 poreh to take her in her arms, and lead her to the low 
 chair where she sat beside her, and questioned her about 
 every interest or difficulty in her life, caring supremely 
 about each little detail. 
 
 In the dim light Elizabeth saw the familiar parlor was 
 only slightly re-arranged. 
 
 "She lies upstairs in her own quiet room," said Mi 
 chael, and then, like a child who could no longer restrain 
 his grief, he bent his head, covered his face, and sobbed. 
 
 Elizabeth went to him, put her arm through his, and 
 led him away out into the porch, and there they stood, 
 while she calmed and soothed him with quiet tender 
 words. 
 
 Two days later they laid her to rest in a corner of the 
 village churchyard on a cold gray day, and afterward, 
 when Michael and Elizabeth were sitting in his little den 
 at the Mill Farm, he began talking about the place. 
 
 " I can never part with it," he said. " Every plant in the 
 garden and every corner of the rooms is filled with her 
 presence. I recollect some little word of hers, or some 
 action wherever I go. I shall keep it; I know she would 
 have wished it." 
 
 "It is a place of infinite peace," said Elizabeth. "I 
 shall always think of it as the dearest spot on earth." 
 
 "That s another good reason for keeping it," said Mi 
 chael with a sad little smile. 
 
 Tea was brought in by the maid dressed in black. It 
 was the only sign of conventional mourning, but Martha 
 thought it shocking not to observe these customs of re 
 spect, and insisted. 
 
 "Put it there by the fire," said Michael. "Betty, will 
 you sit in this low chair so, and pour it out?" 
 
 Elizabeth saw it was the place where his mother always 
 made his tea when it was brought to his room, hesitated 
 for a moment, and then obeyed his wish, and the look of
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 315 
 
 content which came to his worn face was the first indica 
 tion she had seen that he was comforted. 
 
 The day following Elizabeth returned to London. Mi 
 chael came with her to the station, and as she watched 
 him when the train moved away, she felt it was hard to go. 
 She knew how much he needed her support, and then she 
 thought how strange it was that this strong man, to whom 
 she had always looked for help or guidance, should now 
 cling to her like a child in pain, and her heart went out to 
 him in his hour of weakness. 
 
 When Elizabeth returned to Marshom Street the 
 weather was raw and cold. Sally had grown strong again, 
 but she looked pinched and blue. The thin cape was still 
 strained across her shoulders, and her skirt was in rags. 
 
 Elizabeth stopped her in the court. She had given her 
 a warm frock and jacket, hoping in this way that she 
 might keep well through the winter, just before she went 
 to Ilbury. 
 
 Where were they? 
 
 "Please, miss, mother said as the old ones would do 
 very well for every diy, and she took them off to Mr. 
 Cohen s." 
 
 "You re cold, Sally, in these wretched things," said 
 Elizabeth, feeling really vexed. 
 
 " Oh dear no, miss, I ain t. Billy and I plays cat-in-the- 
 wheel to warm ourselves, and we runs as ard as we can 
 down the street, and then we gets a-lookin in at the win 
 ders and a-smellin the fried fish. I ain t cold." 
 
 Two nights after that, a driving wind blew through the 
 court. Shop hours were over, and Sally and Billy sat to 
 gether on a step eating "roasted pertater." They were 
 laughing over the splendid prize, and eating it slowly to 
 make it last, when a "copper" came up, and before Sally 
 could think or move, Billy was gone. She sat breathless 
 with the potato still in her hand, and late that evening,
 
 316 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 after the rain began to fall, Elizabeth found her as she 
 went home after her rounds, a white-faced little ghost 
 haunting the court. 
 
 "Kiss me, miss," she said passionately, clinging to her 
 skirt when she finished her story. "They ve took im 
 awiy, and I ll never see im agine." 
 
 Next day Elizabeth went to Mrs. Catchpole. She had 
 just come back from Court, and had got her best bonnet 
 out of pawn. 
 
 "What did you say?" said Elizabeth, standing before 
 her and speaking severely. 
 
 "I said," answered Mrs. Catchpole, "as e d allus been 
 a bad boy; I niver could do nofink with im," and here 
 she began to cry in a snivelling way, just as she had no 
 doubt done in Court. "I said as e as a good ome if iver 
 a boy ad," she said, rubbing her red face. "And then I 
 tould the gentleman as e d better be in a school, though 
 in course I didn t like partin with im, as e was my only 
 boy. That s what I said, miss." 
 
 "A pack of lies," said Elizabeth, the light coming into 
 her eyes. "You ve been a bad mother, and now he s 
 gone away to a reformatory. I hope when he comes out, 
 he ll go off and earn his living, and have nothing more to 
 do with you. I will take Sally with me," she added, after 
 a moment s thought, "and get her trained. You re not 
 fit to have children." 
 
 Mrs. Catchpole was fairly howling. 
 
 "It s ard, very ard," she gasped, "to ave the children 
 took and set agin their own mother." 
 
 But Sally looked up into Elizabeth s face. Could she 
 mean it, after she had helped Billy to "sneak the per- 
 tater " ? She put her hand into hers, and said : 
 
 "I ll try and mind wot yer siy, see if I don t." 
 
 "We ll write and tell Billy," said Elizabeth, "and get 
 leave to go and see him."
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 317 
 
 " E won t be starved there, will e?" said Sally. 
 
 "Not he," but her heart failed her when she thought of 
 the lonely boy. "If he knows you re doing well, he ll try 
 his hardest to get on too," said Elizabeth. 
 
 So Sally was installed at the corner house. Martha was 
 somewhat troubled at first, and came to Elizabeth with 
 horrible details as to Sally s condition of personal neglect ; 
 but by-and-by she felt invigorated by the presence of some 
 one to whom she could give her orders, and she was recon 
 ciled to Sally s presence. And before a week had passed, 
 in answer to Elizabeth s question, she said : 
 
 "Well, miss, she may make a servant if she s taught to 
 be thorough."
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 SOME weeks after her return from Ilbury Elizabeth re 
 ceived a telegram from Katherine, asking her to come to 
 her that evening. Lady Hornden met her in the drawing- 
 room, and her welcome was very warm. 
 
 "I m only too glad you have come; I know Katherine 
 wants to see you. She is certainly better than she was," 
 she said in answer to her question, "much more herself. 
 She was out for hours the other day ; we were all terribly 
 alarmed when she stayed away so long, but she had been 
 driving about and shopping, and she came home really 
 cheerful. I have been trying to persuade her for ages to 
 go abroad to some warm, sunny place, but she would 
 never hear of it ; and now she says she is ready to go any 
 where the doctors wish. I can t help thinking," she said, 
 looking wistfully at Elizabeth, "that they are mistaken in 
 thinking her illness is hopeless ; don t you think they may 
 be? They are often such alarmists." 
 
 "I think it is only the poor, who get to know the whole 
 truth," said Elizabeth. "The rich are either terrified or 
 buoyed up with false hope." 
 
 "It s only to me they ve spoken so depressingly. They 
 have not told Katherine; she has no idea of it. You will 
 be careful when you see her." 
 
 "Indeed I will; but oh, how terrible it is! I am so 
 grieved." And big tears stood in her eyes as she looked 
 at Lady Hornden. 
 
 " Dear Miss Maynell," said Lady Hornden, taking her 
 hand, "you will forgive me for saying it, but you are so 
 different from anything I had imagined. I thought of 
 
 318
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 319 
 
 you as a good-doing, badly-dressed, rather old-maidish 
 girl; but you re so pretty and young, and such a charm 
 ing hat"; and Lady Hornden turned on Elizabeth her 
 tired eyes, lit by a momentary interest. 
 
 "Have I?" said Elizabeth, smiling. "I am very glad. 
 I love pretty things much more than I ought to. It was 
 always a joy to see Lady Cliffe when she came to Marshom 
 Street. She brought so much beauty, it did us all good." 
 
 "Yes, she has a charm all her own; she is so merry, 
 and yet so so Lady Hornden looked about for a 
 word, "so spiritual. I always say she has a rare combina 
 tion of body and soul, and she always knows just what to 
 say, and what to wear, which gives such a sense of har 
 mony. Poor darling! She has had dreadful troubles"; 
 and she sighed. "I could never have believed that she, 
 who had everything to give, could have been stricken 
 down like this." 
 
 Elizabeth had no intention of discussing late events 
 with Lady Hornden, and turned the conversation by ask 
 ing about winter plans. 
 
 "I say Madeira; it is a wonderful climate, and it is 
 right away from all the people who might recall her troub 
 les. And she loves beautiful country; she could sit out 
 all day. I should take a doctor and nurses; and I can t 
 help thinking," she said, and a sort of sunrise of hope 
 came into her face, "that she might get better. After all, 
 the doctors know literally nothing; they are all ignorant; 
 but the only thing they don t know is how little their opin 
 ion is worth. I must not keep you," she said, getting up 
 and taking Elizabeth s hand, "you must go to Katherine. 
 She has gone to bed, poor lamb; she was tired out after 
 a long day putting away her things, and tearing letters, 
 and all sorts of tiresome business. So I persuaded her to 
 go to bed and see you in her room. I am changing the 
 nurse; the new one comes to-night."
 
 320 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 As she spoke she led the way up the broad staircase, 
 opened the dressing-room door which led into Katherine s 
 and went herself into the room beyond. 
 
 "Katherine, darling, I have brought her," Elizabeth 
 heard her say as the door stood ajar. "You never told 
 me she was so pretty; she is charmingly distinguished." 
 
 "Tell her to come in," said Katherine. "I want to see 
 her very much." 
 
 The room was very large and white, with glittering gilt 
 glasses, and an impression of many things that shone and 
 shimmered. A carved and gilded bed with a draped can 
 opy of white damask and delicate white muslin was the 
 principal object that caught Elizabeth s eye, and lying on 
 a heap of pillows, in the midst of filmy lace, was the golden 
 head and pale face, with its large bright eyes looking eager 
 ly toward the door. Two thin hands were held out, and 
 Elizabeth was kneeling by her and saying little broken 
 tender words. 
 
 After the door was closed Katherine raised herself on 
 her elbow, and said: 
 
 "Listen to me. I want to talk to you, dear St. Clara, 
 quite plainly; you and I, at any rate, needn t mince mat 
 ters. I am not going to get well; mama doesn t know it, 
 but I am not. I don t want her troubled, but the doctors 
 all lie. They know very well that I shall not get better. 
 I have found it out for myself. I \vould so much rather 
 know, and I don t think I am afraid. It seems very odd 
 when I look round to know I am going away from it all, 
 and that the things I have used every day, and all the 
 places where I have been, will remain, and I shall have 
 gone I don t know where; I m not like you, I have no 
 ideas about these things." 
 
 Elizabeth laid her head down beside her and held her 
 breath. She did not want to cry ; she felt it would be hard 
 on Katherine.
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 321 
 
 "Perhaps it will be just going to sleep; perhaps it will 
 be to travel far and far away to some other world. But 
 that seems to me a lonely thing, I m not sure I wouldn t 
 sooner just sleep. But I don t want to talk of that, but of 
 things you and I have met together. Dear, I ought to 
 have seen you long ago," and she put her feverish hands 
 into Elizabeth s. "I ought to have told you I was unjust, 
 cruel; but it has been so hard to wake, and find every 
 thing was a dream, and such a bad dream too. It was not 
 only that," she added, with scrupulous truth; "it was be 
 cause I was vexed that I had not been always first. You 
 forgive me, don t you?" 
 
 Elizabeth could not speak, she only pressed her hand. 
 
 "Now, dear, if he comes back to you after I am gone, 
 could you forgive him ? He was mean ; but he has had a 
 bitter lesson. Don t you think you could ?" 
 
 "It isn t a question of forgiving any man," said Eliza 
 beth very low. "I ve long ago forgotten the suffering, only 
 this thing has killed my love it lies dead. Nothing could 
 make it live again." 
 
 "Not if he were sorry, and came to you?" pleaded 
 Katherine. 
 
 " No, never, never. Trust is the only thing that matters, 
 and if that goes there is nothing left." And, as she said 
 the words, she felt vaguely conscious that there was an 
 other reason, the place in her heart was no longer empty. 
 "Don t let us talk about him; let me talk of you." 
 
 Katherine lay back. She told Elizabeth of her visit to 
 the hospital. 
 
 "Oh, why did you not come to me?" she cried. "I 
 would have gone with you." 
 
 "No, no," said Katherine, "it was best I should face it 
 alone. All the big things of life we must face alone; there 
 is nothing in all the world so lonely as a human soul." 
 
 "Only because we are imprisoned in this cocoon of a
 
 322 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 body," said Elizabeth, "and we can t see and know the 
 host innumerable which is all round us, watching over and 
 helping us." 
 
 "Perhaps," said Katherine. "Who can tell that they 
 really exist ? But even if they are near us, they are out 
 side our lives, beings different from ourselves, with differ 
 ent ideas and wants and wishes. It s no use, Elizabeth," 
 she said, looking at her with solemn eyes, "when we go 
 into mid-stream, with faces set away from our world, we 
 have to wade alone. First a little way, as I am doing now, 
 just like a child paddling and feeling the first cold, and 
 then, by-and-by, to gasp when it closes round us, until we 
 go deeper, deeper, and then to sink and lie still at the bot 
 tom, or reach the strange new shore. Oh, I have thought 
 and thought about it, and it seems to me a dark and grim 
 journey, and I don t know where it leads." 
 
 Elizabeth said nothing. She did not try to argue; she 
 had learned some wisdom, and she knew that the intricate 
 machinery of a human soul cannot be roughly handled by 
 rude hands, taken to pieces and put together our way, and 
 told that it will work now. Then she resolved to try and 
 help her if she possibly could, and she said : 
 
 "Will you come with me to the pilot who goes out to 
 help more broken, battered human lives than any one else 
 I know, and steers them into safe port?" 
 
 Katherine hesitated. 
 
 "Is it a clergyman? I hate clergymen," she said. 
 "They are always conceited, and generally narrow- 
 minded." 
 
 "You won t hate this one. Don t you remember the 
 old man who was with us in Marshom Street, when you 
 heard them crying the news in the street?" 
 
 "Yes, yes," said Katherine. "Father Martin, I remem 
 ber him, the man with a face like an old saint ; yes, I re 
 member. I think I should like to see him with you, only
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 323 
 
 I want you to promise that if we go to-morrow, you will 
 come back here and stay at least one night under my roof." 
 
 Father Martin sat in his untidy study, with the dust of 
 ages on papers and books. Nothing was to be touched; 
 he wished to clean it himself, he always said ; but the time 
 had not yet come when he had the leisure, or the in 
 clination. 
 
 Opposite him sat Katherine, dressed in a long cloak 
 lined with ermine, very white, and dazzling against the 
 brown books and shabby furniture. The old face, with 
 its map of wrinkles, marking the many ways along which 
 the soul had travelled, looked on her with a great pity as 
 she told him her sorrowful story. 
 
 "You don t wonder, do you," she said when she ended 
 it, "that I have no visions? I have been just a butterfly, 
 but the nip of winter has me in its grasp; and now that I 
 am going to die so soon, I don t know where I am going; 
 I feel I have lost my way. I hear the people talking and 
 laughing round me, and I long to tell them all that I used 
 to laugh too, and never cared what happened to-morrow, 
 until I knew I had to die. I don t know how to explain it ; 
 I m not frightened, but I m so hopeless." 
 
 And then, as though the old man were talking to a child, 
 he tried to show her how there are those whom God Him 
 self leads along strange ways, and yet they never knew 
 that He was leading them at all ; that if she would look up, 
 she would see a light on her way she had not known was 
 there, and that this light would make things clear and 
 plain would lighten all the world, so that she could see 
 clearly. He showed her how her returning sense of loyalty 
 had been a retracing of her footsteps back into the path 
 where light shone ; and that the very love which had come 
 into her life was a fragment of the great love of which she 
 was a part, for only by love can we know God.
 
 324 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 "But it is too late now; I have lived all my life." 
 
 "No, it is beginning," he said, "just beginning. The 
 Angel of Life has met you sooner than he meets most of 
 us, and on the very threshold of your earthly life he has 
 come to take you quickly into the open way. For you 
 there is to be no time when the keeper of the strong house 
 shall tremble, no darkening of the windows, no years 
 when the grasshopper becomes a burden." And then gen 
 tly he led her up that mountain where earthly eyes see 
 things heavenly, in the light that transforms pleasure and 
 pain alike, and turns both to joy, and where in the God- 
 man we see humanity transfigured, and realize its rela 
 tion to God. 
 
 Katherine listened wistfully; as he talked to her, some 
 ray of hope flitted fitfully through her heart. If it could 
 be true for her if she could find the light she longed for, 
 with the passionate desire of the blind. 
 
 "Teach her," he prayed, before they parted, "to trust, 
 and know no fear ; to fear Thee only, so that she may keep 
 nothing back from Thee, and then to love Thee, with all 
 fear cast out." 
 
 "As you now share the crown of thorns," he said, as 
 he bade her good-by, "so shall it become a crown of 
 glory." 
 
 Katherine was very silent as they drove back to Hill 
 Street. 
 
 "I am tired," she said. 
 
 "You must go straight to your bed," said Elizabeth. 
 She knew she longed to be alone. 
 
 "You are going to stay with me you won t leave me 
 to-night?" 
 
 "No; I will stay with you as long as you want me." 
 
 "That s right; I want you more than your shimmies 
 do, now." 
 
 Katherine lay very still when she was once more in her
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 325 
 
 bed. The room was dim, and the house quiet. She thought 
 of all Father Martin told her. 
 
 "If I could be sure it was all true," she said. "I would 
 not mind if Jack would only send me some message." 
 
 Her hand hung over the side of the bed. Presently 
 there was a rustling sound; something came toward her. 
 Something cold touched her hand; she started with a 
 stifled cry, and then looked down. Nip s rugged head 
 was rubbed against her; the faithful brown eyes looked 
 up to hers. 
 
 "Nip, old boy Jack s dog I haven t seen you since 
 he went away," and she kissed his shaggy coat, while her 
 tears fell fast. "Did he send you to comfort me?" she 
 asked. And for answer his tail beat against the bed with
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 THE train would start in a few minutes. A group of 
 friends clustered round the saloon carriage. Lady Horn- 
 den stood on the platform shaking hands and saying 
 many good-bys. Katherine sat at the window serene and 
 smiling. 
 
 Elizabeth was to travel with her to Southampton; she 
 wished to say good-by to her on the boat. 
 
 They saw the last of Jack at this very station, Kathe 
 rine thought, as she looked at the grimy arches and the 
 hurrying crowds, and here they will see the last of me. 
 
 She heard Sir James s voice saying, in answer to Lady 
 Hornden s question: 
 
 "Madeira, my dear lady, I don t believe there s a drop 
 of really fine Madeira in the world now. You have a little 
 in your cellar, but it s as rare as a hen s tooth." 
 
 Then Mr. Farningham came to the window. 
 
 "Oh, my dear Lady Cliffe, I envy you the sunshine and 
 the joie de vivre of that heavenly country. How well you 
 will be, and how blooming you will look, when you come 
 back. And you must promise me you will always wear 
 mauve, the same shade you wore last year at Windsor; it 
 is the most exquisite thing with your coloring, it makes 
 you look like mother-of-pearl." 
 
 "Oh, don t let s discuss that; when I come back my 
 dress will probably be a surprise to everybody." And 
 Katherine s face for a moment resumed its old mocking 
 look. 
 
 " I really almost think I shall take a steamer, and come 
 out, if the fogs are bad." 
 
 326
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 327 
 
 "Well, if London is unbearable, try us as a last re 
 source." 
 
 Mr. Farningham did not care for jokes which he did 
 not make himself; he was always in dread lest somehow 
 he might be. made ridiculous before he was aware of it, 
 and he turned to Lady Hornden. Anne took his place. 
 
 "Good-by," she said, holding Katherine s hand. 
 "How we shall miss you." 
 
 "For ten minutes," said Katherine, "I think you will; 
 just as long as it takes to drive to Bond Street, and then 
 you will get quite accustomed, and not miss me at all, and 
 that will be wholesome and good and as it should be." 
 
 "Come back quite well, dear old thing; that is the only 
 really important thing. It s not true; every one will miss 
 you; you have hardly got an enemy in the world." 
 
 " Oh, that s because I ve lost at every game, and never 
 done any one a good turn. If you put people under obli 
 gations you can make enemies as you force cucumbers; 
 you take a great deal of trouble, and they cost you very 
 dear." 
 
 Katherine was looking very white and tired, and Eliza 
 beth saw how much the effort of her affected gayety was 
 costing her. 
 
 " Good-by," cried Lady Hornden, as the guard told her 
 to take her seat. "We shall come back quite well; you 
 will see what a success Madeira will be. How much we 
 shall want to see you all. Au revoir, au revoir" as the 
 train began slowly to move out. 
 
 "Good-by," said Katherine, "good-by." 
 
 The great gray ship was moored opposite the platform 
 when the train stopped. Piles of luggage, with as many 
 stripes of color as Joseph s coat, were heaped on the sta 
 tion. Anxious people were bustling round, calm people 
 were walking up and down, sad people were crying, happy 
 people laughing. Katherine neither laughed nor cried.
 
 328 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 When the gangway joined England to the floating king 
 dom which was for a little while to be their country, she 
 walked across it with head erect, and only when she reached 
 the deck she whispered to Elizabeth: 
 
 "I ve trodden on old England s soil for the last time." 
 
 Then ensued a perfect hurricane of preparation. A box 
 was missing. Lady Hornden was in despair; everything 
 else could well be lost but this one. More lamentations, 
 then anxiety was turned once more to ease the box was 
 found, said the grave servant. Air cushions, bags, books, 
 flowers, were all sorted and conveyed to the deck state 
 room. Two maids and two nurses ran and fetched and 
 carried. The doctor, a quiet young man in a gray ulster, 
 took Lady ClifTe to her cabin on the upper deck, sent for 
 a nurse, and ordered her to bed ; and, indeed, she looked 
 as though the nervous strain was almost to breaking point. 
 
 "Will you send for me when you are settled?" said 
 Elizabeth, who went back to help Lady Hornden. 
 
 "Oh, my dear! what these days have been. The prep 
 aration, the anxiety, the worries Non, ma chere, je ne 
 change pas ma robe ce soir, on dine en toilette de ville au- 
 jourd hui, c est de rigueur" to a French maid. "Oh, 
 what was I saying? yes, the work has been untold. 
 
 Well, if only " and she looked at Elizabeth; "but I 
 
 am sure it will; I have a presentiment that this is the step 
 which will give her new life." 
 
 Elizabeth wondered as she thought of the truth she, in 
 common with so many of us, unconsciously uttered. 
 
 "Her ladyship is ready for you," said the nurse who 
 came to fetch her. 
 
 Elizabeth walked into the large stateroom, hideous with 
 plaster bas reliefs of undressed men and women, who 
 seemed uncomfortably to realize their ill-drawn inde 
 cency, glaring coloring, and expensive woodwork. 
 
 In the midst of the inappropriate surroundings lay
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 329 
 
 Katherine. Her presence made all the bad taste insig 
 nificant; she looked so transparently, ethereally white, 
 the gold of her hair the only note of color, except the large 
 wondering blue eyes. 
 
 "Come and tuck me up, dear, dear St. Clara," she said, 
 "and kiss me good-night, as children say; and pray that 
 you and I may be together again somewhere, some day." 
 
 The tramp of feet on the deck was as an on-marching 
 army; voices calling, and shrill questions as to rooms and 
 luggage. Elizabeth could hardly steady her thoughts, but 
 Katherine seemed to hear nothing. Already the tide was 
 carrying her out beyond the voices of the world. 
 
 "Kiss me again, and again," she said. 
 
 Elizabeth bent over the bed where she lay; it seemed 
 to her fancy as the cot of a little child. 
 
 "The first gong," said the steward to the nurse who 
 stood outside. "The next one, all visitors must go on 
 shore." 
 
 "Only a moment more," said Katherine. "Listen, I 
 want to say if there is another life for me, and I am worthy, 
 and if I am allowed, I will try to help your work from yon 
 der; that will perhaps redeem some of my wasted time. 
 Tell Mr. Fane I am glad he told me the truth. Does he 
 love you, dear ? I am sure he is a good man." Then after 
 a moment s pause she added : "Tell Father Martin I think 
 I shall see light." 
 
 "Light is love," said Elizabeth, holding her in her arms; 
 and when the clashing sound rang out again she laid her 
 down, and was gone. As she stood near the gangway she 
 met Lady Hornden. 
 
 "Good-by, dearest," she said; and she kissed her on 
 both cheeks. "We shall be back with the spring," but 
 her voice faltered a little. 
 
 And then Elizabeth crossed back to the shore, and the 
 grating sound of the engine which raises the anchor
 
 330 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 ground out its harsh note. Tiers of human beings lined 
 the vessel s cloistered sides, all waiting, full of hope or of 
 sadness, of joy or of regret. The great heart of the liner 
 was throbbing with humanity s emotion. Then the mighty 
 ship lifted up her voice, and her funnels gave out the 
 hoarse note of farewell, and slowly, solemnly, irrevocable 
 as death, she turned oceanward; gently, imperceptibly, 
 she moved away from her moorings, farther and farther 
 from any possibility of return. 
 
 The winter sun was shining low and red in the after 
 noon sky, making a pathway of gold upon the waters. 
 Soon the great city of the deep was taken into the golden 
 glory. 
 
 "She has gone out into the light," thought Elizabeth; 
 and she felt that the imprisoned spirit had found what it 
 sought, as she put out to sea. Then she saw no more, for 
 her eyes were dim with tears. 
 
 The train would start in ten minutes for London, one 
 of the officials of the Southampton line told her. She 
 walked along the quay, thinking to catch one more glimpse 
 of the ship. A man s tall figure stood outlined against the 
 sky; he too was watching, shading his eyes with his hand, 
 and then, when he could see no more, turned, and Eliza 
 beth stood face to face with Eric. 
 
 "I came," he said, "to see her off. I thought, perhaps, 
 even at the last moment, she might ask for me." The 
 tears ran down his cheeks; he did not try to wipe them 
 away. "You will understand all I am going through, you 
 have such a splendid sympathy." 
 
 Elizabeth was really sorry, and tried to say some words 
 of comfort. He seemed so utterly broken, she had not the 
 heart to let him return alone, and so he journeyed back 
 with her to London. 
 
 She told him of Katherine s courage and self-command. 
 He listened intently as he grew calmer.
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 331 
 
 "That is like her," he said; "she has the self-restraint 
 of perfect breeding." 
 
 Then Elizabeth spoke of her unselfish desire to please 
 her mother, the only motive which had taken her so far 
 from home. 
 
 "I am not sure," said Eric. "I sometimes think," and 
 he spoke eagerly, "she wants to try me still, to see if I can 
 stand this test. I believe, you know, she does still really 
 care, but she hides it from everybody. She has such pride 
 of will." 
 
 Should she undeceive him, or let his poor vanity staunch 
 its wound with these flimsy lies? Elizabeth wondered. 
 He talked on, of his past happiness, of all he had endured. 
 
 " You were quite right in all you said to me in Marshom 
 Street ; I see it now. I behaved abominably, but, by God ! 
 I have suffered for that one lapse, as few suffer for a 
 crime." 
 
 Then he returned to the possibility of Katharine s relent 
 ing. He was sure she would get well, if her mind was at 
 rest. As he talked he grew happier; then he turned to 
 Elizabeth, and, taking a long look at her, he said : 
 
 "Can you forgive me? You have suffered, and it has 
 been my fault." He was sitting opposite to her, and he 
 bent forward and took her hand. "I must tell you now I 
 may never have another opportunity, your memory has 
 been enshrined in the deepest recesses of my heart. I car 
 ried it like some holy thing into danger, and I always knew 
 your prayers surrounded me, and guarded me. You will 
 believe that, won t you ? Oh, my dear, dear little girl, you 
 have done far more for my life than you will ever know. 
 Will you tell me that I have still a place in your heart?" 
 
 "No," said Elizabeth, looking steadily at him with her 
 true fearless eyes. "Your place is gone; another has it 
 now." 
 
 Eric looked bewildered.
 
 332 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 "Was it possible," he thought. "Who could it be? 
 That brutal boor, Fane, I suppose. Poor Elizabeth, what 
 have I driven her to? I have been cruel." 
 
 When they reached Victoria they parted, and as Eliza 
 beth s cab rattled eastward, she thought that Katherine, 
 who had sailed away toward the light, had after all the 
 better part, for life was often an ugly, sordid thing.
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 THE garden on either side of the paved path that led to the 
 long, low house was gay with flowers. Blue delphiniums 
 and Madonna lilies, monthly roses and mignonettes, bright 
 eschscholtzias and dwarf snap-dragons, delicate colum 
 bines and sweet-smelling stocks, massed in a glorious pro 
 fusion. White butterflies flitted across the vivid green 
 lawn, and a purple clematis had thrown its arms across the 
 porch, royal in color, and lavish in its wealth of blossom. 
 
 In the sunshine lay a pink and white bundle. Some 
 times the pink moved, and little arms fought upwards, and 
 tiny feet kicked out toward the sky. They were promptly 
 covered by the careful hand of Sally, who sat holding a 
 white umbrella over the bundle with patient care. Sally, 
 dressed in a cotton frock, with a clean apron, and her hair 
 tightly plaited and drawn away from her face. 
 
 The sound of children s voices came from the orchard, 
 shouting at their play. The white curtains flapped in the 
 breeze through the open casements, making a gentle monot 
 onous flutter, like a sail on a calm day. 
 
 Presently an upper window was thrown wide open. 
 
 "Is he sleeping, Sally?" came Elizabeth s voice. 
 
 "No, e ain t, but I think as e s goin to," said Sally, 
 looking up. 
 
 "Bless his darling little heart," said Elizabeth, and in 
 the cadence of her voice was the music only learned by 
 those who are happy. 
 
 "You d better get the children in, or dinner will be 
 cold," said the warning voice of Martha from a lower 
 region. 
 
 333
 
 334 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 "I will call them," she said, and by-and-by the tall 
 figure in a pink cotton gown was speeding toward the 
 orchard. 
 
 The children were picking armfuls of flowers, shaky 
 grass, and yellow dandelions, and moon daisies. 
 
 " Nance," said one, pausing with a big dandelion clock 
 in his hand, "I just loves Mrs. Elizabeth." 
 
 "So der I," said Nance, standing in front of Dan, ready 
 to blow when the word was spoken. 
 
 "Come to dinner; come to dinner," called Elizabeth, 
 with the sun shining on her at the gate. And with shrieks 
 of happy laughter they trooped back to the house, where 
 Martha stood, spoon in hand, behind a bowl of soup, her 
 face a little older, her hair a little whiter, but serene and 
 content. 
 
 Dinner over, they pressed round Elizabeth. 
 
 " Tell us a story. Do, please, please do." And she sat 
 down on the grass with the sleeping baby in her arms, and 
 rocked him to and fro, while Sally cleared the dinner 
 things. 
 
 "A story what sort?" 
 
 " Bout soldiers," said a boy. 
 
 "About lidies," said a girl with a shaggy fringe. 
 
 "No, about firies," said another, "them wot dances in 
 the night, and makes weddin rings in the grawst." 
 
 "Tell us about hingels," said another. 
 
 Elizabeth looked at the baby, and then she told the 
 children to come very softly and see him asleep. 
 
 "The angels are whispering to him," she said; "all day 
 long they keep their wings folded round him. Their touch 
 has been on his cheek, their breath on his little pink face. 
 They will play with him when he wakes, and make him 
 smile. The whole world is fanned by their beautiful 
 wings; and how busy they are in heaven helping God to 
 keep the children from harm."
 
 UNDER THE ARCH 335 
 
 Then she looked at the eager circle, and the tears dimmed 
 her eyes, as she said: 
 
 " Some day, perhaps, he will grow up, and the world will 
 hide them from him, but I pray not. But they are with 
 you, just as they are with him, even when you have no 
 longer the grass and the flowers to speak to you of God s 
 beautiful goodness; the angels will be with you on the 
 doorsteps and in the court. They won t leave you, chil 
 dren, you belong to them." 
 
 The sound of the lifting of the gate-latch ma de her look 
 up. A man s figure stood between the flower borders. 
 Elizabeth went toward him with the baby in her arms. 
 
 "Oh, Michael, I did not think you would come back so 
 soon." And she held out the sleeping child to him. 
 "Take him," she said, "that I may put my arms round 
 you." 
 
 He stooped and kissed her face, and took the baby, and 
 together, with arms entwined, they stood looking at the 
 tiny form. And then they smiled at one another, as those 
 only can who understand each other s hearts. 
 
 "I ve good news, Betty. Bill has come out of the 
 reformatory, and he will be here to-morrow." 
 
 "Sally," called Elizabeth, "do you hear? Bill will 
 come to morrow." 
 
 After one shriek of joy, Sally ran indoors to tell Martha. 
 
 Michael looked across the garden to where the children 
 played. They were tired of waiting, and were playing the 
 game, Nuts in May. 
 
 "They go to-morrow," said Elizabeth, following his 
 eyes. " Then the old people come. Oh, Michael, I m so 
 glad we needn t keep happiness all to ourselves, but that 
 we can make a house of joy for others. Isn t it good? 
 Listen, I hear bells," she said, pausing suddenly. "Why 
 are they pealing?" 
 
 "Errington brings home his American wife to-day, with
 
 336 UNDER THE ARCH 
 
 all her bags of dollars." A shadow passed across her face. 
 "Does it hurt you, Betty?" said Michael. 
 
 "Hurt me! how should it? My life is filled and blest. 
 I was thinking of Katherine and all her pain." 
 
 "It seems to her but a slight affliction now," said 
 Michael, "for she and I have both found light." 
 
 "And I have found love," said Elizabeth. 
 
 THE END
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL UBHARY FAC ITY 
 
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