. -
 
 A ROMANCE 
 OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY
 
 A ROMANCE 
 
 OF THE NINETEENTH 
 
 CENTURY 
 
 BY 
 W. H. MALLOCK 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 "la Life Worth Living," "The New Republic," "Property and 
 
 R. F. FENNO & COMPANY : 9 AND 1 1 EAST 
 SIXTEENTH STREET : : NEW YORK CITY 
 
 1899
 
 PREFACE 
 
 TO 
 
 THE SECOND EDITION. 
 
 'THHE character and the meaning of the 
 following work of fiction have been at 
 once seen in America. It has there been rec- 
 ognized as a philosophical novel, identical 
 in purport with all my previous writings ; 
 and it has been dealt with simply as such. 
 In England, however, it seems to have fared 
 differently ; and not only its purport, but 
 even the bare outlines of its story, have been 
 so entirely misconceived in some quarters, 
 and so entirely misrepresented in others, that 
 it will not be superfluous if I say a few words 
 to explain them. 
 
 3 
 
 21369G6
 
 iv Preface. 
 
 I begin with the story. The hero is a man 
 of fine and generous nature ; but two causes 
 have injured it. One is the scepticism, so 
 distinctive of our own epoch ; the other is a 
 course of levity into which that scepticism 
 has translated itself. His religion is a forlorn 
 doubt ; his love is a semi-cynical trifling; and 
 at heart he is the prey of a misery which he 
 can but half conceal from himself. In this 
 condition he meets the heroine, and he at 
 once yields to her attraction : but he does 
 this at first as a mere emotional luxury, which 
 he condemns even while he indulges in it. 
 Out of this state, however, he is soon rudely 
 awakened. One of the heroine's chief charms 
 for him is her detection of his own distress, 
 and her strange sympathy with it. By and 
 by he discovers the reason of this. She con- 
 fesses in despair to him that she has lost her 
 virtue, that she utterly hates herself, and that 
 her whole inner life is a yet blanker desola-
 
 Preface. v 
 
 tion than his. This revelation works a sud- 
 den change in him. In an instant his levity 
 leaves him ; he becomes a serious man ; and 
 all his thoughts are devoted to one purpose, 
 the redemption of this girl's character. He 
 at first hopes that his task may prove easy ; 
 but to his sorrow and horror he at last learns 
 it is not so. He grows slowly to realize that 
 the case he has here to deal with, is one not 
 of misguided, so much as of depraved affec- 
 tions ; and once or twice he all but yields to 
 despair. His devotion, however, is not lost 
 upon the object of it. She falls deeply in 
 love with him ; and as a higher passion de- 
 velops itself a new self-respect is created in 
 her. He, meanwhile, is having a yet farther 
 experience. His own love and solicitude as- 
 sume wider proportions ; and from feeling 
 how he is owed to the service of one wo- 
 man, he feels he is owed likewise to all the 
 world, who could profit by him. The prompt-
 
 vi Preface. 
 
 ings of love expand into the promptings of 
 social duty. With a quick instinct the hero- 
 ine feels this change. From being the one 
 object of a devoted lover's affections, she be- 
 comes one object amongst many, of an anx- 
 ious thinker's duty. Her sensitive nature 
 receives a shock, which her spiritual system 
 is yet too weak to withstand, and she once 
 more relapses. In this course, however, she 
 neither finds nor expects happiness. Her 
 second fall is the result of desperation only ; 
 and her sudden death from heart disease is 
 the almost immediate consequence. 
 
 Such being the outlines of the story, I now 
 turn to the meaning of it. It is in reality a 
 study of one subject. It is a study of life 
 with a faith in God subtracted from it. It 
 is a study of the scientific atheism I have so 
 often already criticised ; and I have now 
 tried to exhibit it as bearing its proper fruit. 
 In the whole Romance there is not a single
 
 Preface. vii 
 
 chapter which directly or indirectly does not 
 relate to this. It has been sought to exem- 
 plify the following three doctrines in partic- 
 ular : firstly, that the source of goodness is 
 historically in the human affections ; sec- 
 ondly, that the explanation of goodness is 
 logically in the postulates of theology ; and 
 thirdly, that though goodness may exist be- 
 fore these postulates are assented to, it is 
 sure to be ruined in the long run, when they 
 are once consciously repudiated. It has been 
 sought to show farther, that in a self-con- 
 scious epoch, the relations between faith and 
 goodness are mutual. Thus the heroine's 
 faith is taken from her through the senses, 
 the hero's through the intellect ; and yet the 
 current materialism of to-day is in each case 
 equally to blame. It begins the ruin of one ; 
 it completes the ruin of both. Had it not 
 been for this, both might have found salva- 
 tion ; she might have regained her purity,
 
 viii Preface. 
 
 and he his warmth of heart. But as it is, 
 they can do no more than struggle. Faith 
 and goodness in each try hard to reassert 
 themselves ; but evil for its ally has our 
 whole modern philosophy ; reason seems to 
 fight for it, and goodness and faith find all 
 their endeavors futile. 
 
 A few quotations and references will make 
 the matter clearer. The hero in the opening 
 chapters is shown in his worst condition. 
 Even in this he is a man of refined taste ; 
 even when sensuous he is not sensual ; and 
 his conscience has still power enough to pre- 
 vent an Epicurean life from contenting him. 
 But in his bitter contempt for marriage, and 
 in his idle readiness to idealize the vulgar 
 Frenchwoman, it is shown how his highest 
 feelings have been put to the poorest uses. 
 " That your feelings are high and fine" his 
 friend says, " I do not deny for a moment. It 
 is in that that the badness lies. You are mak-
 
 Preface. ix 
 
 ing a playground of what should be your holy 
 of holies. You may not be indulging your 
 grosser appetites; but you are making yourself 
 for ever incapable of any earnest affection ; and 
 this is the surest way in which you can quench 
 the Spirit" The very feelings, however, he 
 is here described as playing with, have still a 
 tendency to turn into more than toys ; and 
 this is made apparent the instant the heroine 
 stirs them. As his acquaintance with her 
 proceeds, he becomes, in spite of himself, 
 more and more serious. He has the imagi- 
 nation of a lover, before he has the inten- 
 tions of one ; and she is soon in his eyes the 
 type of a saddened purity. Even when he 
 fancies he is trifling with her, he is more in 
 earnest than he thinks he is ; and the voice 
 of conscience interrupts him in the very mid- 
 dle of his love-making. " Look at me" he says 
 to the heroine, "I have wealth, power, and I 
 
 think some talent; that is the sense that 
 i*
 
 x Preface. 
 
 haunts me; and the greater a maris power or 
 place is, the greater in God's eyes becomes the 
 number of his creditors. If ever I find God 
 again, it must be with hands full of good 
 deeds, not only clean of evil." Still, he is but 
 half serious till the great shock comes. Then 
 his fair ideal is confronted with the reality ; 
 and what the heroine might have been, 
 and what she has made herself, are shown 
 him in ghastly contrast. All at once good 
 and evil become facts for him, they are no 
 longer abstractions. "/ have become a new 
 man for your sake," he says to her, " in one 
 short evening" Yet his moral awakening 
 even now is not complete. He has so far 
 idealized her, that he cannot at first conceive 
 her full degradation ; and his devotion, till 
 he does this, is still tainted with sentimen- 
 tality. " Let me help you," he says, " to form 
 a new present ; and whilst that is forming, 
 let us consent to bury the past. Then, by and
 
 Preface. xi 
 
 by, when we again go back to it, and roll the 
 stone away from the door of the sepulchre, you 
 will find no festering corpse there, but only 
 the grave clothes purified, and two white an- 
 gels keeping watch over them." It will be 
 seen that he is still over-confident, and that 
 he is too conscious of the poetry of the situ- 
 ation. When he learns the full truth, how- 
 ever, all false sentiment leaves him. "His 
 passion" it is said, " had passed from romance 
 into hard reality. There was nothing now in 
 it akin to the scent of fiowers, the plash of 
 fountains, or the glimmer of moon-lit seas : 
 and the human anxieties that ;ould be affected 
 by things like these, now seemed to him but 
 silly toys and child's play" "/ dorit ask 
 you any longer" he says to the heroine, " to 
 become an innocent girl again. I ask you to 
 become a holy woman instead, that is far better. 
 Amongst the highest saints in heaven will be 
 faces deepest scarred by the battle" "All my
 
 xii Preface. 
 
 life" he says further, " is turned into one long 
 mute prayer for you that you may put away 
 from yourself every taint of evil. Hate it, 
 learn to hate it / Let it revolt you as it once , 
 revolted you / . . . . My head is heavy, 
 my eyelids ache with sadness. Did I not love 
 you, I should have only asked to possess you. 
 Your lips and arms could have given me all I 
 asked for. But love is stronger than passion, 
 and its demands are limitless, not for the lover, 
 but for the loved. .... If I might only 
 bear your sins, and leave you once more spot' 
 less, I would be scourged and spit upon. I 
 would let my whole life be broken / Cynthia, 
 my knowledge of you has indeed worked a 
 change in me." 
 
 It is on this crisis in the hero's life, and its 
 counterpart in the heroine's, that the whole 
 romance turns. Everything else is either the 
 preface or the sequel to it. It remains to 
 speak of the sequel. Though the hero has
 
 Preface. xiii 
 
 recovered his lost moral earnestness, there is 
 one thing which he cannot recover ; and that 
 is his faculty for a natural healthy love. He 
 has trifled that away ; it will not come back 
 again. His evil conduct has brought its own 
 Nemesis. It is the heroine's perception of 
 this defect in him that destroys his power for 
 good over her. " You need have no fear of 
 me" she says, " so long as you Jill my being. 
 There is no room left for any evil there" But 
 what shocks her is the discovery that after 
 she has made him the chief thing in her life, 
 she cannot secure for herself a like position 
 in his. " // is my welfare" she at last ex- 
 claims to him, "it is my welfare you care for, 
 it is not me. You have the same care for me 
 that a priest might have, or a doctor : it is not 
 tJte care of a human being that loves me. I am 
 your penitent or your patient : I am not the 
 one woman who could make life happy for 
 you" " Surely" she reflects, " were you all
 
 xiv Preface. 
 
 a man ought to be, you would be able to love in 
 a more human way than you do. There is 
 something wanting in you. You are good 
 enough to make me wish for holiness; you are 
 not good enough to make me able to attain 
 to it." Then in the desolation of heart 
 that precedes her last relapse, " All the holy 
 things" she says, "that we were brought up 
 to long for, and for which, till I had ruined 
 myself, I did long what do you think they 
 now seem to me ? Like one of those fabulous 
 rocks in the middle of a great ocean, which 
 sailors see sometimes, and which then disappear 
 suddenly. . . . / have enough faith left 
 to make me miserable, but not enough to make 
 me hopeful. My faith has lost its courage ; 
 but like other cowards it can still bully. My 
 life is bitter with the lees of a belief whose 
 finer spirit is evaporating? 
 
 The above abstracts and extracts will, I 
 think, be enough to indicate the tone of the
 
 Preface. xv 
 
 book with regard to moral matters, and also 
 the way it connects them with contemporary 
 intellectual problems. As for vice, cynicism, 
 and worldliness, it will be found that all these 
 are dwelt upon : but the indulgence in vice 
 is only alluded to ; and in the course of the 
 story it is never once exhibited. " On four 
 occasions the hero kisses the heroine. Be- 
 tween him and her, that is the utmost license. 
 
 I find, however, that the reviewers in this 
 country have fixed in especial on three scenes 
 or passages, which have been criticised in the 
 following way. 
 
 It has been stated, firstly, to quote the ex- 
 pression of the Standard, that I have done 
 what even the impurest Frenchman never 
 dared to do that I have represented my 
 heroine as "gloating over" an album of licen- 
 tious pictures, "the gift of her lover? The 
 truth is this. The heroine is represented, 
 not as gloating over any such book ; but as
 
 xvi Preface. 
 
 having once opened one, unknowing its con- 
 tents, and refusing on that, to give even a 
 second glance at it. It is, farther, not the gift 
 of her lover, but of his rival, who tries to ruin 
 her. 
 
 Secondly, a scene has been quoted in which 
 the hero nearly yields to the temptations of a 
 worthless married woman. The scene, in the 
 reviews, has been completely isolated from 
 its context. It has rnt been stated that the 
 hero is maddened by jealousy at the time ; 
 and that he afterwards condemns his fault, 
 and reproaches himself with the utmost bit- 
 terness. " If I met my own double" he says, 
 " how my gorge would rise at it ! . . . If 
 a man cant respect himself, there are but two 
 escapes from torture to die, or to respect 
 nothing? 
 
 Thirdly, the hero's friend declares, on a cer- 
 tain occasion, that if a girl he loves intensely 
 resolves not to marry him, he will drown his
 
 Preface. xvii 
 
 despair in a course of vicious pleasure. This 
 speech has been quoted as specially typical of 
 the tone of the whole book. The reviewers, 
 however, have one and all suppressed the 
 hero's instant comment on it. " For God's 
 sake" he says, " do talk like a rational being. 
 It makes me sick to hear you speak in that 
 way. A moment ago, I had begun to admire 
 and envy you ; and now you have spoilt all. 
 Because some woman, it chances, does not re- 
 spect you, is that any reason why you should 
 cease to respect yourself? Affection, you say, 
 raises the soul to God ; and for aught I know 
 it may very possibly do so. But if you are 
 crossed in love, does that make God valueless f 
 Are your views about God dependent on a 
 girl's views about you ? If your passion 
 really raises you, it cannot let you plan debas- 
 ing yourself . If, in cold blood, you can thus 
 plan debasing yourself, then all I can say is 
 that I dont think much of your passion?
 
 xviii Preface. 
 
 By methods of criticism such as those I 
 have just alluded to, the English press has 
 sought to support its verdict. The Romance, 
 it has declared, is corrupt from end to end : 
 it is neither more nor less than an aimless 
 licentious story. The few words I have 
 thought it well to say, will be enough, with 
 the candid reader, to disabuse him of this 
 impression. The Romance is not corrupt, 
 though it is indeed a picture of corruption. 
 It is a picture of the earth with the salt of 
 the earth withdrawn from it. Those to whom 
 all faith is a superfluity may think the book 
 foolish. Those who cannot consider corrup- 
 tion without longing to share it may think 
 the book vicious. Those who wish to con- 
 demn it on either of these grounds may 
 easily make a cento of extracts which shall 
 seem to support their judgments. But those 
 whose minds are unprejudiced, and whose 
 imaginations are clean, will, with the above
 
 Preface. xix 
 
 remarks to guide them, see it in a very dif- 
 ferent light. They will see it by the light of 
 its own obvious meaning. As a work of lit- 
 erary art they may think it faulty in many 
 ways. On that question it is not my prov- 
 ince to speak. From a moral point of view 
 they may think it in some places injudicious. 
 I should respect such an opinion, even if I 
 did not agree with it. But judged as a whole, 
 with regard to its intention and its tendency, 
 they will see in it not a licentious love-story, 
 which confuses vice with virtue ; but a phil- 
 osophical study, which is based upon their 
 essential difference, or which is, rather, one 
 long analysis of its meaning
 
 BOOK I.
 
 A ROMANCE 
 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 *T*HE talent, the family, and the fortune 
 -*- of Ralph Vernon were all quite distin- 
 guished enough to make it worth the world's 
 while to attend to him ; and the result was 
 that he was at once condemned and courted. 
 This was not perhaps a matter that it is very 
 hard to account for. His manners and his 
 amusements led him to consort with the care- 
 less, whilst his deeper interests were really 
 those of the serious ; and thus, let him be in 
 what society he would, he was always in a 
 moral sense more or less an outsider. He 
 had little of the gay good-fellowship which is 
 the virtue most prized by the pleasure-seekers ;
 
 4 A Romance of 
 
 he was on the surface far too much of a 
 pleasure-seeker not to irritate those who are 
 busied with thoughts of duty : and his faults, 
 actual or imputed, when they came to the 
 general ear, repelled the one class without 
 attracting the other. 
 
 It was supposed that he had trifled with 
 the affections of numerous women ; it was 
 supposed that he had wasted any amount of 
 talent ; it was supposed that, from knowledge 
 or want of knowledge, he was without any 
 kind of Christianity, and that, from want of 
 earnestness, he was quite unmoved by its sub- 
 stitutes ; he was supposed to have many 
 friends warmly attached to him, and to be 
 himself incapable of any warm attachment. 
 And this marked want in him of anything 
 really lovable was made all the more promi- 
 nent by a singular charm of manner, which, 
 for the time being, was certain to win ev- 
 ery one. Such was the general impression 
 of him, which, whether true or no, was at all 
 events not groundless ; and there was many 
 a mother in London of the best and purest 
 type who thought his character so cold, so
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 5 
 
 unprincipled, and so repulsive, that he could 
 atone for it only by becoming her daughter's 
 husband. 
 
 The number of these mothers was at last 
 reduced to one. Ralph Vernon became en- 
 gaged to be married. The fiancee was young, 
 clever, beautiful, and deeply attached to him ; 
 nor in the case of most men would the event 
 have seemed unnatural. But the general 
 sentiment with regard to Vernon was merely 
 wonder as to what could be here his motive : 
 for most of the world thought what a rough- 
 tongued cousin of his said, " I'll eat my hat, 
 if Ralph's ever in love with any one." Let 
 his motive, however, be what it might, his 
 engagement caused, or was caused by, a very 
 visible change in him. All of a sudden he 
 seemed to become serious ; and for many 
 months one might have thought him a new 
 man. The father of the bride-elect was at 
 the time absent in Afghanistan, and the mar- 
 riage was put off till his return the following 
 year. Vernon, meanwhile, said good-bye to 
 his idleness ; he was even not liberal in the 
 days he allowed for love-making. He devoted
 
 6 A Romance of 
 
 himself instead to his various county duties ; 
 he studied such subjects as education and 
 pauperism ; he projected the building of 
 schools and cottages ; and he tried to become 
 acquainted with the great mass of his ten- 
 antry. Finally, when in 1880, came the 
 renowned general election, he stood in the 
 Conservative interest for his own division of 
 the county, and lost the battle by only six 
 votes. 
 
 This sudden devotion to public affairs was 
 not construed altogether to his advantage. 
 It was supposed to argue lukewarmness in 
 love, rather than zeal in politics ; nor was the 
 rumor at all wondered at that the lady took 
 the same view of it. Vernon, it was said on 
 all sides, was not behaving well ; it was added 
 by many that he wished to back out of the 
 engagement, and the latter opinion was cer- 
 tainly confirmed by the sequel. In due time 
 the lady's father returned, and the various 
 legal preliminaries were at once to be got 
 over. What then were the feelings of all 
 who heard it when Vernon insisted, as one 
 condition of his marriage, that any children
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 7 
 
 that might result from it should be brought 
 up Catholics ! The father and the family of 
 the fiancee were all fiercely Protestant ; and 
 this move of Vernon's made an end of the 
 whole matter. The rupture was abrupt and 
 painful. Vernon's conduct was very severely 
 criticised. That he had any interest in re- 
 ligion was what nobody gave him credit 
 for ; and he was supposed, in this case, to 
 have used it as a last excuse in his despera- 
 tion. 
 
 His conduct directly afterwards did not 
 disarm the censorious. He was soon reported 
 to have formed another intimacy, and to 
 have given another lady a strong sentimental 
 claim on him. Then, the report went on, 
 he had repeated his former conduct, though 
 this time perhaps more judiciously. There 
 had been no formal engagement, the world 
 supposed ; there had been no need, therefore, 
 for any definite subterfuge. A simpler ex- 
 pedient had been quite sufficient : he had 
 buried himself somewhere in some retreat on 
 the Continent. This second drama had been 
 of a strictly private character ; but there are
 
 8 A Romance of 
 
 acute observers who can pierce through any 
 privacy ; and the comments made on it were 
 not of a friendly nature. Indeed, when the 
 news was known that after all his misde- 
 meanors Vernon was enjoying himself in a 
 charming Provencal villa, surrounded by 
 books, and supplied with a first-class chef, 
 one of the keenest and most discriminating 
 of all his feminine acquaintances was at last 
 tempted to speak of him as the worst form of 
 voluptuary. 
 
 In spite, however, of every ill report, 
 there were a certain number who always 
 stood up for him, and who maintained stoutly 
 that there were two sides to his character. 
 They could not deny that what the world 
 said was true of him ; they declared only 
 that it was not the whole truth. There was 
 one of these in especial a certain Alic 
 Campbell who looked upon Vernon as the 
 best friend he had, and who knew most of 
 his inner history that was quite hidden from 
 others. When Vernon went abroad, he had 
 begged Campbell to go with him ; but 
 Campbell for certain reasons had felt con-
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 9 
 
 strained to refuse. Vernon had written from 
 Paris to him, to renew his entreaties, but 
 without the desired result. About a fort- 
 night later he returned to the charge once 
 more.
 
 10 A Romance of 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 " 1VT Y dear AKc," k e wr te " 
 
 * * -^ settled ; and I will now take no denial. 
 You must and you shall join me. Could you 
 only see where I am, I should have no need 
 to implore you ; you would come instantly, 
 and come of your own accord. As it is, I 
 can only trust to writing ; but you surely will 
 not refuse me. Come to me, do, if for no 
 more than a week or two, and share with me 
 this beautiful Southern solitude. Share my 
 villa with its cool portico a villa just large 
 enough for two children of Epicurus. Share 
 my garden with its myrtles, and its oranges, 
 and the softly swaying gold of the great mi- 
 mosa-trees. Yes, I am here in the South and 
 the clear sunshine ; and I am not, as you 
 
 10
 
 The Nineteenth Century. ik 
 
 prophesied and as half my heart urged me, 
 in any of the winter haunts of English fash- 
 ion and frivolity ; but I am embowered safely 
 by myself on the greenest of all the prom- 
 ontories that Europe juts into the Mediter- 
 ranean. I am settled at the Cap de Juan. I 
 have, indeed, chosen a lovely spot, and al- 
 ready I love it tenderly. All day long, 
 through the leaves of my dark evergreens, 
 and through arched bowery openings, the sea 
 shines and sparkles. You and I may change 
 and grow weary ; and we have both had much 
 to weary us. But this bluest of blue seas 
 seems to be always one-and-twenty ; and as I 
 breathe its breath, full of eternal freshness, 
 the thrill and the dreams of youth once more 
 revive in me. And ah, the view ! In a vast 
 majestic crescent the French coast of moun- 
 tains curves away towards Italy, with its suc- 
 cession of pearl-grey headlands dying faintly 
 and far off into the distance. Midway, about 
 ten miles from here as a boat sails, with its 
 clusters of milk-white houses, Nice lies along 
 the sea-level. Range upon range is piled 
 up behind it, blue with far-off haze, or green
 
 12 A Romance of 
 
 with nearer olive-woods : and bright over all, 
 like the hills of another world, are the jagged 
 Alpine summits with their white snows glit- 
 tering. All day long the lights and the tints 
 vary. New mists form and melt upon the 
 mountains ; the sea changes from one glow 
 to another. The wave-worn sea-rock, pierced 
 with its clear shadows, has always new hues 
 and aspects ; so have the silver gleams that 
 sleep in the spreading stone-pines. The 
 whole face of Nature is like the face of a 
 living thing. It is the face truly of a Cle- 
 opatra. 
 
 " ' Age cannot wither it, nor custom stale 
 Its infinite variety.' 
 
 " Alic you who are coughing, sneezing, 
 and blowing your nose in England will not 
 this tempt you ? Your first impulse will be, 
 I know, to refuse me. You are not in spirits, 
 you will say, for the sunshine ; you have no 
 energy left to make any exertion. I am quite 
 familiar with the mood of mind you are in. 
 You are like a man who is sea-sick at the 
 extreme end of a steamer, and who yet will
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 13 
 
 not move himself to make his way to the 
 middle. You are arguing to yourself with 
 the unique logic of grief, ' I am comfortless, 
 and therefore nothing shall comfort me.' Let 
 me try to move you to a brighter and a 
 healthier mind. 
 
 " You are wretched, you tell me, because 
 you want to marry a certain person, and be- 
 cause you find that, though she loves you as 
 a friend, she will never love you but as a 
 friend only. Now, I am going to speak very 
 gently to you, and yet I hope convincingly. 
 I am not going to tell you any such idle lies 
 as that your loss is a trifling one. I am not 
 going to tell you that it is an atom less than 
 you feel it to be ; and you would, I think, 
 injure your character by trying to undervalue 
 it. No, I will not tell you to undervalue 
 your loss. I will only show you a thing 
 you have quite forgotten how to value your 
 gain. Perhaps you will say I am not in a 
 position to do so, for in some ways certainly 
 you have been somewhat reticent. You have 
 told me much about your own feelings, about 
 your own devotion, and about the moral re-
 
 *4 A Romance of 
 
 suit that all this has had on you. But about 
 the object of these feelings you have told me 
 little. I know neither how you met her nor 
 how you wooed her ; nor anything about her 
 character, except that her ways are simple. 
 You have not told me even her name. But 
 I don't think this matters. Let the difference 
 between our two situations be what it may, 
 your case in many ways has been also mine ; 
 and I am going now to speak from my own 
 experience. 
 
 "I, as you know well, was not long since 
 to have married ; and during a good year's 
 novitiate I was preparing my whole being for 
 its solemn new condition. My character 
 during that period underwent a profound 
 change. My bright colored hopes and pur- 
 poses lost their airy wings. They fell to the 
 solid earth, and found for themselves plodding 
 feet. I felt I was no longer my own. My 
 life was owed to another ; and for the first 
 time there dawned on me the true sense of 
 responsibility. But circumstances combined 
 to make my marriage impossible ; and after 
 1 had already learned to mentally mix my life
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 15 
 
 with another's, our two lives were again made 
 separate. When first I realized this, it was 
 like waking out of a dream. I was conscious 
 of a loneliness I had never known before ; 
 and even now, with my shatte/ed marriage 
 prospects, my manhood seems to lie in ashes 
 about me. But what do I find has happened ? 
 Something glad, strange, and altogether un- 
 locked for. Out of the ashes of my manhood 
 has re-arisen my youth my youth, which I 
 thought I had said good-bye to for eternity ; 
 and the divine child has again run to meet 
 me with its eyes bright as ever, and with the 
 summer wind in its hair. The sun has gone 
 back for me on the dial, I am three years 
 younger again. The skies seem to have grown 
 bluer, and my step more elastic. Once more 
 free and unfettered, I feel sometimes as if I 
 were walking on air ; and I have the delicious 
 sense of having lost a burden, even though I 
 may have lost a treasure as well. 
 
 " You will see my meaning better when I 
 go on to tell you that, though I have recov- 
 ered the buoyancy of youth, I have by no 
 means recovered its ignorance. I still retain
 
 1 6 A Romance of 
 
 a certain salvage of wisdom, sad and bitter 
 enough in some ways, and yet good for men 
 like us two to remember. It is this listen 
 patiently. There is nothing in the world so 
 intensely selfish as a woman's deep affection ; 
 and the stronger and more single-hearted it 
 is, the greater becomes its selfishness. A 
 man's passion is generous when compared 
 with a woman's love. A man's passion, at 
 its worst, lasts but a short time ; even while 
 it lasts, its demands are limited ; and what is 
 more than this, a good man will restrain it. 
 But the truer and more sensitive a woman is, 
 the more thoroughly will she let her love 
 master her ; the less effort will she make to 
 retain the least control of it. 
 
 " And what a master it is ! Its jealousy 
 is cruel as the grave, and its demands know 
 no limits but the imagination of her that 
 makes them. A woman who loves thus is 
 not content with the chastest bodily con- 
 stancy ; she is not content even with the 
 constancy of an undivided tenderness. These 
 she takes for granted : they are not the 
 things she craves for. What she craves for
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 17 
 
 is the constancy of your whole thought and 
 intellect. You are to have nothing in your 
 mind that you do not confide to her ; you are 
 to stifle every interest with which she cannot 
 be associated. If you want any mental help, 
 it is she alone who must help you ; and she 
 had sooner you were helped ill by her than 
 well by another person. She will be as 
 jealous of your friendships as she is of your 
 affections, and as jealous of your thoughts 
 and tastes as she is of your friendships. She 
 cannot patiently conceive of you as in relation 
 to anything excepting herself. She desires 
 to absorb your whole life into hers ; and 
 the larger part of it, which she naturally can- 
 not absorb, she desires to see perish. Her 
 pleading earnest eyes will be forever saying 
 to you, ' Entreat me not to leave thee. 
 Where thou goest I will go ; and go not 
 thou, my love, whither I cannot follow thee.' 
 "What! with all the world of thought 
 and imagination before us, are men such as 
 we are to be tied and bound like this ? For 
 my part, the wings of my spirit seem to have 
 all the winds in them ; and I have a heart
 
 1 8 A Romance of 
 
 sometimes like a hawk's or a wild sea-gull's. 
 It is not a heart that is hard, or that does 
 not soften to companionship. I could often 
 perch tenderly upon some beloved shoulder, 
 and bend my head to listen to words of 
 tenderness. But if the hand that I trusted 
 but once closed to lay hold of me dared, 
 from love, to use the least pressure to keep 
 me I should start and struggle, and feel I 
 had suffered treachery. I will stoop my 
 neck myself ; but no one else shall ever draw 
 it an inch downwards. Why do we want 
 companionship ? What is a man's need for it ? 
 Were my life really a bird's, I would gladly 
 have a she-bird to fly with me ; but I would 
 have her only because we were both bound 
 independently for the same resting-place. 
 That and that alone should be the fetterless 
 fetter that united us. But a woman who 
 loves deeply will never love like this. She 
 has no wish to be your companion on these 
 terms. It is not the common end that she 
 cares for, but the united struggle ; and she 
 reveres her wish to soar, chiefly because it is 
 an excuse for clinging to you. Thus, on the
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 19 
 
 same principle, she will go nowhere in the 
 mental world herself unless you are there to 
 support her. She thinks it a kind of treason 
 to you to try and walk independently. She 
 cultivates her weakness, that she may be al- 
 ways trusting to your strength ; and though 
 her weight might be dragging you to the 
 ground, she would never think of it, never 
 see it, but if possible she would only lean the 
 heavier. Was ever selfishness so pitiless and 
 intense as this ? And yet, by a strange 
 magic, it looks so like self-devotion, that a 
 man, if he be not a brute, can hardly fail to 
 be crushed by it. Such love, Alic, may be 
 a thing that suits some temperaments, but 
 surely neither yours nor mine. 
 
 " And now I am once more my own. Ah, 
 the sweetness and rest of this serene self- 
 possession ! But lately I felt, when I was 
 looking even at the sea or the mountains, 
 that I was not permitted to love them. The 
 shadow of another would always seem to 
 cleave to me and claim me ; and I could no 
 longer let my spirit, as I used to do, go 
 floating on the lonely waters. But now I
 
 2O A Romance of 
 
 can look everywhere without fear. I can say 
 to the sea, when it makes me in love with 
 loneliness, ' I violate no allegiance due to 
 any companionship.' I can say the same to 
 the forest, when its leafy smells woo me, and 
 the murmur of its brown branches. I can 
 say the same in society, when bright eyes 
 and alluring voices stimulate me, and I feel 
 that many women are far better than one. 
 Then, too though I will not dwell upon this 
 here were there a God to turn to, I could 
 turn to Him in solitude. And now in the 
 morning, as I awaken, I often turn to my 
 pillow, and kiss it, and say, 'No head but 
 mine can ever dare to press you.' All the 
 walls of my bedroom seem to smile kindly 
 and quietly on me. By my bedside I see my 
 dear companions, my books so varied and so 
 unobtrusive that will themselves tell me all 
 they can, and will ask for no confidence in 
 return ; and there, too, I see my letters, 
 which have now the new charm for me, that 
 no one but myself will ever want to open 
 them. 
 
 "Yes, I have learned the truest secret of
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 21 
 
 Epicurus, that the friendship of a man is 
 more than the love of a woman. Friendship 
 is always a free gift ; and it is always given 
 readily because it is never owed. Love, too, 
 begins as a gift; but a loving woman will 
 never leave it so. Before you know it, she 
 will have turned it into a debt ; and the 
 more she loves the debtor, the more oppres- 
 sively will she extort the utmost farthing 
 from him. But between friends, Alic, the 
 intercourse is always free. I could have no 
 thought that it would be treason to conceal 
 from you. I could form no ties or friend- 
 ships that would do you any wrong. And 
 yet if I may alter Shakespeare in a single 
 word 
 
 " ' And yet, by heaven, I hold my friend as rare 
 As any she belied by false compare.' 
 
 " Come, then, and lay all this to your 
 heart ; for your heart, I know, will assent to 
 its truth as mine does. Marriage would suit 
 you no better than me. It allured me first 
 with its many pleasing promises ; and in the 
 same way it is now alluring you. It can give
 
 22 A Romance of 
 
 much to numbers ; I do not deny that for a 
 moment ; but neither you nor I were made 
 for it. In missing it, as I have said before, 
 you are no doubt a loser ; but my advice to 
 you is, do not brood over the loss ; think of 
 the gain, for the gain is far greater. Recall 
 your imagination from the solace you would 
 have had in marriage, and dwell on the joys 
 and the freedom that you keep because you 
 are single. 
 
 " Freedom yes, you have that still. You 
 have not the caprices of any one else to bind 
 you. My dear Alic, think of your priceless 
 freedom ! I say think of it ; but I want you 
 to write also. Come to me, come, then, from 
 your frosty England, and let me see the 
 Southern sunlight laughing in your glad grey 
 eyes. If you will, all my house shall welcome 
 you. My champagne is excellent ; my cigars 
 and cigarettes are excellent I had them all 
 sent from London ; and my bookcases are 
 well stored with poets, and with your own 
 philosophers. At the end of one of my walks 
 is a certain marble seat. You look straight 
 down at the sea from it, and it is overarched
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 23 
 
 with myrtles. There is a perfect wilderness 
 of green shade behind it, and in the midst 
 of this, like an enchanted lamp, is a great 
 camellia tree, burning with scarlet blossoms. 
 Close at hand there is a little table, just fit to 
 support a bottle of Burgundy, and a quaint 
 old glass goblet for each of us. It is an 
 entrancing place. It is a bower after your 
 own heart. And there we might sit together, 
 in the calm delicious mornings, talking or 
 silent, just as the mood prompted us. Some- 
 times we might quote to each other our 
 favorite poets ; sometimes we might solve 
 again the old insoluble questions we have so 
 often discussed before, and which are still 
 eating my life out ; sometimes we might 
 watch in quiet the waves and the rocks before 
 us, with perhaps some gay bright-colored 
 fishing-boat, floating with its white plume 
 of a sail, and its brown fisher at the stern 
 bending over his own reflection. Yes, Alic, 
 if you will only come out to me, we will con- 
 trive to elude the Furies. We will look into 
 life together more closely than we used to do ; 
 but it shall be a personal oppression to us
 
 24 A Romance of 
 
 no more than it used to be. We will only 
 enter here on a new phase of youth. We 
 will have free cloudless days, and nights of 
 moonlight. We will drive, and ride, and sail, 
 and explore the whole country. We will 
 know the folds of the hills grey with olive- 
 trees; we will listen to the sound of mule- 
 bells ; we will see how the middle-age begins 
 in the wild hill villages. Then, too, my own 
 immediate neighborhood that is delightful 
 also. The whole of my green peninsula is an 
 Eden of woods and gardens ; and the life 
 that surrounds you there is like a living idyll. 
 Old brown crones crouching under the olive- 
 trees, the peasant proprietor tilling his small 
 field, the neatly dressed nursery-gardener 
 surveying his glass frames, the retired do- 
 mestic tradesman smiling over the gate of 
 his little villa-garden these are the living 
 images that surround one, and that give to 
 one's thoughts such a quaint delightful set- 
 ting. A strange mixture, too, on all sides 
 touches one of homely plenty and of wild 
 luxuriance. Cabbages and palm-trees grow in 
 the same enclosure. Between beds of kitchen
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 25 
 
 stuff are strips starred with anemones, and 
 pink almond-blossoms tremble among the 
 apple-trees. 
 
 " Ah, my old companion, will not these 
 pleasures move you ? Write, write to me 
 quickly, and say they will. Only in that case 
 I have something further to tell you. If you 
 would enjoy the seclusion I have described 
 to you, you must come and enjoy it speedily : 
 and for this reason. On one side of me 
 is a beautiful marble villa, with immense 
 gardens and long winding walks ; and on the 
 other side, with immense gardens also, is a 
 large disused hotel, whose proprietors last 
 year were bankrupt. It is built like an old 
 chateau. It has quaint vanes on the gables, 
 and flights of marble steps lead up to the 
 doors and windows. It is just at the cape's 
 point ; and its domain of gardens, with their 
 long straight terraces, their arches of trellised 
 roses, is bounded on three sides by the sea. 
 Those gardens, silent and lifeless, not a soul 
 but the gardeners now walks in them the 
 gardeners and myself, and, who should you 
 think besides ? Poor Frederic Stanley the
 
 26 A Romance of 
 
 cleverest of our Oxford idlers ; who, since we 
 knew him, has been first a guardsman, and 
 is now a Catholic priest. How time does 
 change some men ! Stanley is here for his 
 health : he is broken down with work. And 
 though he looks, I fancy, rather askance at 
 me, we have often little reserved conversa- 
 tions together. 
 
 " But I am wandering from the point. 
 What I want to tell you is this. Up till now 
 the hotel and the villa have been alike 
 tenantless, and I have been able to use both 
 gardens as my own ; but that happy period 
 is now drawing fast to a close. Some 
 English people, whose names I do not know, 
 but with whom no doubt I shall make ac- 
 quaintance, are coming, or perhaps have 
 already come, to the villa. And as to the 
 hotel, what do you think has happened ? 
 Our friend the Duchess has taken it it is 
 still furnished for the whole of next month, 
 and intends having a large party there. So 
 you see that very soon I shall be saying 
 good-bye to solitude. This last piece of news 
 I have only this instant learned, and from the
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 27 
 
 Duchess herself. I can't exactly say if I am 
 glad or sorry. I shall have at all events a 
 very enlivening neighbor ; and her company 
 always charms me. It is not the charm now, 
 as it must once have been, of beauty and 
 sentiment. It is at fifty what supplies their 
 place, and rivals them ; it is the charm of 
 mundane humor. This bright gay humor of 
 feminine middle-age, it always seems to me a 
 very rare gift. It is a highly artificial product, 
 and is almost peculiar, I think, to our class of 
 society. It requires to develop it a combina- 
 tion of two things in the past the suscepti- 
 bilities of the world of romance, and the 
 indulgence of them in the world of fashion. 
 However, be our friend's charm what it will, 
 I am at this moment going to enjoy it ; as in 
 another five minutes I shall be at dinner with 
 her. 
 
 " And this at last brings me to a con- 
 fession which will amuse you. Where do 
 you think I am writing you this letter ? Not 
 in my philosophic garden, not in my quiet 
 study. All about me is gaslight and gilding, 
 and a murmur of garish life. The figures
 
 i8 A Romance of 
 
 surrounding me are gamblers and Parisian 
 cocottes; and I am breathing, not the scent of 
 the sea or of flowers, but of patchouli and 
 faint stale cigarette smoke. I am in the 
 reading-room at Monte Carlo. I drove over 
 here this morning or rather, my coachman 
 drove me partly to try a new pair of horses, 
 and partly for the sake of the starlight drive 
 back again. The Duchess is staying for a 
 day or two at the hotel attached to the 
 gambling-rooms, and it seems she has a little 
 dinner party every night in the restaurant. 
 To-night the Grantlys are coming. You 
 remember Grantly at Oxford ? He is now 
 in the First Life Guards ; and his wife is a 
 lovely American, whose face is even prettier 
 than her dresses, and, if possible, even more 
 changing. 
 
 "Apropos of the women here, there is 
 one on the sofa opposite me, who is really 
 divinely lovely. Whenever I look up from 
 my writing, I am met by her soft large eyes, 
 half sad and half voluptuous in their tender- 
 ness. She is as different from the women 
 near her as day from night, or rather as the
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 29 
 
 stars from gaslight. She is one of the fallen ; 
 I fear there can be no doubt about that ; but 
 refinement even a sort of nobleness can 
 outlive virtue. There is not a touch of paint 
 on her ; and her dress, which fits her per- 
 fectly, is strangely simple. If I have any 
 skill in reading the looks of women, there is 
 something of a higher life yet lingering in 
 that soft, pleading face, that she half hides 
 from me by her large crimson fan. Some 
 women have a glance that makes me long to 
 talk to them, just as clear sea-water makes 
 me long to plunge in it. 
 
 " Write to me soon. I am obliged to stop 
 now. 
 
 " By the way, besides the Grantlys, there 
 is another guest expected, who is to me more 
 interesting. I mean Lord Surbiton. He 
 was the first man of letters I ever knew ; and 
 when I was seventeen, he seemed to me little 
 short of a god. 
 
 " Good-by ; I must be going. My fair one 
 is rising too."
 
 30 A Romance of 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Duchess's stately figure was familiar 
 * at Monte Carlo, and many an eye fol- 
 lowed her as she entered the gorgeous res- 
 taurant. 
 
 " Garden," she said, as she took her seat 
 at the large table reserved for her, " Pommery 
 et greno, extra sec the last champagne on the 
 wine list. You must put three bottles in ice 
 instantly, for in five minutes we shall be quite 
 ready for dinner. And wait, wait a moment, 
 man, for I have not done speaking to you 
 we are not going to pay thirty-six francs 
 again for a single dish of asparagus ; so you 
 will perhaps have the goodness to recollect 
 that. And you must lay another place if you 
 please, as we shall be five dining this evening 
 instead of four."
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 31 
 
 Captain and Mrs. Grantly appeared al- 
 most immediately, and with them was an 
 elderly man in close attendance on the latter. 
 The young guardsman and his wife were a 
 very characteristic couple, and looked like a 
 bright embodiment of the spirit of modern 
 London. The appearance of their com- 
 panion was very different. His dress was 
 too showy for what is now correct taste, and 
 his jewelled scarf-pin and sleeve-links were 
 both of enormous size. But on him these 
 splendors seemed to lose half their offensive- 
 ness. They were plainly the fashion of a 
 past generation, not the vulgarities of the 
 present one : they even heightened by con- 
 trast the strange effect of his face, with its 
 worn weary cheeks, and his keen gfance like 
 an eagle's. This was none other than the 
 renowned Lord Surbiton the poet, diplo- 
 mat, and dandy who had charmed the last 
 generation. 
 
 The whole party had been winning largely 
 at the tables, and their spirits were quite 
 in keeping with the glittering scene around 
 them. The crowd which filled the restaurant
 
 32 A Romance of 
 
 was to-night even more gay than usual. All 
 the men were at least dressed like gentle- 
 men, and most of the women were far more 
 splendid than ladies. Fashionable exiles 
 from the English world of fashion were de- 
 tected in numbers by the amused eyes of 
 the Duchess ; and with them the fair com- 
 panions who had caused their exile or were 
 sharing it. It was said even that royalty was 
 not absent, and that there thus was a divine 
 element unrecognized in the midst of the hu- 
 man. Everywhere there was a flashing of 
 restless eyes and diamonds ; furred and em- 
 broidered opera-cloaks were being disposed 
 of over the backs of chairs ; long gloves were 
 being unbuttoned and drawn off ; and white 
 hands, glancing with rings, were composing 
 deranged tresses. Above was the arched 
 ceiling glowing with gold and pictures ; and 
 the walls, florid with ornament, returned 
 every shaft of lamplight from the depths of 
 immense mirrors, or the limbs of naked 
 goddesses. 
 
 " Now, this," said the Duchess, " is exactly 
 what I enjoy : charming company, a charm-
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 33 
 
 ing scene before one, and let me tell you 
 all, for I myself ordered it a really excellent 
 dinner. However," she went on, as she 
 unfolded her napkin, and looked with a slow 
 smile at the menu, "we must be temperate 
 in the midst of plenty ; for remember, Mrs. 
 Grantly, you and I and your husband are to 
 go back to the tables again for one half-hour 
 afterwards only one half-hour, mind ; and 
 then, as Lord Surbiton suggests he is always, 
 as we all know, poetical we will have our 
 coffee outside, and compose our feelings 
 under the stars of heaven." 
 
 " What ! " said Mrs. Grantly, "and is Lord 
 Surbiton not coming back to the rooms with 
 us?" 
 
 " Not he," said the Duchess. " He's not 
 half a man at gambling. I don't think your 
 poets ever are. But where," she exclaimed 
 presently, as she saw that a chair was vacant, 
 " where is Mr. Vernon ? Has any one seen 
 our Mr. Ralph Vernon ? We can't possibly 
 get on without our one unmarried young 
 man ; though, to say the truth, till this mo- 
 ment I had quite forgotten to miss him." 
 
 3
 
 34 A Romance of 
 
 " Mr. Vernon ! " echoed Mrs. Grantly with 
 a laugh. " I'd advise you, Duchess, not to 
 count upon him. I saw him on the hotel 
 steps only ten minutes ago, and what do you 
 think he was doing ? Why he was talking to 
 that beautiful creature we were all admiring 
 at the tables the woman with the red fan 
 and the long dark eyelashes. I don't know 
 what she was saying, I'm sure, but she had 
 her hand on his arm, and he was bending 
 down to her." 
 
 "Oh, ho " began the Duchess, with a 
 
 soft low laugh. But Lord Surbiton inter- 
 rupted her. 
 
 " Vernon ! " he said ; " can this be the 
 Ralph Vernon that I once knew, some thir- 
 teen years ago a dreamy eager boy, who 
 used to come and show me his poetry ?" 
 
 " To be sure it is," said the Duchess. 
 " Poetry, painting, and heaven knows what 
 else I believe he has tried all of it." 
 
 " Ah," said Lord Surbiton, " I once had 
 great hopes of him. I once thought he 
 was signed with the veritable sign of ge- 
 nius."
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 35 
 
 " Well," replied the Duchess, " and he is 
 very clever, I believe." 
 
 " Men who are clever," said Lord Surbiton 
 solemnly, " we can count by millions : men 
 with genius we count by units. As for Ver- 
 non, his early verses were beautiful, in spite 
 of their crude language. They had the same 
 charm in them that his ideal eyes had little 
 of the gladness of youth, but all its sweetness 
 and its hunger." 
 
 " It seems," said the Duchess, "that this is 
 a young man who is very much to be envied ; 
 for in addition to all these charms he has two 
 others that women think irresistible a for- 
 tune and a history." 
 
 " Yes," said Lord Surbiton, with a wave 
 of his jewelled hand, "women are always 
 attracted by a man with a history, because it 
 always means that he is to be either blamed 
 or pitied." 
 
 " And what," said Mrs. Grantly, " may Mr. 
 Vernon's history be? " 
 
 " Ah ! " said the Duchess, " that's just what 
 we don't know, and that's the very reason 
 why we find it so interesting. Never be too
 
 36 A Romance of 
 
 curious, my dear, about a friend's history; and 
 then you can always stick up for him with a 
 clear conscience." 
 
 " Look ! " exclaimed Mrs. Grantly, " here 
 the charmer comes. I only hope he won't be 
 trying all his fascinations on me." 
 
 Vernon was full of regrets for being behind 
 his time ; but these he discovered were met 
 with nothing but laughter. Mrs. Grantly 
 assured him at once that they knew all about 
 him and his doings. " And this is the man," 
 she went on "now, I ask you all to look at 
 him who says he has come abroad for the 
 sake of philosophic solitude ! " 
 
 " And why not ? " said Vernon ; " I think I 
 am quite consistent. Solitude is my wife, and 
 society is my mistress ; and I like to live with 
 the one, and be always intriguing with the 
 other." 
 
 " Well," exclaimed Mrs. Grantly, " since we 
 are your society for the moment, our collec- 
 tive place in your heart is, I must say, not 
 very honorable." 
 
 " Never mind about that," said the Duchess. 
 " What my suspicions rest upon is Mr. Ver-
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 37 
 
 non's solitude that retiring villa of his at the 
 Cap de Juan : especially now we hear all this 
 about red fans, and whisperings, and hotel 
 door-steps, and long eyelashes." 
 
 " My attentions on the door-steps," said 
 Vernon, " were of the strictly Platonic order. 
 There is something rather touching in her 
 way, when one comes to talk to her." 
 
 " Very likely," said Captain Grantly dryly, 
 " there always is. And what's her rank, Ver- 
 non ? Is she a princess or a duchess?" 
 
 "If she's a princess," said Vernon, "she 
 must have lost her principality ; for she was 
 dreadfully in want of a thousand francs to 
 gamble with." 
 
 " Very likely," said Captain Grantly ; " they 
 all are." 
 
 The Duchess, meanwhile, was surveying 
 the motley scene before her. " I confess," she 
 said, with a soft smile of amusement, "this is 
 hardly the place one would come to if one were 
 in search of Platonic attachments. Now, look 
 round, all of you, and take stock of the com- 
 pany. There are plenty of men one knows 
 of course one expects that ; but the women
 
 38 A Romance of 
 
 with them did you ever see anything like it ? 
 Come, Mr. Vernon, you understand these 
 things. Just observe the couple behind you 
 they can't talk English, so we needn't mind 
 discussing them are they man and wife, do 
 you think ? Or that fine lady, with the hair 
 sprinkled with gold-dust, whom Lord Surbiton 
 seems to admire so what relation should you 
 say she was to the old Jew she is dining 
 with? Upon my word, Mrs. Grantly," she 
 added presently, " I don't believe that, our 
 two selves excepted, there's a single woman 
 here you could possibly call respectable." 
 
 " That's the very reason," said Mrs. Grantly, 
 " why I like being here so much. It makes 
 me feel like an angel. But talking of angels, 
 there goes a genuine one, if you like, for you ; 
 there goes Colonel Stapleton. Oh my ! and 
 isn't he grown fat and ugly ! You'd never 
 have thought would you ? that that man 
 was once the best dancer in London. And, 
 Duchess," she went on, " I hope you admire 
 the big checks on his coat. 'Twould take four 
 of him, I guess, to play one game at chess 
 upon."
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 39 
 
 Colonel Stapleton was a florid man of it 
 might be five-and- forty. Despite his inclina* 
 tion to stoutness, he held himself well and 
 gracefully, and had an air about him of 
 dissolute good-breeding. He had one other 
 charm, too, of which Vernon was at once 
 made sensible a taking and very musical 
 voice, which, as he stopped for a moment 
 to speak to a friend dining, could be heard 
 distinctly at the Duchess's table. " The one 
 with the red fan ? " he was saying gayly ; "yes, 
 she, if you like it, is a regular out-and-outer. 
 She's down here, so she tells me, with some 
 fellow who belongs to the ' Figaro.' " 
 
 Vernon and Captain Grantly both overheard 
 this. The former was somewhat annoyed, 
 and the latter amused at it, though he was at 
 the same time frowning over his wife's late 
 observations. "Poor old Jack Stapleton!" 
 he said ; " Jessie can't bear him, though I'm 
 sure I don't know why. He's as good-hearted 
 a fellow as ever lived, and is nobody's enemy 
 but his own." 
 
 " To be sure," said the Duchess. " We all 
 of us know Jack Stapleton. If he was a little
 
 4O A Romance of 
 
 bit thinner, your wife would be only too de- 
 lighted with him." 
 
 Mrs. Grantly, however, was by no means 
 silenced. 
 
 " Look at his back," she said, " as he's sit- 
 ting down to his dinner. Isn't selfishness 
 written in every curve of it ? The way," she 
 went on, as she leant over to the Duchess, 
 " the way that man behaved to a young girl I 
 knew is something more than words can de- 
 scribe to you." 
 
 "Jessie," exclaimed her husband sharply, 
 as if determined to change the subject, " look 
 behind you for a minute. There's the old 
 hag don't you see her ? who tried to collar 
 your money this afternoon at the tables. It's 
 worth while watching her, just to see how she 
 claws her wine-glass." 
 
 " I hadn't observed her," said the Duchess. 
 " Well, she at any rate has no compromising 
 diamonds, and no wicked Lothario to attend 
 to her." 
 
 Mrs. Grantly's eye lit up with a sudden 
 laughter. " Lord Surbiton," she said, as she 
 touched his arm with her fan, and pointed
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 41 
 
 out the old woman in question, " I guess I 
 can show you one virtuous woman here. 
 Her morals, I am sure, are strictly unim- 
 peachable. I'll lay you six to one on them 
 in black-silk stockings." 
 
 Lord Surbiton eyed Mrs. Grantly with a 
 look of somewhat sinister gallantry. "If 
 your feet and ankles," he said, " are as lovely 
 as your hands and wrists, I shall, proudly pay 
 the bet, even if I have the sad fortune to 
 win it." 
 
 "In that case," said Mrs. Grantly dryly, 
 " I shall ask you to make your bets with my 
 husband. If you will do so with him on the 
 same principle next Ascot, we shall still man- 
 age, perhaps, to keep out of the workhouse." 
 
 Mrs. Grantly, though she said what she 
 chose herself, could always hold her own to 
 perfection ; and Lord Surbiton's gaze was 
 now at once withdrawn from her. But a few 
 minutes afterwards, when he again turned to 
 her, there was a change in his whole expres- 
 sion that she was not prepared for. His 
 worn face, as a friend had once observed of 
 him, was like a battered stage on which the
 
 42 A Romance of 
 
 scenery was always shifting ; and it now had 
 a strange appearance, as of some ruinous 
 transformation-effect. Every trace of its late 
 look had gone from it : it gleamed instead 
 with a grave uncertain tenderness, like a light 
 from a lost boyhood ; and even his artificial 
 manner when he spoke did not destroy the 
 impression. 
 
 " You have shown me," he said, " one vir- 
 tuous woman. Let me now show you 
 another. Do you see the two who have this 
 moment entered ? " 
 
 The eyes of all the party were turned in 
 the same direction. There was no mistaking 
 for an instant who it was that had attracted 
 him. Standing close to the door, and looking 
 about her in some uncertainty, was a tall 
 English girl, in company of an elder lady. 
 The two had apparently come there to dine, 
 and, being strange to the place, did not know 
 where to bestow themselves. The girl's 
 hesitation, however, could scarcely be called 
 embarrassment. The scene seemed to dis- 
 tress far more than to embarrass her ; though 
 it would hardly have been unnatural if it had
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 43 
 
 done both. There was a proud reserve, how- 
 ever, in her graceful movements and attitude, 
 which, in a scene like that, sufficed at once to 
 distinguish her. She was very pale, with a 
 brow and throat like a magnolia blossom ; 
 whilst her lips, in the words of Solomon, 
 seemed by contrast "a thread of scarlet;" 
 and her large clear eyes were dark as the 
 darkest violet. She stood there in the glare 
 and glitter like a creature from another 
 world. 
 
 Lord Surbiton broke silence in slow, mea- 
 sured accents. "It looks," he said, "as if 
 an angel had descended in the midst of us, 
 like a snow-flake." 
 
 There was a pause. The apparition aston- 
 ished the whole party. Vernon's eyes, in 
 especial, were fixed intently on her. 
 
 "Angel or no angel," said the Duchess, 
 presently, " I can see, even from this dis- 
 tance, that she gets her clothes, not from 
 heaven, but Paris : and nothing costs so 
 much as well-made angelic simplicity. How- 
 ever, joking apart," she added, and more se- 
 riously, " upon my word I quite agree with
 
 44 -A Romance of 
 
 Lord Surbiton. It is literally an angel's face ; 
 and a very high-bred angel's into the bar- 
 gain. But, good gracious ! what a place to 
 bring her to ! " 
 
 Suddenly the two strangers were observed 
 to move forward into the room, while the 
 younger one first started, and then broke into 
 a smile. 
 
 " Look ! " said the Duchess with interest, 
 " they have evidently found some one they 
 know here. Let us try and discover who 
 it is." 
 
 " Oh my ! " exclaimed Mrs. Grantly, " I 
 can see who : and would you believe it ? 
 why, it's Colonel Stapleton ! Duchess, you 
 don't know what you missed. You should 
 have seen how he jumped up when he saw 
 them, like a beer-barrel on springs ! And 
 there's your angel, Lord Surbiton there 
 she is, shaking hands with him. Well, all 
 I can say is, that I wish her joy of her com- 
 pany." 
 
 " Come, Mr. Vernon," said the Duchess, 
 as dinner drew to a close, " you seem very 
 silent and abstracted. This interesting young
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 45 
 
 lady has clearly made an impression on 
 you." 
 
 "Haven't you noticed him?" said Mrs. 
 Grantly ; " he's been watching her all the 
 time ; and I can tell by his face that he's 
 jealous of Colonel Stapleton. However, Mr. 
 Vernon, there is one crumb of comfort for 
 you ; she has not been dining at the same 
 table with him." 
 
 "No," said Captain Grantly, "but she's 
 looked round and smiled at him every ten 
 minutes. Keep yourself calm, Vernon, and 
 don't go calling old Jack out for it." 
 
 " I should think," said Vernon, with a 
 gravity he was quite unconscious of, " that 
 they are relations of some kind or other 
 cousins," he went on meditating, " cous- 
 ins probably, or perhaps even niece and 
 uncle." 
 
 " Capital !" exclaimed the Duchess. "He's 
 thought the whole matter out to himself. Mr. 
 Vernon, your tastes are, I must say, most 
 versatile. You begin the dinner with Venus, 
 and you wind it up with Diana. But tell 
 me," she went on, as she pushed her chair
 
 46 A Romance of 
 
 back, and sedately prepared to rise, " are you 
 a gambler as well as a lover ? For if not, you 
 will perhaps smoke here with Lord Surbiton, 
 while we three go back to the tables for a 
 little ; and then we will all meet presently 
 outside for our coffee."
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 47 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 T EFT tete-h-tete with Vernon, Lord Surbi- 
 * ' ton fixed his eyes on him, whilst he 
 drew from his pocket a gorgeous gold ciga- 
 rette-case. 
 
 " It is a long time," he began between 
 the soft smoke puffs, "since I last saw you ; 
 or to one, young as you are, it must seen: 
 long." 
 
 " I like to be called young," said Vernon, 
 " for I have at least one sign of age in me, 
 and that is I am beginning to value my 
 youth." 
 
 "Happy philosopher," cried the other, 
 " who can value the treasure while you still 
 possess it ! When last I saw you, you were 
 just leaving Eton, and you had not learnt 
 such wisdom then. You came to me one
 
 48 A Romance of 
 
 morning before luncheon, sad and eager, with 
 some verses of yours, that you might ask 
 what a poet thought of them. I suggested 
 that you should read them aloud to me, but 
 you were too modest to do so ; so I took 
 them myself, and read them aloud to you. 
 When I had finished I looked up, and there 
 were two large tears trembling in my young 
 bard's eyes." 
 
 "What !" exclaimed Vernon, "and do you 
 really remember that unfortunate boyish stuff 
 of mine ?" 
 
 "Boy," said Lord Surbiton, "your verses 
 were not stuff ; and there are certain things 
 which 7 never forget : 
 
 " ' Oh Goddess, I am sick at heart, o'erworn 
 
 With weariness, 
 
 For the weight of life is bitter to be borne 
 Companionless.' 
 
 That is how your verses began : you see I 
 can quote them still. Professedly they were 
 a sort of prayer to Diana: but really they 
 were far more than that. They were the 
 voice of youth that is heard through all the
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 49 
 
 ages youth crying in its solitude for some 
 high companionship. There is nothing, Ver- 
 non, so unutterably melancholy as a boy's 
 passionate purity : and for me you were then 
 the symbol of the eternal longing of boy- 
 hood." 
 
 " How well," said Vernon, " I remember 
 that little poem of mine, though I confess I 
 am surprised that you do ! I remember the 
 day I wrote it, and the sound of it still rings 
 in my ears ; but there is one thing wanting 
 one thing quite gone from me, and that is the 
 sort of longing I meant to express in it. My 
 thoughts and my aspirations of those days 
 have become a mystery to myself. I am 
 startled to find sometimes how utterly I have 
 lost the clue to them." 
 
 " That is always the way," said Lord Sur- 
 biton, " when life is still developing, and one 
 form of eagerness succeeds and dispossesses 
 another. It is in virtue of this process that 
 you now see your youth to be valuable. In 
 the middle age of your boyhood you longed 
 sadly for the unattainable ; in the boyhood of 
 your middle age you idealize the attainable. 
 
 4
 
 50 A Romance of 
 
 Happy philosopher, I again say to you 
 philosopher, lover, poet, and man of the 
 world in one." 
 
 " I doubt," said Vernon smiling, " if I now 
 idealize anything ; and I fear, Lord Surbiton, 
 that you idealize me. I am no longer a lover, 
 nor even a would-be poet." 
 
 " Not a poet on paper, it may be ; but a 
 poet in the way life touches you, and in the 
 demands you make on it. To be a poet in 
 this sense, you need never have written a 
 line ; and yet the name may fit you, without 
 any violence to its meaning. The imagina- 
 tion is for every man the co-creator of his 
 universe, and those men are poets whose 
 imaginations create most gloriously. And 
 yet, my dear Vernon, you say you no longer 
 idealize ! I shall as soon believe that as that 
 you are no longer a lover. Why, within this 
 last couple of hours, you have been making 
 love to one lady, and longing, we all thought, 
 to make love to another." 
 
 "Ah," said Vernon, "but the excitement of 
 making love is very different from the rapt 
 devotion of loving. What I have ceased to
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 51 
 
 be capable of, what I have lost even the power 
 of imagining, is a single passion that shall 
 sway or fulfil one's life. Love seems to me 
 now to be very much like temper. Your 
 dearest friend can irritate you into the one; 
 the most commonplace woman can trick you 
 into the other : and you adore in the latter 
 case, and you accuse and abuse in the former, 
 in a way which by and by you can only stu- 
 pidly wonder at. I do not want to speak cyn- 
 ically about this. A cynic is a foolish fellow 
 who either is ignorant, or pretends to be, of 
 a good third of an average man's motives 
 those that are not contemptible ; and I know 
 that love, as a fact, can be pure and true and 
 faithful, and that it is really to many the one 
 thing worth living for. I only speak for my- 
 self ; and all that I can see in it is a passion- 
 ate perversity both of judgment and of feeling. 
 It exaggerates the value of the special indi- 
 vidual, just as cynicism does the opposite for 
 the race in general. The concentrated praise 
 is as false as the diffused censure. Each is 
 equally silly to the eye of the calm judgment. 
 My wish now is for no emotion but such as I
 
 52 A Romance of 
 
 can master. I wish to possess myself, not to 
 appropriate others ; and with regard to wo- 
 men I agree with the poet Donne 
 
 " ' I can love her and her, and you and you ; 
 I can love any, so she be but true.' " 
 
 " I did not expect," said Lord Surbiton, 
 "when I called you a lover, to find you still 
 content at thirty with the intangible charms 
 of a moon-goddess. As we live on, we are 
 obliged to take the attainable, and do our 
 best to idealize that. You say you are not 
 constant. Well, no true artist is, and you 
 have the artist's temper, I see, just as you 
 have the poet's two things which by no 
 means always go together, indeed to unite 
 them is a rare triumph of character. Many 
 poets perhaps might have drawn a Des- 
 demona : only an artistic poet could have 
 drawn an I ago also. What marks the poetic 
 temper is the intensity of its sympathy ; 
 what marks the artistic is the versatility. 
 The artist not only feels much, but he also 
 feels many things ; and in this way he 
 always preserves his balance. Every one
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 53 
 
 at the beginning has had the makings of 
 several characters in him. The artist has 
 the makings of an indefinite number. Most 
 men, farther out of their possible characters, 
 harden or settle down with one, but the ar- 
 tist never does ; for character is nothing but 
 prejudice grown permanent, and the artist 
 has no character, just as the chameleon is 
 said to have no color. His only identity 
 has reference to his inner self. And thus 
 when vulgar critics say with reference to 
 some artistic writer's creations when they 
 say, as they do of me, for instance, ' Here 
 are his own feelings; he has drawn this man 
 from himself,' they are at once right and 
 wrong. He has not only drawn this man 
 from himself, but he has drawn all; for he 
 becomes himself some new man to be drawn 
 from, every time he suppresses some newly- 
 combined nine-tenths of himself. This, Ver- 
 non, is the true artistic versatility ; and her 
 Grace who by the way is an uncommonly 
 shrewd woman at once saw you possessed 
 it. You can respond in the same half-hour, 
 she told you, to the beauty of Diana and of
 
 54 A Romance of 
 
 Venus. Such versatility is the true elixir of 
 youth, it makes even the wisdom of age sup- 
 ple. My dear fellow," he said, somewhat 
 coming down from his pedestal, " constancy, 
 though we know its value for most men, is 
 the elixir of middle age. It makes you five- 
 and-forty at once, and it keeps you there." 
 
 Vernon at this moment let his eye wander, 
 and a sudden exclamation broke from him 
 which at once put a stop to philosophy. 
 
 " Damn it ! " he said, " we have been talk- 
 ing of dead Dianas ; and meanwhile the liv- 
 ing one has taken flight and deserted us." 
 
 Lord Surbiton turned his head, and saw 
 that the fair stranger and her companion had 
 gone. When feminine beauty was concerned, 
 he was always prompt and practical ; and he 
 at once set about rising, though his move- 
 ments were somewhat slow. 
 
 " She can't have gone far," he said. " We 
 shall be sure to see her again somewhere ; 
 and her Grace, or Captain Grantly, will find 
 out all about her for us. Or failing these, 
 there is that fellow, Stapleton." 
 
 He took Vernon's arm with a slow and
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 55 
 
 solemn dignity, and the two left the res- 
 taurant. They paused in the cloak-room, 
 which is just outside, and Lord Surbiton was 
 being helped by a garden into a magnificent 
 sable overcoat, when a lady appeared on the 
 scene, with a look that at once attracted him. 
 This was none other than the lady of the red 
 fan. She had come for her opera-cloak ; and 
 before Vernon was even aware of her pres- 
 ence, Lord Surbiton, with as quick a gal- 
 lantry as his years permitted him, was 
 arranging it tenderly for her, over her finely- 
 shaped shoulders. 
 
 He was sufficiently delighted with his 
 performance thus far; but a still greater 
 pleasure awaited him. The lady cast a 
 glance at him with her soft appealing eyes, 
 and murmured, " Merci, milord" She did 
 not blush, but she looked much as if she 
 would have wished to have done so. Lord 
 Surbiton at once laid his hand on his heart, 
 and was begging to be told how he was 
 honored by madame knowing him. " Ah," 
 she replied, " and need a renowned man 
 ask ? Why, the poems and the romances
 
 56 A Romance of 
 
 of Monsieur are as much read in Paris as in 
 London." Here she caught sight of Vernon ; 
 and, with the quietest smile in the world, " I 
 am going," she went on, " once more to the 
 tables. Will not you two come, and join 
 your luck with mine ? " 
 
 Lord Surbiton was completely charmed 
 with her, and regretted not a little that to do 
 this was impossible. He was almost aware 
 of a slight pang of jealousy when she bid 
 Vernon to put in more securely a diamond 
 pin that had become loose in her hair. 
 
 Vernon's hands lingered over the soft 
 brown plaits. " You are very lovely," he 
 said, " though, of course, you don't require 
 me to tell you that ; and my morals will bid 
 you play with my heart, though my prudence, 
 I fear, forbids me to let you play with my 
 fortune." 
 
 He was in the middle of uttering this, 
 when he glanced aside for a moment, and his 
 eyes met those of the girl to seek whom he 
 had just risen from the dinner-table. It was 
 but a glance she gave him ; and then her fair 
 head was averted : but the glance and the
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 57 
 
 gesture were only too expressive to him. 
 She seemed at once to comprehend and be 
 surprised at the scene he was taking part in. 
 A disagreeable sense of shame at once came 
 over him ; nor were his reflections made 
 pleasanter by what he observed next mo- 
 ment. As the girl, with her companion, was 
 quitting the cloak-room, he was just able to 
 see her face light up for an instant ; and 
 directly afterwards Colonel Stapleton entered. 
 The Colonel seemed almost as versatile 
 as Lord Surbiton himself ; for he was quite 
 as familiar with the fair Aspasia as he had 
 been a moment before with the pale and 
 virginal stranger. Vernon and Lord Sur- 
 biton had been conversing with the former 
 lady in French ; and his lordship, who was 
 somewhat deaf, had pronounced her accent 
 perfect. The Colonel, however, to whom she 
 turned instantly, composedly addressed some 
 chaff to her in the homeliest English possible ; 
 and she with an equal fluency, though with a 
 strong foreign twang, replied, " If you don't 
 look out, I shall smack your nasty little head 
 for you."
 
 58 A Romance of 
 
 Vernon started at this astounding utter- 
 ance, as if an adder had stung him. " Good 
 Heavens!" he exclaimed to himself, "what 
 an absolute fool I am ! " And not without 
 some brusquerie, which the fair one mistook 
 for jealousy, he succeeded in withdrawing 
 Lord Surbiton, and making a hasty exit. 
 "Her French," he muttered, "may be the 
 French of the Faubourg, but her English is 
 very certainly the English of Regent Street." 
 
 Lord Surbiton, however, had completely 
 missed the above piece of badinage; and 
 pausing on the hotel door-steps, and laying 
 his hand upon Vernon's arm, " What a woman 
 that is ! " he exclaimed, with a slow gravity. 
 " It is her class that the soul of the old world 
 still lives on, with its passion, its grace, and 
 its intellect ; and we, in our barbarous vir- 
 tue, actually affect to look down on her. A 
 woman like that ought to have lived at 
 Athens, and have had a Pericles for her 
 companion, and a Socrates for her pupil." 
 
 Vernon made no response to this. His 
 thoughts were still busy with those clear 
 eyes that had humbled him. " So much," he
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 59 
 
 said bitterly to himself, " for a woman's power 
 of insight ! She looks nothing but scorn at 
 me, and yet smiles like a sister at that fat, 
 sensual beast there ! " 
 
 Before long Lord Surbiton began again, 
 as they went in the direction where they ex- 
 pected to find their party. " Ah, my dear 
 Vernon," he said, drawing a deep sigh that 
 made his satin necktie creak, " it is the artist's 
 
 gift " Here he paused for a moment to 
 
 eye critically two young ladies who passed 
 him. " It is the artist's gift," he resumed, 
 " to discern between good and evil ; it is his 
 doom to be the servant of neither. He sur- 
 veys life as a Caesar surveyed the circus ; and 
 the affections and lusts of men can to him 
 say nothing but morituri te salutant. He 
 belongs to a middle race who are neither 
 divine nor human, and he cannot really ally 
 himself with any human being. This is why, 
 when he dies, there are no flowers strewn on 
 his tomb no rosemary for remembrance, or 
 pansies for tender thoughts ; but only the 
 bloomless laurel the leaf, not of love, but 
 of homage."
 
 60 A Romance of 
 
 " Lord Surbiton" it was the voice of the 
 Duchess "when you've done quoting po- 
 etry, you'll find us all here, ready for you 
 to discover us." She was seated with the 
 Grantlys, outside the cafe, at a round table 
 laden with cups and liqueur-glasses. " See," 
 she went on, "we have ordered everything, 
 and we have been so thoughtful that we have 
 even kept chairs for you." 
 
 " It seems to me," said Lord Surbiton, 
 " that your Grace has kept two apiece for 
 us." 
 
 "Ah," said the Duchess, laughing, "those 
 two other chairs are for some particular 
 friends of mine, whom I asked just now to 
 come and have their coffee with us. Now, 
 Mr. Vernon, here is a riddle for you. Who 
 should you think these particular friends are ? 
 Why, your fair friend of the restaurant, and 
 the old lady, her aunt. I met them five 
 minutes ago, as we were coming here from 
 the gambling-rooms, and it flashed on me all 
 of a sudden who the aunt was. You, Lord 
 Surbiton, will remember her. She's the 
 widow of Sir Edward Walters, who was our
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 61 
 
 minister for so many years at Stuttgart ; and 
 the girl I remember her too, quite well, now 
 is that beautiful Cynthia Walters, who was 
 made such a fuss about in London three 
 seasons ago, and then got ill, and has never 
 appeared since. Her home, it seems, is now 
 with her aunt in Florence." 
 
 " Look out, Duchess," said Captain Grant- 
 ly. " Here they are coming."
 
 62 A Romance of 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 T ADY WALTERS was like a woman 
 who had once known the world, but 
 who hardly knew it now ; for knowledge of 
 the world can be forgotten like other knowl- 
 edge, and from certain gentle natures it slips 
 away easily. 
 
 She and Lord Surbiton had an extremely 
 friendly greeting, and settled down at once 
 into a talk over old days. As for Vernon, 
 his position was less comfortable. The 
 Duchess introduced him to Miss Walters, 
 who had at first been unaware of his pres- 
 ence : but the instant she recognized him the 
 smile died on her lips, and she acknowledged 
 his bow as coldly as any young lady of fash- 
 ion who seems to deny an acquaintance in 
 the very act of formally making it.
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 63 
 
 Vernon felt utterly worsted by her perfect 
 savoir faire; and what added not a little to 
 his suffering was that the Duchess should 
 witness his discomfiture, without knowing 
 what he felt sure was the cause of it. Too 
 proud or self-conscious to risk any further 
 repulse, he listened silently to the girl's an- 
 swers, as the Duchess put her through a 
 rapid catechism. " We have taken," she said, 
 "a villa beyond Nice, in the country. We 
 arrived but three days ago, from Florence. 
 We came over here this afternoon for the 
 music ; but missed our train back again, and 
 so had to remain for dinner. I don't know 
 what we should have done if Colonel Staple- 
 ton, whom I have known from a child, had 
 not secured a table for us. I think this place 
 horrible. I was here once before, and I de- 
 tested it." 
 
 Vernon watched her intently as she was 
 giving these answers. The moments were 
 few ; but to him they were like a long dream. 
 He seemed to become familiar with all the 
 folds of her drapery, and each outline of arm 
 or figure that her dress revealed or hinted at
 
 64 A Romance of 
 
 The impression her presence made on him 
 was complex and singular. There was a 
 subtle air with her of fastidious fashion, from 
 her hat to her pointed shoes, and the long 
 black gloves concealing her dainty hands. 
 But this was not all, or at any rate Vernon 
 thought not. She seemed not only a woman 
 of fashion, but a woman of fashion who had 
 the soul of a sibyl in her ; and her clear eyes 
 seemed touched with some high, wistful mel- 
 ancholy. 
 
 The impression she made on the Duchess 
 was different. Her Grace had found Miss 
 Walters somewhat chilly in manner ; so she 
 brought her questions pretty soon to a close, 
 and addressed herself to Mrs. Grantly. Ver- 
 non hoped with trembling that now might be 
 his chance : but no, it was not to be. Miss 
 Walters turned away from him, and seemed 
 lost in the scene before her. That scene was 
 one which is certainly unique in Europe, and 
 it was now wearing its strangest and most 
 striking aspect. The large place, with its 
 gleaming buildings round it, was a lake of 
 transparent shadow, dotted with countless
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 65 
 
 gas-lamps, and full of the vague whispers of 
 fountains and human life. On one side flared 
 the hotel they had lately quitted, on another 
 the great casino, pale like a skeleton from 
 globes of electric light. On another, where 
 the buildings were lower and more broken, tall 
 palms might be seen, with their plumes in the 
 clear sky ; and beyond were balustrades of 
 marble, and spaces of dark sea : whilst behind, 
 and in grim contrast, rose the barren towering 
 mountains, and dwarfed the world at the foot 
 of them into a small cluster of fire-flies. 
 
 Lord Surbiton had been on the watch to 
 attract Miss Walters' attention, and he now 
 saw his opportunity. 
 
 " This place," he said, as he fixed his eyes 
 on her, "always seems to me like the moral 
 sewer of Europe a great drain's mouth, open 
 at the foot of the hills. There is a tragic irony 
 in its loveliness." 
 
 "Tragic or not," said the Duchess, "we 
 have had a most amusing dinner here ; haven't 
 we, Mrs. Grantly ? Though I'm sure I've 
 forgotten by this time what it was we were 
 talking about."
 
 66 A Romance of 
 
 " A proof," said Lord Surbiton, " of how 
 well your Grace was conversing. True con- 
 versation is like good champagne. It exhila- 
 rates for the moment, but next morning we 
 feel no trace of it." ^ .. 
 
 Vernon here broke silence. "If true con- 
 versation," he said, " is like good champagne, 
 true love is like bad. False and true love may 
 seem just the same when we taste them. We 
 only detect the true when we find that our 
 head aches afterwards." 
 
 " That," said Lord Surbiton, still looking 
 towards Miss Walters, " is why a serious pas- 
 sion is so great an educator. But its work 
 only begins when the pain it causes has left 
 us. Strong present feeling narrows our sym- 
 pathies, strong past feeling enlarges them. 
 Thus a woman of the world always should 
 have been, but should never be, in love. She 
 should always have had a grief : she should 
 never have a grievance." 
 
 41 Why," asked Miss Walters coldly, "do you 
 say this of a woman of the world especially ? " 
 
 " Because it is only in the world, or in 
 what we call society, that intercourse with our
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 67 
 
 fellows is really a completed fine art. It there 
 is what elsewhere it only tends to be. Men 
 who profess to think gravely, or to have grave 
 ends, speak of society as the type of what is 
 vain and frivolous. Perhaps they are right 
 who knows ? Yet society is the logical end 
 of the whole of this world's civilization ; and 
 of all the follies that I ever set any store by, 
 fashion is the one I could still find most to 
 say for. Fashion," he continued, " is the 
 daintiest form of fame, and sometimes of 
 power also ; and were it only as wide and 
 lasting as it is delicate, it would unite in itself 
 the objects of all human ambitions." 
 
 " Are the objects of ambition," said Miss 
 Walters, " the chief objects of life ? " 
 
 " Men in general," said Lord Surbiton, 
 " are the puppets of three forces ambition, 
 love, and hunger ; but love destroys the appe- 
 tite ; ambition destroys love ; and fashion ab- 
 sorbs, or at any rate sways, ambition." 
 
 These general maxims did not much delight 
 the Duchess, and she betrayed at this juncture 
 that her thoughts had been somewhat wan- 
 dering.
 
 68 A Romance of 
 
 " Captain Grantly," she exclaimed, " I won- 
 der whose are those horses that are waiting 
 there at the door of the casino the pair of 
 grays, I mean, in that rather smart-looking 
 carriage. I watched them drive round, five 
 minutes ago ; and the near one, do you know, 
 is really a first-rate stepper." 
 
 This profane interruption put a stop to 
 Lord Surbiton's eloquence, for Miss Walters 
 turned round and began to look at the horses , 
 whilst her aunt, hearing a railway whistle, con- 
 sulted her watch, and said they must soon be 
 moving. " However," she added, " there must 
 be plenty of time yet, as Colonel Stapleton said 
 he would come and see us safe to the station.' 
 
 " I, too," said Vernon,"am reminded to think 
 of moving ; for I see my carriage is already 
 there waiting for me. Confound Colonel Sta- 
 pleton ! I wish he was at the devil ! " 
 
 " What ! " said the Duchess, " and is that 
 fine turn-out yours, Mr. Vernon ? Well, here's 
 luxury for a young man of thirty ! " 
 
 " By Gad, my dear chap, you are a swell," 
 said Captain Grantly, putting his hand on 
 Vernon's shoulder.
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 69 
 
 Wealth has a certain power over those even 
 who are least touched by it. It calls their 
 attention to the man possessing it, if only to 
 make it worth their while to despise him ; and 
 Vernon knew in an instant that Miss Walters 
 turned to glance at him. Once again he was 
 about to attempt speaking to her, when he 
 was interrupted by the arrival of Colonel 
 Stapleton. 
 
 " Here's a go," cried the Colonel, panting 
 and out of breath, " I've been looking for you, 
 Lady Walters, for the last twenty minutes ; 
 and now your train's gone, and you must stop 
 the night here. If you'll let me, I'll get you 
 rooms directly at the Hotel de Paris. The 
 
 Princesse de and the Prince for the time 
 
 being have just cleared out unexpectedly ; so 
 I know they can take you in, and we'll show 
 Miss Cynthia a little more of the life here." 
 
 "If you stop, you know," said the Duchess, 
 " there is my maid here who can look after 
 you. I can lend you almost everything ; and 
 you can buy a tooth-brush here." 
 
 Miss Walters turned to Colonel Stapleton 
 with a hasty frown. " No no," she said, " let
 
 7O A Romance of 
 
 us do anything rather than that. This place 
 is perfectly unendurable." 
 
 Vernon observed her closely, and with ex- 
 treme surprise. She spoke in a manner that 
 would have been rudeness to any human ac- 
 quaintance even of long standing, but the 
 Colonel, strange to say, was not in the least 
 abashed by it ; he only eyed her with a look 
 of quiet amazement. " Come, little vixen," he 
 whispered, "don't be naughty. I'm sure Aunt 
 Louisa will give her vote for staying." 
 
 But Lady Walters wished to do no such 
 thing ; and she was already inquiring ner- 
 vously if there would be any difficulty in get- 
 ting a carriage. " Come," said Miss Walters, 
 taking hold of Colonel Stapleton's sleeve, " be 
 good, and go and tell her about it. We mean 
 to go somehow, so you may as well make 
 yourself of use to us." 
 
 He was forestalled, however, by Captain 
 Grantly, who had at once volunteered to go 
 off to the livery-stables, and was just starting 
 when he was recalled by the practical Duchess. 
 " You may as well find out first," she said, 
 " where it is Lady Walters wants to be driven
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 71 
 
 to ; for at this time of night they will often 
 refuse to take you." 
 
 " Oh," said Lady Walters, somewhat 
 troubled by this, "it is to the Cap de Juan. 
 It is a long way by the road, I'm afraid. 
 Perhaps, after all, we had better remain here." 
 
 Vernon felt all the blood rush at once to 
 his face ; and for a moment his heart stopped 
 beating. 
 
 " The Cap de Juan ! " exclaimed the Duch- 
 ess ; " why that settles everything. Come, 
 Mr. Vernon, now is your opportunity. My 
 dear Lady Walters, here is a young man with 
 a carriage and horses ready, who is only too 
 anxious to take you back to your very door- 
 step." 
 
 A rapid look of annoyance passed over 
 Miss Walters' face. " We couldn't think," she 
 said, with a cold politeness, " of taking Mr. 
 Vernon's horses so great a distance. He is 
 hardly aware, perhaps, of the journey there is 
 before us." 
 
 " On the contrary," said Vernon, " I am 
 particularly well aware of it, for it is the very 
 journey that is also before me. If I am not
 
 72 A Romance of 
 
 much mistaken, we are all but next-door 
 neighbors. Your house, I think, must be the 
 Chateau St. John ; and, if so, our two gardens 
 touch each other." 
 
 After this there was nothing more to be 
 said. Circumstances had at length played 
 into Vernon's hands ; and another caprice in 
 his life was to be at least partially gratified. 
 
 " Well," said the Duchess, as the carriage 
 drove off, "I'm glad Mr. Vernon has got what 
 he wanted, though Miss Cynthia, at first, was, 
 I must say, very snubby to him. However, 
 one can never judge by this. Perhaps, when 
 we go to the Cap de Juan, we shall find them 
 an engaged couple. Who knows ? " 
 
 " I know," said Mrs. Grantly, " and I'll bet 
 you anything we shall not. A man like Mr. 
 Vernon will never marry. He's exactly," she 
 added, dropping her voice, " like a younger 
 edition of Lord Surbiton ; and I guess they're 
 a couple of shams the two of them." 
 
 " I think," said the Duchess, " that Mr. 
 Vernon is charming." 
 
 " Yes to know," said Mrs. Grantly, " but 
 not to depend upon."
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 73 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 "TTERNON and his friends were mean- 
 while hastening homewards. Lady Wal- 
 ters had addressed to him a few kind civil- 
 ities, eyeing him the while with a look of 
 trustful friendliness ; but her niece had hardly 
 said anything, and the three soon sank into 
 silence. Every influence, indeed, seemed to 
 persuade to it the easy motion of the car- 
 riage, the rhythmic tramp of the horses, the 
 soft fanning of the night air, and the pageant 
 of sea and mountain that was sweeping past 
 them like a dream. Here was a gaudy villa, 
 surmounted by a huge coronet, the home 
 of some Russian gambler ; there, with domes 
 and minarets, a dwelling yet more fantastic. 
 Scents of flowers blew down to them from 
 the gardens ; and over the garden walls hung
 
 74 A Romance of 
 
 spiked aloes and cactuses. Then presently 
 the scene grew wilder. On the right, wooded 
 gorges slanted up into the mountains ; and 
 on the left, the sea below them broke into 
 fairy bays. All this seemed to absorb Miss 
 Walters ; and her eyes being thus occupied, 
 Vernon was able unobserved to observe her. 
 He had once remarked, in one of his more 
 delicate moods, that a woman whose dress is 
 the perfection of fashion, is never herself the 
 perfection of real refinement. But he now 
 felt inclined to modify this judgment. The 
 vanities of this world seemed, on the girl 
 before him, as natural as its own petals to 
 some delicate garden flower ; so that she was 
 as little troubled by their possession as the 
 saint is who has renounced them. " The 
 effect of her presence," Vernon wrote that 
 night in his dwy, "was at once charming 
 and singular. It did not at first concentrate 
 my thoughts on herself; but it moved like 
 a wind amongst them, and stirred them in 
 all directions. Vague aspirations of many 
 kinds awoke in me. I longed in grotesque 
 rotation to make poetry, to ride hard, and to
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 75 
 
 pray ; and when something awoke the aunt, 
 and between two sleeps she talked a little to 
 me, I was annoyed and jarred by having the 
 silence broken." 
 
 Lady Walters, it is true, had begun some- 
 what abruptly. " What a pity it is," she said, 
 as though following up some train of thought 
 of her own, " that Jack Stapleton never mar- 
 ried. He is naturally such a kind, good crea- 
 ture. It is self-indulgence that has ruined 
 him." 
 
 "And do you think," said Vernon, "that 
 marriage will always save a man ? " 
 
 "Not always," she said, "and it never 
 affects a man as it does a woman. Yet some 
 men, Mr. Vernon, are ruined for the want of 
 it often those with the warmest and sweetest 
 natures. You know the man that his friends 
 call a good fellow who, like a sun-flower, 
 always turns towards happiness. If such a 
 man has a wife he cares for, he will live that 
 he may make her happy ; but if left to him- 
 self, shall I tell you what will happen to him ? 
 He will live not to give pleasure but to find it." 
 
 " Perhaps you are right," said Vernon, with
 
 76 A Romance of 
 
 a slight involuntary sigh. " I certainly knew 
 this much from experience, that to like con- 
 sorting with happy people is a very different 
 thing from trying to make people happy. 
 But how should you say that marriage af- 
 fected women ? " 
 
 " Ah," said Lady Walters, " in another way 
 entirely. When a woman marries with af- 
 fection her whole character changes. She 
 grows absorbed in the things that absorb her 
 husband ; and, through him, they become 
 really a new life to her." 
 
 " If I thought of marrying," said Vernon, 
 " it would be with a different hope. I should 
 hope to find a wife, who, if she had any tastes 
 at all, had had them before she knew me ; 
 and that her already possessing them were a 
 cause of her sympathy ; not that her acquir- 
 ing them for my sake were the signs of it. I 
 should like her life to stand on its own basis ; 
 and in her pursuits I should like to have a 
 constant rival, that should keep my affection 
 fresh with a kind of stingless jealousy." 
 
 Lady Walters smiled at him incredulous- 
 ly, with half-closed eyes. " I am afraid, Mr.
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 77 
 
 Vernon," she said, " you've never been in love 
 yet." Then the conversation dropped ; and 
 it was soon evident that she had again fallen 
 asleep. Vernon was pleased to have been 
 able to talk in Miss Walters' hearing, since he 
 found her so difficult of direct access ; and he 
 now fancied that she looked a little less coldly 
 at him. Presently she asked him of her own 
 accord the name of some place they were 
 passing. He answered her question ; but he 
 found he could get no farther. In spite of 
 himself he was still embarrassed in her pres- 
 ence. The remembrance that her first sight 
 of him had been in the middle of his foolish 
 scene with the Frenchwoman, abased him in 
 his own estimation ; he was in a thoroughly 
 wrong position. He leaned his head back, 
 and looked up at the stars, and was soon 
 completely lost in another deep reverie. All 
 of a sudden the tenure of his thoughts be- 
 trayed itself. He broke out aloud with a 
 single line from Hamlet : 
 
 "Oh what a rogue and peasant slave am I." 
 
 He spoke the words abstractedly, and for
 
 78 A Romance of 
 
 a second or two seemed not to know he had 
 uttered them. Then he recollected himself, 
 and there might have been an awkward mo- 
 ment, if Miss Walters with ready tact had not 
 come to the rescue. 
 
 " I know that line so well," she said ; "but 
 I can't remember where it comes from." 
 
 " It is from Hamlet" said Vernon, " a play 
 I know by heart ; and I often catch myself 
 repeating bits aloud from it." 
 
 With this there ensued a little conversa- 
 tion about Shakespeare, then about poetry 
 generally ; and matters now began to proceed 
 more smoothly. Vernon had once more 
 found his footing. His thoughts, his feel- 
 ings, and his words began to flow freely as 
 usual ; and when he looked into his com- 
 panion's eyes he found she did not avert 
 them. The character of the drive now 
 quickly changed for him ; and it soon be- 
 came as delightful as it had been disap- 
 pointing hitherto. His beautiful companion 
 had now some magnetic effect upon him. 
 Her hand, her lips, her eye, even the soft 
 furs on her jacket, and the faint perfume
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 79 
 
 from her handkerchief touched his being, and 
 made the blood in his temples tingle : whilst 
 every taste or feeling that was most refined 
 or delicate, seemed suddenly to be coming 
 uppermost under the attraction of her pres- 
 ence. To a man of Vernon's temperament 
 an experience of this kind was a luxury. The 
 moral recoil from the low and frivolous to all 
 that was pure and delicate, was in itself a 
 pleasing shock to the intellectual voluptuary : 
 whilst the sense that he had to efface a bad 
 impression gave double earnestness to his 
 efforts to create a good one. 
 
 In all this, on his part, there was no acting. 
 His goodness, to say the least of it, was as 
 genuine as his evil ; and his voice, his look, 
 and his manners, as he now spoke to Miss 
 Walters, were quite naturally expressive of 
 the most chivalrous and tender reverence. 
 
 "I am so glad," he said at last, " that I 
 happened to have my carriage, and was able 
 to take you away from that horrid place 
 there." 
 
 " But if you think the place horrid," she 
 said gently, "why do you go yourself to it?"
 
 8o A Romance of 
 
 " One might ask, I am afraid, that question 
 about many things. I went there to-day for 
 distraction to escape from my own company. 
 It did well enough to distract me : but one 
 wishes to shake the dust off one's feet after- 
 wards." 
 
 "Like my question," she said, "that will 
 apply to many things. But are you living 
 quite alone out here ? " 
 
 "Yes," said Vernon, "with no company 
 but my books and thoughts ; and, though I 
 came here on purpose to be with these, I am 
 glad sometimes to escape from them. I had 
 hoped to have brought a friend with me ; in- 
 deed, perhaps he may still come. The best 
 escape from one's thoughts is a friend one is 
 really fond of." 
 
 "That is hardly a flattering light," she said, 
 " in which to regard a friend. There are some 
 unhappy people whose only chance of peace 
 lies in forgetting themselves; but such people, 
 I believe, have made themselves unfit for 
 friendship. I look on a friend as a person 
 who will help one to find, not to lose, one's self. 
 If you want to lose yourself, you should always
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 81 
 
 liva in society, and agree with Lord Surbiton 
 that life's highest reward is fashion." 
 
 "Are you, then," said Vernon, " not fond of 
 society ?" 
 
 "Of course for happy people society is a 
 healthy thing ; but how one mixes in it de- 
 pends on one's own character. One can be the 
 fashion, and yet not be one's self a fashionable, 
 as one sees in the case of many of the greatest 
 people in London. I may myself have been 
 less in the world, perhaps, than most women 
 of my age ; but still I have seen plenty of 
 smart society ; indeed, I have several relatives 
 who seem to live for nothing else ; and, so far 
 as I can tell, nothing hardens the heart like 
 fashion. To a genuine fine lady who is a 
 very different person, by the way, from a 
 grande dame it is a thing next to impossi- 
 ble to value character rightly." 
 
 " And yet many of the qualities," said Ver- 
 non, " that secure most applause in society, 
 must be produced, as Lord Surbiton told 
 us, by some deeper experiences in the past. 
 Take singing, for instance : what an effect 
 real expression has ! Well, to express feel- 
 6
 
 82 A Romance of 
 
 ing in song, the singer must himself have 
 felt" 
 
 " Perhaps so ; and for that very reason the 
 most touching singing has sometimes almost 
 disgusted me. What a use to make of some 
 buried and sacred sorrow, to conjure its ghost 
 up that it may secure a drawing-room triumph 
 for us." 
 
 " One may, of course," said Vernon gravely, 
 " exaggerate views like these, till they be- 
 come false and fantastic. But in my heart 
 I believe you to be entirely right. To be 
 always in society is to be always with mere 
 acquaintance, and with acquaintances who 
 like you for your least genuine qualities. I 
 have met many a man staying in country 
 houses, who must have been sickened, as he 
 went to sleep, by what he had said or laughed 
 at in the smoking-room ; and yet the night 
 after he has done just the same. To be 
 always in this way with the world, is to be 
 always estranged from one's self ; and one's 
 true self, like other sensitive creatures, will 
 in time die of neglect, or at least be ruined 
 by it.
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 83 
 
 " Do you remember," said Miss Walters, 
 " what I said just now that a true friend is 
 a person with whom we can find, not lose 
 ourselves ? I," she went on, with a sigh and 
 a slight shudder, "have had friends of two 
 kinds, true and false ; and they have both 
 done all they could for me." 
 
 "Are you cold?" murmured Vernon, lean- 
 ing forward and looking at her. " Let me 
 put that shawl over your shoulders for you." 
 No lover could have done the office with 
 more tenderness, or at the same time with 
 more respect. Then for a moment he laid 
 his hand upon hers, and asked, " Are you 
 warmer now ? " The look, the touch formed 
 a new crisis in their relationship ; and they 
 both grew aware of this by a new tone in 
 their voices. Vernon himself was surprised 
 at what had passed. He had never thought 
 she could have so softened towards him ; but 
 he knew that it was so by her two words 
 as she thanked him. And now with a soft 
 sensation he felt his heart expanding ; and 
 grave and serious thoughts welled up to his 
 lips, and began to demand utterance. Should
 
 84 A Romance of 
 
 he go on and utter them, fixing his eyes on 
 hers ? To do so, he knew, could be an ex- 
 quisite self-indulgence. It would be like a 
 passionate mental kiss to the beautiful crea- 
 ture opposite him. But for a moment he 
 vacillated, and there was a short moral 
 struggle in him. Had he the right intention 
 that could make that kiss lawful ? Might 
 not the very feelings he wished to express 
 be wronged by his then expressing them ? 
 Was such mental passion as this, with its 
 spasm of self-abandonment, much better than 
 its physical counterpart ? Conscience, how- 
 ever, was weak, and was swept aside by 
 impulse. 
 
 " Shall I tell you," he said, " why I have 
 come out here ? I have lost my self, and I 
 wish to find it again. I wish to see how I 
 stand with my conscience, and to know what 
 I really value. This is a task in which no 
 friend can help one ; one must enter into 
 one's own chamber, and be still, for it. At 
 present it seems to me sometimes that I 
 hardly have a self ; but I feel, like a man in 
 a dream, that I am being swept passively
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 85 
 
 through changing states of consciousness. 
 Some may be pleasant enough, some dull 
 and dreary ; but they are all shadowy things ; 
 I have no abiding part in them, nor is one 
 bound by any chain to the other. I seem to 
 be swept through them, just as we in this 
 carriage are being swept through this ghostly 
 landscape. What I want is, to wake myself 
 from this idle dream of the world, and to get 
 back again to the realities I was once familiar 
 with. Such a waking is a long, weary pro- 
 cess ; and a friend's presence may soothe 
 one in it though he cannot help it forward. 
 Is that," he said, as he looked sadly into his 
 companion's eyes, " is that a wrong view of 
 friendship ? " 
 
 " It is not my view," she said, "but no one 
 can answer for another. If I had to seek a 
 self that was lost, I should like to have a 
 friend with me." 
 
 "To encourage you, yes ; but not to share 
 your labor. You, for instance, would not re- 
 arrange my life for me ; and yet it is a great 
 help to me, even this little talk I have had 
 with you. You and I are near neighbors
 
 86 A Romance of 
 
 now. Do you think we shall ever become 
 friends ? " 
 
 She gave him for the moment no direct 
 answer, but murmured half abstractedly, " I 
 wonder how far you have wandered." 
 
 " That," said Vernon, " is what I want to 
 find out myself." 
 
 After this there was a pause, whilst the 
 two sank back into their own reflections, and 
 the changing fields and trees, as the carriage 
 hurried onwards, surrounded and drifted away 
 from them. Vernon at least was in pleasure, 
 if not in happiness. 
 
 Miss Walters at length began again. " Per- 
 haps you are surprised," she said, with a 
 faint smile, " at hearing me talk so decidedly 
 about the world, and society, and friendship." 
 
 " You certainly talk," said Vernon, " as if 
 you had had experience." 
 
 " I have had experience," she said. " I 
 have had much too much of it. I have 
 been a gambler, amongst other things. I 
 won more than two thousand pounds once 
 at trente et quarante. Do you think that 
 was very nice of me?" And she fixed her
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 87 
 
 eyes on him with a look which he could not 
 fathom. " You see, if I hate Monte Carlo, it 
 is not because gambling has ruined me. And 
 now," she went on, " I am going to say one 
 thing more, which sounds also like the maxim 
 of a rather experienced person. It is an an- 
 swer to what you asked me just now. I have 
 little belief, as a rule, in friendships between 
 men and women. I mean when both the 
 people concerned have youth and imagina- 
 tion. One or the other gets generally more 
 or less than was bargained for." 
 
 " I shall be thankful," said Vernon, " for 
 the very least you will give me. You would 
 find me a very safe person. A man's days of 
 friendship begin when his days of love are 
 over ; and I," he went on, knowing that he 
 was making love all the time, "am in my 
 days of friendship." 
 
 " You and I then, perhaps, are exceptions 
 to the general rule. There are exceptions. I 
 can at least say this much for myself, that I 
 am far more likely to be a friend than to 
 have one." 
 
 She said this with a curious unconscious
 
 88 A Romance of 
 
 bitterness that perplexed and startled Ver- 
 non. 
 
 "You must let me show you," he mur- 
 mured, " that you are wrong there." 
 
 She paused, and then said abruptly, " I 
 hope you didn't mistake me. I didn't mean 
 that I thought you would fall in love with 
 me. Perhaps you are just as safe from this 
 sort of thing as I am." 
 
 "You are very young," said Vernon, "to 
 be talking in that way." 
 
 " Youth and age," she said, " should not 
 be counted by years. No man dying a living 
 death in a nunnery could be more shut out 
 from all danger of love than I am from 
 all life, my friend, and from all fear of it." 
 
 After this there was silence till Lady Wal- 
 ters woke up, and Vernon soon after was say- 
 ing adieu to his friends on their own door- 
 step. 
 
 But the night was not yet done for him. 
 He had refused to enter ; he was anxious to 
 be by himself again ; and having sent his 
 carriage away, he walked back through the 
 gardens. In his own lamp-lit villa a delicate
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 89 
 
 supper was prepared for him, but he did 
 nothing more than taste it, and he went out 
 again into the mellow night air. He was like 
 a man who had eaten a sort of moral opium, 
 and his breast was full of a sweet fantastic 
 tumult. There was a magical resurrection 
 in him of the wild romance of boyhood. 
 He leaned his elbow on a pale, glistening 
 balustrade, and looked out over the sea. 
 " Sea of Romance," his unaltered thoughts 
 began in him, " once again you have your 
 old charm for me. Inarticulate whispers of 
 ambition, of passion, and of music float up 
 to me from your enchanted surface. Sea of 
 southern moon and of Italian twilights, what 
 eyes of famous lovers have looked out on 
 you ! The most musical of the world's love- 
 songs have mixed over you with the vesper 
 breezes ! Pale, restless waves, rocking under 
 the stars of midnight, the limbs of the mer- 
 maids know you : the nautilus floats upon 
 your bosom ! Yes, and in me, too, up from 
 the depths of my being, thoughts and longings 
 are rising that sing like mermaids. What do 
 they sing of? Is it of her eyes and lips?
 
 90 A Romance of 
 
 Are they singing to her spirit that it may 
 stoop down to mine ? " He turned back to 
 his garden. That, too, was enchanted. Were 
 Oberon and Titania holding revel there? 
 Bush and blossom seemed populous with 
 crowds of airy presences. Every passion, 
 every pleasure of his life, became a separate 
 fairy, with its body some faint perfume, and 
 its dwelling-place some half-closed flower-bell. 
 In luxurious agitation he again returned to 
 his sea-view. Far away over the waters the 
 lights of Nice were glittering fair and dis- 
 tant, like a braid of golden stars. On a lit- 
 tle headland near him, covered with myrtles, 
 another light twinkled solitary, dim, and only 
 just distinguishable. It came from a shrine 
 of the Virgin, and his wandering gaze fixed 
 on it. Suddenly into his dream-world there 
 floated scent of incense, glimmering altars, 
 and sounds of imploring music. "Star of the 
 sea," he murmured, " star of the morning, 
 refuge of sinners, pray for me ! " 
 
 Going indoors, he sat down to his desk 
 and wrote his diary of the day's proceedings. 
 Miss Walters filled up a large space in it, and
 
 The Nineteenth Lcntury. 
 
 or 
 
 a fragment of what he said about her has been 
 already quoted : but so hard is it to be honest 
 to even a piece of paper, that he made no 
 mention whatever of his qualms of conscience 
 or own self-accusations.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 TTTHEN he woke next morning a thorough 
 surprise awaited him. A fresh deli- 
 cious air stole through the open window, and 
 fanned his cheek delicately as he lay thinking. 
 He was enjoying the memory of his last 
 night's adventure, which seemed to promise 
 him a new life in his solitude, when his eye 
 caught something which showed him he had 
 overslept himself. This was a pile of letters 
 on a table by his bedside ; and on top of the 
 pile was one in the handwriting of Campbell. 
 What was his astonishment when he found 
 that it was dated " Cannes ! " 
 
 " My dear Vernon," ran the letter, " when 
 you see where I am, you will of course set 
 about being angry with me ; and at first sight 
 no doubt I seem to deserve that you should
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 93 
 
 be. A month ago, when you begged me to 
 come abroad and to take a villa with you, I 
 refused you steadily, once or twice a little 
 brusquely ; and this with no better excuse 
 than that very poor one my feelings. I 
 said I did not feel up to it, and upon my 
 word that was true, Vernon bitterly, deeply 
 true. I had no heart to travel, and though 
 you may smile when I say so, the wretched- 
 ness I then suffered was crushing me. But I 
 am better now ; life has been going a little 
 more kindly with me. I can enjoy my din- 
 ner again sometimes ; I can laugh at a joke 
 sometimes. My pleasure in my books and 
 pictures is coming back to me ; and now it 
 has actually happened that I have come 
 abroad as my last chance of happiness. Here 
 I am, doing the very thing by myself that I 
 refused so churlishly to do with you. But 
 I am coming over directly to see you, and 
 make my peace with you ; and you will per- 
 haps put me up for a night. You will forgive 
 me, I think, when I tell you all my story." 
 
 Vernon was easily moved, with the bright- 
 est animal spirits ; nor did such sentiment as
 
 94 -A Romance of 
 
 that of the night previous at all tend to inter- 
 fere with them. Campbell's letter was like a 
 burst of sunlight to him, and he smiled and 
 whistled in his bath like any happy school- 
 boy. He immediately telegraphed, " Come 
 at once. I and my carriage shall fetch you 
 at two o'clock." He ordered his breakfast in 
 the open air, in his favorite spot under the 
 myrtles ; and as he sat there, with the liquid 
 morning round him, food, he thought, had 
 never tasted so well, nor nature looked so 
 beautiful. The friend he was thinking of 
 was a very different man from himself. What 
 had at first attracted the two was a certain 
 delicate dilettanteism, and an indifference to 
 the games and sports by which so many men's 
 leisure is occupied. But deeper down in 
 their character this likeness ended. Whereas 
 Vernon was restless and loved the world, 
 Campbell was shy and restful and inclined to 
 solitude ; and whereas Vernon had played 
 with his affections, Campbell had kept his 
 laid up in a napkin. There are passions, 
 however, that lie near affection, although 
 they are always ready to ruin it ; and to these,
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 95 
 
 it is true, he had yielded with a quite suffi- 
 cient openness. He had even treated the 
 questions involved in them with a certain 
 ruthless humor, which was as coarse as that 
 of Rabelais, and had in part been borrowed 
 from it. But there had been a flavor of in- 
 nocence even about his vices. They had 
 never approached his heart near enough to 
 corrupt it ; and now that at last it was 
 really touched and troubled, he had told the 
 fact to his friend with a simplicity almost 
 childish. 
 
 This frankness and depth of feeling had 
 been something of a riddle to Vernon. He 
 had been not long quit of his own engage- 
 ment when he heard of Campbell's love af- 
 fair ; and he had pitied his friend sincerely. 
 He looked on him as caught in a trap he 
 had himself just escaped from : and when he 
 found that Campbell the lover interfered with 
 Campbell the friend, the above feeling was 
 intensified. But now as he sat at breakfast, 
 with a volume of Horace beside him, he was 
 happy in the thought that the lover's days 
 were waning, and that the friend would be
 
 96 A Romance of 
 
 again restored to him. He had just lit a 
 cigarette, and with a lazy smile was watching 
 the silvery-blue smoke-wreaths as they rose 
 and melted over him into the green myrtle 
 shadows, when he heard on the gravel the 
 sound of a firm footstep, and looking up, he 
 saw Alic Campbell before him. 
 
 Nothing human could be brighter than a 
 pleased greeting of Vernon's ; it had all the 
 quick radiance of a pool in morning sunlight : 
 and he felt as happy at this moment with his 
 old friend as a child is with a new plaything. 
 Campbell, too, for his part was glowing with 
 pleased excitement, though there was a pa- 
 thetic tone in his voice, if Vernon had cared 
 to note it. Campbell was, however, ex- 
 tremely hungry ; he was by no means indif- 
 ferent to the minor pleasures of the table, and 
 Vernon's breakfast was excellent. Food had 
 the best effect on the lately dejected lover; 
 his laugh came gayly, his eye gleamed with 
 humor. There is many a heartache that can 
 be made to cease on occasion by the modest 
 soothings of a good p&te-de-foie-gras. 
 
 " Here," cried Vernon at last, " are two
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 97 
 
 disciples of Horace ; we have tried many 
 philosophies, but we return to this at last. 
 
 " ' Hue vina et unguenta et nimium breves 
 Floras amoenae ferrejube rosas, 
 Dum res et astas et Sororum 
 Fila trium patiuntur atra.'" 
 
 Campbell smiled, and asked for some more 
 Burgundy. 
 
 " My dear Alic," Vernon went on presently, 
 " I wrote you a letter only yesterday, full of 
 advice and prophecy : and now, strange to 
 say, before you have got either, you have 
 taken the one, and fulfilled the other. I de- 
 scribed to you, too, all the charms of this 
 world of mine ; but now, look about you, and 
 enjoy it with your own eyes." 
 
 Campbell looked about him in silent, but 
 with evident admiration. He had been a 
 considerable traveller, and his eyes had 
 known the world's fairest and most famous 
 prospects ; but he admitted frankly that till 
 now he had never seen such a paradise. 
 Vernon was delighted; and filling a glass 
 with wine, "It will be a little island in our 
 
 7
 
 98 A Romance of 
 
 lives," he said, "the enchanted time we wilt 
 spend here. We have both had our troubles 
 it is true, but, after all, we are still young; and 
 it seems to me on a day like this as if life 
 could have no sorrow except the inability 
 to enjoy intensely enough. The mountains, 
 Alic look between those two palm trees 
 and see how the misty amethyst pales and 
 darkens on them ! See the astounding blue 
 above us against the green of the stone-pine ! 
 See how the living azure is cut by the yellow 
 mimosa- blossom ! The beauty of all this 
 goes through and through me like some notes 
 of a violoncello. It is a cry, like certain dance 
 music, after some consummation of pleasure 
 unknown to us. You can kiss, you can em- 
 brace a woman ; and she can love you back 
 again. But nature you can't kiss the sea ; 
 you can't embrace the mountains. If one 
 could only see God, and break one's heart in 
 praising him, that perhaps might ease one." 
 
 A servant here made a moment's inter- 
 ruption, carrying Campbell's only luggage a 
 hand-bag and asking to know if it should be 
 taken upstairs to a bedroom. " Of course,"
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 99 
 
 said Vernon ; and then turning to Campbell, 
 " My dear Alic," he went on, " it is indeed a 
 delight to think you are really here. It is a 
 pleasure beyond hope. But tell me is that 
 little bag all you have brought over with you ? 
 You couldn't travel with so little luggage if 
 you were married." 
 
 "I admit," said Campbell, smiling, "that 
 freedom has its advantages. One would lose 
 a great deal in losing it." 
 
 " One would lose," said Vernon, " all that 
 makes life bearable, as you would soon have 
 felt had your affairs gone otherwise. But 
 about the rest of your luggage, if there's not 
 a very great deal of it, we might drive over 
 to Cannes, and bring it all back in the car- 
 riage." 
 
 " My dear Vernon," said Campbell, " I have 
 got all I want for the night ; and I must be 
 returning to Cannes to-morrow. Don't let us 
 waste our one day in driving." 
 
 " Our one day ! " exclaimed Vernon. " God 
 bless my soul, what do you mean by one day? 
 Why, you are going to stop here at least three 
 weeks with me."
 
 I oo A Romance of 
 
 " My dear fellow," said Campbell, very 
 slowly, "God knows I should like to stay with 
 you ; but it is not to be." And he fixed his 
 eyes upon Vernon with a wistful, serious ten- 
 derness it might almost be called solemnity. 
 It was quite plain that he was resolute. 
 
 This to Vernon was like a thunderbolt out 
 of a clear sky. He was at once startled, be- 
 wildered, and disappointed. 
 
 " Not stay with me ! " he exclaimed. " Why, 
 what on earth do you mean, Alic ? Even if 
 you are still a little melancholy, as I can well 
 believe you are, you will be surely far better 
 here than moping about in holes and cor- 
 ners by yourself. Why can't you stay ? tell 
 me?" 
 
 When Campbell answered, his voice had 
 almost sunk to a whisper, and he looked at 
 Vernon with eyes that begged for sympathy. 
 " Because," he said, " I have to go on to San 
 Remo. I have to be there to-morrow. Ver- 
 non, my my friend is there. This is the 
 reason why I have come abroad. I may see 
 her to-morrow evening ; I think, at farthest, 
 the morning after : and at one time or the
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 101 
 
 other I shall receive my life or death at her 
 hands." 
 
 A sudden unwelcome light at last broke in 
 upon Vernon. "Her her ! " he said. " Why, 
 what on earth are you talking about ? It 
 surely can't be true that I have taken your 
 letter wrongly ? I thought when you told 
 me your case was mending, that you simply 
 meant that you had fallen out of love again, 
 and that you saw that the marriage state was 
 not a thing worth sighing over." 
 
 Campbell eyed Vernon for a moment or 
 two with a curious, sad amusement. " You're 
 an odd creature," he at last said, smiling. 
 " You know something of the world ; at least 
 you have seen many men and women : and 
 do you think that a man who has really loved 
 a woman can cast his love to the winds in the 
 course of a single fortnight? What a strange 
 notion you must have of the nature of human 
 affection ! " 
 
 Vernon, who had not only conceived such a 
 thing quite possible, but who had in this case 
 actually taken it for granted, received a sud- 
 den check from those grave words of his friend.
 
 IO2 A Romance of 
 
 He was not embarrassed by what he had said 
 himself he knew Campbell far too well for 
 that ; but he felt that in Campbell's eye he 
 had betrayed a singular ignorance ; and the 
 first thing that struck him was the absurdity 
 of his own situation. A look came into his 
 eyes that fully confessed his fault ; but it was 
 the gleam of humor rather than a tear of con- 
 trition ; and his expression was not unlike 
 that of a naughty child's, who has been caught 
 for the fifth time committing some minor mis- 
 chief. Campbell understood the expression 
 perfectly; but it neither pained nor chilled him. 
 
 "I don'txmind your laughing," he said. 
 " True feeling can always stand being laughed 
 at. Vernon " and here his own voice sank 
 low again " this love of mine has lain down 
 with me and risen up with me for a whole 
 year. I have become a new man since first 
 it took possession of me." 
 
 " So it seems," said Vernon, " and a very 
 much unhappier one." 
 
 " Yes," said Campbell simply, " it has made 
 me very miserable. I was ill for several 
 weeks." His lips quivered a little, and he
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 103 
 
 raised his clear eyes upwards. His look, 
 thought Vernon, was like a young saint's in 
 meditation. Something seemed in his mind 
 which he was a little timid of uttering ; but 
 at last he again turned to Vernon, and said 
 it. " I think all this trouble," he said, " has 
 been bringing me nearer God." 
 
 Vernon now began to realize that Camp- 
 bell was really changed. Was this the 
 Campbell who, but a single twelvemonth 
 back, looked laughingly at the coarsest side 
 of passion, used God's name rarely except to 
 give point to an epigram ? Vernon saw the 
 change, for he had keen moral perceptions ; 
 it oppressed him, and at the same time he 
 respected it. Still, however, a faint hope 
 lingered in him that Campbell might not be 
 beyond repentance. He repeated all the ar- 
 guments he had before used in his letter, and 
 added others of a reasonable, homely, and 
 practical nature. " You have often told me," 
 he urged, " about your own circumstances. 
 You are a rich bachelor ; you would be a 
 poor husband. I have seen myself that you 
 have always lived in luxury ; and you have
 
 IO4 A Romance of 
 
 always travelled whenever the fancy seized 
 you. Marriage would therefore mean to 
 you, on your own showing, the complete loss 
 of all your personal liberty. You would be 
 fettered in every movement and almost in 
 every thought of your life." 
 
 " I knew well," said Campbell, " all I should 
 have to give up ; and I value it as much, or 
 nearly as much, as you do. I should have 
 to give up many, many luxuries, which to me 
 in my self-indulgence have till now seemed 
 necessities mental necessities as well as 
 bodily. I should have to think about all 
 sorts of little expenses, a thing I hate doing. 
 As you say, my wings would be clipped for 
 travelling. I would no longer drink the best 
 Burgundy, or smoke the best cigars ; or buy 
 books with fine engravings in them. I should 
 lose all this ; but what I should gain would 
 far far outweigh it. All this is a riddle 
 to you, Vernon ; for you have never known 
 affection." 
 
 "You wouldn't say that, I can tell you," 
 replied Vernon, " if you had seen me last 
 night." And he gave a short account, in a
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 105 
 
 tone of reserved banter, of what he called his 
 adventure with Miss Walters. 
 
 " Adventure ! " repeated Campbell. " Yes 
 that is just what you consider a love affair. 
 With you it is a little incursion into an en- 
 emy's country ; and your aim is presently to 
 get back safe again. But when any man 
 loves truly, does he act or think like this ? 
 Was it an adventure for the Mater Dolorosa 
 when she saw her son die on Calvary ? " 
 
 His high-strung state of feeling betrayed 
 itself in every accent ; and Vernon at last 
 realized that his friend was beyond his argu- 
 ments. He put his hand kindly on Camp- 
 bell's shoulder, and in a tone of compassion 
 that was trying to rise to sympathy, " My 
 dear, dear fellow," he said, " whatever you 
 wish for yourself, I wish. I should be very 
 glad for you to be happy, even though I lost 
 your old you by it." 
 
 " Thank you," said Campbell, smiling ; 
 " but as time draws on, my hopes get very 
 shadowy. I build only on some slight ex- 
 pression which my friend let drop about me 
 to a third person, and it is more than pos-
 
 106 A Romance of 
 
 sible that I quite deceive myself. I feel, in 
 going on to San Remo, as if I were going to 
 my own execution. By this time to-morrow 
 perhaps I shall be the foolishest creature 
 imaginable." 
 
 "And in that case," said Vernon, "what 
 should you do then ? You would come back 
 to me, wouldn't you, and let me cheer you 
 up a little ? " 
 
 Campbell's whole expression altered ; the 
 lines of his mouth hardened. " I know ex- 
 actly what I should do," he said. " I have 
 already faced the alternative. If necessary, 
 I shall go straight off to Vienna, and shall 
 find distraction in a complete course of sen- 
 suality. I am told that for a life of pleasure 
 Vienna is the best of capitals." 
 
 " Nonsense," said Vernon sharply. " You 
 would do nothing of the kind." 
 
 " I should," replied Campbell. " I was 
 never in my life more serious. I have al- 
 ready settled the exact route I should travel 
 by, and the hotel I should first put up at. I 
 am a man of strong animal passions. I can 
 easily make a complete beast of myself.
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 107 
 
 Nothing in the world could deaden mental 
 pain like that." 
 
 " Damn it ! " exclaimed Vernon, with a sud- 
 den angry energy. " For God's sake, Camp- 
 bell, do talk like a rational being. It makes 
 me sick to hear you speak in that way. A 
 moment ago I had begun to admire and to 
 envy you ; and now you have spoilt all. Be- 
 cause some woman, it chances, does not love 
 you, is that any reason why you should cease 
 to respect yourself? Affection, you say, 
 raises the soul to God ; and for aught I 
 know it may very possibly do so. But if 
 you are crossed in love, does that make God 
 valueless ? Are your views about God de- 
 pendent on a girl's views about you ? If 
 your passion really raises you, it cannot let 
 you plan debasing yourself. If in cold blood 
 you can thus plan debasing yourself, then all 
 I can say is, that I don't think much of your 
 passion." 
 
 " You would not be so hard, Vernon," said 
 Campbell meekly, " if you had ever felt as I 
 feel. What a lover plans is never in cold 
 blood. Half the vice in the world is caused
 
 jo8 A Romantt #J 
 
 less by vice than by sorrow. However," he 
 went on, his tone again softening, " I didn't 
 screen her to croak my woes to you. Let us 
 think about other things, and let us explore 
 your paradise."
 
 The Ninetes.nth Century. jog 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 "I 7ERNON was charmed to escape to more 
 * indifferent subjects, and by a quick 
 reaction Campbell became cheerful. The 
 friends found plenty of small things to amuse 
 and interest them. They went over the villa ; 
 they examined books and etchings ; they 
 scrambled about over rocks ; they walked 
 through olive -groves ; they climbed up a 
 wooded hill, and examined a quaint old 
 chapel. The chapel suggested a sudden 
 thought to Vernon. "Come," he said, "and 
 let us look up Stanley." The news that 
 Stanley was in the neighborhood was a fresh 
 distraction for Campbell, and for the time 
 seemed quite to banish the unfortunate 
 thoughts that saddened him. Stanley was 
 living at a small, somewhat rough pension,
 
 j io A Romance of 
 
 that was not far from Vernon's villa. They 
 learnt that he was at home ; and a pert little 
 white-capped maid left them to announce 
 themselves. They found him upstairs, in a 
 small, bare sitting-room, bending over a table 
 writing. His face was fair and delicate ; but 
 it seemed to have now contracted a slightly 
 stern expression, and suggested at once 
 thought and physical suffering. When, how- 
 ever, he saw who were his visitors, his eyes 
 lit up with a smile of such frank and surprised 
 pleasure, that for a moment the sternness 
 vanished ; and Vernon presently, though not 
 without some misgiving, asked him if he 
 would come to dinner. To his surprise Stan- 
 ley accepted gladly ; but added, " If I come 
 this evening, I must send you away now ; for I 
 have certain work which I must finish to-day." 
 
 " Poor Stanley ! " said Vernon, as he and 
 Campbell walked away together. "How de- 
 lighted he was to see you, Alic ; and I don't 
 think he much minded seeing me." 
 
 " On the contrary," said Campbell, " I 
 thought he seemed particularly pleased at it 
 Why should you think he minded it?"
 
 The Nineteenth Century. in 
 
 " I don't know ; but I always vaguely fancy, 
 if I haven't wanted to see a man, that he hasn't 
 wanted to see me. Besides, I haven't the least 
 doubt that he thinks me rather a brute." 
 
 " Do you mean to say that's the first time 
 you've ever been to call on him ? " 
 
 " I'm afraid it is," said Vernon. " But I 
 shall go again now. Do you know, it almost 
 made me cry to see the pleased way in which 
 he smiled at us. I am always touched when 
 a man who looks stern is really made glad*by 
 a trifle. But I'll tell you what I want to do 
 this moment. I want to order some specially 
 nice things for dinner this evening ; and I 
 think, in spite of everything, we shall have a 
 very nice little symposium." 
 
 Nor when dinner came was this anticipation 
 falsified. The unlooked-for reunion of the 
 three old friends produced in each of them 
 a genial glow of spirits. Stanley, whatever 
 might be his private habits, betrayed at Ver- 
 non's table no trace of asceticism. He was 
 naturally a moderate man ; but to-night, at 
 least, he ate and drank what he wanted, and 
 he remarked in a quiet natural way that the
 
 112 A Romance of 
 
 champagne was good. Talk flowed freely 
 about the early days at Oxford ; his memory 
 lit up all of them with the reflected sunshine 
 of youth. The only one whose spirits were 
 at all forced or uncertain was Vernon himself. 
 The thought that Campbell was resolved not 
 to stay with him vexed him with a suppressed 
 persistency; and with this thought another 
 began to mix itself the thought of Miss 
 Walters, and the strange charm of her pres- 
 ence. All this would for moments make him 
 absent. But wine came to his aid whenever 
 his will failed him, and drove his straying wits 
 back to his guests, and table. 
 
 When dinner was over, the three adjourned 
 to the library, and Stanley and Campbell fell 
 discussing one of their college tutors. This 
 was a man of great beauty of character, who, 
 though somewhat rough externally, had had 
 upon all his pupils the most powerful moral 
 influence ; and the mention of him led the 
 talking to other serious matters. Vernon at 
 the beginning had occasionally put in a word 
 or two : but he had relapsed gradually into 
 a mere listener a listener at first attentive,
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 113 
 
 then a trifle drowsy, till at length, by gentle 
 stages, he had sunk off into sleep. 
 
 The tone of the others presently dropped 
 lower. 
 
 " Look ! " said Stanley, as his eyes fell 
 upon Vernon, " what a curious expression in 
 repose he has. He is the most careworn 
 sleeper I ever saw, and yet of all waking men 
 he is the most careless-looking. Do you 
 think he is happy ? " 
 
 " He has his troubles," said Campbell, "no 
 doubt, like the rest of us. To make him 
 happy, he wants one or two things he 
 should have less of a heart, or more of one. 
 Somebody, I remember, once said of him 
 bitterly, that he got more love from his 
 slightest friend than he ever gave to his 
 greatest. Perhaps there is some truth in 
 that : and yet though the man who said it 
 is one of the most stanch of creatures, I 
 could depend on Vernon in some ways more 
 surely than on him. Were there any urgent 
 need, I could ask Vernon to take any trouble 
 for me. He would hate the trouble, yet all 
 
 the same he would take it ; and he would 
 8
 
 ii4 A Romance of 
 
 serve you better, when the service was only 
 a nuisance to him, than many men would 
 that might feel it a genuine pleasure." 
 
 " That just fits in," said Stanley, " with 
 what I heard the other day about him, from 
 an old woman here, whose cottage I some- 
 times visit. This woman had a poor lame 
 child, who was taken out in a mule-cart, with 
 some of its brothers and sisters. The cart 
 broke down, and could not be brought home 
 again ; and the little cripple was naturally in 
 great distress. Vernon that moment chanced 
 to be passing by. He at once took it up and 
 carried it two miles, to its home, and the day 
 after ordered a boot with steel supports for 
 it, which the surgeons say will get it the use 
 of its legs again. I happened to meet him 
 just after he had done carrying it, and he 
 said, ' Don't shake hands with me ; I've been 
 touching a beastly child !' ' 
 
 "Have you ever looked at his books?" 
 asked Campbell presently, as he glanced 
 round him. 
 
 "No, I have never been in this room be- 
 fore. He asked me to breakfast once, but I
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 115 
 
 was unable to come, and I gathered by his 
 manner that he thought he had done his duty 
 by me." 
 
 " His library," said Campbell, " made me 
 smile rather. A good half of it consists of 
 dry books on theology. Look at his writing- 
 table," he went on. " Do you see those three 
 books there one on top of the other ? It is 
 a curious mixture." 
 
 The books were Horace, Serpete's " Spir- 
 itual Combat," and " Lord Chesterfield's 
 Letters." 
 
 " I remember that at Oxford," said Stan- 
 ley, " he would continually talk of theology ; 
 but it was never with any reverence, though 
 sometimes with thought and knowledge." 
 
 " Yes ; religion with him," said Campbell, 
 " is merely an intellectual question a tire- 
 some riddle, that piques him because he can't 
 answer it." 
 
 The conversation continued for some time 
 longer, whilst the subject of it still slept 
 heavily. At last, Stanley, who kept early 
 hours, declared that he ought to go. " But 
 I won't wake Vernon," he said. " Poor fel-
 
 1 1 6 A Romance of 
 
 low, he looks tired enough. You shall say 
 good-night for me ; and I hope, Campbell, 
 that I may soon see you again." 
 
 " I am going to-morrow," said Campbell. 
 " I am obliged to go ; but if you would be 
 in, I might come and see you in the morning. 
 I too have my troubles ; and I am afraid I 
 have been boring Vernon with them." 
 
 By and by Vernon looked up with a start, 
 and asked where was Stanley. " What a 
 brute I must have seemed to him," he said, 
 when he knew that his guest was gone. " I 
 ask a fellow to dine with me ; then I sleep 
 like a pig all through the evening ; and now, 
 for my pains, I wake up with a splitting 
 headache. Let us go out shall we ? and 
 take a turn in the garden." 
 
 Vernon was somewhat silent as they went 
 through the moonlit walks. At last he said 
 abruptly, " What made me sleepy to-night 
 was my having taken too much wine. I 
 did it to keep my spirits up, for I was 
 gloomy about your going. Of course Stan- 
 ley wouldn't say anything ; but I know quite 
 well he must have thought me a beast."
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 117 
 
 " That," said Campbell, " I am quite sure 
 he did not, for just before he went he was 
 warmly praising you. He was telling me of 
 your kindness to some little crippled girl." 
 
 "My kindness to what ?" exclaimed Ver- 
 non. " Oh, I know what he must be think- 
 ing of. Poor little dirty brat she literally 
 reeked of garlic ! How the devil did Stanley 
 hear about that? But now tell me, Alic," 
 he went on, " must you really go to-morrow ? 
 Is it all quite decided ? Can't you stay even 
 for a day or two, and let me show you my 
 beautiful neighbor?" 
 
 Campbell shook his head. " No, Vernon 
 no," he said. 
 
 " But she is very beautiful," said Vernon, 
 " and dresses exquisitely, and has all kinds of 
 high-minded views about the hollowness of 
 fashion, and about genuine friendship, and 
 falling in love, and so on. I would let you 
 flirt with her, if you wanted to." 
 
 "You forget," said Campbell, "that I am 
 leading a consecrated life." 
 
 " Well, she won't unconsecrate you. She 
 has <^one with love, she tells me : though I'm
 
 n8 A Romance of 
 
 not sure myself if I quite believe her. Is it 
 Sterne or who is it ? who says, ' Talking 
 of love is making it ? " 
 
 " If she told you as much as that the first 
 time you spoke to her, you must have got on 
 pretty far, I think." 
 
 " Ah," said Vernon smiling, " those events 
 are like dreams. They are just as independent 
 of the human limits of time. When I try to 
 dissuade you from love, it is not from earlier 
 stages of it. The blossom of the tree is as 
 beautiful as an olive blossom, though the fruit 
 is as tasteless as an acorn. As for the earlier 
 stages of love-making, there is nothing in life, 
 so far as I know, so magical. There is hardly 
 a single aspiration, a single sensation, a single 
 faculty, that is not touched by them with 
 orchestral music. My dear Alic, there is the 
 splendid prelude. But what follows ? Not 
 an oration, but a sermon." 
 
 Campbell was silent, and Vernon began 
 again. 
 
 " I think my true metier" he said, "would be 
 that of wooer-in-ordinary to my male friends. 
 Whenever any one of them had set his heart
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 119 
 
 on a lady, it should be my business to awake 
 her love and tenderness ; to teach her lips to 
 kiss, her heart to move with a sigh or two, 
 and her eyes to look expressively. I would 
 then, without any peculation, transfer all the 
 feelings I had roused to my client. Would 
 you on these terms have made me your agent ? 
 You may be sure when the time came I should 
 have no temptation to cheat you." 
 
 This was said with a smile ; but Campbell 
 answered in a tone of unexpected seriousness. 
 
 " My dear Vernon," he said, " what a 
 thoroughly immoral man you are ! " 
 
 " Immoral ! " 
 
 " Yes, you really are. I am not in the least 
 joking. You are one of the most immoral 
 men I ever knew. What you said just now 
 is only another proof of it." 
 
 " My dear fellow," said Vernon, " I was 
 only chaffing you." 
 
 " Yes, but the man in jest is the key to the 
 man in earnest. Besides, I didn't judge you 
 merely by what you said just now. I have 
 known you for ten years, and have been your 
 friend ever since I knew you. I was looking
 
 I2O A Romance of 
 
 only this morning at one of your early photo- 
 graphs, and since that was taken I can see 
 how your face has changed. In some ways 
 you have hardly aged at all ; you still look 
 very, very young. But youth is sometimes 
 prolonged by a sacrifice of all that is best in 
 it ; and ah, Vernon, there is one look gone 
 from your face which that photograph re- 
 minded me was once there. And shall I tell 
 you what has destroyed it ? It is what I call 
 your immorality. It is this perpetual trifling 
 with your highest and finest feelings. That 
 the feelings are high and fine I don't deny for 
 a moment. It is in that that the badness lies. 
 You are making a play-ground of what should 
 be your holy of holies. You may not be in- 
 dulging your grosser appetites ; but you are 
 making yourself incapable for ever of any 
 earnest affection ; and this is the surest way 
 in which you can quench the spirit. It is not 
 eclipsing the light, as lust does ; it is putting 
 the light out. Pure affection can extinguish 
 lust ; but if you extinguish pure affection, 
 what then ? Would a man who has done that 
 ever be fit for heaven, even though in the
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 121 
 
 world's sense of the word he were as moral 
 as any anchorite ? " 
 
 There was something in Campbell's manner 
 which, despite his plain speaking, made Ver- 
 non listen without anger or impatience. He 
 seemed a little annoyed, however, and anxious 
 to change the subject. 
 
 " Heaven ! " he said wearily ; "and do you, 
 Campbell, really believe in heaven ? " 
 
 " More than you do," said Campbell, with 
 the same gentleness. " I am not wanting to 
 preach to you. I am only trying, like a friend 
 that loves you, to show you the reason of 
 your being so ill at ease. This is a delicate 
 thing to do, and even a friend can do it only 
 when he is himself feeling deeply. A year 
 ago I could never have spoken like this to 
 you. Perhaps six weeks hence I shall be 
 again enabled to do it." 
 
 " I know you mean kindly," said Vernon. 
 " But honestly, I didn't quite understand you. 
 What on earth makes you think that I am ill 
 at ease ? " 
 
 "You are, though you may not acknowledge 
 it. I can see it in your face, I can hear it in
 
 122 A Romance of 
 
 your voice sometimes. With all your bright 
 spirits, and with all your gayety, you have 
 done your nature a wrong which you feel in 
 spite of yourself. My own sins, God knows, 
 have been many. It is perhaps because of 
 them that all this sorrow has come upon me. 
 But there is something worse, Vernon, than 
 even the garments spotted by the flesh. What 
 is commonly called immorality does indeed 
 stain life ; but your immorality conservates it. 
 It leaves you a husk a shell ; a tissue it may 
 be of supersensitive nerves ; but with no true 
 self within to be informed by them. You 
 have not lived to that state yet, but there are 
 moments when you feel or fear the beginning 
 of it." 
 
 " I may have causes for care," said Vernon, 
 " other than you dream of ; perhaps, indeed, 
 of an exactly opposite nature. You tell me I 
 do not believe in heaven , and perhaps I don't, 
 but at least I feel daily the want of a belief in 
 it. My unhappiness, if I have any, arises not 
 from having no woman to love, but from hav- 
 ing no God to believe in." 
 
 Campbell looked at Vernon with a friendly
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 123 
 
 incredulity. " My dear Vernon," he said, 
 "you are the most irreligious man I know. 
 The same course of conduct that deadens 
 human love deadens divine love also ; nor 
 indeed would you play with the first, if you 
 had any real sense of the second. I know 
 quite well that you think about religion, and 
 read about it : but you know quite well that 
 it is not an active power in your life. It is 
 nothing more than an abstraction. You have 
 continually told me that nothing in life ab- 
 sorbs you ; but religion, when a reality, is all 
 an affair of loving." 
 
 " Not of loving only, but of believing also. 
 You can't love a being whose existence you 
 are not sure of ; and it is quite conceivable 
 I am not speaking about myself, for that, after 
 all, is a matter of little interest it is quite 
 conceivable that affection may in many cases 
 be chilled by want of belief, just as belief 
 may become useless for want of proper af- 
 fection. Love robbed of belief is like a bird 
 whose nest has been stolen. It tries every 
 tree, but finds no twig to rest upon." There 
 was a short silence after this ; and then pres-
 
 124 -d Romance of 
 
 ently Vernon began again. " In one point, 
 at least," he said, with a cold laugh, " you are 
 wrong, Campbell, in your judgment of me. 
 You said that religion had no effect on my 
 life. It was a religious question that caused 
 the breaking off of my marriage." 
 
 " If you had been very much in love, if 
 you had been very anxious to marry, would 
 that question have stood in your way?" 
 
 " It would have stood in my way, I sin- 
 cerely hope, in any case. I can think of no 
 self-indulgence so wanton, so complete in its 
 cruelty, as bringing children into the world, 
 and giving them no faith to guide them. 
 That would indeed be making a tragic toy of 
 affection, to go blowing little soap-bubbles of 
 conscious fretful vanity. Happy unconscious 
 matter ! The man is worse than a murderer 
 who infuses it with aimless wretchedness." 
 
 " And this," said Campbell, " is the relig- 
 ious man's view of life ! My dear Vernon, 
 you have much to learn yet" 
 
 Vernon made no reply to this. He had 
 seen that Campbell, in spite of a friend's 
 fondness, had but a scanty faith in his con-
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 125 
 
 duct with regard to the breaking off of his 
 marriage ; and a feeling of not quite un- 
 natural anger had begun to swell up in him. 
 But " He means well," he almost directly said 
 to himself, and he forced the anger down. 
 Its only outer sign was a few moments' cold- 
 ness ; and when next he spoke, it was once 
 more with sympathy. 
 
 " You have told me much about love," he 
 said, as they moved back to the villa ; " but 
 you have told me very little about your own 
 love-story. You meet your goddess alone, 
 she has very simple tastes, ' first she would 
 and then she wouldn't,' and she is doubtful 
 whether she will or no. I knew this much, 
 but that is all. Do you mind telling me her 
 name, and a little more about her ? " 
 
 " Not to-night," said Campbell. " No nor 
 to-morrow morning, I think. Had I better 
 or surer hope, I would dwell on and tell you 
 everything. But I can't now. I can't go 
 over those secrets again. I would sooner 
 not even tell you who she is, unless I can tell 
 you some day that she is or will be my wife. 
 I shall know that soon. Ah me 1 "
 
 126 A Romance. 
 
 " And are you still resolved," said Vernon, 
 " that Vienna is your only alternative ? " 
 
 " Perhaps," said Campbell sighing, " I am 
 not resolved that it shall be ; but I know that 
 it is." 
 
 The conversation then turned to brandy 
 and seltzer-water, and the two friends retired.
 
 BOOK II.
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 /^AMPBELL next morning paid a short 
 V*' visit to Stanley, and in the afternoon 
 he was gone. Vernon's last words to him 
 were, " If you are not successful, come back 
 to me, and give up Vienna. You have told 
 me pretty plainly that I'm not far off from a 
 devil ; so if it's the devil you want to go to, 
 you may at least choose one who is fond of 
 you." 
 
 There was more in his manner, perhaps, 
 than he was altogether conscious of ; for this 
 last farewell of his touched Campbell and set 
 him for some time thinking. As for Vernon 
 himself, his spirits at first sank low enough, 
 and his villa looked very blank to him. But 
 he was not a man tamely to sit down with de- 
 jection ; and having mourned his friend's loss 
 9 129
 
 130 A Romance of 
 
 for an hour or so, his imagination suddenly 
 wheeled round to Miss Walters. The effect 
 was as quick on him as that of a glass of ab- 
 sinthe. He would at once hurry off and call 
 at the Chateau St. John ; and such a thrill 
 did the prospect send through him, that he 
 felt his present condition was not without 
 its advantages. Even a friend like Campbell 
 might have been perhaps a little de trop just 
 then. 
 
 He had rung the bell at the Chateau ; the 
 hall door had been thrown open, and with a 
 confident inquiry he was already on the point 
 of entering, when the servant informed him 
 that the ladies had left for Nice. 
 
 " Left ! " echoed Vernon in astonishment. 
 
 " They left yesterday, sir," said the ser- 
 vant " but they will be back early this even- 
 ing, as I believe they are expecting a gentle- 
 man here to dine with them." 
 
 Vernon at once concluded that this gentle- 
 man must be himself, and he resolved to has- 
 ten home to inquire if no note had arrived 
 for him. He was spared, however, this trou- 
 ble by the servant adding, the next moment,
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 131 
 
 " A gentleman, I believe, sir, who is coming 
 from Monte Carlo." 
 
 This simple announcement worked like" 
 magic on Vernon. A sudden twilight of 
 jealousy fell on his whole soul; and at the 
 same instant the stars of romance shone out 
 again. The expected guest, he felt convinced, 
 could be none other than Colonel Stapleton ; 
 and the thought that the beautiful Cynthia 
 could be touched by so gross a rival, seemed 
 to withdraw her to some untold distance. 
 But such are the ways of certain kinds of 
 affection that this fancied distance only in- 
 creased his longing for her. His impressions 
 of her, mental or sensuous, became all more 
 vivid than ever, and he was soon lost in a 
 deep, passionate reverie. Her eyes, her lips, 
 her hands, the texture of her cheek and 
 throat, the feather in her hat, the tones of 
 her voice, her gestures all these in their 
 several ways touched him ; and she dwelt in 
 his mind as some strange, delicate mystery 
 that he was resolved to make his own. 
 
 Having indulged to the full in this kind of 
 dreaming, the thought of Campbell once more
 
 132 A Romance of 
 
 came back to him. He paced the same walks 
 that evening that Campbell had lately paced 
 with him ; and he attentively thought over 
 their last night's conversation, and looked 
 longingly in the direction of the Chateau St. 
 John. "Ah me," he cried, drawing a long 
 sigh ; " and am I really the brute that Camp- 
 bell tells me I am? Am I really heartless 
 and selfish, and with no health left in me?" 
 
 He went indoors to his library, and took 
 down a volume from his book-case of Latin 
 authors. He sat for some time poring over 
 it motionless ; but at last a low voice broke 
 from him, and he began thus translating 
 aloud to himself : 
 
 " Highest and holiest, mightiest and al- 
 mightiest, most pitiful and yet most just, un- 
 seen and yet ever near to us, fairest and yet 
 most firm, ever before us and yet past our 
 studying ; never new, never aging, yet renew- 
 ing all things ; striking the proud with age, 
 and they know it not : whose work never 
 ceases, whose quiet is never broken ; gath- 
 ering, yet nothing needing ; sustaining, re- 
 plenishing, and protecting; making, cherish-
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 133 
 
 ing, and maturing ; seeking, yet having all 
 things: Thou lovest, and passion stirs Thee 
 not ; Thou art jealous, and lo, no care 
 touches Thee ; Thou repentest Thee, yet 
 Thou hast no contrition ; Thou art angry, 
 and yet Thou abidest calm ; Thou makest 
 Thy works change, but Thy counsel endures 
 for ever ; Thou findest what Thou hast never 
 lost, and Thou takest it back home to Thee. 
 Thou art never in want, and yet Thou art 
 pleased with winning ; Thou hast no covet- 
 ousness, and yet Thou takest usury. Thou 
 art paid more than Thy due that Thou mayest 
 be made man's debtor; and who has aught 
 that has not been always Thine ? Thou 
 payest, yet owest no man anything ; Thou 
 givest gifts, and behold Thou losest nothing. 
 And what, oh, what is this that I say con- 
 cerning Thee, my God, my life, my holy and 
 sweet desire ? or what, when he speaks of 
 Thee, can be said by any man ? and yet woe 
 to him that speaks not, since even the dumb 
 praise Thee." * 
 
 The book over which Vernon was bending 
 
 * St. Augustine's Confessions, book i. chap. iv.
 
 134 ^ Romance of 
 
 was the " Confessions of Augustine." As he 
 read he felt his eyes moisten, and at last he 
 started at a tear that dropped on the page 
 before him. 
 
 " What's Hecuba to me, or I to Hecuba ?" 
 he exclaimed. " Do I really mean that ? or 
 is it really another form of self-indulgence ? 
 My God, what am I ? Is there anything in 
 me not contemptible?" 
 
 He hid his face in his hands and remained 
 for some time motionless. When he moved 
 himself, he did so with resolution. He 
 opened a drawer in his writing-table, he took 
 out some paper, and after a certain further 
 hesitation he abruptly put pen to it. He was 
 occupied in this way for hours ; now he wrote 
 rapidly, now he paused and leaned back con- 
 sidering ; now he paced up and down the 
 library, and then returned to his seat again. 
 Once, too, there occurred a different incident ; 
 he dropped for a few moments upon his 
 knees, and hid his face with his hands. 
 
 What he wrote was as follows : 
 
 " Why should a man wince at the sight of 
 his Inmost thoughts ? Is he not a coward, if
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 135 
 
 he does not dare confront them ? Ah me, 
 I am a coward; I wince and I hold back; 
 false shame overawes me. But my heart is 
 troubled ; my spirit is bruised and beaten, 
 and courage at last has come to me from my 
 wretchedness. I may pretend I am happy; 
 but oh, my God, I am not happy. It is true 
 that my friends or the delicious sunshine 
 make my blood beat with pleasure, and many 
 other such trifles excite me. I become ex- 
 cited childishly ; and I forget myself into a 
 bright, false happiness. But all the while 
 there is a worm gnawing at my heart, and 
 whenever I reflect I feel it. I have tried to 
 deceive myself ; I have tried to say this is not 
 so. But I can deceive myself no longer ; 
 and now I will face the truth. I will see 
 what I am ; I will examine this mangled self 
 of mine. Yes I will put my thoughts into 
 shameless black and white ; they shall have a 
 solid body that I cannot pretend eludes me. 
 Quick ! though I am shuddering, let me get 
 the icy shock over ; let me plunge into con- 
 fession. What should make me hesitate? 
 No one will see these pages, with this blurred
 
 136 A Romance of 
 
 image of my soul cast on them. Whenever I 
 wish it the fire can keep my secret. 
 
 " What shall I say ? Shall I speak as in 
 reality my soul pines to speak ? I will. 
 
 " O my God, holiest and mightiest, most 
 pitiful and yet most just, what I pine for is 
 to speak to Thee. Let me write Thy name- 
 let me brand it in writing, not think it only 
 in faint and fleeting thoughts. Let me rouse 
 my ears with the sound of my own voice cry- 
 ing to Thee. O God, what I long for is to 
 lay bare my soul to open it, to disrobe it, 
 to expose it naked before Thee ; and to cry 
 to Thee to have pity, to have pity, and to 
 look upon me. 
 
 " And yet, how dare I, impure and faith- 
 less, loving nothing so they tell me and 
 nobody ? For Thou art pure and holy ; and 
 my very friend has told me that I am viler 
 than most men. Oh God, Thou knowest if 
 I am so. Am I indeed an outcast ? Teach 
 me to know myself ; humble my pride ; en- 
 lighten me. Oh my God, I am not mocking 
 Thee. What I ask of Thee is what my 
 heart is crying for.
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 137 
 
 "And yet if indeed Thou hearest me, I 
 must seem like one awaking ; for Thou 
 knowest how faith has failed me, and how 
 bewildered and dark my mind is. For even 
 whilst I am crying to Thee, whilst I am try- 
 ing to open to Thee all my secret being, I 
 know not, I am not sure if you have any 
 existence you, the God I am crying to. 
 Perhaps you are only a dream an idea a 
 passing phenomenon in man's mental history. 
 And yet surely, if Thou existest, Thou wilt 
 not, even for this cause, turn away from 
 me, quenching the smoking flax. May it 
 not be that Thou art revealing Thyself 
 to me, through my wretched sense of Thy 
 absence ? 
 
 " But from me why art Thou absent? Is 
 it through my sins, through my own loveless 
 nature ? Have I nothing in my soul fit to 
 offer Thee ? And for this cause hast Thou 
 put me far away from Thee ? 
 
 " I may be evil now ; I may be in outer 
 darkness ; but I know that I was not always. 
 I was once near Thee ; I was once ever with 
 Thee. That was when I was a little child.
 
 138 A Romance of 
 
 O my God, I will confess to Thee through 
 my childhood. 
 
 " I was no saint, Thou knowest ; I was a 
 little worldly child, yet I will maintain even 
 to Thy face that as a child I loved Thee, and 
 with a child's frankness I was always in secret 
 turning to Thee. I thought of Thee in my 
 play, I thought of Thee in riding my pony. 
 Hardly an hour passed in which, without 
 kneeling, I did not say some word to Thee. 
 Nor did this end with my childhood, for as I 
 grew older, and as my thoughts multiplied, 
 more and more in secret did they fasten upon 
 Thee. And I grew very greedy to fear Thee, 
 and yet I was not afraid to love Thee ; for 
 my own sins were small, and I washed them 
 out with nightly penitence. Often hast Thou 
 heard my boyish lips confessing them. 
 
 " But as I thought upon Thy perfections, 
 and as I looked round upon the world, a new 
 sense grew in me. It was a sense of the 
 world's sin, and of how Thou wast being 
 grieved and blasphemed everywhere. Of 
 men's sorrow, and want, and poverty, I had 
 not heard much. What touched me was the
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 139 
 
 misery of the sin that they lay wallowing in. 
 The thought of this was never quite absent 
 from me. It haunted me day and night 
 through all my later boyhood ; my heart was 
 nearly always aching with it. It very often 
 subdued me in my gayest moments. Thou 
 knowest how for this reason a great city was 
 hateful to me. I felt that there was sin 
 everywhere : that men were killing their own 
 souls on all sides. In the same way, although 
 I could see my school-fellows unhappy, and 
 yet be little moved by it, yet many a time 
 when I have seen some young soul corrupting 
 itself, I have said, ' I would die, if he might 
 be saved from sinning.' Oh God, Thou hast 
 heard me, if Thou hearest anything. Thou 
 knowest, too, how my pillow has been damp 
 with tears from my thinking on these things. 
 " Thus the time drew on when there was 
 a new thing to happen to me. I was to draw 
 near to Thee at Thy Son's altar. For this 
 cause I turned my thoughts upon myself 
 more earnestly ; and I cleansed my heart as 
 I had never done before. And I received 
 thy Son's self into me with fear and trem-
 
 140 A Romance of 
 
 bling ; and I was drawn closer, O Thou Holy 
 One, to Him and Thee. And at the same 
 time also my early life was expanding. My 
 passions and the world's excitements began 
 to stir me, and shot new colors into exist- 
 ence ; and I hoped for love and for com- 
 panionship, and I longed for beauty. The 
 sadness and the rapture overcame me that 
 together stir men to singing. But Thou, O 
 my God, wert present in all this. If I longed 
 for the love of a woman, it was that both our 
 faces might turn to Thee. And I saw Thee, 
 too, in the blue sky and in the sunset, and in 
 the reedy river with the moon in it, and in 
 the sea, and the sea-shore. And each year I 
 was tempted with more and more temptations, 
 but I still kept watch over myself, and always 
 in my trouble I cried to Thee. I spoke to 
 no friend about these things. I communed 
 with Thee only, and I tried very hard to 
 carry the cross of Christ. When I have been 
 dining with gay companions I have seen His 
 face before me beyond the lights and glasses. 
 I have seen Him worn and sorrowful, pleading 
 with and reproaching me. He has often said
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 141 
 
 to me in the midst of my laughter, ' I have 
 suffered so much for thy sake, canst thou not 
 suffer even a little for Mine ? ' 
 
 " I lived like this for some four or, it might 
 be, five years, and then the time began when 
 Thou wert slowly to be withdrawn from me. 
 Why was this, my God? Was it for my sins? 
 And if so, for what sins ? When, when did 
 they begin ? For Thou wast not withdrawn 
 from me through my frightening Thee, but 
 through my ever thinking of Thee. I studied 
 much and many things ; and whatever I 
 studied, I applied it to Thy Church and Thee. 
 And new lights broke on me, and new roads 
 of knowledge ; and my soul suffered violence, 
 and the sight of its eyes was changed. For by 
 and by, though the change came very slowly, 
 all that I had once been taught about Thee, 
 the Sacraments also, through which I once 
 thought I approached Thee, became to me 
 like outworn symbols. I struggled to stay 
 the change. I called to Thee, Thou knowest 
 how often, to keep it from me. Thou know- 
 est how, as I felt my prayers grow faint, and 
 their words lose their meaning, I still said to
 
 142 A Romance of 
 
 Thee every night and morning, 'I believe; 
 help Thou mine unbelief.' Thou knowest, 
 too, when Thou gavest me no answer, how I 
 tried to find help thus, ' He that doeth,' I 
 said, ' shall know of the doctrine ; ' and I 
 tried with fresh diligence to do my daily 
 duties, hoping that in this way might my faith 
 revive again. But it never did revive. On 
 the contrary, the spirit of this age seemed for- 
 ever, like a cold wind, to be playing on my 
 naked limbs, and to be sending a creeping 
 chill through them. 
 
 " And yet, my God, though Thy revealed 
 word was becoming thus incredible to me, 
 Thou knowest I still cried to Thee. On Thee 
 alone my thoughts still centre ; nay, I tried to 
 persuade myself that I should find Thee better 
 with no written word to hinder me. But all 
 this while I was recoiling farther from Thee ; 
 and the more earnestly I sought Thee, the 
 less near did I seem to come to Thee, till at 
 last I was like a blinded bird, I knew not 
 whither even to try to fly ; and this body of 
 mine, this temple of Thy Holy Spirit, has 
 been left empty ; and vain thoughts and
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 143 
 
 desires had been holding and still hold fes- 
 tival in it. 
 
 " Oh my God, if Thou art, why for me art 
 Thou not ? Why art Thou thus withdrawn 
 from me ? Is it because I have sinned ? Can 
 that be the reason ? Surely this Thou know- 
 est, that it was not what men call sin that 
 made my eyes dim to see Thee. It was not 
 the lust of the flesh, nor the pride of life, 
 although both of these assailed me. And if 
 since then evil things have had hold on me, I 
 have sinned because I first lost Thee ; I have 
 now lost Thee through sinning. Surely this 
 must be so. I know of nothing that, could 
 I only find Thee, I would not renounce for 
 Thy sake. There is no man or woman that I 
 could not renounce easily, reserving no more 
 care for them than to work for their souls in- 
 differently. No what I have lost Thee by is 
 not sin ; it is rather the very things whereby 
 I resisted sin ; it is my reason, my intellect, 
 and my longing for what is true. I have lost 
 Thee, my God, through my earnest search to 
 find Thee. 
 
 " And yet, for all this, do I dare to say I am
 
 144 -^ Romance of 
 
 sinless ? My God, my sins are many. Now 
 indeed it is possible they help to hide Thee 
 from me. Perhaps I am far worse than I 
 think I am ; for has not my very friend told 
 me that I am viler than most men ? Does he 
 speak truth ? Perhaps. For certainly in many 
 ways it maybe in all ways he is a better man 
 than I am. The ties and the affections of this 
 life those joys and sorrows with which Thou 
 hast surrounded us touch him, and take hold 
 of him, and leave deep marks in him ; but me 
 they touch only on the shadows in a dream 
 night. Perhaps then here is the secret. Per- 
 haps I am vile, not knowing it, because to 
 renounce all for Thy sake would be so very 
 small a pay to Thee, and a sacrifice to Thee 
 is worthless of that which has cost us nothing. 
 What then ? Must one love Thy creatures 
 before one can love Thee ? Must one not 
 rather love Thy creatures because of Thee. 
 
 " Thy creatures ! Were they Thine I could 
 indeed love them. I should know that there 
 was in them some eternal worth and value. 
 But without Thee, what are they more than 
 shadows are ? What are they more than I,
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 
 
 who am the most frail and void of shadows ? 
 They get no hold on me, nor I any on them. 
 For a little while one pleases me, and then a 
 little while and it does not please. It comes 
 near me ; presently it recedes again, and an- 
 other is pushed into the place of it ; and in 
 me there is left no regret, nor any pain in 
 my heart. And how shall this be otherwise ? 
 And what shall give these ghosts substance ? 
 Why, without Thee, what but a mere ghost 
 is the universe, even to its farther stars ? Of 
 the only cosmos man can ever know or con- 
 ceive of, he is himself the co-creator ; and 
 with the ending of his consciousness the All 
 ends also. It falls like a house of cards when 
 one card is taken away from it. Such is it 
 without Thee. And yet it is told me that if 
 I loved my fellow-ghosts, above all if I would 
 take to my heart some one of them, they would 
 then be ghosts no longer; and that, they being 
 thus made real to me, I should again discern 
 Thee. 
 
 " This may be true. There may be some 
 philosophy in it. The love of another may be 
 the source of a faith in the objective realities,
 
 146 A Romance of 
 
 and in Thee, my God, the chief of these. By 
 Love as well as by the Word, the Heavens 
 are perhaps made. But, Oh my God, wouldst 
 Thou only reveal Thyself first to me, wouldst 
 Thou only show me that Thou indeed existest, 
 I will love all things then for Thy sake ! Thou 
 knowest what holds me back. It is the Rea- 
 son Thou thyself hast given me, which lurks 
 behind the knowledge I have heaped together 
 faithfully, and whenever I try to rise, lays a 
 long, cold hand on me. 
 
 " And yet I will not deceive myself, for even 
 if Thou didst reveal Thyself, I doubt about 
 this thing : I doubt if I should love as I am 
 told I ought to love. For, my God, if Thou 
 existest Thou lovest all Thy creatures, and 
 they are all infinitely precious. How then 
 am I to inflame or influence my heart, that I 
 should permanently love some one of these 
 more than I love the others ? I am perplexed, 
 I cannot tell. Yet I know even my common 
 sense tells me that it is only in this way that 
 loving men do love. 
 
 " Nay, this too Thou knowest of me, that 
 I have, as a fact, striven to love in this way.
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 147 
 
 I sought to marry, and to be faithful all my life 
 to another ; and I trusted that with another's 
 eyes I might again discern Thee. But even 
 this hope failed me. For what return did she 
 whom I chose make to me ? She gave me 
 no help that I needed ; but proffered me 
 comfortless comfort, and help that I had no 
 need of. Instead of showing me Thee, she 
 turned away and prepared to worship me. 
 She would have made me into her God, in- 
 stead of guiding me to mine. And for a time 
 this consoled me a little, but I soon grew 
 weary of it, and more restless than ever. For 
 how should this blind passion satisfy me ? I 
 did but blind her to Thee. She did not show 
 Thee to me. 
 
 "It seems, then, that I have tried every- 
 thing. And now, my God, what remains fof 
 me ? How shall I plant my foot firm in this 
 land of shadows ? I am not in pain. Ah, if 
 I were in pain there would be more hope for 
 me. And I would not complain to Thee that 
 I did not feed upon roses, if Thou wouldst 
 vouchsafe only that the thorns might wound 
 and tear me. And yet, O God, Thou knowest
 
 148 A Romance of 
 
 I am distracted still by trifles, by pleasures 
 that are no pleasures, and by pains that are 
 no pains. And Thou hast given me high 
 spirits, and Thou hast hidden my soul in a 
 raiment of light laughter, and in what, even 
 to me, sometimes seems contentment. But 
 my brain is empty ; I know not where to turn. 
 To this thing and to this thing I would apply 
 myself ; but whenever I begin to stir myself, 
 the reason which Thou hast given me plucks 
 me by the ear, and hisses in a whisper, ' To 
 what purpose ? Are not all things vanity ? ' 
 
 " And what is this I say ? To whom am I 
 speaking? I am speaking to One of whose 
 very existence I am doubtful. I am not cer- 
 tain if I could stake a hundred pounds upon 
 it. Oh, my forlorn hopes ! My reason trips 
 me, I am entangled and thrown down. Fool 
 that I am wretched, wretched fool ! And yet, 
 though I am thus laying prostrate, thrown 
 abject and confused upon the ground, I will 
 not be hindered. O God, I still will speak 
 to Thee. I will plead with Thee, and call 
 Thee to witness that at least I have been near 
 Thee, that I have known Thy presence, and
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 149 
 
 that, far away though I be from Thee now, 
 though this world of shadows may now blind 
 my eyes to Thee, there is nothing in it any- 
 where that I have longed for as I have longed 
 for Thee, there is nothing I have desired in 
 comparison of Thee. Thou hast been to me 
 my all, my life, my light, and my salvation. 
 Thou hast been the one wealth of my soul 
 its one and only fire ; and all that has hidden 
 Thee has been but as burning ashes. 
 
 " Am I mad ? Am I a hypocrite ? Am I 
 dreaming ? Am I lying to myself, as I write 
 thus ? Am I playing a part before myself 
 to deceive myself ? O my God, after all, is 
 it nothing but my own sin, my own love- 
 lessness that stands between me and Thee ? 
 Dost Thou put me away, seeing how lightly 
 I have esteemed Thy creatures ? Have I, as 
 Campbell said to me, quenched Thy Spirit ? " 
 
 How odd Campbell's name looked, stuck 
 in like that ! 
 
 " My God is it not possible that I may 
 plead my cause thus with Thee ? May I not 
 justify myself to Thee r and say, the worse I 
 am now, the more does this show how I loved
 
 150 A Romance of 
 
 Thee. Thou wast present in every affection, 
 in every energy of my life ; therefore with 
 my withdrawal every energy, every affection 
 is ruined. Yes I might say this, but for 
 one thing. Ah me, my God, behold what is 
 now happening to me. The desire of Thee 
 has long made me miserable ; and, ah, more 
 miserable that I am ! even my desire for 
 Thee is now deserting me. My heart is ceas- 
 ing to ache for Thee. A hateful peace is 
 slowly soothing it to its death. My soul is 
 getting colder and colder ; warmth is leaving 
 it, as it leaves a man who is dying. Oh, my 
 God, remain with me. Keep my pain and 
 my desolation alive in me ! If Thou wilt not 
 fill the void in my heart that Thou didst once 
 fill, let the void remain void, let nothing else 
 fill it. Give me no peace, unless it be Thy 
 peace. Torment me, but forsake me not. 
 Scourge me, keep me wretched and restless 
 till I find Thee ! This is indeed a sincere 
 prayer. Oh, my God, is it a wrong one ? " 
 
 Here he came to a long pause, and threw 
 his pen down, as if he would write no more. 
 He looked round the room wearily, and
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 151 
 
 stared in a kind of a stupor on the various 
 books about him. At last his eye fixed on a 
 volume of Herbert Spencer, and for many 
 minutes he was motionless. Then seizing 
 the pen again, he rapidly added what follows : 
 
 " This our mental condition over our sins 
 or longings over inward peace or agony 
 to the teachers of the present day what sickly 
 trifles, what phantoms such things seem ! or 
 at best, what a storm in a saucer ! To the 
 prophets of humanity an unskilful bricklayer 
 is a more tragic object than a ruined soul ! " 
 
 Several times during the long course of 
 his writing Vernon had gone to the window 
 and peered out. He now went again once 
 more, and the moon was setting the moon, 
 which during his after-dinner walk had been 
 so high in the middle heavens. This showed 
 him that the night must be far spent. Pres- 
 ently his eye fell on a small side-table, and 
 there lay an object so commonplace, that it 
 seemed to him like a spectre. It was a letter 
 he had not before noticed that had come for 
 him by che evening's post. The writing, 
 which was large and decided, might have
 
 152 A Romance of 
 
 been either a man's or woman's; and he 
 fancied it was familiar, though he could con- 
 nect no name with it. He broke open the 
 envelope, as if the sight of it had half-dazed 
 him ; and the first words he read sent all the 
 blood to his cheek. 
 
 " Dear Mr. Vernon," began the letter, 
 " when I saw you the other day I quite forgot 
 to tell you that my very heart was broken. 
 ("What!" thought Vernon, "can this be 
 from Miss Walters ? " He went on reading.) 
 " And only a clever young man like you can 
 be of the least comfort to me. My poor little 
 darling Skye terrier, Prinny the thing on this 
 earth I have loved best and longest was run 
 over and killed the other day by a young 
 man with a tandem. Only conceive it a 
 tandem ! And this young gentleman could 
 have hardly held in a donkey. Had he been 
 one of my stable-helps, I should have known 
 pretty well what to do with him. And now 
 you if you will, I want you to write an 
 epitaph for me. My angel is being em- 
 balmed by a very accomplished bird-stuffer, 
 and is to have Christian burial when I get
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 
 
 back to England. Your verses shall have a 
 most honorable place ; so be a good man, and 
 write them for me." And then followed the 
 bold signature of the Duchess. 
 
 With a tired sleepy smile Vernon again sat 
 down at his writing-table. A thought had 
 struck him suddenly ; and seizing the pen he 
 scribbled these hasty lines : 
 
 "Thou art gone to sleep, and we 
 May we some day sleep like thee. 
 Prinny, were this heart of mine 
 Half so true, my dog, as thine, 
 I my weary watch should keep 
 For a something more than sleep ! " 
 
 Whatever besides sleep the exhausted 
 writer may have longed for, sleep, at least, 
 now unexpectedly fell upon him. His eye- 
 lids grew heavy like lead, the pen dropped 
 from his hand, and, sinking back in his chair, 
 he became lost to consciousness.
 
 154 <A Romance oj 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 TTTHEN Vernon awoke it was already 
 daylight : the Venetian shutters were 
 barred with the red gleams of morning. His 
 eyelids ached, and he looked about him be- 
 wildered. 
 
 " What has happened to me ? " he said to 
 himself. "Am I awake, or is this a night- 
 mare ? " 
 
 He paced about the library, at first almost 
 staggering ; but by and bye he recovered 
 himself. He mounted to his bedroom. It 
 had a ghastly alien aspect. There was his 
 bed cold, smooth, and unslept in with his 
 night-shirt folded lying upon it. He ruffled 
 the sheets and pillow, that he might seem to 
 his servant to have passed the night as usual ; 
 for, as to lying down, it was the last thing he
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 155 
 
 now thought of. Then he tore his clothes 
 off and plunged into a cold bath. He re- 
 dressed himself, he made a large cup of cof- 
 fee over a spirit-lamp, and having drunk it, 
 he softly stole out of doors. 
 
 The long shadows of the clear day in its 
 infancy made his garden wear an unfamiliar 
 face for him. But the living breath of the 
 air, fresh with the dew, and quick with the 
 smells of flower-beds, woke in him new pulses. 
 He paused and looked about him that his 
 spirit might "drink the spectacle."' The 
 sea was a pale sheet, sharply dark at the 
 horizon, where it washed with its long levels 
 the reddening tract of sunrise ; and it was 
 strewn with floating fragments of the crocus 
 and the rose of the sky. The faint prom- 
 ontories of Italy slept in a veil of vapor. 
 Inland lay the far hill-villages, white scat- 
 tered specks on the huge slope of the moun- 
 tains ; and below them were sombre ranges 
 of far-reaching mounded olive-woods. These 
 were unchanging in their soft impassive 
 
 * " His spirit drank 
 The spectacle." WORDSWORTH.
 
 156 A Romance of 
 
 darkness ; but except on these the light 
 was brightening everywhere : and presently, 
 far beyond them, the bleak gigantic high- 
 lands flushed all from gray into a sudden 
 liquid rose-color, as they caught the risen 
 splendor on their naked frosts or dews. 
 
 Vernon as he looked felt himself come to 
 life again, but to a life of clear sensation 
 rather than clear thoughts. Thoughts, how- 
 ever, of some kind must have begun to dimly 
 stir in him ; for he soon found himself mov- 
 ing in a definite direction. It was the direc- 
 tion of the Chateau St. John. He passed 
 through a wicket, with a large open expanse 
 studded with heath and furze-bushes. The 
 sea was on one side of it ; it was traversed 
 by several paths ; and, for the sake of the air 
 and view, he had often before wandered in 
 it. Here he paused. Beyond were the tufts 
 and plumes of the luxuriant Chateau shrub- 
 beries, and between these, by glimpses, the 
 Chateau itself was visible. Vernon's eye 
 fixed on the line of windows. The blinds 
 were down ; the whole house seemed slum- 
 bering. The path where he stood led to a
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 157 
 
 marble gateway, through which one entered 
 the gardens and passed into an avenue of 
 orange-trees. Towards this gateway, though 
 he could not explain why, he was, in another 
 moment, moving. Last night he could write 
 his thoughts ; now they were too vague for 
 analysis. He only knew that his blood was 
 beating quicker, that a vein in each temple 
 was throbbing fast, though faintly, and that 
 a faint shudder for an instant had made his 
 whole frame tingle. 
 
 He passed through the gates with a feel- 
 ing of hope and peril ; he might have been 
 entering the charmed bounds of a sorceress. 
 And yet the place was already known by 
 heart to him ; and only a week ago he had 
 roamed at his own will in it. A maze of 
 paths branched from the orange avenue. He 
 instinctively chose one that led far away from 
 the house, and that brought him by and by to 
 a long succession of gardens, terraced on the 
 hill-side, and leading down to the sea. He 
 stole on rapidly, past urns and statues, foun- 
 tains and set flower-beds ; he descended by 
 broad flights of steps from one level to
 
 158 A Romance of 
 
 another, and he at last diverged into a steep 
 winding path, which dived into a natural 
 tunnel amongst certain fantastic rocks. This 
 brought him presently, after several turnings, 
 to the strand of a tiny bay. On either side 
 was a curve of sheltering cliffs, not lofty but 
 precipitous, and plunging straight into clear 
 gray-green sea-water. The strand was a little 
 platform, gravelled carefully, and backed by a 
 bed of violets. 
 
 Here he paused, and at last began to 
 meditate. Slowly his vague feelings turned 
 into thoughts and images. His vigils of the 
 night came back to him, with the strange 
 projection on paper he had made of his own 
 condition ; and they took a ghastly aspect as 
 the air of the morning breathed on them. 
 Mixed, too, with these phantasmal memories 
 were thoughts of a different order, which soon 
 began to reveal themselves with semitrans- 
 parent bodies. They were thoughts of the 
 clear-cheeked mistress of the grounds where 
 he was now trespassing. No sooner had he 
 become conscious of this, than a memory 
 came back to him of certain sayings of Camp-
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 159 
 
 bell's, and he exclaimed to himself, with 
 weary self-reproach, " Why am I here ? Do I 
 think again of yielding? Why am I here? 
 What has brought me here ? Is not my 
 imagination at its old game again, once more 
 leading me into a time of dissolute idleness, 
 with an aimless wasting of what might be 
 some true affection, or at least some true 
 sense of duty ? I do not love this girl. I 
 have no wish to bind myself. All the fine 
 and all the high feelings she stirs in me I 
 value them only as a subtle form of excite- 
 ment : and the finer the feelings are yes, that 
 is indeed true the worse for us is it when we 
 play with them. Let me be brave for once ; 
 let me make one sacrifice ; let me call my 
 imagination away from her. And yet ah 
 me those lovely, lovely lips of hers ! " 
 
 At this moment a slight noise startled 
 him. He turned quickly round, and there, at 
 the distance of a pace or two, she was herself 
 standing before him. In an instant, like bats 
 from daylight, his scruples took wing, and hid 
 themselves. He was conscious of a shock, as 
 of all his will yielding. In a little while he
 
 160 A Romance of 
 
 stood silent and looked at her, feeling noth- 
 ing but his own blood beating, and letting 
 his eyes rest on her. Seen thus in the dawn- 
 ing she was a fresh surprise to him. His 
 memory, it is true, had retained her image 
 clearly ; but it had let the image tarnish, and 
 lose its exquisite delicacy. He saw she was 
 far more lovely than in his thoughts just now 
 she had seemed to him. She was dressed in 
 a way that, it was evident, was meant only 
 for solitude. She had a long cloak on, with 
 a border of broad sable. It was fastened 
 round her throat with additional closeness by 
 a small brooch of diamonds ; and below it 
 descended a pale blue satin dressing-gown. 
 She had apparently taken what at waking 
 she could first seize upon, for on her slim 
 shoes there was a glimmer of gold em- 
 broidery, and on one of her hands was a 
 long evening glove. The other was bare, 
 and held a pale, dewy rose in it. 
 
 Vernon's rapid glance took in all these de- 
 tails ; and the same impression was renewed 
 in him that he received at first meeting her. 
 Everything about her was dainty, almost fine
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 161 
 
 in its daintiness ; yet, in relation to her, it 
 seemed natural as her own complexion. And 
 she herself, with the early light caressing her 
 had that complexion stolen a tint from 
 morning ? Had the dews of night washed 
 her violet eyes clearer ? 
 
 Miss Walters was the first to speak ; but 
 she only exclaimed, "Mr. Vernon!" and he 
 for the first moment could only exclaim, 
 " Miss Walters ! " He was not, however, a 
 man to remain long tongue-tied ; and very 
 soon, with a smile, he was begging pardon as 
 a trespasser. " Before you came here," he 
 said, " these gardens were a favorite haunt of 
 mine ; and I thought that, under cover of the 
 morning, I might venture in, just once more, 
 undetected." 
 
 " And I thought," said Miss Walters, with 
 a glance at her own costume, " that I might 
 be undetected also. I certainly did not come 
 out expecting to confront company." 
 
 The soft low voice in which these words 
 were murmured, showed Vernon that she 
 was not displeased at meeting him. Directly 
 after she happened to drop her glove. She
 
 1 62 A Romance of 
 
 fixed her eyes on him smiling, and said, " Pick 
 that up, will you." It was a simple request to 
 make, but it had in it that subtle note of com- 
 mand, the assumption of which by a woman 
 is one of the first signs of an understanding. 
 Vernon understood this perfectly, and his 
 heart swelled with rapture. He was fully 
 launched now on the tide of luxurious feeling; 
 and he murmured secretly, as his eyes met 
 his companion's, " My own ! my own ! " The 
 consciousness of having even in thought ap- 
 plied such a phrase as this to a woman, might 
 be to many men a sharp self-revelation ; but 
 Vernon knew himself far too well to think 
 anything serious of such bursts of unuttered 
 feeling. No lover, however, of the most ear- 
 nest and genuine kind could have put more 
 tender expression than he did into his voice 
 when he asked her presently, " Are you al- 
 ways so early a riser as this ? " 
 
 "No," she said, "but I slept badly last 
 night; and the morning looked so beautiful, 
 I huddled on these things, as you see any- 
 thing I could get together ; I stole out noise- 
 lessly, and found myself in a fairy-land of
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 163 
 
 rv>ses, silent and fresh with dew. I hardly 
 know these gardens yet. They are all a 
 wonder and delight to me. I had never ex- 
 plored that little tunnel before ; and you may 
 judge how surprised I was when I found you 
 standing here. 
 
 " Let me show you," said Vernon, " the 
 mysteries of your own domains. Let us go 
 up again, and I will be your valet de place" 
 
 She turned, and she went with him. His 
 whole being was possessed with the sense of 
 her near companionship. They wandered oo 
 together through the more sequestered walks, 
 slowly and often pausing, for the sake of some 
 sight or sound. Now it was a bird's song that 
 arrested them, now a prospect a fan-palm, an 
 arch of roses, or the peaks of the distant Alps : 
 and such things as these were for some time 
 all they talked about. Impersonal, however, 
 as the conversation seemed to be, a sense of 
 mutual ease between them was growing under 
 its kindly shelter; nor was this to be wondered 
 at. Conversations which are impersonal in 
 form, are sometimes intensely personal in 
 spirit. The subjects spoken about are like
 
 1 64 A Romance of 
 
 the masks worn at a ball ; and a passion can 
 be declared plainly under the guise of prais- 
 ing a view. Things on the present occasion 
 had not come to this ; but the conversation 
 was full on both sides of oblique hints of feel- 
 ing ; and the subtle response of Miss Walters 
 to every sight of beauty revealed to Vernon 
 new depths in her character. She saw a 
 thousand minute things that his eyes had 
 passed over, even to the play of the dewdrops 
 falling from leaf to leaf ; and when he pointed 
 out to her the wider and bolder prospects, the 
 feelings they stirred in her seemed to be more 
 deep than his own. She looked, he thought, 
 amongst the dews and the roses, like the spirit 
 of the morning facing its own creations. 
 
 Presently he was preparing to turn up a 
 certain path, when with a quick movement 
 she put her hand on his arm and stopped 
 him. " Not that path," she said. " It brings 
 us in full view of the house ; and to the ob- 
 servation of the servants, I think, we should 
 be a somewhat mysterious couple." 
 
 When a woman once shows herself con- 
 scious that she is doing anything clandestine,
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 165 
 
 i man can rarely avoid some slight change in 
 his manner towards her : and Vernon now, as 
 they turned into a different path, felt that he 
 looked at her with a slightly less disguised ad- 
 miration. Any such freedom, however, spent 
 itself like a relapsing wave, as his look en- 
 countered hers. Her eyes showed no fear of, 
 or no offence at him. They were full only of 
 a sad, earnest inquiry, as though she were won- 
 dering what were his feelings. As she thus 
 regarded him, she betrayed something he had 
 not before noticed. In spite of its radiant 
 aspect her face bore signs of weariness, and 
 under her eyes were streaks of transparent 
 purple. 
 
 " Yes," she said absently, as Vernon re- 
 marked on this ; " last night I was very wake- 
 ful. And you," she added " I think the same 
 fate must have been yours. Why, Mr. Vernon, 
 how is it that this has escaped me ? You look 
 more than tired ; haggard is the only word for 
 it. Has anything painful happened to you?" 
 
 Vernon was silent for a few moments ; then 
 he answered smiling, " You make me speak to 
 you ; your voice acts like a spell on me. I
 
 1 66 A Romance of 
 
 spent last night face to face with a spectre. 
 I spent it face to face with that dead self of 
 mine which I told you I had come here to 
 5nd again." 
 
 " Yes," she said, " you told me. To some 
 people your words might perhaps have had 
 no meaning. But I understood them. I have 
 seen and known things that made them quite 
 plain to me. Tell me, then have you so 
 soon found whaf you were seeking for?" 
 
 " Not it no; but the phantom of it. It 
 was the piteous phantom, not the returning 
 friend. At least I think so ; for just now I 
 can be sure of nothing. Some day, perhaps, 
 I may be able to tell you better." 
 
 " I, too," she said, " have something that I 
 may perhaps telljy0# some day." 
 
 Vernon was silent for a moment ; and then 
 he said to her, " Give me that rose as a pledge 
 that you will keep your promise." 
 
 " It is not a promise" she murmured, " it is 
 2i perhaps only." But at the same time, with 
 a slow regretful movement, she gave him the 
 pledge he asked for. As he took the flower 
 from her, their hands touched ; for a few
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 167 
 
 seconds they lingered in light contact, and 
 then gently, and with no resistance on her 
 part, Vernon took hers in his own. As he 
 held it, he looked into her face silently ; by a 
 slight movement he made her turn round to 
 the sunrise, and raising the rose in his hand, 
 he laid it against her cheek. "And you are 
 pale," he said, "like one of these creamy rose- 
 petals. See what you have given me it is 
 your own image." 
 
 Miss Walters made no answer, excepting 
 with her eyes and with her cheeks, whose 
 living rose-leaf flushed with a faint carnation. 
 A pause here might have been not without 
 embarrassment. Vernon felt this with the 
 instinct of the true love-maker, and he lit on 
 a new subject instantly. He saw that in her 
 left hand she was holding a small volume, 
 and with a voice quite altered, he asked, 
 " What have you got there ? " 
 
 " You would hardly guess perhaps," she 
 said, with a little flickering smile. " It is a 
 Bible. I always keep it by the side of my 
 bed, and I always read a verse or two in 
 the morning when I get up. I make my
 
 1 68 A Romance of 
 
 selections in a way no critic would approve 
 of ; and I'm sure I can't explain to you what 
 my exact principle is. This morning I chose 
 shall I tell you what? Let us sit down 
 upon this bench for a moment, and I will 
 read it out to you. No " she said, putting 
 her hand on his, " you must not take the 
 book from me. I don't want you to see the 
 context. ' Awake, O north wind ; and come, 
 thou south ; blow upon my garden, that the 
 spices thereof may flow out. ... I sleep, 
 but my heart waketh : it is the voice of my 
 beloved that knocketh, saying, Open to me. 
 my sister, my love, my dove, my undefiled : 
 for my head is filled with dew, and my locks 
 with the drops of the night.' " 
 
 The selection of this passage was a slight 
 shock to Vernon, or rather the fact that, 
 having selected it, she should have thus read 
 it to him. But so absent from her seemed 
 all consciousness that it could have any 
 personal application, that he instantly felt 
 ashamed of so vulgar a suspicion of her. 
 
 " They are beautiful verses," said Vernon, 
 " and you read them beautifully. I am going
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 169 
 
 to ask you an odd question, seeing that this 
 is only our second meeting. Do you say 
 prayers in the morning, as well as read the 
 Bible?" 
 
 " I am a person," she said abstractedly, 
 " who has said many prayers, many, many, 
 many. I have passed nights of watching, just 
 as last night you did. But women endure 
 and suffer with more patience than men do." 
 
 " With more patience, yes ; because they 
 have less to suffer." 
 
 "Do you think that is true?" she said, 
 smiling sadly. 
 
 "Not of all women no; but of women 
 like you it must be. The sufferings we talk 
 of are those of the heart and spirit. I don't 
 know your history ; your burdens may have 
 been more heavy than mine ; but they have 
 been burdens of a nobler kind ; they have 
 been such as are laid only on those who are 
 fit to bear them. It is far easier for the saint 
 to carry the cross, than for the sinner to find 
 or raise it again when he has once dropped 
 it in the snow." 
 
 Again she looked at him with the same
 
 170 A Romance of 
 
 sad smile. " Do you think," she said, "that 
 I am a saint, then ? " 
 
 " No," he answered, "you are not a saint. 
 But I think you are listening for the sounds 
 that the saints hear." 
 
 Presently he resumed. " I might perhaps 
 have thought you were a saint already, if it 
 were not for one reason." 
 
 " And what reason is that ? " 
 
 " Let me look at you once more : let me 
 see if I can venture to tell you. Well my 
 reason is this. If I knew that you would 
 never know it, or that knowing, you would 
 forgive or forget it, I feel quite sure that I 
 should touch your lips with mine." 
 
 As Vernon said this, he again put out his 
 hand to her, but instead of meeting it, she 
 raised hers to her face, and for a moment hid 
 her eyes with it. 
 
 " Remember," she said presently, " nothing 
 like that must ever come into our friendship. 
 I have set you apart in my own mind from 
 all other men, and you must learn to think of 
 me not as others have done." She seemed 
 to be half pleading with and half warning
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 171 
 
 him ; and her words came with a singular 
 soft solemnity which at once fanned his feel- 
 ings and made him resolved to check them. 
 "You must think of me," she went on, "just 
 as I am to think of you. I am your friend, 
 or, if you like it, your sister : and near rela- 
 tions, you know, are only absurd when they 
 are sentimental." 
 
 Vernon could not understand her. She 
 was evidently all in earnest ; but there was 
 something in herself, some subtle power in 
 her presence, by which her words were more 
 than neutralized. " Surely," he thought, 
 " this is not the voice of a sister ; and when 
 feelings are merely sisterly it is never worth 
 while saying so." He was stung by a hybrid 
 impulse the wish to obey her words and the 
 wish to yield to her fascination. 
 
 " I will think of you," he exclaimed, " in 
 any way you tell me to : and you shall let 
 me call you by the name you have yourself 
 taught me my sister, my love, my dove, my 
 undefiled. May I call you that ? " 
 
 She made no answer, but she clasped her 
 hands before her ; he could see that she
 
 172 A Romance of 
 
 clasped them tightly : and she sat motionless 
 with her eyes turned upwards. At last she 
 said, " Could you only call me that truly, I 
 would give up everything ! " 
 
 " What," murmured Vernon, " should hin- 
 der me? My love, my dove, my undefiled, 
 I shall always connect you with the clear 
 dews of the morning ; and your friendship 
 will revive my life like a second baptism." 
 
 " You are reckoning without your host," 
 she answered, still looking straight before 
 her, and shaking her head slowly. " You 
 know nothing about me yet, nor who it is 
 you are speaking to." 
 
 " What is wanting in my knowledge," said 
 Vernon, " is made up by my instincts. Think, 
 we have only met twice ; and yet already you 
 are my friend and my sister, and you have 
 already at least I think so put a new life 
 into me. I feel like a dusty flower that has 
 had dew fallen on it." 
 
 She rose from where they were sitting, and 
 began to walk on slowly. He followed her 
 in silence, watching her graceful movements. 
 A long branch of roses dangled across the
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 1 73 
 
 path. She drew it towards herself, and stood 
 still, smelling one of the blossoms. Pres- 
 ently, not looking at Vernon, " I think," she 
 said, " you had perhaps better beware of 
 me." 
 
 " For my sake or for yours ? " 
 
 " Not for mine, certainly. There is little 
 need for me to beware of anything." 
 
 " Not for me either," said Vernon. " You 
 will not ruin my peace. I should perhaps be 
 a better man if you were able to. Friendship 
 is all I ask for. I neither expect more nor 
 wish for it. As long as you care to meet me, 
 let my heart throb as I think of you. If you 
 withdraw your caring, no matter how capri- 
 ciously well, I will not reproach you." 
 
 " I doubt," she said smiling, " if ever I 
 could take things quite so easily as all that. 
 However, we shall see we shall see. We 
 shall have plenty of opportunities. And that 
 reminds me," here all of a sudden her manner 
 became conventional, " I fear you called upon 
 us yesterday and did not find us at home. It 
 is my fault that you had your trouble for 
 nothing. I had written you a note myself
 
 174 -A Romance of 
 
 the day before, to say that we were called 
 away, and to ask you in my aunt's name to 
 dine last night with us. But you see this is 
 what it is to be a methodical woman ! I left 
 it on my dressing-table, and it never was 
 taken at all. You would have only met 
 Colonel Stapleton." 
 
 " What sort of a man is Colonel Staple- 
 ton ? " a little abruptly. " I barely know him 
 to speak to." 
 
 " Oh," she said carelessly, " you can see 
 what he is in a moment. He hunts and 
 shoots, and has travelled over half the world. 
 I am fond of him, for I've known him ever 
 since I was so high ; but there's not much in 
 him ; and I don't know that you missed much 
 in not dining with us." 
 
 " The night before," said Vernon, " I had 
 a little dinner of my own. My guests were 
 an old college friend, who, I am sorry to say, 
 is gone ; and a poor Catholic priest, who is 
 staying near here for his health an excellent 
 man, but a little depressing sometimes." 
 
 " A priest ! " said Miss Walters. 
 
 " Not one of these country priests. My
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 175 
 
 friend is an Englishman, whom I once knew 
 well a fellow called Frederic Stanley." 
 
 " Frederic Stanley ! " 
 
 " You seem surprised. Do you know 
 him ? He is stopping here at the Pension." 
 
 " Know him ! " she replied. " He is a sort 
 of cousin of mine, and is the truest friend I 
 ever had in the world. Mr. Vernon," she 
 went on, " whatever relationship yours and 
 mine may be, Frederic Stanley was really 
 like a brother to me. I could once have told 
 him anything ; I could have asked his advice 
 in anything. But I shall never do that again. 
 There is one thing gone from my life gone 
 like many other things." 
 
 " Why," said Vernon, " should his being a 
 priest estrange you ? " 
 
 " It doesn't," she said. " I was not think- 
 ing of that. That, in itself, would rather help 
 to unite us. It is nothing that he knows of 
 that divides us now. Perhaps you but let 
 me look once in your eyes again ; just look 
 at me, please, for one moment steadily per- 
 haps you will know what it is some day. But 
 about Fred Stanley," she went on. " I should
 
 176 A Romance of 
 
 like you very much to be friends with him ; 
 I feel so sure he could help you. I have an 
 instinct, in your case ; I have a power of divi- 
 nation which tells me so." 
 
 " We are old friends already," said Ver- 
 non ; " we were at the same college together." 
 
 " You are not yet friends in the way I wish 
 you should be, or I am sure you would not 
 have spoken of him as you did just this mo- 
 ment. You call him depressing, and I think 
 I know what you mean by that. You re- 
 member him as he once was, full of feeling 
 for art and poetry, and full of interest in 
 everything from science to society ; and you 
 misjudge the change in him." 
 
 "In some men," said Vernon, " religion 
 kindles poetry ; it seems to have quenched 
 his. There is something now about him that 
 is hard and prosaic." 
 
 "If this is so, I can tell you the meaning 
 of it. His right hand has offended him, and 
 he has cut it off deliberately. There is no 
 one who naturally is more alive to beauty, or 
 to whatever can flatter delicately ambition, 
 intellectual pride, or the senses ; and under
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 177 
 
 the priest's surface, if you can only once get 
 under it, you will still discover the man of the 
 world and the poet ; only you will discover 
 them crucified. He has given his best as a 
 sacrifice to the God who, he thinks, loved men ; 
 his best, remember, not that which has cost 
 him nothing. You will detect his love for poe- 
 try in his very silence about it. Try to please 
 me, try to make better friends with him." 
 
 " I will try," said Vernon, " both for your 
 sake and for his. But tell me this, will you 
 what you have just said makes nte ask you 
 are you yourself a Catholic ? " 
 
 " No," she said with decision, " that is a 
 thing I never could be. I admire goodness, 
 and I hate evil you might realize how in- 
 tensely, if you only knew my history ; and 
 amongst my Catholic friends have been the 
 best people I have known. But how, with 
 their eyes open, they can swallow so much 
 nonsense I suppose there is some explana- 
 tion, but I confess it is quite beyond me." 
 
 " What sort of nonsense ? " 
 
 " Frederic Stanley, for instance, thinks he 
 could absolve me from my sins. I confess to 
 
 12
 
 178 A Romance of 
 
 him, and then he wipes the sin out. That is 
 his notion. Now he might advise me, were I 
 able to take advice, how to avoid repeating 
 my sins ; but it is ridiculous even to fancy 
 that he could relieve me of those I have com- 
 mitted." 
 
 " It is quite as mysterious to me," said 
 Vernon, " that God should forgive sins at all, 
 as that He should forgive them through 
 Stanley's agency." 
 
 " It may be so," she sighed. " I don't know 
 what to think about it. A God who is not 
 merciful is a monster ; a God who is just and 
 merciful seems an impossibility. Perhaps af- 
 ter all there is no mercy needed except from 
 one human being to another ; and as to what 
 we do to ourselves, perhaps that matters 
 nothing." 
 
 Vernon looked at her in surprise. " Do 
 you really think that ? " he said. 
 
 She cast her eyes down, and began to put 
 on her glove. She seemed occupied with the 
 beauty of her own delicate hands. Presently 
 however, and not without hesitation, " I'll tell 
 you," she said, "what I really do think. Re-
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 179 
 
 Hgion, when a good man is possessed by it, 
 makes him unselfish, and eager to work for 
 others ; but it makes a woman selfish. It 
 centres her whole anxiety on keeping her own 
 robe taintless ; and it is always sending her to 
 her looking-glass that she may examine her 
 moral toilette. In the language of religion, 
 this is female virtue par excellence. Well, I 
 can't help thinking I hope you won't be 
 shocked at me that there are other virtues 
 in God's eyes more important than this ; and 
 that it will be asked us first, what work have 
 your hands done ? not, whether we have kept 
 them quite clean in doing it." 
 
 " I have myself," said Vernon slowly, and 
 not without some surprise, " been inclined to 
 accuse Catholicism of the same fault in its 
 teaching. But the fault and I am sure it 
 exists is really not in Catholicism, but in 
 certain times and teachers : perhaps, too, in 
 certain pupils. What the Church teaches us 
 is, that we all of us, women as well as men, 
 have two duties, one to ourselves the other 
 to humanity ; and that these are like the two 
 feet on which the pilgrim goes to God. It is
 
 180 A Romance of 
 
 easy to sneer at the self-regarding virtues ; 
 but the Church is a true philosopher when 
 she insists to man on their necessity. Unless 
 we work for others we shall have nothing to 
 offer God : unless we keep our hearts pure, 
 we shall be unable to offer it." 
 
 Towards the close of what he said, he 
 turned his eyes to Miss Walters ; and hers, 
 as they met his, suddenly grew moist for a 
 moment. Her whole face was full of earnest- 
 ness. 
 
 "Are you, then," she said, "a Catholic?" 
 
 "I don't know," he murmured, "what I 
 am." 
 
 "Just now," she said, "you asked me a 
 question, and I believe I evaded it. You 
 asked me if I said my prayers. I am now 
 going to ask the same question of you. Do 
 you?" 
 
 " Very ill ; but still I do say them." 
 
 " Then if you do," she said, holding out 
 her hand to him, "pray for me. Now go. 
 The clock is striking eight. I must get back 
 to the house." 
 
 Her hand was in his. He held it, and it
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 181 
 
 was not withdrawn from him. Here again 
 there was a sharp distinct struggle in him. 
 Should he do something, or should he forbear 
 from doing it? Impulse urged him one way ; 
 conscience, with clear voice, the other : and 
 in a few seconds again conscience yielded. 
 Nearer and nearer to himself he drew his 
 fair companion. She, as if spell-bound, offered 
 no resistance. Presently he was sensible of 
 the warmth of her face close to him : a mo- 
 ment more, and he had done what he said he 
 longed to do ; he had kissed her on her prof, 
 fered lips. 
 
 The touch recalled her to herself. " Go," 
 she said, "go. You don't know what it is 
 you are doing to me." And without another 
 look she was gone. 
 
 Vernon found his way homewards in a new, 
 confused excitement. A wild pleasure was 
 struggling with self-reproach, and he hardly 
 knew the exact nature of either. His mind 
 was a mystery to himself, like a magician's 
 crystal globe. There seemed to be in it 
 a white vapor rising, which would take 
 presently some unconjectured shape.
 
 A Romance of 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 "T^HE after-taste of the above interview was 
 to Vernon not without bitterness. He 
 was beset by two reflections of an opposite 
 nature, and each in its own way annoying. 
 One of these was, " I was a fool to kiss her." 
 The other, " I was a still greater fool not to 
 ask her when I might be allowed to see her 
 again." He had already made his formal call 
 at the Chateau ; he would not repeat it with- 
 out some sort of invitation ; and it might be 
 a day, it might perhaps be even two, before 
 his new romance could be proceeded with. 
 Fate, however, proved more kind than he 
 had anticipated. In the course of the morn- 
 ing a scented note arrived for him, and before 
 he had even touched it his mind had divined 
 the authoress.
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 183 
 
 " Dear Mr. Vernon," she wrote, " there is a little town 
 among the mountains here called St. Paul du Var, which 
 my aunt has seen from a distance, and much wishes to 
 visit. We have some thoughts of going there this after- 
 noon ; and if you have nothing better to do, it would 
 give her great pleasure if you would come with us. 
 " Sincerely yours, 
 
 "CYNTHIA WALTERS." 
 
 Then came the following postscript : 
 
 " Remember, if you are to be ever a friend of mine, 
 you must never act again as if you were more than a 
 friend." 
 
 He seized a pen eagerly, and had begun to 
 write an acceptance, when he was cut short by 
 a very unwelcome interruption. The mother 
 had arrived of his little crippled protegee, and 
 was begging to speak to him about her child's 
 condition. " Damn her ! " was his first ex- 
 clamation ; and then to the servant he said, 
 " Let her come to-morrow." The man closed 
 the door, but in another moment Vernon had 
 recalled him. " No," he said, " you may tell 
 her to come in now." A breath of garlic 
 announced the old woman's advent. Vernon 
 forced a smile and held his handkerchief to
 
 184 -A Romance of 
 
 his nostrils. The story was this . the boot 
 required altering, one of the steel supports 
 grazed the poor child's ankle, and so far as 
 Vernon could gather, she was in great suffer- 
 ing. " Let her take the boot off, and I will 
 come to-morrow." It was on his lips to say 
 this, and to say it with some impatience. But 
 he happened to look into the old crone's face, 
 and his whole purpose altered. " I will be 
 with you," he said, " in the course of the next 
 hour, and will take the child to Nice with me, 
 when the boot shall be refitted on her." Biting 
 his lips with irritation, he wrote Miss Walters 
 an unwilling refusal, and started presently on 
 his distasteful work of mercy. " I wish," he 
 murmured, " the little brat was at the devil. 
 Here's another day she's spoilt for me." By 
 and by, however, he saw a brighter side to 
 the question. "After all," he thought, "it 
 has perhaps turned out for the best. Had I 
 been with that girl, I should have committed 
 myself more and more. I should have said 
 much and meant nothing. Or else my God, 
 what a brute I am ! I should have been using 
 the thoughts I wish to think, as dominoes in
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 185 
 
 a game of love-making. I have done that 
 already this morning. Campbell was right 
 about me ! " 
 
 Such thoughts as these kept recurring to 
 him throughout the day ; but they were not 
 without their rivals. The memory of Miss 
 Walters her beauty, her delicate feeling, 
 her strange ambiguous phrases, and the touch 
 of her hand and lips this would recur also, 
 and make him again long for her company. 
 His business with the child detained him some 
 hours at Nice, and it was latish when he got 
 home again. But the events of the day had 
 done little to calm his mind. Prudence, de- 
 sire, and conscience still stung and distracted 
 him. 
 
 When he entered his library, he found 
 another letter awaiting him, in an envelope 
 not unlike the one he had received that 
 morning. But he was disappointed ; it was 
 not from Miss Walters. It would have told its 
 own authorship, even without the Duchess's 
 signature. " I hope," it ran, " that you have 
 composed me those verses. However, it is 
 not about these that I am writing ; and I
 
 i86 A Romance of 
 
 shall not dare you yet. What I want to tell 
 you is that old Surbiton is coming over to 
 the Cap to-morrow for me, to give a proper 
 blowing up to the head gardener at the Hotel 
 there ; and as we all know how particular he 
 is about his eating, I want you, if you will, to 
 let him come to you for luncheon. If I may 
 give you a hint, I will tell you he worships 
 truffles. There's another man here a good 
 sort of creature in his way. You would, per- 
 haps, if he comes, let him trespass on your 
 hospitality also." 
 
 The prospect of any excitement pleased 
 Vernon at the moment. He wrote out a 
 telegram to the Duchess, that was to be sent 
 the first thing next morning. He sum- 
 moned his chef, and had a long conference 
 with him about a luncheon : then, thoroughly 
 wearied, he took himself off to bed ; and Lord 
 Surbiton, truffles, and Miss Walters in turn 
 engaged his thoughts, as by dreamy stages 
 they decomposed into unconsciousness.
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 T TE sent next day to the station to meet 
 Lord Surbiton, who in due time ar- 
 rived. He was not alone, however. The 
 other man mentioned by the Duchess had 
 escaped Vernon's mind for the moment ; and 
 it was with no great feeling of pleasure that 
 he discovered it to be Colonel Stapleton. 
 He had had a nodding acquaintance with 
 the Colonel for many years previous ; he 
 had had a vague impression that he hunted, 
 shot, and gambled ; and he had had passing 
 glimpses of him at various London houses. 
 But as for thinking of him for two minutes 
 together, he had never done this till the din- 
 ner at Monte Carlo. Colonel Stapleton since 
 that evening had been a vivid personality to 
 Vernon, and a personality distasteful to him to
 
 188 A Romance of 
 
 a degree he would not account for. He was 
 aware that in some vague way he might re- 
 gard the man as a rival ; but his distaste was 
 different from the mere distaste of jealousy. 
 He grudged him Miss Walters' acquaintance, 
 not because there was much that could at- 
 tract her in him, but because there was so 
 little. " Brute," he had murmured several 
 times to himself, " how I hate those swim- 
 ming eyes of his. I can't bear to think that 
 her eyes should look at him." This, how- 
 ever, he had himself seen they had done ; 
 and whenever he recollected how often and 
 how smilingly, Miss Walters seemed with- 
 drawn from him to some mysterious estrang- 
 ing distance. That was not all, however. 
 In the very process of this withdrawal she 
 became more alluring to him ; and he felt 
 himself at such moments grow sick with a 
 new longing for her. 
 
 The Colonel's reappearance made him 
 again truly conscious of this ; and it required 
 all his tact to prepare to receive him civilly. 
 It was a moment's consolation to him, as he 
 welcomed the two guests, to find that Lord
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 189 
 
 Surbiton looked somewhat bored with his 
 companion ; and Vernon at once, in his own 
 mind, taxed the Duchess with the arrange- 
 ment. Here at least he was right. Her 
 Grace dearly loved arranging. 
 
 Matters, however, went better than he had 
 hoped for. The Colonel's manner was one 
 of extreme good - breeding ; and his frank 
 and evident shyness at intruding on a bare 
 acquaintance, at once made Vernon genial 
 without the trouble of trying to be so. Pres- 
 ently too, at luncheon, Lord Surbiton lit up 
 into vivacity. All he had wanted hitherto 
 had been some subject he could discuss 
 strikingly ; and he soon found, in the science 
 of good living, one suited equally to himself 
 and his small audience. 
 
 " I often think," said the Colonel, " that 
 the best meat I ever tasted was a piece of 
 mutton in the desert, that was cooked for me 
 by a young Coptic girl." 
 
 Lord Surbiton turned to him with a keen 
 glance in his eyes. " The Coptic Church," 
 he said, "shows a singular beauty, does it 
 not, in its rule over the human affections ? "
 
 190 A Romance of 
 
 " Certainly," said the Colonel, " when I 
 studied its constitution you could be mar- 
 ried and unmarried by it, just as the fancy 
 seized you. You could be married when 
 you went to Egypt, and unmarried when 
 you left it. What one gained by the ar- 
 rangement was a wider field of choice." 
 
 " But suppose," said Lord Surbiton, " one 
 of these women became attached to you ; 
 might there not be some difficulty then in 
 getting quit of a lawful union ? " 
 
 " I shouldn't think so," said the Colonel, 
 despatching a fine truffle. " Besides, dis- 
 tance can divorce one, as well as the Cop- 
 tic Church." 
 
 Lord Surbiton sighed. " I regret much," 
 he said, " that I have hardly set foot in 
 Egypt ; and I have yet been a constant 
 wanderer. Like Shelley's Alastor, 
 
 " ' I have known 
 
 Athens, and Tyre, and Baalbec, and the waste 
 Where stood Jerusalem.'" 
 
 Colonel Stapleton stared. " I, too, have
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 191 
 
 been in the East," he said quietly. " I was 
 at Jerusalem four years ago." 
 
 " Not," said Vernon, " as a religious pil- 
 grim, I suppose ? " 
 
 The Colonel brushed a speck of dirt from 
 his finely-shaped finger nail. " No," he said, 
 "but I went there with a remarkably unre- 
 pentant Magdalene. She had had something 
 to do with some one who had something to do 
 with India ; and I came across her at a loose 
 end in Cairo. It was a curious thing to see 
 a woman of that kind amongst the sacred 
 scenes one has heard about, and all that kind 
 of thing. She, now this woman what 
 should you think her great wish was ? Not 
 to see Olivet, or Jericho, or any of those 
 places. Upon my word I doubt if she had 
 ever even heard of Abraham. What she 
 wanted to see was a certain dance at Da- 
 mascus." 
 
 Lord Surbiton's eyes shot with a fire of 
 intelligence, and his mouth emitted the ghost 
 of a hollow cackle. " I know the dance you 
 mean," he said. " I've seen it myself several 
 times."
 
 192 A Romance of 
 
 11 I mean this," said the Colonel ; and he 
 gave a minute description. 
 
 " I must confess," said Vernon, " that I 
 don't myself see the point of it." 
 
 "Why, my dear fellow," replied the Col- 
 onel, in a slightly aggrieved tone, " it's the 
 most damned suggestive thing imaginable. 
 Though, upon my word," he went on, " I 
 don't know if it beats some of the plays in 
 Paris. Have you, Lord Surbiton, seen - - ? " 
 and he named a certain play and theatre. 
 " You have ? Well, in the second act, did 
 you ever notice how the women's dresses 
 were cut ? " 
 
 Lord Surbiton with regretful interest con- 
 fessed that he had not. The Colonel at great 
 length enlightened him. It was now Lord 
 Surbiton's turn to impart instruction, and he 
 repaid the Colonel in kind ; it may also be 
 said with usury. His vivid power both of im- 
 agination and description made most of what 
 he said quite unfit to be chronicled. Ver- 
 non observed to himself, " There is no beast 
 like an old beast ; " and the Colonel's eyes as 
 he listened swam with attentive moisture.
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 193 
 
 By and by they all adjourned to the gar- 
 den, where a table, under the myrtle, was 
 set with wine and coffee. This turned Lord 
 Surbiton's thoughts into quite a new direc- 
 tion, and greatly to Vernon's pleasure he 
 began quoting Horace. Colonel Stapleton 
 since he left Eton had been no great stu- 
 dent ; but the sound of the Latin tongue 
 reminded him of one classical quotation, 
 Post prandia, Callirrhoe. He had hardly 
 aired this small fragment of learning, when 
 his manner changed suddenly ; and, slightly 
 embarrassed, and not without some feeling of 
 delicacy, "That line," he said, "was not very 
 well chosen by me, since after Mr. Vernon's 
 prandium, I have to call upon his next-door 
 neighbor." 
 
 " Confound him !" thought Vernon. " What 
 the devil does he come over here at all 
 for ? " 
 
 " But, Colonel," said Lord Surbiton, " you 
 are to help me as her Grace's emissary." 
 
 " I will be back in half an hour, if our host 
 will excuse me presently." 
 
 An idea flashed upon Vernon. " Will you 
 13
 
 IQ4 -d Romance of 
 
 bring your friends with you," he said, " and 
 we will all see the hotel garden together ? " 
 
 " Certainly," said the Colonel, with gay 
 good-humor. " I forgot to ask you if you 
 had seen much of them since that evening 
 when you carried them off in triumph ? I 
 watched you as you drove away, and a fine 
 spanking pace those horses of yours went, 
 too." 
 
 " Who are you talking of ? " exclaimed 
 Lord Surbiton. " Is it that lovely Miss 
 Walters ? By all means bring her, if such a 
 goddess will deign to appear among us." 
 
 " Upon my word," said the Colonel, "she 
 is a nymph or a goddess. Did you ever see 
 any one with a turn of the neck like that ? 
 She's about the handsomest woman in Eu- 
 rope Miss Walters is ; at least that's my 
 opinion ; and full of fun when you only get 
 to know her as I do. Then, the dear old 
 aunt too what a capital old lady that is ! 
 I've the greatest regard for Aunt Louisa." 
 
 " You, I suppose," said Vernon, " have 
 known them for a long time ? " 
 
 " God bless my soul, yes. Why when I
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 195 
 
 first knew Miss Cynthia she used to sit on 
 my knees and kiss me. But " the Colonel 
 suddenly started, and his voice dropped with 
 alarm " who's this coming here ? It looks 
 for all the world like the parson." 
 
 Vernon turned and saw it was Frederic 
 Stanley. " Well," said the Colonel hurriedly, 
 " I'm off to the Chateau, and in half an hour 
 I'll be back again." 
 
 As for Stanley, he began with a quiet 
 apology, " Your servant, Vernon, never told 
 me you had visitors ; but merely said that I 
 should find you here in the garden." 
 
 "Sit down, my dear fellow," said Vernon, 
 " I'm perfectly charmed to see you." But he 
 felt at the same time that the priest was out 
 of his element ; and was a little nervous when 
 he made him known to Lord Surbiton. 
 
 The event, however, set all his fears to rest. 
 Lord Surbiton's versatility was more than a 
 fancied gift in him ; and on Stanley's appear- 
 ance his entire demeanor changed. His fur- 
 rowed face invested itself with a look of 
 thoughtful gravity ; and in his tone and 
 gesture, as he acknowledged his new ao
 
 196 A Romance of 
 
 quaintance, there was the most perfect mix- 
 ture of fitting respect and dignity. Vernon 
 thought, as he watched him, that he had 
 never seen a truer gentleman. Stanley, too, 
 in becoming a priest, had by no means for- 
 gotten the savoir faire of the guardsman ; 
 and now that the Colonel was gone, the two 
 were presently quite at ease together. The 
 picturesqueness of the scene was such as to 
 strike all of them. The blue of the sea that 
 glowed through an arch of myrtles, the glit- 
 ter of the glasses, the red flash of the Bur- 
 gundy, and the gold of the piled up oranges, 
 not to mention themselves in the green 
 shadow all this to three graceful scholars 
 again suggested Horace, and the calm of the 
 Horatian philosophy. Lord Surbiton broke 
 out into several apt quotations, which both 
 the others would in turn either cap or con- 
 tinue ; and he exclaimed presently, with all 
 his pomp of utterance, " If every pleasure, as 
 Epicurus said it did, springs somehow or 
 other from some satisfaction of the senses, it 
 is poetry, it is literature alone, that makes 
 them last a lifetime."
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 197 
 
 " Epicurus," said Stanley, " would, I think, 
 have admitted that. He was the wisest, in 
 his generation, of all the old philosophers. 
 That sounds no doubt an odd opinion for a 
 priest ; but what I mean by it is this : If we 
 take this life by itself, as a thing to be lived 
 and done with, Epicurus saw most clearly why 
 and how to make the best of it : and the ex- 
 treme popularity of Horace is a striking proof 
 of this." 
 
 "True," said Lord Surbiton. "There is 
 something, to me, much finer in the Epicu- 
 rean calm than in the Stoic fortitude. The 
 man who is stern, is repressing his creation ; 
 the man who is calm has killed it. Think 
 how the two schools looked on death, for in- 
 stance. The Stoic looked on it with a de- 
 fiant frown ; by the act of an iron will he re- 
 solved not to wince at it. He braved it " 
 and here in Lord Surbiton's eyes came a 
 slight flash of the Devil " as a clumsy but 
 virtuous peasant might brave some wicked 
 nobleman. But the Epicurean had no need 
 of resolves, or of making heroic faces. He 
 met death as Metternich met Napoleon, with
 
 198 A Romance of 
 
 the reserved grace of a man who is the 
 superior in all but power, and who yet gives 
 power its due. Horace, as you say, Mr. 
 Stanley, is a proof of this. His odes show us 
 more clearly than anything the pathetic dig- 
 nity, the politely -concealed contempt, the 
 easy self-possession, and the superb high 
 breeding with which the Epicurean poet 
 greeted and treated death." 
 
 " Whatever we think," said Stanley, "about 
 the religious view of the matter, that sort of 
 philosophy is now no longer possible." 
 
 " Goethe's mother," said Vernon, "found 
 it so ; and so did our Charles the Second." 
 
 " I was thinking," said Stanley, " not of 
 death then, but of life. What I meant was 
 that a life of the proudest calm, though en- 
 riched with all the pleasures that can stimu- 
 late mind or body, is an ideal that now no 
 man of insight can be satisfied with. We 
 hear much, it is true, about the sublime calm 
 of Goethe. I have almost thought myself 
 that the sublime was very near the ridiculous. 
 But even were that not so, we are in Goethe's 
 age no longer. There is a new spirit now
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 199 
 
 abroad in the world ; we are becoming roused 
 to the sense of a new duty. I am speaking 
 of the conception of progress, and the duty of 
 each one of us to humanity. Your Epicurean 
 with his calm, in the face of a thought like 
 that, is like a man who sits on his luggage 
 when his train is leaving the station." 
 
 " Surely," said Lord Surbiton, with a smile 
 of surprised courtesy, " the Catholic Church 
 generally does not regard progress so com- 
 placently : and humanity as an object of wor- 
 ship I should have conceived in her eyes to be 
 little better than Antichrist." 
 
 " Do you remember the last words of an 
 expelled Pope on his death-bed, and the an- 
 swer his attendants made him ? ' Because I 
 have loved righteousness and hated iniqui- 
 ty, therefore I die in exile.' ' Because God 
 has given thee the heathen for thine inherit- 
 ance, and the uttermost parts of the earth for 
 thy possession, Vicar of Christ, in exile thou 
 canst not die.' Well, in the same way one 
 may speak of the Church always. She cannot 
 be outside progress, because she herself is 
 everywhere. What she rejects in the spirit
 
 2OO A Romance of 
 
 of Modern Secularism is not its truths, but 
 its false and delirious expression of them. 
 The religion of humanity, the religion of 
 human progress these are really implicit 
 parts of her system ; and it is she alone that 
 can give them a reasoned meaning. Many 
 people, we know, think them to be new reve- 
 lations. Suppose we call them so. The life 
 of the Church is a series of new revelations. 
 She is human nature perpetually unfolding 
 itself." 
 
 " I should have conceived," said Lord Sur- 
 biton, " that the Catholic type of sanctity was 
 a thing fixed forever, and that it could make 
 no terms with progress." 
 
 " That is true," said Stanley, " in one sense, 
 but it is not true in another ; for change and 
 fixity are not always incompatible. The type 
 of a perfect soldier may always remain the 
 same ; but it includes a change of conduct 
 according to changed positions. His part 
 may be sometimes active ; sometimes a mute 
 vigilance : and it is the same with the saint, 
 in the world's changing ages. For me I fully 
 recognize that we are now being swept on-
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 201 
 
 wards into an era of new duties, and that Al- 
 mighty God may be demanding a larger ser- 
 vice from us." 
 
 " I, too," said Lord Surbiton, "can tell that 
 a change is coming. You and Vernon will 
 see it ; but it will find the eyes of me and my 
 generation closed." He was silent for a minute 
 or two, whilst he lighted a large cigar. " I am 
 not a Catholic, Mr. Stanley," he resumed, 
 " but I am a student of human history ; and 
 putting our obvious differences aside, my view 
 of the Church has been yours. I am glad to 
 find that I have so orthodox an authority for 
 it. She has seemed to me to have embraced, 
 and to have been the only cause that has done 
 so, all that the most many-sided genius ever 
 could or can be busy with. She was at once 
 a perfect saint, and a perfect woman of the 
 world, and she would understand all man's 
 lowest impulse, and yet still forever lead him 
 up to the highest. Me," he went on sighing, 
 "she has taught at least one lesson that there 
 is little in this world worth a regret on los- 
 ing it." 
 
 "You are the last person, my Lord," said
 
 2O2 A Romance of 
 
 Stanley with politeness, "one could expect to 
 hear say that. You have fame, position, for- 
 tune all that the world can give you." 
 
 " It is these blessings," said Lord Surbiton, 
 "that have made my heart so teachable. It 
 may be wisdom to despise the world ; but to 
 despise it thoroughly you must first possess 
 it." 
 
 These words were uttered with a ghastly 
 kind of impressiveness, and received the re- 
 ward they wanted a moment's complete 
 silence. This was ended presently by sounds 
 of a new quality. The music of female voices 
 was suddenly heard approaching, and mixed 
 with them came the Colonel's crackling 
 laughter. 
 
 Vernon's heart had begun to beat quickly. 
 He turned his head, and there was the group 
 before him. 
 
 "You see," said Lady Walters, "we have 
 come to return your visit ; and we hope you 
 will show us your villa, as well as her Grace's 
 gardens." But Vernon had little time for 
 thinking of Lady Walters. Her niece was 
 there, standing side by side with the Colonel.
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 203 
 
 She had just, as she said presently, been 
 driving her pair of ponies ; and she still had 
 on a tight-fitting cloth dress, beneath which 
 protruded the top of a varnished boot. The 
 slightly masculine air which her present cos- 
 tume gave her, made a piquant mixture with 
 her natural grace and softness. It seemed to 
 hint to Vernon of some new side to her char- 
 acter ; and it touched him, he knew not why, 
 with a quick twinge of jealousy. The way 
 she greeted him did not dispel this feeling. 
 She was perfectly frank and friendly ; she was 
 indeed too frank. He sought in vain from 
 either her eye or hand any sign of their strange, 
 secret intimacy. " Good heavens," he thought, 
 "and it was but yesterday that I kissed her!" 
 In an instant, however, he was distracted 
 by another scene enacting itself. Stanley, 
 hearing strangers approaching, had withdrawn 
 to a little distance. He had not even heard 
 that the Walters were at the Cap de Juan; 
 and he now first learned the fact by finding 
 them there facing him. Vernon narrowly 
 watched Miss Walters, as the meeting was 
 taking place : and he saw how truly she had
 
 204 A Romance of 
 
 spoken when she called Stanley a brother, " I 
 had been meaning," she said, " to have sent you 
 a note yesterday ; but now to-night you must 
 come won't you and dine with us." Stanley 
 assented, and directly after withdrew himself. 
 The next step with the others was now to 
 see Vernon's villa ; and Vernon in showing it 
 began to feel more prosperous. The Colonel, 
 it is true, showed a wish to engross Miss Wal- 
 ters ; but events at present would often stand 
 in his way. She was anxious to be told about 
 various books and pictures, and on these points 
 she could only appeal to Vernon. Indeed for 
 a good five minutes he was almost t&te-h-tete 
 with her, as they turned over together a port- 
 folio of old engravings. During this time 
 their eyes met once ; and for a moment hers 
 softened as if in recognition of their intimacy. 
 Directly after, however, came an odor of ess. 
 bouquet, and looking up, Vernon saw the 
 Colonel behind them. " Fine engravings," 
 said the latter, "some of those, I should 
 think." And then in an undertone, when 
 Miss Walters' back was turned, " And devil- 
 ish free, too, a lot of those old plates are." He
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 205 
 
 said this with a smile, and a glance at the 
 closed portfolio. 
 
 Vernon answered him with extreme cold- 
 ness. " There is nothing, you may be sure, 
 that is free in that portfolio ; or I should not 
 have been showing it to Miss Walters." But 
 the Colonel was quite unwounded. He only 
 glanced over his shoulder to see that they 
 were unobserved, and pulled from his pocket 
 a small morocco book with a lock to it. " If 
 you want," he said, " to see modern art, just 
 look into that. I got it at Nice this morning." 
 Vernon looked, but it was for an instant only. 
 The contents were a series of photographs, 
 such as in England the police would seize 
 upon ; and b a gave it back, with a curt " Thank 
 you," to the Colonel. 
 
 The above incident, so far as Vernon's 
 peace was concerned, was the worst prepara- 
 tion possible for what was about to follow. 
 The party presently set out for the hotel 
 gardens, and during the short walk thither 
 kept more or less together. The head gar- 
 dener was summoned ; the directions of the 
 Duchess were given, and the little group was
 
 206 A Romance of 
 
 on the point of moving on again. Vernon 
 looked towards Miss Walters, hoping she 
 might fall behind with him. A look was 
 enough ; he did not repeat it ; in an instant 
 he felt what had happened ; she was attached 
 to Colonel Stapleton. Step by step did these 
 two separate themselves, letting the others 
 go on ahead of them, and pausing at times 
 on pretence of examining something, that 
 they might keep or increase their distance. 
 Vernon's heart was full of pain and bitter- 
 ness, and he walked almost silent by Lady 
 Walters and Lord Surbiton. Suddenly a 
 suspicion was caused by the sight of another 
 party, which made his lordship exclaim, " It's 
 lucky that her Grace isn't here." The tres- 
 passers proved to be a certain set from Nice, 
 amongst whom Vernon recognized a few of 
 his own acquaintance. Of this number was 
 a certain Mrs. Crane, one of the fairest and 
 freest of the married women of London. She 
 not only knew Vernon, but his companions 
 also ; and quitting her own party she ad- 
 vanced to meet the others, whom a halt had 
 again united.
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 207 
 
 "I'm dying," said Mrs. Crane, "to get out 
 on that reef or rock there, but the people I'm 
 with have not got a spark of enterprise ; and 
 my boots have such high heels that I daren't 
 venture alone." 
 
 " Let me be your guide," said Vernon, " I 
 know the way perfectly." And he fixed his 
 eyes on her with a look of shallow tenderness. 
 
 "I," said Miss Walters, "should like to 
 go there too. I have often watched those 
 rocks and wished I could get out to them." 
 
 The instant she spoke Vernon turned 
 sharp round to her. Mrs. Crane noticed the 
 movement. But the impulses of the jealous 
 reverse themselves in a flash of lightning, and 
 the eager gesture was followed by the coldest 
 of tones. " The walk is perfectly easy/' he 
 said, " if Colonel Stapleton will give you a 
 hand now and then. I have been there my- 
 self continually." 
 
 Both the elders declined so rough a pil- 
 grimage, and the two younger couples set off 
 by themselves, Miss Walters still with the 
 Colonel, and Vernon with Mrs. Crane. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Vernon," said that lady pres-
 
 208 A Romance cf 
 
 ently, " I've not seen you since that charming 
 Sunday last summer, when we went down to- 
 gether on the drag to Maidenhead. At least 
 I have seen you, though you were far too 
 well occupied to take any notice of me. I 
 saw you at Monte Carlo, and I saw, too, who 
 it was you were talking to. However," she 
 added, as she glanced behind her towards Miss 
 Walters, " you've a prettier one now to play 
 with that is, if Colonel Jack will allow you." 
 
 "What has he got to do with it?" said 
 Vernon, a little brusquely. 
 
 " What has not he ? There he is now, side 
 by side with her. My good friend, don't you 
 wish you were in the shoes of one of them ? " 
 
 "Upon my word," said Vernon, " I can't 
 say I do. If ever I want Miss Walters, she 
 is my next-door neighbor, so I could well 
 spare her for an hour or two, even if all my 
 heart were set on her. Besides, in the present 
 moment, how could I even wish to better 
 myself? You're very pretty, and I'm very 
 agreeable ; and when there's nobody better 
 to hand, you know quite well that you have a 
 caprice for me."
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 209 
 
 Love and its kindred feelings can make the 
 wisest men like children, and when it does not 
 make them children in the best sense of the 
 word, it will often make them childish in the 
 worst. It can not only bring back the sim- 
 plicity, but also the tempers of the nursery. 
 Of these last, one of the least lovely forms is 
 a sullenness towards one person, expressed by 
 effusion towards another. It was this form 
 of temper which now overcame Vernon. He 
 could not spend his day in making love to 
 Miss Walters, so he resolved to spend it in 
 making love to Mrs. Crane. Nor was Mrs. 
 Crane in the least displeased at this. It was 
 strictly true that, amongst a hundred other 
 caprices, she had one that she could quite 
 distinguish for Vernon ; and as all that she 
 demanded of most of her male friends was, 
 not that their devotion should be constant, 
 but only that it should recur on occasions, no 
 jealousy of a rival made her in the least cold 
 or difficile. Vernon and she were then soon 
 on the tenderest terms, as they had often been, 
 before for five or six hours together ; and by 
 the time they had reached the special rock they 
 14
 
 2io A Romance of 
 
 were making for, they were pretty well ad- 
 vanced in a very unmasked flirtation. This 
 was just what Vernon in his present mood 
 wished for ; and when the two others joined 
 them, and the four sat down together, he 
 hoped that his conduct would not escape 
 Miss Walters. This was a child's bit of 
 temper, but he had a man's self-possession 
 in showing it. He betrayed no sullenness 
 to the person he wished to wound ; he ad- 
 dressed her instead with an easy genial in- 
 difference, which he knew would be more 
 effective ; and an intuitive sense thrilled him 
 that each of his smiles was freezing her. 
 
 At first when she looked about her she was 
 lost in the lovely prospect. He could see how 
 its beauty sank into her, like a stone into a 
 clear well. " What a contrast," she exclaimed, 
 " between that cliff and the water ! How one 
 little plume of foam tosses over the sunken 
 rock!" And she glanced round at the others 
 at last, shyly at Vernon. 
 
 " Yes, beautiful," he said civilly, with a 
 slight fatuous laugh. "It's all as charming 
 as can be ; though, for my own part, the love
 
 The "Nineteenth Century. 211 
 
 of scenery Is one of the many thfngs I have 
 outlived, I think." 
 
 Mrs. Crane patted him with her pretty 
 gloved hand, and said, " You tell that to your 
 grandmother. Don't flatter yourself, my dear 
 man, that you've outlived the sweets of life 
 yet." 
 
 " You are right," said Vernon, as he looked 
 at her ; " for I have not outlived you." 
 
 Mrs. Crane acknowledged the compliment 
 with an impertinent little grimace, that became 
 her admirably ; and then turning sharp to the 
 Colonel, she made an observation on a slight 
 red mark on his temple. " What on earth have 
 you been up to?" she said. " Has Colonel 
 Jack been fighting?" 
 
 " Upon my soul," cried the Colonel, "it was 
 something rather like it. What made the mark 
 was a pistol bullet." This announcement 
 created the right surprise, but the Colonel 
 plainly was talking with no eye to effect ; nor 
 was there the least bravado in the way in 
 which he told his story. He had been sleep- 
 ing, it appeared, the preceding night at Nice, 
 and arriving late there from Monte Carlo, he
 
 212 A Romance of 
 
 had walked to his hotel from the station. In 
 a lonely place he had been beset by two men, 
 it seemed with the intent of robbing him. 
 " One of the fellows," he said, "a little chap, 
 I knocked down in a moment. The other 
 fired a pistol at me ; and then not seeing me 
 fall, he bolted. There have been several cases 
 of the same sort this winter ; and for the 
 future," he went on, producing a revolver, " I 
 shall not go out late without this." 
 
 The weapon was a small one, finely chased 
 with silver, and Mrs. Crane inquired if it would 
 really kill a man. 
 
 " It's killed two men already," said the 
 Colonel. "If it hadn't been for that, I should 
 have been a dead dog at Alexandria five years 
 ago." 
 
 The tone of the speaker was in all this so 
 modest, that Vernon was conscious of a kind 
 of grudging respect for him ; but what most 
 amused him was the aspect of Miss Walters. 
 She was staring at the Colonel, not with the 
 least interest or anxiety, but simply as if his 
 face fascinated her. As for him, he had not 
 the least wish to be serious ; and his next ob-
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 213 
 
 servation showed it. " Bless me, Miss Cyn- 
 thia," he said, putting his hand on her arm 
 familiarly, " what a knowing coat you've got 
 on to-day. Just turn my way and let me look 
 at it. How many inches round in the waist 
 does that make you ? " 
 
 She at once roused herself, and with a 
 smile and a frown together, " Two inches 
 more," she said, " than I should be without 
 it." 
 
 There was nothing in her manner that 
 could be set down as coquetry ; yet Vernon, 
 whose perceptions were in a supersensitive 
 state, detected something in it that made him 
 turn sharp away from her. Presently they all 
 rose, and began to set about returning. 
 
 Mrs. Crane, though she was not piqued on 
 account of Miss Walters, was far too true a 
 woman to be able to keep silent about her ; 
 and as she and Vernon were descending the 
 rocks together, she again opened the subject. 
 
 " Come," she said, " and tell me honestly 
 how you like her." 
 
 " I hardly know her," said Vernon dryly. 
 
 " Exactly ; and I doubt if you ever will.
 
 214 A Romance of 
 
 I've seen her at Florence before now; and 
 all the foreigners at first sight were in love 
 with her. But it was at first sight only. She's 
 as cold as ice afterwards. Every man I've 
 heard speak of her has told me the same 
 story." 
 
 " That fellow, Stapleton," said Vernon, 
 " seems to get on well enough with her." 
 
 Mrs. Crane broke out into a little malicious 
 laugh. " My dear man," she said, " I saw all 
 along you were thinking so. I can see when 
 a man's jealous as plainly as what his necktie 
 is. But you must be a goose if you're jealous 
 of fat Jack Stapleton. He was a dangerous 
 man once, I grant you ; but if he wants any 
 conquests now, he has to go rather farthei 
 afield for them : and from my own little ob- 
 servations at Monte Carlo, I suspect he goes 
 farther afield pretty often. Besides, as for that 
 girl there, he might just as well be her elder 
 brother or her uncle. He must have grown 
 tired of kissing her before she was well out 
 of the nursery. Just listen now, how she 
 chatters to him. That's not the tone of a 
 lover."
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 215 
 
 Miss Walters' voice, it is true, was at that 
 moment raised slightly. She was preparing 
 to cross the last piece of broken ground, and 
 Vernon distinctly heard her, as she declined 
 the Colonel's assistance. " Thank you," she 
 said, " I can get on quite well by myself. 
 Really, my dear Jack, there's no need for you 
 to be so affectionate." 
 
 Vernon knew not why, but he uttered an 
 inaudible oath to himself. 
 
 When they regained the gardens, Mrs. 
 Crane found her own party had flown, and 
 Lady Walters announced with a smile that 
 Lord Surbiton had done so likewise. He 
 had been carried off by a fascinating Polish 
 countess. " Why, it's the very woman," said 
 Mrs. Crane, " that my own husband's in love 
 with. And of course he's gone off too. Now 
 isn't that like a husband ? " 
 
 " My dear," said Lady Walters, " you 
 needn't put yourself out. You know the 
 train that they are going by, and I said that 
 I would send you in our carriage to the sta- 
 tion. Or if you like to wait for dinner, we 
 should be very happy to see you. These
 
 216 A Romance of 
 
 gentlemen, too, in case they have no other 
 designs for themselves we should be ex- 
 ceedingly glad if they would enliven us with 
 their company." 
 
 She looked round with an inquiry at Ver- 
 non and Colonel Stapleton. The latter at 
 once assented ; Vernon declined, having bus- 
 iness, he said, that evening. " Very well 
 then," smiled Lady Walters, " we will hope 
 for you at some other time." He trusted 
 that Miss Walters would take notice of this 
 refusal ; but he found she was standing even 
 nearer to him than he thought she was. 
 The branch of a rose-tree had caught itself 
 in her hat, and he heard her, in a constrained 
 voice, asking him if he would disengage it 
 for her. He was startled by her tone, and 
 still more by the look she gave him. There 
 was that something in both of them, timid, 
 piteous, and appealing. She reminded him 
 of some wounded animal. He was in no 
 mood, however, to be moved by impressions 
 of this kind. He did the service she asked 
 of him with the same easy politeness as here- 
 tofore ; but when in the process, by accident,
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 217 
 
 his hand touched her shoulder, he recoiled 
 from it as if he had touched hot iron. 
 
 He discovered the moment after, that Mrs. 
 Crane as well as himself had declined Lady 
 Walters' invitation ; and a new inspiration 
 seized him. " Why should Lady Walters," 
 he said, "be at the trouble of having her 
 horses out ? I can see Mrs. Crane to the 
 station, if she has no objection to waiting 
 here." 
 
 Mrs. Crane's eyes flashed with a pleased 
 intelligence ; and the matter was so settled. 
 
 "In that case," said Miss Walters, "we 
 may as well be going back ! " And the par- 
 ties prepared to separate. As she took 
 leave of Vernon, her voice seemed still un- 
 natural, " And are you never" she whispered, 
 " coming to see me again?" This was not, 
 however, the last thing he heard of her ; for 
 turning to her aunt she said, " We may as 
 well dine punctually, as Frederic Stanley 
 does not like late hours." These simple 
 words had a sudden effect in one quarter. 
 Colonel Stapleton with a frown drew Miss 
 Walters apart a little ; his face changed ; he
 
 218 A Romance of 
 
 had evidently lost command of himself. 
 " What ! " he exclaimed in an undertone, 
 "and is Mr. Stanley going to dine with 
 you?" 
 
 " He is," she answered coldly. " Do you 
 happen to have any objection ? " 
 
 " Objection ! " cried the Colonel, still be- 
 tween his teeth. " My dear girl, are you 
 an utter, absolute idiot ? What the devil's 
 the good of my coming, if you've got that 
 damned parson with you ? "
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 2ig 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 said Vernon to Mrs. Crane, " we 
 will come in and have some tea to- 
 gether ; and you must give your own orders 
 as to when you will have the carriage." 
 
 Mrs. Crane was a woman who, as had once 
 been said of her, could kiss with her eyes al- 
 most as unequivocally as with her lips. Sev- 
 eral times during the afternoon she had al- 
 ready done this with the former ; and they 
 had not many moments been left alone with 
 the tea-things before she repeated the opera- 
 tion with the latter. She was lying back in 
 the depths of an easy-chair, and, seated on 
 one of its arms, Vernon was bending over 
 her. 
 
 "If you were nice," she said presently, 
 "you'd ask me to stop and dine with you. If
 
 22O A Romance of 
 
 the others wouldn't wait for me, I don't see 
 why I should go hurrying after them." 
 
 " Very well," said Vernon, still smiling 
 down at her. 
 
 She pulled a peacock's feather from a vase 
 beside her, and began to touch his face with 
 it. As she continued looking at him, he felt 
 he was becoming magnetized. His face was 
 drawn down to hers, and once more he kissed 
 her. " Naughty boy ! " she murmured, pat- 
 ting his cheek tenderly. Vernon now felt as 
 if a net had been thrown over him a net of 
 the coarsest kind, and yet he could not escape 
 from it. " Don't you think you're a naughty 
 boy ? " she went on after a moment's silence ; 
 and then contemplating him, she uttered his 
 Christian name. " Ralph," she said ; "that's 
 what you're called, isn't it ? Ralph little 
 Ralphie is that what Miss Walters calls 
 you?" 
 
 A shadow at this juncture flitted across 
 the window. Vernon sprang from his seat, 
 Mrs. Crane recovered herself like an expert, 
 and her husband, a few seconds after, was 
 ushered into the library, He was a small,
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 221 
 
 dissipated-looking man, and was apparently 
 in very bad humor. " So here," he said to 
 his wife, after a word or two for form's sake 
 to Vernon, " so here you are, are you ? Why 
 the deuce you must go off to those rocks is 
 more than I can tell. We've returned this 
 way, which we had not meant to have done ; 
 so you can come home with us after all, and 
 your friends need not be at the trouble of 
 sending you. It's lucky for you, Mr. Ver- 
 non," he went on, with what was meant to be 
 pleasantry, "that you've not got a wife. 
 They lead one a pretty dance, I can tell 
 you." 
 
 Mrs. Crane and her husband were gone. 
 Vernon clasped his hands on his forehead, 
 he drew a deep sigh of relief, and hurrying 
 upstairs to his bedroom washed his face in 
 cold water. 
 
 " Oh ! that beast of a woman," he exclaimed, 
 " and more beast I to talk to her." 
 
 The relief he felt, however, was only com- 
 parative. The reflections he was left with 
 were composed of many disquietudes. His 
 thoughts first went straying towards the
 
 222 A Romance of 
 
 Chateau St. John ; and he was restless with 
 conjectures as to what was now passing there. 
 For a moment he repented that he had to 
 refuse the invitation to dinner ; but he was 
 still aching with jealousy, and so this feeling 
 was only momentary. Had he been there, 
 however, his mind might have been some- 
 what tranquillized. The Colonel's behavior 
 at dinner was subdued, indeed almost sheep- 
 ish ; and he left directly afterwards, by the 
 earliest train available. As for Miss Walters, 
 her ways had had a sad touching softness in 
 them. She had done her best to harmonize 
 the Colonel and Frederic Stanley ; and find- 
 ing the former quite unresponsive, had given 
 most of her conversation to the latter. 
 
 The Colonel's departure, however, pro- 
 duced a strange effect on her. She all of a 
 sudden became constrained with Stanley, in- 
 stead of, what might have seemed natural, 
 becoming more at home with him. She did 
 not, it is true, relapse into reserve or silence ; 
 on the contrary, she talked on with a kind of 
 nervous persistency, and seemed anxious to 
 keep her aunt a party to the conversation.
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 223 
 
 But her ease of manner had altogether quit- 
 ted her, and was replaced by a liveliness that 
 sometimes verged on flippancy. Stanley, 
 though not on the outlook for any behavior 
 of this kind, still could not fail to be slightly 
 struck with it ; but it was not till later in the 
 evening that he gave any serious thought to 
 the matter. By and by, however, as her 
 custom was, Lady Walters went to sleep by 
 the tea-table ; and her niece, whose boudoir 
 opened out of the drawing-room, took Stan- 
 ley to inspect it and its contents. It was 
 pretty enough, but as yet was in some con- 
 fusion, though even the confusion was not 
 without signs of taste in it, especially when 
 seen, as now, under a lamp with a shade of 
 rose-color. Some rich Oriental stuffs had 
 been thrown over ugly sofas ; some flowers 
 and palms had been already arranged effec- 
 tively ; there was an easel in one corner, with 
 a picture of some sort resting on it, and every 
 table was littered with books and bits of bric- 
 a-brac. It was on the books that Stanley's 
 attention centred. He was far too wise a man 
 to be always, or even often, moralizing, or to
 
 224 A Romance of 
 
 think he advanced his faith by referring to its 
 claims perpetually. None the less, however, 
 was it a part of his very life ; by a process he 
 was often unconscious of, it colored his view 
 of everything ; and his zeal for souls, though 
 many might see no trace of it, was still and 
 silent, not from sleep but from watchfulness. 
 When, therefore, on running over Miss Wal- 
 ters' books, he found volume after volume of 
 the most pronounced skeptical literature, it 
 was but natural in his case to revert to her 
 altered manner, and, at least tentatively, to 
 put two and two together. 
 
 Something of the truth, it seems, was 
 divined by Miss Walters, for she said pres- 
 ently, " I'm afraid, Fred, you won't much 
 approve of my library. I suppose you think 
 it is wrong to read Strauss and Renan, and 
 books about geology and evolution." 
 
 " There is hardly a book here," said Stan- 
 ley, " that I have not read myself, and I 
 don't think that wrong in me. The wrong 
 or right of a book depends on what the 
 reader gets out of it, and out of modern sci- 
 ence one may get good or evil, just accord-
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 225 
 
 ing to the condition that one approaches it 
 in." 
 
 " Well," said Miss Walters, " don't let us 
 talk religion, please, this evening ; for you 
 know quite well that we shall never agree 
 about it. Tell me, if you're not above gos- 
 sip, a little about Mr. Vernon. It was from 
 him I first heard you were here, so I know 
 he's a friend of yours ; and as he's our next- 
 door neighbor, it is only natural that I 
 should be a little curious." 
 
 " Did you never," said Stanley, "meet him 
 before in London?" 
 
 " No," she said, "though of course I had 
 vaguely heard of him. What I did hear I 
 confess I did not much fancy ; though there 
 were always people, I think, who believed in 
 his good qualities." 
 
 " Once," said Stanley, " I used to see a 
 good deal of him ; but that was before things 
 had changed with me. Since he has been 
 here, I have often walked and talked with 
 him ; but it was some time before he ever 
 thought of calling on me ; and as, from his 
 point of view, all the ^vantage to be gained
 
 226 A Romance of 
 
 was on my side, I did not like, unasked, to inflict 
 my visits upon him. This last week, however, 
 the ice has been broken ; and now we are good 
 friends again. Poor fellow it makes me 
 rather sad to hear of him, and I don't wonder 
 if he is looked at in many different lights." 
 
 This conversation put the two on an easier 
 footing. Miss Walters lost her flippancy and 
 became soft, grave, and natural. Stanley 
 went on to praise Vernon in many ways. 
 " Naturally," he said, " he was a man of the 
 finest feelings, and I think of the most gen- 
 erous aspirations. But there is something 
 wrong in him, I can't tell what. He was 
 like a peach-tree : always blossoming, and 
 being always nipped with frost. He can do 
 a kind thing, which would make one love 
 another man " (and he here told the story of 
 the little crippled peasant girl), " but he does 
 it as though he were anxious to disarm affec- 
 tion. Perhaps it is the craving for pleasure, 
 and the pride of a brilliant vanity that has 
 been eating his heart out silently. And yet, 
 even on this view, he puzzles me. I have 
 seen him in scenes of pleasure ; and yet
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 227 
 
 pleasure has hardly pleased him. He has 
 taken it as a man might who was looking for 
 an angel, and was consorting meanwhile with 
 publicans." Miss Walters was quite silent, 
 and Stanley resumed sadly, " And yet the 
 world not only its sins, but its vanities, have 
 a power we little dream of. With quiet un- 
 obtrusive persistence they can work miracles 
 of evil on us. It was only to-day, as I lis- 
 tened to Vernon talking, that I thought there 
 was a remnant in him of what might once 
 have made him a saint ; and two lines of 
 Dante flashed across my mind as I looked at 
 him, ' If vain thoughts had not been a putre- 
 fying fountain to your soul, and pleasure as 
 Pyramus to the mulberry-tree.' What a 
 true, what a perfect simile ! I know nothing 
 in any poetry that can equal it. Pyramus, 
 do you remember, was killed at the foot of 
 the mulberry-tree, and it was his death-blood 
 that stained the fruit red. It is pleasure, and 
 dying pleasure, you see, that stains the whole 
 fruit of life." 
 
 Stanley had been looking towards Miss 
 Walters, but not at her, while he was speak-
 
 228 A Romance of 
 
 ing. She, however, had had her eyes fixed 
 on him, glazed with mute attention. When 
 he ended she still said nothing, and her 
 silence made him at length look at her. She 
 was pale as ashes, leaning back in her chair, 
 and was now staring straight before her. 
 
 "Is it not very hot ?" she gasped. " Would 
 you mind opening the window a little wider?" 
 
 Stanley rose to do so, and when he came 
 back to his place she had her handkerchief 
 pressed to her eyes, and was in a flood of 
 silent tears. 
 
 The subject of the above conversation 
 at that moment how was he employing him- 
 self ? He was again seated at his writing- 
 table, as he had been two nights previously ; 
 and the pages of his confession were lying 
 open before him. He glanced at them, but 
 with no look of sympathy. His mouth, which 
 could smile so softly, had a hard, unpleasant 
 move in it ; and as he took up his pen negli- 
 gently, there was a shadow of a sneer about 
 his nostril. As he begun to write, this ex- 
 pression deepened ; nor was it out of keep- 
 ing with the following deliberate sentences :
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 229 
 
 " I am a brute a dolt a hypocrite. If I 
 met my own double, how my gorge would 
 rise at it. ' For God's sake,' I should say, 
 1 keep that filthy beast away from me.' And 
 yet, upon my word, I am wiser than some of 
 my betters, I think. Were I the Deity that I 
 addressed the above whisperings to, I should 
 suffering my existence make short work 
 of the whimperer. I should first kick, then 
 kill him. Can I believe it ? But two nights 
 since I thought I would lay my mind bare to 
 God ! It seemed then to me a little rose- 
 garden of delicate scented sorrows. I for- 
 get, I suppose, that if the scented sorrows 
 were there, there was an open sewer stagnant 
 side by side of them. Ah, the shattered fab- 
 ric of my whole moral existence ! If a man 
 can't respect himself, there are but two es- 
 capes from torture to die, or to respect 
 nothing. 
 
 " Wretched, wretched me, will no one re- 
 deem or comfort me ? No no one ; and 
 indeed I do not deserve it. What ! and is 
 there nothing in me no good thing in my- 
 self, that I might rest my bruised conscience
 
 230 A Romance of 
 
 on, and struggle to look up again? Nothing 
 that I can see. As I look round my heart 
 there is nothing but unreality everywhere- 
 selfish sham affection, a profanation of what 
 might once have been highest in me ; and 
 this, when thwarted, turning ugh to ill- 
 temper and appetite. Good heavens ! it 
 was the other day only that I sat in judgment 
 on Campbell when he told me what he should 
 do in his misery : and here have I been doing 
 the same thing ; or if I haven't it is through 
 no merit of mine. The same thing but not 
 with the same excuse for it. What my poor 
 Campbell dreaded was a pain that only his 
 own truth made possible. My pain was only 
 a wretched, diseased petulance. And yet 
 am I right there ? Oh, my Cynthia, have I no 
 true feeling for you ? " 
 
 Here he paused, and laid his pen down 
 suddenly. The fact of having written her 
 name sent a quick shivering thrill through 
 him, and her image came before him with a 
 strange painful vividness her image, and 
 that of the Colonel close to her. Then all the 
 events of the afternoon repeated themselves
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 231 
 
 in a series of sounds and pictures. Not only 
 did her laugh come back to him, the clear 
 color of her cheek, and the curve of her 
 vestal lips, but a number of trivial details also 
 the feather in her hat, her slightly soiled 
 gray gloves, and her sleeve-links, shaped like 
 a horse's curb and snaffle. The impression 
 she made on him was, he came to see, a com- 
 plex one. She was instinct, as when first 
 he saw her, with an air of high refinement ; 
 but there was a something about her, too, 
 that was not quite in keeping with this. 
 What was it ? He could not tell ; or he 
 could tell one thing only. It was connected 
 with that side of her character which made 
 her tolerate Colonel Stapleton. The remem- 
 brance of this man gave Vernon a sick sen- 
 sation a man, so it seemed, with a wholly 
 corrupted mind, utterly past the power of 
 thinking a clean thought. This was Miss 
 Walters' friend her intimate chosen com- 
 rade. Vernon was not now jealous of him ; 
 indeed such an emotion would be, he felt, 
 ridiculous ; but there was something inexpli- 
 cably tragic in that clear-eyed girl's familiarity
 
 232 A Romance 
 
 with him ; there was something horrible in 
 her want of horror of him. The eyes of the 
 Vestal looking full into those of the Satyr, 
 unknowing of the beast's nature ; his oily 
 laugh mixing itself with the ripple of her's; 
 his coat-pocket in her very presence bulging 
 with his hateful photographs these images 
 stung Vernon as they presented themselves, 
 and filled his heart for Miss Walters with a 
 strange passionate solicitude. 
 
 Again he had recourse to his pen and 
 paper. He continued on the same sheet ; 
 but it was not now to accuse himself. 
 
 "Cynthia, my darling," it was with these 
 words he begun again, " I am sending a mute 
 voice to you from my dwelling to yours. 
 You have moved me you have moved me : 
 I feel your life upon mine, and a longing, 
 intense to bitterness, is stirring me now for 
 your sake. Is it love, my Cynthia? It may 
 be, but I can't vouch for that. It seems to 
 me like a wish on your behalf, far mere than 
 on my own. And yet I still would wish you 
 in some way to open your heart to mine. I 
 should like to have some possession in you.
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 233 
 
 Keep one look in your eyes for me, and for 
 me only ; and, ah, your lips ! shall I dare to 
 breathe of them ? Whenever I think of you 
 I think of a 'garden enclosed,' my love, my 
 dove, my sister, my undented. I think of 
 dews, and roses, and of gray wet aloes, and 
 of sleeping morning seas, and purple borders 
 of cinerarias. Has the spirit of the morning 
 passed with you ? or has your spirit passed 
 with the sights and smells of the morning? 
 Cynthia, you are also a mystery. I cannot 
 yet understand you. We have all had our 
 troubles. We have all done things to be re- 
 pented of. Oh, be true, my lovely one, to 
 your own noblest self ; and may our holy 
 God keep guard over you ! " 
 
 Vernon cast his eye back again over this 
 and his previous pages. The whole of his 
 manuscript was written without break or date, 
 and, so far as look went, might have passed 
 for a coherent composition. As he looked he 
 smiled not with a sneer now, but with a 
 sense of soft whimsical humor. 
 
 "I begin," he said to himself, "with an 
 address to God ; and I end it with a note to
 
 234 A Romance of 
 
 Miss Walters. I am like a girl I was once 
 told of, who used to doze over her evening 
 prayers, and who caught herself murmuring 
 as a conclusion to ' Our Father,' ' I am very 
 sincerely yours, Kate Dixon.' " 
 
 The bitterness of the earlier evening had 
 by this time passed away from him, and he 
 closed his eyes that night a little more in 
 peace with himself, although for many causes 
 he was still sad and feverish.
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 235 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 "O Y the following morning, whether through 
 self-knowledge or self-deceit, he found 
 he had settled with his conscience to pursue 
 Miss Walters' acquaintance, and to become 
 her friend in the closest degree possible. Ii 
 was not therefore without some palpitation 
 of the heart that he received a letter brought 
 to him, in her own handwriting. It bore the 
 date of the preceding night ; and he was still 
 in bed when it reached him. Why was it 
 sent thus early ? What could she have to 
 say to him ? Would she decline his future 
 acquaintance, and express contempt and an- 
 ger at him ? His conscience was by this time 
 smiting him, and reminding him of Mrs. 
 Crane. His courage failed him, and it was 
 some minutes before he broke the envelope.
 
 236 A Romance of 
 
 "You will be surprised at hearing from me," the letter 
 began abruptly, " especially, I think, after the last few 
 hours we spent together. You were angry with me, I 
 do not know why. But let that pass ; I am not going to 
 reproach you with it. Reproach you ! I can't help 
 laughing at having written that. What earthly right 
 should I have to reproach you ? And yet I am going to 
 do something even stranger. I am going to presume 
 farther on our short, our very short acquaintance. I am 
 going to break through every rule of common sense, of 
 common etiquette, of common everything. I hope you 
 will not think me a mad-woman. I hope you will under- 
 stand me. I hope I believe you will. I am acting on 
 a perception sharper than common sense, which I do not 
 think is deceiving me. And shall I tell you what makes 
 me bold to do so ? When I met you the other day in the 
 garden, I hinted that I had had my sorrows. Now I tell 
 you the fact plainly. I won't beat about the bush any 
 longer ; I am miserable. Sometimes my misery is good 
 enough to keep its distance for a little ; but before long 
 it overtakes me ; and I live in a helpless terror that it 
 may add to itself. It has overtaken me now yes, now, 
 within the last few days, since I have been here, since I 
 have known you. To-night it has become unbearable, 
 and I can't help writing to you. But why you you of 
 all people ? Oh ! I can't explain ; but I think you will 
 understand why. You have had your sorrows also ; and 
 you have told me you have. You are looking for a some- 
 thing you have lost, and that you long to find again. So 
 far, you are a faint, faint image of me. A faint image
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 237 
 
 only I don't wrong you for a moment by thinking you 
 more than that. But even that gives you sympathy ; 
 and what I want is a friend. Will you be a friend to 
 me ? Will you treat me as a woman whom you know wants 
 help and tenderness ? I am utterly lonely ; I shall die if 
 I am not supported. 
 
 " And now, listen. I don't want to alarm you. I am 
 not inviting you to a series of confessions, scenes, and 
 hysterics. Don't ask me about my unhappiness ; it would 
 do you no good to hear about it ; but be my friend. Talk 
 to me as if you trusted me, try to talk to me as if you re- 
 spected me ; and believe me, I long intensely to do and to 
 be good. Try to know me will you ? You have not to 
 come far to see me. I am not asking very much of you. 
 Indeed, Mr. Vernon, why should I be mock-modest ? 
 As I write, I am sitting opposite to a looking-glass ; and 
 that reminds me that many men would come much 
 farther for my company. It is not a thought that I have 
 any reason to be proud of. What I want to remind you 
 of is, that if in the end you should not care to help me, 
 you will at least have had a little amusement in finding 
 that I am not worth helping. 
 
 " One word more. When next we meet, don't allude 
 to this letter. Act if you will upon what I have written ; 
 and form your own conjectures from it ; but as for itself, 
 let us consent not to mention it. So much depends, in 
 the building up of a friendship, on what is said and on 
 what is not said. A thought understood, or written, may 
 help to produce intimacy, when the same thought ut- 
 tered would produce only embarrassment, and perhaps
 
 238 A Romance of 
 
 estrangement. I think when you have read all this, you 
 will see I am using something more than a conventional 
 form, when I sign myself, 
 
 " Very sincerely yours, 
 
 " CYNTHIA WALTERS." 
 
 To this was added a postscript that had 
 been written the next morning. " I am very 
 unwell ; I have passed a wretched night : 
 but unless I am unfit to appear, my aunt, I 
 know, means to ask you to dine to-night. 
 She is devoted to you. Don't answer my 
 letter unless no invitation comes for you. If 
 you dine with us, I can draw my own com lu- 
 sions from you !" 
 
 As Vernon read this, a new life seemed 
 breathed into him. The disappointments 
 and the barren self-reproaches of yesterdiy 
 were dispelled by a tumult of anticipations, 
 and his whole being expanded. As for Mrs. 
 Crane, she was quite forgotten. His late 
 conduct with her ceased to give him any un- 
 easiness. The memory of it fell off him like 
 a cloak, and seemed so little a part of himself 
 that he needed no repentance to get rid of it. 
 
 The day, however, proved a weary one ; it
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 239 
 
 was a vigil of uneventful expectancy, till, at 
 last, about five o'clock, the invitation to din- 
 ner came. The long blank suspense had 
 made his expectations keener, and by the 
 time he came to dress his agitation was al- 
 most painful. His hands trembled as he 
 forced his shirt-studs into the button-holes ; 
 and he murmured to himself as he was tying 
 his white neck-tie, " I feel for all the world as 
 if I were just going to my dentist." 
 
 Never till this evening had he entered the 
 Chateau St. John. A long corridor led from 
 the hall to the drawing-room ; and as he fol- 
 lowed the servant over the noiseless carpet, 
 he could almost have thought he trembled. 
 Much to his relief, when the door was flung 
 open, Lady Walters was alone down to re- 
 ceive him ; and he was thus able to recover 
 himself before Miss Walters entered. The 
 old lady was full of a pleasant, if not a wise 
 kindness. Age seemed to have mellowed 
 out of her all the suspicions which give chap- 
 erons a practical value ; and Vernon saw that 
 whatever intimacy he might contract with the 
 niece, the aunt would accept it on trust as the
 
 240 A Romance of 
 
 fittest possible. Her niece, it was evident, 
 was in her eyes nothing short of perfection. 
 Vernon remarked on the taste with which the 
 drawing-room had been arranged. " It is all 
 Cynthia's doing," said Lady Walters. On the 
 chimney-piece were two delicate miniatures. 
 " They " said Lady Walters, " were painted 
 by Cynthia. They are her father and mother. 
 That screen, too, is hers also, with the panel 
 of lilacs and laburnums. But she has most 
 of her things in her boudoir, which I have 
 no doubt she will show you afterwards." 
 
 "Miss Walters," said Vernon, "was, I 
 think, only in London for one season, and I 
 was at that time out of England." 
 
 " Yes," said Lady Walters, " only for one 
 season. But I hope she will go back next 
 year. She is so much stronger now than she 
 has been ; and it is a pity that a girl so young 
 and beautiful as she is should see so little of 
 the society of her own country. She hates 
 society, so she says herself ; but I don't think 
 that such hates are the right thing at her age ; 
 and whatever they may say, young people 
 don't really feel them."
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 241 
 
 Just at this moment a door opened. There 
 was a soft rustle of skirts, and then Miss 
 Walters entered. Her appearance might 
 well have justified her aunt's last observation. 
 It would have been hard to imagine a form 
 that seemed more made for the world, or who 
 could have added a tenderer charm to its 
 most delicate pomps and vanities. She was 
 all in creamy white, with but two touches of 
 color upon her a red rose-bud in her hair, 
 and a red rose, blown, upon her bosom. Her 
 whole toilette, as she softly advanced for- 
 wards, was like the art of a Greek sculptor, 
 translated by a Parisian modiste ; and with its 
 double air at once of fashion and simplicity, it 
 deepened the rapt expression of her dark re- 
 gretful eyes. 
 
 All Vernon's embarrassment again rushed 
 upon him at the sight of her ; but it was not 
 of long continuance. There are certain diffi- 
 culties in which a woman is always a man's 
 superior, and this was one of them. In Miss 
 Walters' manner there was no trace of con- 
 sciousness or of confusion. Her greeting 
 was the perfection of calm high-bred grace- 
 16
 
 242 A Romance of 
 
 fulness. Not by a glance even, or a gesture, 
 which should be visible to him only, did she 
 seek to allude to the smallest understanding 
 between them ; and Vernon himself could 
 hardly believe it possible that this was the 
 same woman who had appealed to him so pas- 
 sionately only a few hours before. The good 
 actor, however, sustains another. He felt in- 
 stantly that he was in stronger hands than 
 his own ; and this girl, who had been so lately 
 asking for help, had already been first to give 
 it. He was restored to ease by her, almost 
 in spite of himself. All his apprehensions 
 were replaced by a delightful form of excite- 
 ment ; and he often thought, during the 
 course of dinner, that he had never in his 
 life felt so strong a stimulus to talk his best, 
 whether about grave things or gay. In the 
 presence of those two companions it seemed 
 as though a new home were receiving him ; 
 nor was this charming sensation to be won- 
 dered at. He had fair reason to be certain 
 of two most flattering facts, that the young 
 lady admired, and that the old lady was fond 
 of him ; and he, in especial, delighted himself
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 243 
 
 at every proof of the latter, because it seemed 
 to reflect upon him a softened pleasure from 
 the former. Thus, impatient though he was 
 in general of any personal catechism, he 
 loved with positive pleasure Lady Walters' 
 numerous questions. Many of them would 
 have been irritating from their mere gener- 
 ality, if they had not expressed an interest to 
 which he attached a value, and if Miss Wal- 
 ters had not been present to make it worth 
 his while to answer them. He was ques- 
 tioned about his tastes, his books, how he 
 employed his time, and if he had ever been 
 in any service, diplomatic or military ; and 
 finally, if there were any pursuit to which he 
 meant to give himself for the future. 
 
 " When Goethe," said Vernon, "was about 
 my age he called it a solemn period. He 
 was able by that time to take stock of his 
 powers and character, and he reserved his 
 resolves and deliberations as to what use he 
 should put them. I am by way, here, of doing 
 the same thing, and all my longings are bend- 
 ing me towards some kind of public life." 
 
 Lady Walters smiled and shook her head
 
 244 A Romance of 
 
 at him. "Take my advice," said she, "and 
 keep clear of that. Political ambition is as 
 cruel a passion as gambling. It takes just as 
 much out of your life, and adds just as little 
 to its pleasures. A man with a good position 
 like yours is far happier when he is content 
 as he is. I should envy a country gentleman 
 more than a prime minister." 
 
 Vernon smiled softly, and turned his eyes 
 to Miss Walters. " The public life," he said, 
 " that I am dreaming of might perhaps have 
 no connection with even the wish for office." 
 
 Miss Walters answered with a look which 
 said, " You will explain afterwards." 
 
 For purpose of explanation there was cer- 
 tainly no lack of opportunity. In the course 
 of the evening, as had happened before with 
 Stanley, Miss Walters took her guest and 
 showed him her own sitting-room ; whilst her 
 aunt meanwhile closed her eyes peaceably. 
 At the prospect of another tete-fct&te Ver- 
 non's shyness was again returning ; but when 
 he found himself alone with Miss Walters 
 he saw that his fears were groundless. So 
 complete was the nerve and tact with which
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 245 
 
 she managed the situation, that any awkward 
 scene or eclair cissement was quite out of the 
 question. It seemed as though she had given 
 him a kind of mental chloroform; and that 
 she had, while he was under it, done in a day 
 the work of weeks on him. He felt that be- 
 tween them there were now no formal bar- 
 riers ; by some noiseless magic they had all 
 been swept away ; and he could speak his 
 mind to her with a calm but entire confi- 
 dence. He had no spasmodic wit to extort 
 or to make confessions ; but her presence 
 seemed to act on his thoughts as the moon 
 does on the sea it illuminates. They moved 
 under her influence, and stirred with a new 
 life in him ; and he had the delicious fearless 
 sense that when he spoke he should be un- 
 derstood by her. 
 
 " See," she said, " here are all my books, 
 and the signs of how I employ myself. That 
 picture over there is of a nun praying. Some 
 time or other I will let you see it by day- 
 light. Frederic Stanley, I fear, looked rather 
 askance at my library. It made him think that 
 I was very wicked. It will make you think
 
 246 A Romance of 
 
 I am very chic. What fault do you think is 
 the greatest shock to a man ? However," 
 she went on, " I have now drove my reading 
 out of blueness. I had my reasons for it." 
 
 " What reasons ? " 
 
 " I was brought up chiefly among Cath- 
 olics, and I once had thoughts of joining the 
 Church myself. Thoughts ! I was on the 
 very point of plunging. I was on the brink 
 of a precipice, and the sea of faith was under 
 me. The longing to throw myself off was 
 thrilling up my backbone, it seemed ; but 
 something held me back, and I regained my 
 senses. Well, since then I have been try- 
 ing to see more clearly what an impatient 
 world has got to say on the matter ; and I 
 feel now that I have been saved from a men- 
 tal suicide." 
 
 " Which is the best," said Vernon, with a 
 half-serious smile, " to kill your own thoughts, 
 or to be killed by the thoughts of others? 
 Will the Professor save you any more than 
 the Pope?" 
 
 "You," she said abruptly, "don't believe 
 in the Pope, do you ? "
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 247 
 
 " Once," Vernon answered, " I was engaged 
 to be married ; the marriage was broken off, and 
 for this reason I insisted that my children, 
 if I had any, should be brought up Catholics." 
 
 " Yes," she said, " I had heard that much 
 about you ; and had I been the lady in ques- 
 tion I should have acted just the same. I 
 could never no matter how much I loved a 
 man I could never bind myself at the altar 
 that I would rear my children upon a lie. 
 But that is a question," and she here smiled 
 softly, " that a brother and sister can have no 
 need to quarrel over." 
 
 "To me," said Vernon, "it is the only 
 question of interest ; and I want you to tell 
 me this : Have your books of science and 
 history led you to anything better than Cathol- 
 icism ?" 
 
 " It is not a question of better, if by better 
 you mean more comforting. If that were all, 
 you would have found me in sackcloth long 
 ago. Could I only with my eyes open be- 
 lieve the Church true were it on one side 
 not so ridiculous could we only discover 
 some new proof of its authority "
 
 248 A Romance of 
 
 "That," said Vernon, "you may be quite 
 sure we never shall : and if the Church on 
 one side is ridiculous, so is every grave con- 
 ception of life. If we cannot be persuaded 
 by the proofs that are now before us, we 
 should certainly not be even if one rose from 
 the dead. It is we ourselves that must be 
 changed, not proofs that must be multiplied. 
 It is not the pole, but the needle, that needs 
 to be re-magnetized. A fact or a thought 
 may in itself be single ; but its reasons to 
 men and women may be infinite." 
 
 "Talk low," said Miss Walters, "for my 
 aunt must be still asleep." The doorway into 
 the drawing-room was only closed by a por- 
 tiere. She rose and pulled this aside for a 
 moment. " Yes," she said, " she is sleeping. 
 She has been very tired to-day. Go on, Mr. 
 Vernon ; only speak softly." 
 
 Vernon went to the window and opened 
 it without noise. A breath of the night air 
 came in, warm and scented, and the moon 
 was shining with a clear, unclouded brill- 
 iance. 
 
 " This," he said, " is the same moon that
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 249 
 
 all the world looks at. But what different 
 thoughts it wakes nightly in a million hearts ! 
 And it is the same with scientific discoveries, 
 and with thoughts and arguments. If you 
 want another illustration, let us take our own 
 personalities. You are one single soul, you 
 are one single human character ; but are 
 there two other souls to whom you have ever 
 seemed the same ? Have you ever affected 
 any one as you affect me ? " 
 
 She had followed him to the window, and 
 was standing close beside him. He had 
 obeyed her injunction to the letter, and he 
 certainly now spoke low enough. She had 
 hung her head, as though the better to listen 
 to him, but she now raised it when he finished, 
 and fixed her eyes upon his. 
 
 "How do I affect you?" she said in a 
 voice that had sunk to a whisper. " So much 
 depends upon that, that I have hardly cou- 
 rage to ask you." 
 
 Vernon took her hand, he drew her to- 
 wards himself, and slowly bent over her till 
 his lips were approaching hers. For a moment 
 or two she had remained passive, but she now
 
 250 A Romance. 
 
 gave a slight start away from him, though she 
 did not withdraw her hand. 
 
 " Remember," she exclaimed appealingly, 
 "what I have already said to you. Nothing 
 like that must ever come into our friendship." 
 
 Vernon made no answer ; and as if by some 
 silent understanding the two walked out to- 
 gether into the moonlight. They were both 
 of them emerging also into some new period 
 of their existence.
 
 BOOK III.
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 \~^7HATEVER might be awaiting them in 
 * * this new period, the portal by which 
 they entered it was one of unearthly beauty. 
 The gardens lay before them in mysterious 
 light and shadow, and seemed to lure them 
 onwards. Distinct out of the mist of foliage 
 rose the black spires of cypresses, and here 
 and there an almond-tree, like a fountain of 
 pink moonlight : whilst beyond, with a daz- 
 zling sparkle, the waves shook dreamily. 
 
 The window opened on a flight of marble 
 steps. They paused for a few moments, and 
 then went down together. Miss Walters' 
 last injunction had been spoken with an ap- 
 pealing emphasis ; but to any outside observer 
 the result would have been hardly obvious. 
 
 Her hand was on Vernon's arm, and seemed 
 
 253
 
 254 A Romance of 
 
 to bear on it ; and they were for a long time 
 silent as only lovers can be. But though they 
 were silent, the night was not silent round 
 them. The green frogs made a chorus of 
 soft innumerable murmurs ; fountains gleamed 
 and splashed half-hidden amongst the orange- 
 trees ; the roses trembled in the balmy mov- 
 ing air ; the leaves of the eucalyptus whis- 
 pered ; and through all these sounds continu- 
 ously came a yet gentler sound of the sea. 
 
 The hour filled them, as it has filled so 
 many thousand others, with a sense of dreamy 
 spiritual voluptuousness : and secret thoughts 
 in both of them came floating up out of their 
 hiding-places, and gathered in soft impatience 
 for the time when they should find utterance. 
 
 Miss Walters was the first to speak. " You 
 must tell me," she began, " about your public 
 life, and the way you want to employ your- 
 self. And you must tell me, too," she went 
 on more tenderly, " you must tell me another 
 thing, for I do not quite understand you. 
 You believe in a God, don't you ? I think 
 you do and that it matters something 
 whether we do right or wrong ? Of course
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 255 
 
 it matters to others, so far as our acts touch 
 them. I know all about organ and function, 
 which is the prig's duty to his neighbor. But 
 I am not speaking of that. I mean as re- 
 gards ourselves." 
 
 "If I believe anything," said Vernon, " I 
 believe that it does matter. If this poor 
 human race of ours is worth a moment's un- 
 selfish care, it is worth it because we each of 
 us have a soul to be saved or lost. I have, 
 and so have you." 
 
 " Do you really believe that ? " she said. 
 
 The question was put so earnestly that it 
 a little embarrassed Vernon. " You remem- 
 ber," he answered, " what I have said to you 
 just now. One may know that a proof exists, 
 and may not fail to be touched by it. The 
 soul may become demagnetized, and may 
 cease to point to God ; but one may know he 
 is still somewhere, though one cannot tell 
 where. That is my condition, and the condi- 
 tion I am struggling to escape from. I have 
 come here, as I told you, to arrange my plans 
 for doing so. It is a hard, hard work," he 
 continued presently, "this piecing together of
 
 256 A Romance of 
 
 a broken self again. I only see hope in one 
 thing, and that, as I said at dinner, is public 
 life." 
 
 " And is your only hope then," she said, 
 " in that kind of strong distraction ? Do you 
 wish to forget your loss, not to retrieve it ? " 
 
 "You think of public life," he said, " in the 
 same way your aunt does. You heard her 
 advice at dinner to me ; it was full of the old 
 spirit of goodness. Rest and contentment, 
 her moral was, are the truest springs of hap- 
 piness. But the time for that teaching is 
 gone, or is fast going ; even Frederic Stanley 
 feels this: and though the spiritual air is 
 growing each day darker about us, yet 
 through the disastrous twilight burns the 
 shape of a new duty the duty to spend and 
 to be spent for others. I call it new, but it 
 is not. It only speaks in an ampler language. 
 Look at me : I have wealth and power, and, 
 I think, some talents. It is to others that I 
 owe these ; that is the sense that haunts me ; 
 and the greater a man's power or place is, the 
 greater, in God's eyes, is the number of his 
 creditors. If I ever find God again, it must
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 257 
 
 be with hands full of good deeds, not only 
 clean of evil. Perhaps when I have some- 
 thing to bring him, he will again show his 
 face to me. Such at least is my rather forlorn 
 hope. It may turn out true, as I often used 
 to say to myself, ' He that doeth shall know 
 of the doctrine.' " 
 
 "You speak of work in the world. What 
 sort of work are you thinking of ? " 
 
 " There was a time when I actually made 
 a beginning of it ; but since I put my hand 
 to the plough I have looked back again ; and, 
 I am in a worse state now than ever." 
 
 " You stood for Parliament and you were 
 not elected. Yes, I had heard of that ; but 
 that was surely no fault of yours." 
 
 "No, and besides that was merely a piece 
 of by-play. I should have liked to have been 
 in Parliament, certainly ; but my wishes to do 
 good did not stand or fall with my active 
 part in politics." 
 
 " Well," she said, " and have they been 
 wishes only ? Have you given the struggle 
 up ? Have you exchanged life in England 
 for a dream by the Mediterranean ?" 
 17
 
 258 A Romance of 
 
 "One of the oldest," he said, "of all old 
 mysteries is the division between will and 
 wish. I have still the wish to act, but at 
 present I have lost the will : and though our 
 work may be all cut out for us, we can't do it 
 if our arms are broken. I began my activity 
 under a passing emotional stimulus ; but that 
 has now gone and has left me as weak as 
 ever. For a life's work, unless one's own ad- 
 vancement is included in it, one needs some 
 other motive than the strength of one's own 
 conscience. On a night like this, alone, and 
 with you beside me, what dreams I might fill 
 my soul with, of deeds done, and of hope and 
 faith recovered ; but to see one's castle in a 
 dream is one thing, and to build it with brick 
 afterwards is quite another thing." 
 
 Vernon felt on his arm Miss Walters' hand 
 press heavier, and she looked at him with 
 liquid eyes. 
 
 " Am I, then," she said, " any help to you 
 in your dreaming ? " 
 
 As she spoke they paused and looked at 
 the scene about them. They had just 
 emerged from a walk of winding shadow, and
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 259 
 
 found themselves suddenly face to face with 
 the sea. It was close to them. They were 
 on a long curved terrace, and the quiet rip- 
 ples were lapping on its marble border. The 
 sight for a moment held the two wanderers 
 breathless, but presently they had to turn to 
 a matter a little homelier. The air was warm, 
 but Miss Walters shuddered slightly as a 
 breath from the waves swept up to her. Ver- 
 non remarked it tenderly. 
 
 " It is nothing," she said. " However, just 
 round that corner, in the boat-house, are a hat 
 and a shawl of mine, which Jack Stapleton 
 left there. I think I will go and fetch 
 them." 
 
 They entered and found the things ; and 
 again they paused together. Into the dark 
 gloom of the boat-house ran the waves in sil- 
 ver tendrils ; the boat softly and slowly rocked 
 with its freight of shadow. In the course of 
 a few seconds they could distinguish the oars 
 lying in it. The same thought seized both 
 their minds simultaneously, and they ex- 
 changed a glance in silence. Vernon at last 
 said, " Shall I row you ? " She gave no di-
 
 260 A Romance of 
 
 rect answer, and he had time to reflect a lit- 
 tle. "But what," he added, "would your 
 aunt say ? It must be getting late by this 
 time." 
 
 " Oh," said Miss Walters, "she never asks 
 He questions. If I am not in the drawing- 
 room, she goes to bed without inquiring for 
 me ; and she will think that, to avoid waking 
 her, I sent you home through the gardens ; 
 not that she would in the least mind, if I were 
 to stop out till midnight with you, except for 
 my catching cold." 
 
 " Come then," said Vernon, and he drew 
 the boat toward him ; but she was still silent. 
 He jumped in and began to arrange the cush- 
 ions, and then in the shadow he held his hand 
 out to her. At last by her movement he saw 
 that she had consented. She gave him her 
 hand, her form bent on his for a moment, and 
 in a moment more they had shot out into the 
 moonlight. 
 
 In the first five minutes or so Vernon 
 pulled with vigor, and between themselves 
 and the shore there was soon a good inter- 
 val. Then his exertions lessened, the oars
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 261 
 
 began to splash with a gentler dreamier ca- 
 dence, and a consciousness of the situation 
 dawned softly upon both of them. The im- 
 agination at times like these acquires stronger 
 powers than ordinary ; it transfigures places, 
 and it does what it will with distance. It 
 seemed to these two that they had left the 
 world behind them : they were solitary ad- 
 venturers on some far enchanted ocean. 
 There awoke in both of them a strange sense 
 of exultation ; and at last Vernon murmured, 
 " Listen, and I will sing to you." He seemed 
 to have scarcely spoken when the following 
 song broke from him : 
 
 " Hollow and vast starred skies are o'er us, 
 Bare to their blue profoundest height ; 
 Waves and moonlight melt before us 
 Into the heart of the lonely night. 
 
 " Row, young oarsman ! row, young oarsman ! 
 
 See how the diamonds drip from the oar; 
 What of the shore and friends ? young oarsman. 
 Never row us again to shore. 
 
 " See how shadow and silver mingle 
 
 Here on the wonderful wide bare sea, 
 
 And shall we sigh for the blinking ingle 
 
 Sigh for the old known chamber we ?
 
 262 A Romance of 
 
 " Row ! young oarsman, far out yonder, 
 
 Into the crypt of the night we float ; 
 Fair faint moon-flower wash and wander, 
 Wash and wander about our boat. 
 
 ' Not a fetter is here to bind us, 
 
 Love and memory lose their spell ; 
 Friends of the home we have left behind us, 
 Prisoners of content, farewell. 
 
 " Row, young oarsman, far out yonder, 
 
 Over the moonlight's breathing breast ! 
 Rest not, give us no pause to ponder, 
 All things we can endure but rest." 
 
 The song ended ; but it had broken the 
 spell of silence. Miss Walters murmured 
 some vague words of applause ; and then said, 
 abruptly, though in a low voice like music, 
 " I want you to tell me one thing. You 
 made a new start in life, under the influence 
 of some strong emotion. What emotion was 
 that?" 
 
 Vernon smiled slightly. "It was emotion," 
 he answered, " connected with my plan of 
 marrying." 
 
 She smiled also. " That is surely an odd 
 way of putting it. Was it falling in love, 
 then, that nerved you to do your duty ? "
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 263 
 
 " Indirectly you may call it that," said Ver- 
 non naively. " I realized that to marry was 
 a very solemn step, and that it was the death- 
 blow to everything that had hitherto made 
 life enjoyable. It was as that I welcomed it. 
 I would die through it into a new life. I re- 
 solved that thenceforward I would only live 
 for duty. My personal interests would all be 
 blighted ; and I would lay up interests for 
 myself that should be more than personal. I 
 looked on marriage as a sacrament not of joy 
 or rest, but of sacrifice." 
 
 " How strangely you talk," she said ; " it is 
 not like a human being. You might be some 
 cold sea-creature floating on its own element. 
 What, if these are your feelings, made you 
 ever think of marrying ? " 
 
 " Perhaps," said Vernon, " I have given a 
 wrong account of myself. It is not every one 
 that can write his own history truly ; our heart 
 and memories are littered with false materials. 
 Some people think perhaps you are one of 
 them that a man, with a will to do so, can 
 of course confide to another his motives on a 
 given occasion. But it is not so. There are
 
 264 A Romance of 
 
 actions we may account for in a dozen contra- 
 dictory ways, and yet be doing our best, at 
 each attempt, to be truthful. Try to catch 
 on paper your own face in a looking-glass. 
 Does the power to do that come to us for the 
 wishing? It is as hard sometimes to describe 
 your tastes or motives as to take a pencil and 
 draw your own expression. Each is equally 
 likely to elude your most painful touches. I 
 perhaps made a wrong stroke just now. Let 
 me rub it out, and see if I can't do better. 
 Of course it was love that made me first think 
 of marrying ; but I don't think love acted well 
 by me. He came like a porter, bearing a great 
 pack of duties, which he left inside my door, 
 and then he went away again." 
 
 Miss Walters smiled at this whimsical simile. 
 " Then it was not true love," she said, " if it 
 played you a trick like that. True love never 
 goes away till you drive it." 
 
 " No," said Vernon, " I suppose it was not 
 true love ; and yet at the time it must have 
 seemed very like it. However, the whole 
 affair proved a fiasco in all ways. When I 
 gave up my frivolous interests, I wished to
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 265 
 
 live for larger ones. My wife that was to 
 have been wished me to live for her. She 
 used often to say to me, ' Am I the chief thing 
 in your life ? ' ' 
 
 " No doubt," said Miss Walters, " she would 
 have been ready to live for you." 
 
 " Only too ready," said Vernon. " But that 
 was not what I asked of her. I wanted to find 
 God, not to be made a fetish." 
 
 " Still," said Miss Walters, "you are talking 
 like a merman. Would there have been no 
 help to you in the sense of her near compan- 
 ionship ? " 
 
 "If you mean by her the special person 
 I speak of, I doubt if there ever would. It 
 is true that at one time I could honestly say 
 / love you to her. But the love that I long 
 for is but half expressed by I love you. One 
 must be forced to add, You comprehend me ; 
 and you give a new life to my thoughts because 
 I can speak them freely to you. So perhaps 
 this would be more accurate Because you 
 enable me thus to speak them, you are indirectly 
 creating them" 
 
 " And have you never felt that ? " she said.
 
 266 A Romance of 
 
 Vernon's voice dropped low, and he looked 
 with fixed eyes at her. "That," he said, "is 
 what I feel with you. I would speak to you 
 of my aims and hopes as I have never spoken 
 to any woman before. My inmost thoughts, 
 at present, are like dim spirits in prison. At 
 your spell they would come forth and embody 
 themselves. You would touch my lips, I 
 should speak ; and there would be a new 
 world born in me. I feel your power now 
 here, as we are floating on together. Some 
 of my thoughts you have set free already ; 
 they can breathe, they have acquired shape, 
 they may take a part in guiding me. Do I 
 speak now like a merman ? do I speak like 
 a cold sea-creature ? " 
 
 Vernon was far from conscious of the direct- 
 ness of the declarations he was making ; but 
 he was conscious certainly of the passion with 
 which he made them. There was a tone in 
 his voice which, had his words been merely 
 about the weather, would have winged them 
 like fire-tipped arrows to the woman they were 
 addressed to. She would be unable, and he 
 felt this, to miss their appealing earnestness.
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 267 
 
 He looked at her as he spoke, to see the effect 
 he made ; but her expression baffled him. Of 
 one thing only he could be certain ; and that 
 was, that he had not confused her. Then sud- 
 denly the thought flashed across him that this 
 was a woman who was used to be made love to. 
 In an instant the air was peopled with hosts of 
 phantom rivals, with whom she shared secrets 
 that would be hid from him forever. The 
 hands of another man had lain clasped on 
 hers ; on her lips were the memories of another 
 man's kisses ; perhaps her heart was already in 
 the grave of some dead lover. The imagina- 
 tion fixed him with a new longing for her. He 
 would snatch her, he felt, from the arms and the 
 lips of others ; she should be his, and his only. 
 
 He drew his oars into the boat, and sat 
 himself in the stern beside her. He was 
 doubtful how she would take this, but he was 
 reassured in a moment, for she moved a little 
 to make room for him. Still she did not speak, 
 she only softly looked at him. 
 
 " Miss Walters," he said, " Cynthia why 
 are you silent? Are you angry because I 
 tell you how you have helped me ? "
 
 268 A Romance of 
 
 She gave a strange smile which seemed to 
 have something of pity in it. " Once upon a 
 time," she said, "perhaps I might have helped 
 you ; but I can never do so now. You have 
 known me too late for that. And yet I am 
 wrong. I can help you in one thing ; I can 
 tell you to beware of me. I say this for my 
 sake, and for yours. I might so easily bring 
 such untold evil on both of us." 
 
 Vernon put his hand upon hers, and said in 
 a literal whisper, " I am going to ask you one 
 question." She turned her ear to him, and 
 pressing her hand hard, almost painfully, he 
 said, "Are you married to some one else?" 
 
 She drew back as if relieved, and shaking 
 her head, murmured " No." 
 
 " Then," said Vernon, his voice once more 
 getting stronger, " what harm can our nearer 
 friendship bring us ? Harm ! it can bring 
 only good." His hand was still upon hers, 
 and now in silence he drew her toward him- 
 self, and he could hear her heart beating. 
 For a moment she yielded passively to him ; 
 she was then again reluctant, holding her 
 head averted, while her breath came quickly.
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 269 
 
 Then again, and another change came over 
 her. He felt her yield once more like a 
 branch that breaks slowly. Her hand was 
 on his shoulder, and his lips were on hers. 
 
 Whoever once had kissed them, he had 
 made them his own now ; such was the 
 thought that thrilled him. And yet in his 
 caress there was no warm vehemence. It 
 was passionate, but its passion was tempted 
 by a gentle, earnest reverence, and a sense 
 of solicitude that he could not account for. 
 She seemed to have lost herself far more 
 wholly than he. It was she, however, who 
 first found her voice again. She slowly drew 
 back from him, as if she were waking up 
 from a dream, and looked at him with re- 
 proachful eyes. 
 
 " Oh why," she murmured, clasping her 
 hands tightly, "why have you done this to 
 me?" 
 
 " Done what ? " he said. " Surely I have 
 done no wrong to you. Is it doing a wrong 
 to you if I can make you love me ? " 
 
 "If you could do that," she said, with a 
 faint, unnatural laugh, " it would be yourself
 
 270 A Romance of 
 
 you were doing a wrong to. But," and her 
 voice softened " you have not done that ; 
 no, you have not done that." 
 
 " What ! " exclaimed Vernon in bewilder- 
 ment, " and do you not love me then ? " 
 
 He turned to her in expectation of her 
 speaking, but she said nothing. She was 
 looking straight before her with her eyes 
 fixed on the distance, lost in some self-ques- 
 tioning. Then her lips quivered a little, and 
 she shook her head slowly. That was her 
 only answer, and for a time there was com- 
 plete silence between them. Presently, how- 
 ever, a sudden change came over her. A 
 new smile lit her face up, like the gleam of a 
 spring morning, and with a soft expression of 
 passionless, pure affection. " Oh," she said, 
 " but I do indeed wish you well. I do wish 
 all that is best for you. God has given you 
 many gifts ; I wish you not to squander them. 
 I wish you strength and endurance, and a 
 clear unclouded faith, that you may act up to 
 the brightest light that is in you. And if the 
 thought will be any help to you that by do- 
 ing yourself justice you are giving me pleas-
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 271 
 
 ure, that help I may indeed venture to offer 
 you. " Come," she went on, " bend down to 
 me once more. No not your lips, but your 
 forehead ; and I will kiss you once there, as 
 a sister or as a mother might. The touch of 
 my lips, like that, can do no wrong to you. 
 And now take your oars. It is late, and let 
 us row back again." 
 
 The two said nothing more till they were 
 once more floating into the boat-house. Ver- 
 non's mind meanwhile was in a state of dim 
 commotion. He had partly the sense of a de- 
 lightful rest in loving, partly a sense of hun- 
 ger only half pacified. " She must be more 
 mine than as yet she is," was one of the 
 thoughts that shaped themselves ; and with 
 many variations this kept on recurring to him. 
 But below all there lurked another of a some- 
 what different character, which only half-per- 
 ceived gave its special tone to the rest. This 
 was, " Let me love her never so well, our tie 
 will still be slight enough. She has told me 
 she could never unite her life to mine. I need 
 have no fear that she will ever prepare a joke 
 for me. We will not unite, we will meet
 
 272 A Romance of 
 
 on some neutral ground, in some lonely sa- 
 cred grove, far from the home of each of us. 
 She shall be my spiritual mistress." 
 
 He little thought how soon this mood was 
 to change in him. 
 
 They walked back toward the Chateau, 
 and the first far, pale glimpse of it keenly 
 suggested parting. 
 
 Vernon paused in his walk, and turned to 
 her. " And is a sister's kiss," he said, " all 
 you can ever give me ? " 
 
 " All," she said. " You must ask for noth- 
 ing more. She moved a pace away, and stood 
 still, confronting him. " Do you see me," 
 she went on. " Will you please to take a good 
 look at me. My eyes are clear ; my lips and 
 my cheeks look young enough. You perhaps 
 think me a good woman. Well, shall I tell 
 you the truth ? To make me fit to give what 
 you are asking for, you would have first to 
 cast seven devils out of me ! " 
 
 Vernon was well accustomed to feminine 
 self-reproaches. " Hush," he said, " it is fool- 
 ish to talk like that. We have all done 
 Wrong, and it may be right at times to ac-
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 273 
 
 knowledge it. But exaggeration of that kind 
 must be always morbid." 
 
 "I do not exaggerate. I have already 
 ruined one man's happiness, as you will per- 
 haps realize some day, without my telling 
 you. If you were to count upon my love, I 
 should ruin your happiness also." 
 
 " Nonsense," said Vernon, with a quick but 
 tender sharpness. " Of course, for all I know 
 you may have behaved ill to some one, but 
 you have not ruined your nature, you have 
 not stained your heart by it. I can see you 
 better than you can. It is wrong, it is unreal 
 to talk of yourself as if you were a Mary 
 Magdalene." 
 
 " You are right," she said, with a cold calm- 
 ness that surprised him. " You are right," 
 she repeated ; and then hiding her face in 
 her hands, " I am worse," she exclaimed, in 
 a whisper choked with sobs " I am worse, 
 far worse, than any Mary Magdalene." 
 
 All kinds of conjectures as to her possible 
 past history had floated through Vernon's 
 mind. But to think of a thing as a possi- 
 bility, does not always prepare us for hearing 
 18
 
 274 -A Romance of 
 
 it at last as a fact ; and he, as he heard, stood 
 for a time petrified, feeling his temples grow 
 deadly cold, and the skin on his forehead 
 tighten. For a long time he could do no 
 more than look at her at that form pure as 
 a snowdrop, drooping her head so near him, 
 her hands still hiding her face. 
 
 At last he said in a low tone, " Speak to 
 me ! " But she gave him no answer. Then 
 softly and gently he tried to move her hands. 
 At that moment, however, a sound was heard 
 from the house : it was the sound of a win- 
 dow closing. 
 
 "Come," she said, starting; " this has lasted 
 long enough," and she began to move quickly 
 forward, with her face still turned from Vernon. 
 
 Lady Walters was already gone to bed, and 
 a footman was busy putting out the lights 
 in the drawing-room. 
 
 " Is the hall-lamp burning ? " said Miss 
 Walters. " Mr. Vernon's greatcoat is there. 
 No ? Then give me a candle, I will let him 
 out myself." 
 
 She tried to hold the candle so that its light 
 should not fall on her face, and she still refused
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 275 
 
 to look at him ; but when it came for her to 
 undo the door, it was hard to avoid doing so. 
 
 " Don't make me look at you !" she said, 
 as they stood together. "How shall I ever 
 be able to meet your eyes again ? Don't you 
 hate me ? Don't you despise and loathe me ? 
 Tell me you do ! Let me at last have justice 
 done to me ! I can't bear being thought good, 
 when I am worse than the worst of women." 
 
 Vernon took the candle from her hand and 
 set it down on the table. " Look at me," he 
 said, " and see if you think I hate you." 
 
 There was a tone in his voice by which she 
 seemed conquered ; for with a helpless resig- 
 nation she let him put his arm round her, and 
 let him draw her toward himself. Then tim- 
 idly she raised her face to him ; it was like 
 a poor piteous child's ; and he, with all the 
 tenderness of a compassionate elder brother, 
 stooped and kissed her. 
 
 Her eyes filled with tears, and she faintly 
 faltered, " Thank you." 
 
 " God bless you," he said. He pressed 
 her hand and was gone.
 
 276 A Romance of 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 following morning Vernon sent a line 
 to Miss Walters, to say that, unless she 
 would not receive him, he would call at the 
 Chateau in the course of the afternoon. The 
 note in its wording was altogether common- 
 place ; and alleged as his excuse for coming 
 his desire to see her picture. She wrote him 
 no answer, and he appeared accordingly. 
 The servant's manner at the door at once 
 showed him he was expected, and with a 
 beating heart he was shown into her own 
 sitting-room. There she was, standing be- 
 fore her easel, calm and graceful. Again his 
 fears of a painful meeting were dissipated. 
 She had recovered all her self-control and 
 luxurious air of worldliness ; while the pallor 
 in her cheeks and her expression of languor-
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 277 
 
 ous melancholy might have passed as the ef- 
 fects of a late ball, not of sorrow. Her hold 
 over Vernon was increased by this new as- 
 pect of her ; the touch of her hand acquired 
 a new charm for him. He stood with her by 
 her easel, and they discussed her picture. 
 The feeling and power displayed in it made 
 a genuine impression on him, quite apart 
 from any thought of the artist ; but connected 
 with her it had a special and startling mean- 
 ing. It was but a single figure, that of a 
 kneeling nun ; who, despite her attitude, 
 seemed less in prayer than in meditation. 
 There was a crucifix on the wall above her ; 
 a devotional book of some sort lay on the 
 ground beside her, and tightly grasped in her 
 hand was a species of small scourge. 
 
 Presently came a silence. She had moved 
 a few steps away, and Vernon was still look- 
 ing at the picture. 
 
 " Well," she said at last, " and do you still 
 think I am worth speaking to ? " 
 
 He turned from the picture instantly, and 
 went toward her. She had seated herself in 
 a chair, and her face was bent downward.
 
 278 A Romance of 
 
 He bent down over her, and taking her face 
 in both his hands, he made her look at him. 
 " Do I still think so ?" he exclaimed. " I care 
 a thousand times more for you than I should 
 ever have done otherwise. I see your good- 
 ness and your truth a thousand times more 
 clearly. Only you mustn't talk of yourself 
 again in the way that you did last night." 
 
 He smiled a little, and she smiled in an- 
 swer. Then she said, sadly, " But it was 
 quite a true way." 
 
 He drew a low seat forward, and sat down 
 beside her. " Listen to me," he said, "my 
 Cynthia, if you will let me call you that. 
 What we all live by, what we all live down 
 to, or live up to, is our own conception of 
 what we ourselves are. If we subside into 
 thinking that we are altogether lost and 
 wicked, we are sure sooner or later to become 
 what we think we are. To receive our good- 
 ness, we must realize that it is not dead. We 
 must see it still in ourselves, and see that it 
 is still breathing. But sometimes, if we trust 
 to ourselves only, this becomes impossible. 
 Our goodness gets so placed that we can no
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 279 
 
 more see it, than you can see your own back 
 hair in your looking-glass. What we should 
 then do is to turn to another, and see our own 
 reflection in the looking-glass of another's 
 judgment of us. We may thus discover a 
 truth we could never have taught ourselves. 
 We may find that we are worthy of our own 
 reverence still, and that what is best and 
 highest in us is not killed so easily as we had 
 thought it was. Let me be the glass in which 
 you will study your own condition. Learn in 
 my reverence for you how pure and noble 
 you are ; and only in my sorrow for you that 
 you may have even shadowed your purity." 
 
 She looked at Vernon with a curious mixed 
 expression. In her eyes was an earnest grati- 
 tude, but on her lips a faint smile of compas- 
 sion. " Even yet," she said, " I think you 
 know little about me." 
 
 " Surely," he said, " I know all that I need 
 know. I have no wish to trespass on your 
 secrets, or to stir up memories that I wish to 
 be laid to rest forever. Believe me, I can 
 see you more clearly than you see yourself. 
 A woman may err and yet not ruin her
 
 280 A Romance of 
 
 nature, nor are those the holiest women who 
 need no repentance. None in God's eyes 
 have renounced what is good and pure, who 
 still see and cling for it. Certainly you do 
 that" 
 
 "Yes," she broke in, " you are right there! 
 Oh God, how I have loved and prayed for it. 
 I don't suppose you could find a woman who 
 had a clearer sight of what is good than I 
 have ; and yet no one can have shut herself 
 out from it more hopelessly. You say those 
 are not the holiest women that need no re- 
 pentance. It may be so ; I am not even sure 
 of that. But, at all events, good women, when 
 they need repentance, repent. They do the 
 one thing that I cannot do." 
 
 " All can repent," said Vernon, " except 
 those who have made peace with evil." 
 
 " No ; for we may love what we have no 
 power to return to. Is not that what Judas 
 did ? I am not, I think, in any danger of 
 hanging myself : it would not be a graceful 
 death. But in my bed-room upstairs this 
 is perfectly true, what I tell you I have a 
 bottle of laudanum ready, in case I should
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 281 
 
 find any day that I was unable to endure my- 
 self. No doubt," she went on, " I could re- 
 pent, if I were only my own mistress. But 
 I am not. You see, that makes all the dif- 
 ference. I am the property, heart and soul, 
 of another." 
 
 A sick sensation came over Vernon. He 
 looked at her in silence, with an expression 
 of horrified inquiry. She, however, had still 
 complete command of herself. 
 
 " We are each of us," she continued, " as 
 we live on, building up within ourselves a 
 secured self, like the frightful monster in 
 ' Frankenstein,' over whose actions we have 
 no control, but for which we are still respon- 
 sible. Out of my own past I have built up 
 such a monster. It is my tyrant. It dogs 
 me ; it strides after me. Though I hate it, I 
 cannot escape from it." 
 
 Vernon listened with a quick sense of re- 
 lief. Her words did nothing now but increase 
 his pleading earnestness. " Hush, hush ! " he 
 said. " You must indeed not speak like that. 
 It is weak, wicked, foolish. Listen to one 
 thing which will force you to see how wrong
 
 282 A Romance of 
 
 you are. Since you have known me, you 
 have done an angel's work. You have breathed 
 a new life into me. All my better self has 
 gained strength again and through your in- 
 fluence. Do you think a corrupt tree can 
 bring forth good fruit ? " 
 
 " I " she said, " and have I been of help 
 
 to you ? " 
 
 " Yes," he answered, " and I only knew it 
 last night last night when I parted from you 
 and found myself alone. Do you know what 
 I did then ? I prayed for you upon my 
 knees for a long time, and half the night as 
 well, as I was lying wakeful. I have always 
 been accustomed to say a word or two of 
 prayer every morning, but these latterly have 
 been cold and brief. They have seemed only 
 to keep up a sort of bowing acquaintance with 
 a God that I could hardly speak to. But last 
 night, when I had you to pray for, my words 
 and my feelings rose as they have not done 
 since my boyhood : and for the first time since 
 then I felt that my prayers were answered." 
 
 She raised his hand to her lips and gently 
 kissed it,
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 283 
 
 " I was awake," he went on, "at the dull 
 gray daybreak. I saw 
 
 '"The casement slowly grow a glimmering square;' 
 
 and oh, my child of the morning, my whole 
 soul went out to you. I have become a new 
 man for your sake in one short evening." 
 
 " Don't talk like that," she exclaimed, " or 
 you will make my heart break. Leave me to 
 myself. You can do nothing, nothing for 
 
 M 
 
 me. 
 
 " I can," he said, " and I mean to. I am 
 not to be frightened off so easily, nor does 
 what you say discourage me. You talk of 
 your past, and you say that it is your master. 
 It is so in some degree such is the case with 
 all of us. But the greater its power is, the 
 more should that encourage you. For what 
 is the past ? Are not you every day, every 
 moment, creating it ? And if your bad deeds 
 as they drift behind you become a monster v 
 will not your good deeds and struggles turn 
 behind you with a legion of angels ? A bad 
 past is like a snake, whose head is the pres- 
 ent. Get your foot on the head, and the
 
 284 A Romance of 
 
 coils will no longer crush you. Just consider 
 it ; by next year this year will be your past." 
 
 " What use," she said, " would be one year 
 of good against so many years of bad ? " 
 
 " It will be the David," said Vernon, " that 
 will kill the Goliath who pursues you." 
 
 She shook her head, and at the same time 
 smiled faintly. " Some animals," she said, 
 "when they are caught in a trap, cannot be 
 induced to leave it, even when the door is 
 open. I am told you cannot get horses out 
 of a burning stable. As you said yourself, 
 one may have a wish to do the thing and yet 
 be without the will." 
 
 " You have roused my will," said Vernon, 
 " I will rouse yours. I will put my arms 
 round you, and carry you off by force. We 
 will have a moral elopement." 
 
 " You talk of eloping ; but who can elope 
 from self? Will you ever give me strength 
 to outrun my own memories?" 
 
 "Yes," he said, "that is the very thing I 
 will do. Let me help you to form a new 
 present, and while that is forming let us con- 
 sent to bury the past. Then, by-and-bye,
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 285 
 
 when we again go back to it, and roll the 
 stone away from the door of the sepulchre, 
 you will find no festering corpse, but only the 
 grave-clothes purified, and two white angels 
 keeping watch over them." 
 
 He spoke with a mixture of so much fire 
 and tenderness that she seemed at last con- 
 quered by it. Her face softened, her lips re- 
 laxed and trembled, and her eyes, wide open, 
 began to fill with tears. His, too, moistened. 
 Then slowly she bent forward toward him. 
 " Come to me," she said. " Come nearer to 
 me." 
 
 He slipped from his low seat, and knelt close 
 to her. They might have passed, so far as 
 grouping went, for a mother with her child 
 praying. Like a mother, too, with utter frank- 
 ness and irreverency, she gave him a single 
 kiss, and passed her hand over his hair. 
 
 "Thank you," she said, "you are very good 
 to me. I will struggle and hope against hope." 
 
 Vernon resumed his seat, and, the little 
 scene over, they were both calm again. 
 
 " I shall not," he said presently, " be a very 
 hard taskmaster. You will let me walk and
 
 286 A Romance of 
 
 talk with you ; you will let me lend you 
 books, and if you are sad and desponding, 
 you will let me raise your spirits. Let us try 
 a quiet life together here, on these terms, 
 and we will see what comes of it. If you 
 want to tell me more about yourself, tell me. 
 If not, I will never trouble you with my 
 curiosity. And you too you must do your 
 part by me. I want help just as much as you 
 do, and you if you will can give it me." He 
 paused here, and there was a debate in him 
 of some moments. There was something he 
 was prompted to say by impulse, and withheld 
 from saying by judgment. At last his eye 
 fixed itself on her exquisite hand and wrist, 
 as they lay before him on her dress of gray 
 velvet. His impulse gained the day. 
 
 " Tell me," he said, " do you think that this 
 would be possible ; do you think that you 
 and I would ever make a life together?" . 
 
 " Don't ask me now," she said. " How can 
 I tell you what might happen some day ? " 
 
 " Some day ! What must I wait for some 
 day?" The feeling that had been a spark 
 was now a flame already. " Cynthia tell
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 287 
 
 me, my loved one have you no love for me 
 now?" 
 
 She looked at him mournfully for a short 
 time, and in silence. " Surely," she said at 
 length, "you do not doubt my affection. I 
 have said to you what I thought I should 
 never have said to any human being what I 
 have not had courage as yet to say even to 
 God. I would willingly think you had moved 
 me to the deepest of all feelings for you. 
 What may happen some day I cannot tell, 
 but the special thing has not happened yet." 
 
 " And yet," he pleaded, " you have kissed 
 me as a lover might." 
 
 " If I have," she said, "the more shame for 
 me. I dare give you nothing at present ap- 
 proaching what you mean by love. It would 
 be unfit for you to accept of me. Take my 
 friendship, my gratitude, my affection. They 
 may not be worth much, but they at least will 
 not dishonor you." 
 
 " Well," he said, " I can wait. I will bide 
 my time, and till I see some new sign in you, 
 I will never again trouble you with my im- 
 portunity."
 
 2 88 A Romance of 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 "\TOT many days had elapsed before Ver 
 * ^ non wrote thus in his diary : " I am like 
 a pinnace that has slid out of a storm into a 
 glassy calm. I have a sense of shelter around 
 me, as of crags and gleaming woods. 
 
 " ' Hie fessas non vincula naves 
 Ulla tenant : una non alligat ancora morsu.' 
 
 " I have at last found rest in finding some- 
 thing for which to labor, and in the literal 
 sense of the expression it is a labor of love. 
 Love that hackneyed word ! a week ago 
 what a wretched sound it had for me; and 
 now, as I hear or speak of it, it throbs with 
 meaning like an organ-pipe. The choicest 
 lamb of all the flock had lost itself. My 
 wanderer, my white wanderer, I am carrying
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 289 
 
 you home to the fold. My holy and precious 
 burden, you little know what you have done 
 for me. I had strayed from the fold myself ; 
 I had lost all count of its whereabouts ; but 
 now, with you in my arms, I am finding my 
 way back again. It is for your sake only 
 that God begins to look on me ! " 
 
 Vernon smiled as he re-read this, and then 
 continued writing. " During the present 
 year I have made several expeditions with 
 her aunt and her. I have been their guide, 
 and have shown them some of the most strik- 
 ing places to be found within driving dis- 
 tance. We have seen old fortified villages, 
 with their girdle of brown ramparts, rising on 
 hill-tops over their own gray olive-yards. We 
 have explored for miles the windings of 
 happy valleys, walled on each side with 
 hanging pine-woods, and paved with mead- 
 ows of the intensest green imaginable, and 
 we have wandered under willows and elders, 
 by the margin of snow-fed rivers. She is grow- 
 ing happy, she is growing at peace with her- 
 self. I have watched her violet eyes, and her 
 cheeks like rose-leaves, and I have seen how
 
 290 A Romance of 
 
 "' Beauty born of murmuring sound 
 Has passed into her face.' 
 
 More than this I have been twice with her 
 to the chapel in the cork-wood, for vespers 
 and benediction, and I have seen her pray- 
 ing. I too had I only been alone, my God, 
 I could have prayed too. My care for her 
 has opened my heart again, has revived my 
 faith again. Surely I know, and see, and 
 with my whole mind assent to this, that what 
 we are and what we make ourselves is some- 
 thing of infinite and eternal moment. Vice 
 and virtue are as heaven and hell asunder. 
 Space, with its million stars, is as nothing to 
 the gulf between them ; and Thou, my Judge 
 Eternal, it must be that thou art all in all. 
 Soften her heart ! Cleanse her from all in- 
 iquity ! Let me bring her back to thee t 
 Mother of Purity, she has knelt to thee also. 
 Oh mother inviolate, counsellor of them that 
 weep, refuge of sinners, pray for her! 
 
 " She is with me all the time I am writing. 
 I feel her in the air near me. She surrounds 
 me ; she is touching me whether her body be 
 there or no. I don't know exactly how to
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 291 
 
 describe what has happened. I could almost 
 believe, not in the transmigration of souls, 
 but somehow in the transmigration of bodies ; 
 for fanciful as the expression sounds, it seems 
 at times to me as if it were her blood that 
 was beating in my temples. A part of her 
 body seems to be mixed with mine. When 
 I am half asleep, if I put my hands to my 
 face, it seems to be her white hand caressing 
 me ; and sometimes I have started up in the 
 night feeling almost certain that her lips were 
 on mine, kissing me." 
 
 Moods, motives, and affections are gen 
 erally complex things. With Vernon, in the 
 present case, they were so in a marked de- 
 gree, as may be detected in the above ex- 
 tract. But any one who had judged him 
 merely from what he thus wrote of himself 
 would have probably done him injustice. 
 The passionate sentiments which he indulged 
 himself in committing to paper, he committed 
 to paper only. He kept his promise to Miss 
 Walters, alike in letter and in spirit. He 
 avoided all allusion, not only to the painful 
 expression she had made to him, but also to
 
 292 A Romance of 
 
 his own feelings with regard to her. His one 
 constant effort, in all his intercourse with her, 
 was to direct her thoughts from anything 
 that was personal to either of them, and to 
 fix them on general questions and the wider 
 interests of life. He made her dwell on such 
 subjects as poetry, scenery, and pictures. He 
 discussed various characters with her in fic- 
 tion and in history, and the various tastes, 
 qualities, and occupations that make men's 
 lives so many-colored. He tried to fill her 
 mind with a yet graver order of questions 
 the various social problems that are prepar- 
 ing the modern mind, and to extend by this 
 means her ideas of individual duty. He of- 
 ten spoke to her also of the chief axiom of 
 religion, and the history of the Christian 
 theologies ; but he was careful to approach 
 them on their intellectual side only, and to 
 make no appeal to her feelings. But despite 
 the impersonal nature of this conversation, 
 it became inspired, under his management, 
 with a delicate, earnest devotion that is often 
 wanting to more direct love-making. It would 
 be indeed wrong in this case to say he was
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 293 
 
 making love at all. An impression of love, 
 he doubtless did convey to her, because, after 
 its own fashion, his nature was then stirred 
 with it ; but he did not do this intentionally. 
 What he intended to express, and what was 
 always present with him, was an anxious ten- 
 der solicitude that whatever was best and 
 purest should be what she most admired. 
 He became almost morbidly sensitive to any- 
 thing that had the least taint in its beauty, 
 and he tried by his presence to inspire her 
 with a repulsion for it. He seemed as subtle 
 and insidious at suggesting good thoughts to 
 her as the devil is supposed to be in suggest- 
 ing evil. As to evil, especially of the kind 
 she was in danger from, it was his wish that 
 she should not so much condemn as forget it. 
 The wound would heal better, he thought, if 
 its progress was not examined ; and every 
 subject which they thought of or discussed 
 together he tried to administer to her as a 
 sacrament of self-respect He became too, 
 in this way, a revelation to himself. Subtle 
 moral instincts, which had been for years dor- 
 mant, and as he thought dead, now woke to
 
 :> 94 A Romance of 
 
 life again ; and he found himself once more 
 regarding the world with the solemn earnest- 
 ness of his boyhood. 
 
 Beneath the surface, however, there were 
 certain things that troubled him. Now and 
 again her manner jarred on him slightly, 
 though it was some time before he could ex- 
 plain why to himself ; he had also two sources 
 of a more defined uneasiness. One of these 
 was the suspicion, which he could not be sure 
 was false, that in speaking of religious ques- 
 tions he had aroused a stronger faith than he 
 felt in order that her faith might gain strength 
 from it. The other was the discovery, on his 
 part, that she was singularly shrewd in her ap- 
 prehension of religious difficulties shrewder 
 indeed than he conceived a woman had any 
 right to be ; and often, when she insisted on 
 the grace of nature of some of these, he was 
 tempted to borrow an answer from Dr. John- 
 son : " That may be ! but I don't see how 
 you should know it." He several times smiled 
 to catch himself feeling this ; and he at once 
 translated his temper into the thought that 
 really had excited it " She has logic enough
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 295 
 
 to see her way into an objection, but not logic 
 enough to see her way out of it." 
 
 These matters at times made his mind 
 misgive him ; but they could not embitter, 
 except for passing moments, the new life he 
 was leading. Every morning when he awoke 
 there was a day of duty before him, but it was 
 duty allied with the keenest form of pleasure. 
 His imagination wove for him a luxurious 
 world of enchantment ; and his conscience 
 looked down on it and said that it was very 
 good. He seemed to himself like a vapid 
 votary praying in a temple of roses, and he 
 several times repeated an expression that 
 Campbell had used to him : " I am leading 
 a consecrated life." 
 
 He was in this condition, whatever view 
 may be taken of it, when he received one 
 morning a letter from Campbell himself. 
 This was the first news of him since the 
 morning when he had set out for San Remo. 
 That was not a fortnight ago ; but to Vernon 
 it seemed years : and yet, so much meanwhile 
 had his own affairs absorbed him, that he had 
 not had time to wonder at Campbell's silence.
 
 296 A Romance of 
 
 " Well," thought Vernon, as he surveyed 
 the envelope, ' ' his post-mark is San Remo. 
 That at least is of happy augury." Here, 
 however, he was not quite accurate, as the 
 date of the letter showed him. He had mis- 
 read the post-mark. It was Sorrento, not 
 San Remo. The letter ran thus : 
 
 " MY DEAR VERNON, I should have written long ago 
 to you, could I have written with any certainty. I have 
 been waiting till I could do that ; but I may as well wait 
 no longer. I am not yet in Hell ; still less am I in Para- 
 dise. You must think of me as one of those who are 
 not contented, but still hopeful in the flame. When I 
 left you, I returned to Cannes to collect my luggage, and 
 then, among my letters, I found the following : ' The 
 places of the person in whom you take an interest have 
 changed since you were last told of them. She will not 
 be at San Remo, and she is anxious that you should be 
 told of this, as she has heard of your movements, and of 
 course knows the cause of them. She is very anxious 
 also about another thing, and one which I beg in advance 
 you will not let discourage you. She is very anxious that 
 at present you should not know where she is, and that at 
 present you should not even try to see her. You could, 
 no doubt, by taking some trouble, discover her ; but if 
 you regard her wishes you will certainly not do so ; 
 neither will you do so if you regard your own interests. 
 My only fear is that this note may not reach you before
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 297 
 
 you are already on her traces. It is for your sake I am 
 writing, even more than for hers. Were I not sure that 
 by pressing your suit now you would be insuring your 
 own disappointment, I should not be so urgent that you 
 should yield to her strange fancies. She is a curious 
 girl. I don't in the least feel that I know her ; but this 
 I do know, that, however she regards you, it is at least 
 not with indifference. You have moved her in some way, 
 and I think very deeply ; so it is well worth your while 
 to have a little quiet patience.' I need not, my dear 
 Vernon, quote you any more of the letter. The rest was 
 only to tell me how she had heard of my movements, and 
 that she herself was leaving Florence for Sorrento. Well 
 what I did was to go straight off to Sorrento myself, 
 that I might learn more from my informant. I have not 
 learned much at least not much that I can communicate. 
 The details are all too slight to be conveyed by writing. 
 But I have hope, I believe that I have hope. Ah, Vernon, 
 the love of a woman that knows no evil, almost makes 
 evil incomprehensible to one's self. Soft, tender, and 
 innocent as my friend is, the thought of her is like a fire 
 upon some of my past life. Tastes and habits, which I 
 was long used to laugh over, now only fill me with indig- 
 nant, burning shame. I don't quite know how long I 
 shall stay here. I am awaiting more news. I mean to be 
 patient, and not to attempt hurrying on things ; and if 
 nothing is to be gained by my remaining here, I may pos- 
 sibly find myself in a week's time on my way back to 
 England. In that case I will propose myself to you for 
 a day or two."
 
 298 A Romance of 
 
 This letter set Vernon thinking. But a 
 few short days ago*, the feeling expressed in 
 it would have been a riddle to him ; and now, 
 as though a sixth sense had been added to 
 him, he saw it all clearly. " And yet," he re- 
 flected, " between Campbell's case and my 
 own what a difference ! more than a differ- 
 ence what a contrast!" He turns to an- 
 other, and finds she raises him. I turn to 
 another, and find I must raise her. "Still," he 
 continued, " here is one bright thought. Let 
 me take it as a happy omen. If love has on 
 Campbell the effect he says it has the effect 
 of a fire-cleansing baptism her sins surely 
 are fast being washed away. Her transgres- 
 sions will vanish like a cloud, and like a thick 
 cloud her sins. The shadow on her life will 
 be as though it had never been. No not 
 so ; let me think this rather, that the fire of 
 repentance will make the gold of her purity 
 
 still purer. And yet " his train of thought 
 
 seemed here to halt for a moment " I do 
 not yet know her thoroughly. I know she 
 has much to repent of. I know she has much 
 to purge away. It is not that knowledge that
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 299 
 
 troubles me. I should love her far more 
 could 1 bring her safely home again than I 
 should have done if she had never wandered. 
 What is it, then ? Or is it nothing a fancy 
 merely ? Is she not safe home already ? I 
 cannot tell. There is something in her still 
 remote from me. There is some ' untravelled 
 region of her mind ' which I cannot get to. 
 When I am with her, when I am face to face 
 with herself, I am conscious of it, I know not 
 how. I feel always as if there were some 
 third presence watching us some ghost that 
 will not reveal itself. Ah, Cynthia, will you 
 never be quite open with me ? Must your 
 eyes still have glances that I cannot tell the 
 meaning of ? Must my heart still ache, and 
 still be anxious as I think of you ? " 
 
 He was wandering in his garden when the 
 above thoughts invaded him, with the leaves 
 of Campbell's letter still fluttering in his 
 hand. The uneasiness he felt was a surprise 
 to him, dimming all his prospects like an un- 
 looked-for driving mist, and he was trying to 
 rouse his spirits by the morning air and sun- 
 shine. At this juncture a note was brought
 
 300 A Romance of 
 
 him from Miss Walters. " I have got," she 
 wrote, " a small piece of news to tell you. It 
 is not very tragic, but still I am sorry for it. 
 My aunt and I are going away for a few days, 
 to stay at San Remo with Mrs. Charles 
 Crane. She's a connection of that slangy 
 little woman that you seemed to find so 
 amusing ; but is not in the least like her. 
 She is related to my aunt in some way, and 
 is a very old and a very true friend of mine. 
 She's somehow related, too, to poor Jack 
 Stapleton, whom I know you dislike so ; but 
 that's neither here nor there. Well it can't 
 be helped. Go we must, and that either to- 
 morrow or next day. I want to know if you 
 will come over this morning, so that we may 
 make the most of the little time that is left 
 to us. You needn't go to the house ; but you 
 will find me, at about eleven, by the little bay 
 with the tunnel the place where I caught 
 you trespassing. Ah, those happy days that 
 I have spent with you ! I hate to think that 
 there is to be even so short a break in them ! 
 Dear, dear friend come to me. I do want 
 you so."
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 301 
 
 Vernon's anxieties, though somewhat vague 
 in their nature, had had one effect upon him 
 more intense than themselves. In proportion 
 as they seemed to divide him from Miss Wal- 
 ters, they made - his desire to be close to her 
 more keen and more absorbing than ever : 
 and the above note struck in his life a flash 
 of returning sunlight. The time she had 
 named for the meeting was but half an hour 
 distant ; and there wanted still ten minutes 
 to it when he found himself at the trysting- 
 place. Early as he was, however, she was 
 there before him. She was sitting on a rustic 
 bench, with an open book on her lap; but she 
 seemed not to be reading, only watching the 
 sea-water. The sight of her at once took 
 him out of his solitary thoughts, and as if by. 
 magic set him down in a new world. The 
 change was wonderful, and gave him an in- 
 toxicating sense as though he were being car- 
 ried through the air rapidly to some untold 
 distance. She rose to meet him with a bright, 
 soft smile ; and every movement of her lips 
 and figuer charmed him with an insidious 
 magic. She had on a new dress, of a delicate
 
 302 A Romance of 
 
 shade of brown, which fitted her to perfec- 
 tion. Her hat, her gloves, and the border of 
 her pocket-handkerchief were all of the same 
 color. From the worldly point of view she 
 had never looked more fascinating. She read 
 his admiration in his eyes, and she met his 
 glance with a more than usual tenderness. 
 She held his hand too, in greeting him, with 
 a more lingering pressure. 
 
 " I'm glad," she said presently, "that you 
 like my frock. It's my maid's handiwork." 
 And then turning her back on him, " Does 
 it fit well ? Tell me." 
 
 The temptation was too much for Vernon. 
 He put his hand on her shoulder, and let it 
 slip down to her waist. She made no strug- 
 gle ; he felt her yield to his touch ; and still 
 holding her he led her back to the seat 
 
 " You are looking beautiful to-day," he 
 murmured. 
 
 " I'm glad of that," she said. " I should 
 like your last impressions to be nice of me. 
 Don't you admire my rose too?" 
 
 It was in her button-hole, and Vernon 
 stooped forward to smell it. As he was
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 303 
 
 slowly drawing back, her breath stirred his 
 hair. He raised his eyes, and his lips were 
 close to hers. Neither of them spoke : they 
 each drew a breath sharply : in another in- 
 stant the outer world was dark to them, and 
 their whole universe was nothing but a single 
 kiss. 
 
 It might have seemed natural, when they 
 again woke to daylight, that Vernon should 
 now renew in words his former declaration of 
 affection. But for some secret cause he was 
 not moved to do so. The occurrence just 
 narrated had not put him in trim for it ; and 
 the only sign, when they spoke, of what had 
 just passed between them, was not in the sub- 
 ject spoken about, but in the peculiar tone of 
 their voices. 
 
 Vernon said, " Had you been long waiting, 
 when I came ?" 
 
 " About twenty minutes. I was out earlier 
 than I thought I should be. I brought a 
 book with me and read a page, and since 
 then I have been watching the water. The 
 little bay is like a pool of crystal. Those 
 rifts in the rocks I have been fancying them
 
 304 A Romance of 
 
 sea-nymphs' grottoes ! And the open sea 
 outside how broad, and blue, and free, and 
 how gayly the sunlight dances on it ! Do 
 you see what I have been reading ? It is the 
 translation you made for me from the Odys- 
 sey, of the journey of Hermes to Calypso. 
 This is just the day, and this is just the place 
 for it. Read it over again to me." 
 
 She closed her eyes to listen, and Vemon 
 read : 
 
 " ' The slayer of Argus on Pieria's crest 
 
 Pitched for a moment, then from off the steep 
 Dropped like a diver to the sea's broad breast, 
 
 With feathered ankles, and the wand of sleep ; 
 And as a sea-gull fishing skims its way 
 
 Over the seedless fields where none may reap, 
 Wetting its white wings with the puffs of spray, 
 
 So went the God, breathing the breeze and brine, 
 Until at last he reached the isle, that lay 
 
 Very far off, in strange seas sapphirine. 
 There on the beach he lighted, and he went 
 
 Straight to the cave where dwelt the nymph divine 
 With the renowned locks luxuriant : 
 
 And in the cave he found her. At her side 
 A great fire burned of smelling wood that sent 
 
 A fragrance of split cedar far and wide ; 
 And she meanwhile with lips of melody 
 
 Sate singing, and a golden shuttle plied I ' "
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 305 
 
 Miss Walters here interrupted him, with 
 a smile. " I think," she said, " I should have 
 made a very good Greek nymph. I should 
 have looked very pretty in the water. How 
 delightful to have winged our way as Hermes 
 did, and to have felt the sea-wind blowing 
 over all our limbs, and to have been at peace 
 with nature. Calypso would yield herself to 
 all the beauty round her. She had no feud 
 with the gladness of the violet-colored sea, 
 and the sunshine, nor with her lawny uplands 
 of green parsley and violets. Had I been 
 a Calypso I might have sheltered you as a 
 Ulysses for you know you are a wanderer, 
 if you would not have been too proud to 
 share a cave with me." 
 
 Vernon glanced at her for a moment, and 
 her look certainly was curiously in keeping 
 with her wishes. But his eyes did not dwell 
 on her. He abruptly folded his arms, and 
 subsided into complete silence. Presently 
 his brows contracted ; his face assumed a 
 look of distress and pain, and then again this 
 softened into sadness. At last he turned to 
 Miss Walters, and spoke very tenderly. 
 
 20
 
 306 A Romance of 
 
 " Cynthia," he began, " there are certain 
 subjects about which we agreed to be silent 
 for a time." 
 
 She interrupted him. " I know there are," 
 she said, a little wearily ; " but don't let us 
 talk about them now." And as she said this 
 she moved a little nearer to him. 
 
 The sense of her touch was like a dissolv- 
 ing charm. It might have been Calypso her- 
 self that was pressing so softly to his side : 
 Calypso acclimatized to the air of the present 
 century. He felt a thrill pass from her body 
 to his, and a strong impulse was rising in him 
 to fold her once more in his arms. But im- 
 pulse was this time thwarted, and will gained 
 the victory. 
 
 " Don't be afraid," he said. " I am going 
 to talk of nothing that will pain you ; but I 
 want to ask you one simple question per- 
 haps two." 
 
 His eyes as he spoke were full of a pure, 
 grave earnestness, and as she caught their 
 expression, she gently drew back a little. He 
 now put his hand out to her, but she would 
 not take it. She only said, still speaking
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 307 
 
 wearily, " Well ask what you want to ask 
 me." 
 
 " Do you remember," he began, " that 
 when first I knew you, you told me you were 
 unhappy. I want to ask if you are at all re 
 stored to happiness now ? " 
 
 " I have been very happy with you," she 
 said, " very, very, very ! I never thought 
 when I came here that I should ever be so 
 happy again. Then all the world was blank 
 and dark and hateful to me ; and now this 
 place these delicious gardens. I have grown 
 to love them ; and it is you that has made me 
 do so." 
 
 When Vernon next spoke he did so with 
 more embarrassment. He even blushed a 
 little, and his words came slowly. " Tell me 
 this too," he said. " Do not you find that 
 the memories and the thoughts that troubled 
 you have passed away like a dream ? They 
 have been no real part of your pure high na- 
 ture. You have had but to shake your wings, 
 and you have soared away from them." 
 
 " While you are with me," she said, " such 
 things never trouble me. You always give
 
 308 A Romance of 
 
 me a sense of safety and protection, as 
 though your arms were round me. I can 
 venture to take a happy interest in all that I 
 once cared for ; and the shadows that used to 
 threaten me are obliged to keep their dis- 
 tance. Even when I am alone at night they 
 know that I am going to meet you in the 
 morning, and that now, when I wake up, I 
 have something each day to look forward to. 
 It is your doing yes, yours the whole of 
 this." 
 
 " I am glad," he said hurriedly, " if I have 
 been of any help to you ; but this new peace 
 of mind surely does not depend upon me ? 
 What I want to feel sure of is, that you have 
 recovered your old trust in yourself, and that 
 you are again reconciled with your best and 
 purest nature." 
 
 " You have taught me," she said, " to love 
 what is best and purest. I shall go on loving 
 them if you are there to encourage me. I 
 shall love them for your sake." 
 
 " What on earth," he said, " have I got to 
 do with it ? You hardly, I think, understand 
 my question. Good is good, no matter what
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 309 
 
 I think about it ; and you had loved it, and 
 hated its opposite, long before you had ever 
 heard of my existence. Isn't that so ? " 
 
 " It is," she said. " By nature, I think, I 
 was a very good person." 
 
 " Well then, what I want is that you should 
 recover your own nature. It is this that I 
 have asked of God, in my prayers for you. 
 I wish you to love goodness for its own sake 
 and for yours. Do you think virtue is virtue 
 or purity is purity to us, if we value them 
 only as the taste or the toy of another ? 
 What I want you to say to me is not " I love 
 virtue because you love it ; " but " I love you 
 because you love virtue." 
 
 She hung her head for a moment as if lost 
 in thought, and he watched for her answer. 
 Presently there broke from her a little soft 
 murmur of petulance. " Why do you vex 
 me ? " she said ; " you are spoiling our last 
 morning." And then raising her eyes she 
 fixed them full upon him. As he met their 
 gaze they seemed to expand and deepen, and 
 soften second by second into a liquid tender- 
 ness. Her lips parted a little, a flush stole
 
 310 A Romance of 
 
 over her cheek, she opened her arms as if to 
 call him to herself, and at last, in a breathless 
 whisper, she said " Come ! " She saw that 
 he did not stir, and she moved her head im- 
 periously. " Come," she repeated, " come 
 closer. I want you here. There is some- 
 thing I wish to tell you." 
 
 He did as she commanded ; he moved 
 quite close to her, and in another instant her 
 fair arms were round him, pressing him to 
 her breathing bosom. Her lips were close to 
 his ear. " My own one," she said, " I love 
 you ; " and still holding him, and almost in 
 the same breath, " you must pay me," she 
 said, " for having told you that. Kiss me 
 kiss me on the mouth, and say that you love 
 me too." 
 
 In lovers' ejaculations there is considerable 
 sameness probably. It may be enough to 
 say that Vernon's response had all in it that 
 could mark the most earnest feeling ; and for 
 a few delightful moments her embrace brought 
 perfect peace to him. He had no thought 
 except that she was holding him. 
 
 " My own one," she went on presently,
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 311 
 
 * this has come at last ; but it has been grow- 
 ing up in me ever since I saw you. My first 
 dislike of you at Monte Carlo was only the 
 other side of attraction. I wanted you for 
 myself I'm sure it must have been that 
 really, and I couldn't bear to see you in 
 unworthy company." At last her arms re- 
 leased him, and the two exchanged glances. 
 " Tell me," she murmured, "are you happy 
 now?" 
 
 "Yes, and no," he said, and there was then 
 a long silence. " Cynthia, even yet you have 
 not answered my question." 
 
 " What question ? " she said. " Do you 
 mean if I love goodness ? Oh, if I do not 
 yet, (and she pressed his hand to her lips) 
 "you shall teach me to. You shall teach me 
 everything. You shall do exactly what you 
 will with me. I will follow you like a dog. 
 I will breathe your breath, I will think your 
 thoughts, I will only live through you. Every 
 thought of my mind, every passion of my 
 body shall be yours, and yours only. You 
 shall fill my being so completely that there 
 shall be no room in it left for evil."
 
 312 A Romance of 
 
 " My beloved," said Vernon, " you want a 
 better guide than me." 
 
 " You are quite good enough. You are all 
 I should ever long for." 
 
 " But suppose I died by the way : what 
 then ? What I am anxious is, that you 
 should have a securer helper. I hope I do 
 not vex you ; but let me talk on a little. 
 What I want to be assured of is that, sup- 
 posing I were to be taken from you suppose 
 I were to die, for instance you would still 
 have the same incentive to be true to your 
 highest nature." 
 
 " If you were to die," she said, "I think I 
 should. I should wish to follow where you 
 had gone before." 
 
 " Well, put death out of the question. 
 Suppose, simply, that somehow I did not 
 care for you ? " 
 
 "In that case I don't know what would 
 happen. Why do you ask ? Cannot you be 
 content to let things be as they are ? I love 
 you and you help me to love goodness ; but 
 without your help I don't know that I could 
 be sure of myself. Why should I pretend
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 313 
 
 what is not true ? My memory is still full of 
 the past ; no magic can alter that ; and if 
 you went from me, and made a vacuum in 
 my present, the past would probably rush in 
 and fill it up." 
 
 " Listen to me," said Vernon, with a sud- 
 den coldness in his voice. '-Let us suppose 
 I am very fond of the smell of eau-de-cologne. 
 Do you think that if I had none left in my 
 bottle, I should dip my pocket-handkerchief 
 in the next drain as a substitute ?" 
 
 " I think you would be very silly if you 
 did," she said, her voice growing cold also. 
 
 " Then would you not be equally or even 
 more silly, if on losing a comrade in the 
 search for the thing you loved, you were to 
 try to console yourself by seeking the thing 
 you hated ? " 
 
 " Only the worst of it is, you see,' : she 
 said with a slight laugh, " that the things that 
 would console me are not things I hate. If 
 it were so I should not be what I am. When 
 drunkards have not got wine, they will drink 
 stuff out of the next spirit-lamp." 
 
 " Cynthia," he exclaimed, with an intensity
 
 314 A Romance of 
 
 that was half anger, half earnestness, " I will 
 not have you speak like this, you do not 
 mean it, and I cannot endure to hear you." 
 Then his voice softened. " What is it tell 
 me what makes you so distrust yourself ? 
 Forgive me if I just now spoke a little 
 roughly. It all comes from my intense care 
 for you. My Cynthia, let me take your bur- 
 den, if you will not be afraid to trust me. 
 Sure it is not that - ." Here he hesitated 
 and looked in her eyes pleadingly. "It is 
 not is it that you love that other man 
 still?" 
 
 She flushed scarlet, and she turned her 
 face away from him. " Me," she said, "good 
 God, no ! " 
 
 " What, then is it ? You are a complete 
 mystery to me. If only I knew the truth, I 
 could be of so much more help to you." 
 
 " Don't ask me," she said. " Why harp on 
 upon this one subject ? Is there any use in 
 trying to stir up all the dregs of my nature ? 
 In all conscience I have told you enough 
 already. Do you know," she went on, with a 
 smile of expiring tenderness, " you must be,
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 315 
 
 I think, a very innocent-minded person, or 
 you would have understood it pretty well by 
 this time." 
 
 "Is that so ? And have you nothing more 
 to tell me?" 
 
 She bit her lip, and said in a low tone, 
 " Nothing." 
 
 Vernon rose from his seat, and walked 
 away for a space or two ; then he came slowly 
 back again, and stood confronting her. She 
 did not look on, or seem to notice him, but 
 she began to trifle with a bunch of charms 
 upon her watch-chain. When Vernon spoke 
 he did so very quietly with a quiet, indeed, 
 that was not unlike apathy. 
 
 " Then in that case," he said, " I suppose 
 I have done all I can do. I am sorry for it, 
 for at first I was more hopeful. I thought at 
 first I might have come to really know you ; 
 but it seems I have overrated one of two 
 things either my own power of understand- 
 ing yours, or your wish to be understood. Still 
 even thus, I have one thing left to ask you. 
 Give me credit for at least good intentions ; 
 and believe that I have never wished to vex
 
 316 A Romance of 
 
 or pain you needlessly. I have never asked 
 you a question out of any idle curiosity, nor 
 do I wish to do so now ; and now that I have 
 come to a part of your character to which you 
 can give me no clue, there is nothing left for 
 me but to cease troubling you to no pur- 
 pose." 
 
 There occurred at this moment an unfore- 
 seen interruption. A servant made his ap- 
 pearance through the aid of the little tunnel, 
 and announced to Miss Walters that Colonel 
 Stapleton was in the drawing-room. 
 
 " Tell him," she said, " that I am coming 
 up immediately. I will be with him in a few 
 minutes." 
 
 She waited till the man was out of sight, 
 and then she rose to go. " Good morning, 
 Mr. Vernon," she said, coldly, as she swept 
 past him. " I suppose I shall hardly see you 
 again to-day or, indeed, for some time to 
 come as we may possibly go to-morrow." 
 
 She was already on the first step that led 
 up to the gardens, when he had overtaken 
 her and had grasped her hand. She turned 
 round and faced him, with a stare of cold in-
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 317 
 
 quiry. " Cynthia," he said to her, speaking 
 between his teeth, "you shall not go up and 
 see that man." 
 
 "And pray why shall I not? Colonel 
 Stapleton is one of my oldest friends. Have 
 the kindness, Mr. Vernon, to let my hand go." 
 
 " Cynthia," he said, still detaining her, " for 
 God's sake do not be angry with me." He 
 looked on her flower-soft cheeks and longed 
 bitterly that she would again touch his with 
 them. " I only speak for your good ; that 
 is the one, one thing that I long for. I can't 
 bear that your sacred lips should talk to a 
 man like that, who is everything who is 
 everything that a man should not be. His 
 friendship can do you no good. It is no real 
 friendship, and I hate to think of your en- 
 during it." 
 
 " Nonsense ! " she said, indignantly. "What 
 harm do you suppose this man can do me ? " 
 She stopped suddenly, and then with an 
 angry flush " You don't suppose," she said, 
 " do you, that Colonel Stapleton could be 
 the , the ." 
 
 " Good God, no ! " Vernon broke in, inter-
 
 318 A Romance of 
 
 rupting her. " Little as it seems I know you, 
 I know you too well for that." 
 
 She seemed hardly to hear his words, but 
 went on with a scornful laugh : "If I could 
 have got any harm from his company, I 
 should have got it, you may be sure, long 
 ago. If my morals, that you seem so anxious 
 about, are ever in danger again, it will be 
 from some new friend, not from any old one. 
 The women that men make love to are those 
 they have only just seen I believe you, Mr. 
 Vernon, can bear v/itness in that not those 
 they have been familiar with for seventeen 
 years." 
 
 " You mistake me," he said, " I am not 
 jealous of Colonel Stapleton in the common 
 sense of the word ; but am only jealous of 
 you in the way that God might be. I love 
 you so well that I am jealous of the very 
 tone of your mind ; and is there one thought 
 that you really wish to cherish in which this 
 man could sympathize, or which you could so 
 much as utter to him ? " 
 
 Words could not have been spoken with 
 more piteous earnestness ; but she showed no
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 319 
 
 sign of relenting. Rather, the more he 
 pleaded, the more did she seem to harden. 
 
 " Really, Mr. Vernon," she said, in the 
 same unrelenting tone, " if one is to cut off 
 all one's acquaintance who do not come up 
 to such a lofty standard as yours, she would 
 be obliged to go into a convent. I have far 
 too much need of indulgence myself not to 
 extend some to others ; and I believe that 
 your young lady friends are not above sus- 
 picion. Including myself, I have seen you 
 amusing yourself with three of them, and I 
 can't say of these any one has been a model 
 of virtue. Come," she went on abruptly, "do 
 you not see I am waiting ? I cannot wrench 
 my hand from you, if you still persist in hold- 
 ing me ; but I believe I am speaking to a 
 gentleman, and once more I must ask you to 
 let me go." 
 
 Vernon released her without a word. 
 " Good morning," she said with perfect cold- 
 ness and self-possession, as she turned away 
 from him. But he stood perfectly silent, and 
 only stared at her ; nor as she disappeared 
 did he make any attempt to follow her.
 
 A Romance of 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 TTERNON returned to his house in a state 
 verging on stupor. He found his late 
 breakfast waiting for him, among the dishes 
 of which was a mayonnaise of lobster ; and 
 the very sight of it turned him sick. But 
 though he could eat nothing, he made up for 
 the want by drinking, and he got through the 
 better part of a bottle of fine Chambertin. 
 From drink he had recourse to tobacco, and 
 from his cigarettes he again went back to his 
 Burgundy. He had not the least wish to 
 drown thought in intoxication. All he 
 wanted was somehow or other to sustain him- 
 self. He was battered, bruised, and crushed. 
 He had not known a shock of this kind before, 
 and he staggered under it in lost bewilder- 
 ment. He ached through and through with
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 321 
 
 a forlorn sense of desolation ; and he some- 
 times muttered to himself in the words of 
 
 Lear : 
 
 " ' Down thou climbing sorrow, 
 Hy&tertca passto, down ! ' ' 
 
 The wine by and by began to have some 
 effect upon him ; he went out of doors, in the 
 hope of getting rid of this ; and he turned 
 with unsteady steps toward the hotel gar- 
 dens. He wandered about there for he knew 
 not how long, abjectly, like a wounded ani- 
 mal, or perhaps like a scapegoat, and bearing 
 a kindred burden. At last, however, his 
 wretchedness took the shape of resolution, 
 and returning in-doors, he wrote the follow- 
 ing note to Miss Walters : 
 
 " Cynthia, I must see you. If you are really resolved 
 that we are to part forever, you shall at least not part 
 from me as you did this morning. Something more I 
 must say to you, and say it before the day is over. Do 
 not refuse to hear me. I beseech you give me an oppor- 
 tunity. You have never been out of my thoughts since 
 that moment when you turned away from me. Your last 
 words have been bruising me, they have been weighing 
 me down ever since. I could have borne it better that 
 21
 
 322 A Romance of 
 
 you should have beaten me with a horsewhip, than that 
 you should have spoken as you did then. I would almost 
 think that till to-day I had never known sorrow. It is 
 not for myself I am sorry ; it is for you, for you only. 
 If you are tired of me, send me away ; but oh, do not 
 send your own soul away from your own self. It seems 
 to me now that I have no feeling left but one, and that 
 one has swallowed all the others. It is an intense desire 
 that you may become true to yourself. As for me, think 
 what you will of me. I am asking you for nothing on 
 my own account. And yet I am wrong ; I am asking 
 for one thing. Do not be angry with me ; if I have done 
 anything to pain you forgive me, and see me, if for only 
 one half hour, and let me say what I have to say to you. 
 Come to me to-night in the garden. Be at the seat we 
 know of will you ? Write me one line to say yes or 
 no. I shall have no peace till I get your answer." 
 
 The servant who took the letter brought 
 back to Vernon word that an answer would 
 be sent in the course of an hour or two. At 
 last it came. It was only a pencil scrawl. 
 "Why," it ran, "should I be angry with you? 
 Yes, come if you like. I will be there at ten 
 this evening." 
 
 The tone of this did not altogether reas- 
 sure him, and when he reached the rendez- 
 vous, his heart was still aching. She was not
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 323 
 
 yet there, and his spirits sank still lower. As 
 he waited the moments seemed like hours to 
 him, and a clear presentiment shaped itself 
 that she would never come at all. The night 
 was soft and lovely, the fountains splashed 
 and glimmered, all nature was full of the 
 same luxurious languor that had so well ac- 
 corded with the earlier stages of his passion. 
 But now all was changed. His passion had 
 passed from romance into hard reality. 
 There was nothing now in it akin to the 
 scent of flowers, or the splash of fountains, 
 or the glimmer of moon-lit seas ; and the 
 human anxieties that could be affected by 
 things like these now seemed to him but silly 
 toys and child's play. He waited in weary 
 impatience for he knew not how long, and 
 still she did not come. At length through 
 the quiet he heard a faint far sound. It 
 ceased for a few minutes, and then again he 
 heard it. It was now sharper and more clear, 
 and he recognized it as the sound of carriage 
 wheels. Presently a gleam of white was visi- 
 ble, slowly gliding among the orange trees ; 
 and in another moment Miss Walters was be-
 
 324 A Romance of 
 
 fore him softly perfumed daintily dressed 
 as ever. 
 
 " I thought," he exclaimed, " that you were 
 never coming ! I thought you were drifting 
 altogether away from me ! " 
 
 " I couldn't come sooner," she said, softly 
 and calmly. " Forgive me for having kept 
 you waiting." 
 
 Her tone and her expression were both 
 ambiguous, as though two minds were being 
 balanced in her, the one against the other. 
 
 " Has he, then, only just left you ?" asked 
 Vernon, coldly. 
 
 " If by Ae," she said, " you mean Colonel 
 Stapleton, he has only just left us. I was 
 obliged to wait till he was gone. I could 
 hardly, you see, ask a guest to excuse me. on 
 the ground of having an assignation in the 
 garden." 
 
 " I am not vexed with you," said Vernon, 
 " for having kept me waiting. I am only 
 gratified to you for Jiaving come at all. Sit 
 down by me, Cynthia, for a little, and let me 
 talk to you." 
 
 She folded her hands before her, and fixed
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 325 
 
 her eyes on the ground. " I am listening," 
 she said. " Please begin, will you ? " 
 
 Vernon, however, was for a while silent. 
 He seemed to have some difficulty in finding 
 either his words or voice. At last, however, 
 he began, speaking very low and slowly. 
 
 " Do you know," he said, " why I have 
 begged you to meet me here ? I have had 
 one reason, and one only. It is because I 
 see into your character see down into the 
 inmost depths of it, and because I see how 
 noble, and pure, and beautiful it really is. 
 My Cynthia, you are akin to all that is best 
 and holiest ; and oh, if my death could help 
 you, I would very gladly die for you. Till 
 this morning I thought you were safe, and 
 that I had no more cause for anxiety. You 
 looked at peace, and myself, I had seen you 
 praying. I watched your eyes in the chapel, 
 as they were fixed on the altar. I listened 
 to your voice, as it said to God's mother, 
 " Pray for me." My own one, I had hoped 
 that all was right with you. But now, sud- 
 denly and without warning, you tell me I was 
 quite deceived. You said very little to-day,
 
 326 A Romance of 
 
 but the little was like a ghastly flash of light- 
 ning. It revealed an unsuspected cavern that 
 I have not explored that I knew nothing 
 at all about. I do not understand you yet. 
 Cannot you bear to trust me ? " 
 
 " What more can I tell you ? You know 
 too much already." 
 
 " Too much and yet too little." There was 
 a long pause. 
 
 " I am sorry," she said at last, in a con- 
 strained voice, " that I ever told you any- 
 thing. It was very foolish of me." 
 
 " For God's sake," he exclaimed, " don't 
 say that ! Surely I have been some help to 
 you, even thus far. You are less unhappy 
 now than you were when first I knew you." 
 
 She gave a low bitter laugh. " Certainly," 
 she said, " I could not possibly be more so." 
 
 "You make it very hard for me," said 
 Vernon, " to say what I wish to say ; you 
 perplex me so that I get almost bewildered 
 as to my own meaning. Will you bear with 
 me for a minute or two, and let me try to 
 collect my thoughts ? I am so miserable that 
 I feel as if I were turning silly." He was
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 327 
 
 silent for some time, leaning his forehead 
 on his hand. At last rousing himself, and 
 with a wretched look in his eyes, " Listen," 
 he said, " I think I can speak now. You told 
 me when first we met that you were very un- 
 happy, and what I have been trying to do 
 has been to show you that you were not just 
 to yourself. I have been trying to force you 
 to see the good that I see in you. My 
 Cynthia, I see it now, for your soul's garden 
 is still white with lilies which, with pure 
 hands, you may place upon God's altar. It 
 is this that I have been trying to show you. 
 And I thought you had seen it, just as one 
 sees a thing when one wakes up from a dream, 
 and finds one is not drowning, but is safe in 
 bed. I thought that whatever wrong you 
 may have done, had become to you ' but a 
 sleep and a forgetting ; ' and that you were 
 re-united to your own taintless nature. But 
 now you tell me that you are still not sure 
 of yourself, that the very thing you hate has 
 still some mysterious hold upon you, and that 
 it is I only a chance support like myself 
 who keep you where you are. If I were
 
 328 A Romance of 
 
 taken from you, you might again be false to 
 your true self, you say, and yet how ? Where 
 is your danger ? All other affection, so you 
 tell me, is dead in you." 
 
 " My meaning," she said, looking straight 
 before her, "is, I think, simple. If a woman 
 has some one to lean upon who will fill her 
 life with affection, and will not only show her 
 what is right, but will give it a living mean- 
 ing for her, then she will love the right and 
 be true to it. Her human love will make all 
 other love clear to her. But suppose she is 
 left alone with no one to guide her, or even 
 to care whether she is guided ! But why 
 should I talk ? You are not a woman. You 
 can never know what to a woman affection 
 is. You talk of losing affection as you might 
 talk of putting down one's carriage, or getting 
 rid of an extra footman ; whereas in reality 
 it is like tearing out half one's sinews. No 
 
 , if I were left alone, I would certainly 
 
 not answer for myself. When a woman has 
 once found pleasure in a way she ought not, 
 misery will always, if it comes to her, lay her 
 bare to temptation. It is not a new affection
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 329 
 
 by which such women are tempted. It is 
 simply mad distraction." 
 
 " But what I can't endure," he said, " is to 
 think that what sullies you can distract you 
 even. It wouldn't distract you at least not 
 in the way you mean to stand in the street 
 and let a mob pelt and spit at you. Why 
 should it distract you thus to put a yet worse 
 insult upon you ? " 
 
 " Perfectly," she said, " it is an extremely 
 simple one. I know exactly the kind of feel- 
 ing you wish for me : indeed, no one by na- 
 ture could have had it more strongly than I 
 had. But you could as easily give a tumbled 
 plum its bloom back, as give that back to me. 
 One may recover many things when one has 
 lost them ; but one will never recover that. 
 If I live to be old enough I may perhaps be 
 childish ; but I shall never again be inno- 
 cent." 
 
 He rose from his seat, and began pacing 
 slowly up and down before her. His abstrac- 
 tion and prolonged silence seemed to chill 
 and harden her. 
 
 "Well she said, "and do you understand
 
 33O A Romance of 
 
 me now? It was better to be honest with 
 you, even if I have made you think me too 
 depraved to be spoken to. I at least love 
 truth, if I have no other virtue ; and I would 
 far sooner that you did not care for me at 
 all than that you cared for me under false 
 pretenses." 
 
 "You are not depraved," said Vernon, 
 " and I do not think you are." 
 
 " It is foolish of you," she said, " to eat 
 your own words in that way ; nor is it the 
 least comfort to me to hear you do it. If I 
 were not a lady, I could describe my own 
 character far better and more tersely than 
 you have done, only, unfortunately, the only 
 word I could use is not generally found in a 
 well-bred lady's vocabulary." 
 
 " Vernon sat down by her and was about 
 to begin speaking ; but she did not give him 
 time. 
 
 " Come," she said, " am I looking well to- 
 night ? Why don't you kiss me, and tell me 
 how soft and pretty I am? Isn't that what 
 you say generally when you talk to girls like 
 me ? By the way, I have found a word that
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 331 
 
 will at least describe what I might have 
 been, had circumstances only favored me 
 an hetaira. If I had lived at Athens, I 
 should have performed that part capitally. I 
 was made for a life of pleasure, I think, if 
 
 , if - ." She stopped abruptly for a 
 
 moment, and then broke out once more " If 
 only there were not something in me that 
 had made all my pleasure a hell." 
 
 Vernon had been listening to her hitherto 
 aghast, silent, and motionless, but he caught 
 at this last sentence, and eagerly bent for- 
 ward to her. 
 
 " My Cynthia," he said, "my poor unhappy 
 
 loved one, do you think people really bad are 
 
 unhappy in the way that you are ? I am torn 
 
 as I think of you by two conflicting impulses 
 
 to worship, and to pity you." 
 
 The word pity stung her. " Thank you," 
 she said, "but I have no wish to be pitied. 
 I am as much too proud for your pity as I 
 am too depraved for your worship." 
 
 Her voice as she said this had an icy 
 coldness ; but just at the last word or two it 
 trembled ever so little, and in another mo-
 
 332 A Romance of 
 
 ment her face was hidden in her hands, and 
 she was sobbing violently. 
 
 " Oh, can't I do anything to stop this ? " 
 she gasped. "If I can't I shall die. I have 
 been often told so by the doctors. My heart 
 is all wrong, and I might die at any moment. 
 And yet why should I not ? It would be the 
 best thing for me. Then at last then at last 
 I might be at rest." 
 
 Vernon took her hand, but it was cold and 
 limp, and wet with tears that had fallen upon 
 it. He spoke to her with the most tender 
 kindness, and said all he could to comfort 
 her. 
 
 " Oh, why," she said, " are you so hard 
 upon me ? Why do you send me away from 
 you when I tell you I am only good for your 
 sake ? Oh, you have been cruel you have 
 been cruel to me ! If you only knew, when 
 a person is in my condition, how easy it is to 
 wound them how the least hard word can be 
 like a dagger to them ! " 
 
 " Indeed," said Vernon, " I did not mean 
 to be hard on you. If I had hurt you by 
 the way I have spoken, I'm sure I may say,
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 333 
 
 like the schoolmaster when he whips the boy, 
 'It hurts me most.'" 
 
 "Yes," she said, "you might say that just 
 like the schoolmaster, for it would not be 
 true," and she looked up at him timidly, with 
 a little faint smile of humor. This to him 
 was like a gleam of returning sunshine ; and 
 now her voice softened, and she began to 
 speak pleadingly. " Why," she went on, "if 
 you really wish me to be good, won't you let 
 me begin with thinking that you are pleased 
 with my goodness? Let me do that first; 
 and I will learn afterward to love goodness 
 for its own sake." 
 
 " Yes and for your own sake also; for the 
 sake of your own self-reverence. I wish you 
 to shun and to flinch from evil as you would 
 from a wound, or from hot iron. And surely 
 you do now, if you only knew yourself. 
 Surely you wrong yourself by your own 
 fears, don't you ? Tell me, my Cynthia, my 
 love with the saint's eyes, is what I say not 
 true?" 
 
 She had ceased sobbing now, but her eyes 
 were still damp with tears. As he said
 
 334 -A Romance of 
 
 she suddenly collected herself, and, with a 
 forced firmness in her voice, said, after a 
 pause, " No, it is not true." 
 
 " Cynthia ! " 
 
 " Don't speak in that tone please don't. 
 If you don't wish to kill me, please be kind 
 and patient with me. Oh, God, how my 
 heart is beating ! Will you listen ? " she went 
 on, gasping. " I have several things to tell 
 you which, perhaps, will make you think a 
 little more kindly about me. Ever since I 
 knew you since that night when we drove 
 home together, and you spoke to me about 
 your having wandered from your true self 
 ever since then I have been struggling, bat- 
 tling with my evil. Then afterward, when 
 some impulse moved me to confess to you, I 
 have tried yet more earnestly ; and I have 
 had temptations fawning upon me which you 
 little knew about yes, during the last fort- 
 night, since we have been at the Cap de Juan." 
 
 " Temptations ! " echoed Vernon. 
 
 " Yes," she said, " but I can't tell you what 
 or whence. I can only say they were from 
 some one that you never saw or heard about
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 335 
 
 And oh, how I prayed, and prayed, and 
 prayed, and received no answer. You little 
 thought what a poor creature there was with- 
 in a few hundred yards of you. Well ! what 
 do you think has helped me ? My only hope 
 and help has Ipeen the thought of you. Ro- 
 man Catholics pray to dead saints. Why 
 should I not get help of the same sort from 
 a living friend ? " 
 
 "You shall," exclaimed Vernon ; "all help 
 that is mine to give you. But there is one 
 thing that I must once more beg of you. 
 Don't go on yielding, either in word or 
 thought, to these extravagant self-accusations. 
 Let me only whisper to you, Go, sin no 
 more, and, if I may venture to use the 
 words, Neither do I condemn thee." 
 
 She looked at the face wistfully. " What 
 I say of myself is not at all extravagant. I 
 know you think so ; and each time I see you 
 do I feel that I am still deceiving you. You 
 think, I believe, that there is some pretty 
 story connected with me. You think no 
 doubt that I am some sort of Juliet : not, I 
 am sure, that poor Juliet had much to tax
 
 336 A Romance of 
 
 herself with. But I must shelter that bubble 
 if I can. And yet how can I ? How can I 
 begin ? Oh, me ! the wretchedness and the 
 shame of it all ! " 
 
 " My darling," said Vernon, " if to tell me 
 is any relief, tell me. But if not, let things 
 rest as they are. I can trust you without 
 forcing your confidence." 
 
 " That is the very thing," she said. " You 
 trust me too much. It will relieve me to tell 
 the entire truth to you that is, if I can only 
 manage it. And don't be afraid I shall break 
 down over it, and make a scene again. I am 
 quite myself now, and my heart has done 
 throbbing. Would you mind walking a little 
 with me ? I think I could talk better then." 
 
 Her manner was perfectly calm now, yet 
 without hardness. They rose at her last re- 
 quest, and walked along the path together. 
 Vernon offered his arm to her, but she gently 
 refused to take it. " No," she said, " not now 
 if you please. I mean you first to know 
 better who it is you are talking to. Well- 
 to begin with, you know this much already, 
 that I am only received in society because
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 337 
 
 the world knows nothing about me. I am 
 there upon false pretenses. That is hardly a 
 pleasant sense to have always with one. 
 However, we will let that pass. I have two 
 things beside that to tell you one is how I 
 have treated a certain man, the other how a 
 certain man has treated me. I can tell the 
 first story easier, and I will begin with that. 
 Rather more than a year ago I made a re- 
 treat with a friend of mine it is the very 
 Mrs. Crane we are going to visit at San 
 Remo a quaint little watering-place between 
 Genoa and Spezzia. For me it was really a 
 retreat a retreat in the religious sense. I 
 was very unhappy about myself, and I had 
 been trying to take up with religion. Didn't 
 I tell you that I very nearly became a Cath- 
 olic ? Well Mrs. Crane then made friends 
 with a man, who, having nothing better to 
 do, fell deeply in love with me. Love is 
 hardly the word for it. He simply worship- 
 ped me. He thought me a saint. He told 
 me that I had saved him from all kinds of 
 evil courses." 
 
 " Did you care for him?" said Vernon. 
 22
 
 338 A Romance of 
 
 "Yes, I liked him. I had an intense re- 
 spect for him. I was trying to be good my- 
 self, and I respected all goodness then. But 
 I did not behave well. I encouraged him. 
 I made him think I cared more than I really 
 did for him, and at last he asked me if I 
 would marry him. I had dreaded for a day 
 or two before that this might be coming. I 
 told him no. I had really not the least love 
 for him, and yet it was difficult to give him 
 too hard a denial. I suppose I had become 
 so demoralized that I couldn't bear losing an 
 admirer. Well, in course of time he had to 
 return to England, and I managed to put 
 him off with some indefinite hope, which I 
 believe he still indulges in and regards as 
 his most sacred treasure. If ever a woman 
 played with a human soul, I have played with 
 his." 
 
 She paused. " You have shown me," said 
 Vernon, " how right I was in what I have 
 said to you. You look on your own mis- 
 deeds in far too gloomy a way. God knows 
 that we should be all of us more careful than 
 we are in matters such as these. But there
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 339 
 
 are many good women who might make much 
 worse confessions." 
 
 " Perhaps," she said ; " but you must re- 
 member when I knew this man I fancied my- 
 self to be going through the most solemn 
 religious experiences ; and yet even then my 
 wicked vanity was misleading me. However, 
 it is not for its own sake that I tell you this 
 incident. It is for an accidental reason, and 
 one that is personal to yourself." 
 
 "To me!" 
 
 "You," she said, hurriedly, "to you. But 
 we won't stop to talk about that now. I 
 must get through the task I have set myself, 
 and the worst is not over yet." Here her 
 voice failed her. She caught hold of Ver- 
 non's arm, and gulped down a spasmodic 
 sob. 
 
 "Don't go on," said Vernon, "if it gives 
 pain to you." 
 
 " I must," she said. " I will be brave and 
 get it over. Only two months after the man 
 had left me, I was staying at Nice, with some 
 rather fast friends I had. One reason why I 
 hate Monte Carlo so is because ." Once
 
 340 A Romance of 
 
 more she stopped. Then tightening her hold 
 on his arm, so as almost to give him pain, 
 she put her lips to his ear, and spoke in a 
 quick whisper. " I used often to go over 
 there with a very bad person a man. I used 
 to gamble there anything to drown thought. 
 He used to bank with me, and I won a lot of 
 money. I couldn't touch it not a penny of 
 it. I gave it all away to charities. Do you 
 understand what I have just said to you ? " 
 
 " I do," said Vernon, sadly. " My poor, 
 poor Cynthia ! " Presently he added, " I must 
 beg your pardon for one thought, which did 
 cross my mind this morning. I mean about 
 Colonel Stapleton ; for I know, from what he 
 has told me, that at that time he was away in 
 Palestine." 
 
 " He was," she said. " I had not seen him 
 till the other day for a long time." 
 
 "Well ," said Vernon, as if he ex- 
 pected her to continue. 
 
 " Haven't I told you all ? I believe I don't 
 quite know what I'm saying. I wish, for 
 one reason, that you were a worse person. 
 You would understand me so much more
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 341 
 
 easily. What I have to tell you is . 
 
 God help me, I am sorry I began this. It is 
 nothing that can be said exactly in so many 
 words. It's a question rather of what I am 
 
 than of what I have done. Stay ," she 
 
 exclaimed. " I think I know one way of 
 enlightening you. Come with me into my 
 sitting-room. The window is open. There 
 will be nobody about by this time, and I will 
 only keep you a moment." 
 
 He followed her into the house in silence, 
 She went to a large despatch-box that stood 
 on one of her tables by a lovely vase of roses, 
 and she slowly opened it. 
 
 " What I am going to show you," she said, 
 " I have myself only glanced at ; but the very 
 fact that such a thing should be sent me will 
 throw some light for you on the character of 
 the sender, and the sort of character which I 
 have let him impute to me. It comes from 
 the person I told you of." 
 
 She put into Vernon's hands a small oblong 
 something, which in the dim light he did not 
 at first see clearly. "It is locked," she said. 
 " I believe there is a key somewhere,"
 
 34 2 A Romance of 
 
 But she was stopped in her search by two 
 sounds behind her. The one was an excla- 
 mation from Vernon, the other was the fall 
 on the floor of the object she had just given 
 him. It lay then at his feet. It was the book 
 of photographs that had been shown him by 
 Colonel Stapleton. 
 
 There was a pause of some seconds, while 
 the two stood staring at each other. At last 
 Vernon said, in a low distinct voice, " I have 
 seen that book before. I know too who it 
 has come from." 
 
 Then his voice failed him. He sank back 
 in his chair as if dizzy, and his eyes were 
 fixed on the ceiling in a dull, stony stare. As 
 for her, she had sunk helplessly to the ground, 
 pressing her face against the low cushions of 
 a sofa. So far as human life went, the room 
 was a ghastly silence. The only sounds heard 
 were the tick of the small carriage-clock on 
 the chimney-piece, the croaking of the frogs 
 outside, and the faint splash of the fountains. 
 Silence seemed to both the only thing possi- 
 ble. There was nothing in either mind that 
 could lead to a wish to break it. Suddenly,
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 343 
 
 however, there was the noise of a door slam- 
 ming. The effect was as quick on Miss Wal- 
 ters as the kiss on the Sleeping Beauty. 
 "Quick," she said to Vernon. " It is Braham 
 coming our butler." I know his footstep. 
 Get into the garden till he's gone ; but don't 
 go away, unless you mean quite to leave me." 
 
 Vernon went as he was bidden. He could 
 hear Miss Walters' voice as she was talking 
 to the servant. He heard a door closing, and 
 then she reappeared at the window. 
 
 " I am coming out," she said. " Don't let 
 us go back into the room again." She spoke 
 very solemnly, and there was a strange calm 
 in her face. " I shall not keep you long," she 
 said. " I am come to say good-by to you." 
 
 Vernon answered nothing, he only stood 
 and looked at her. " Am I not fit," she said 
 at last, " to have even a good-by said to me?" 
 
 Again he gave no answer, so far as words 
 went, but he drew a little nearer to her, and 
 softly folded her in his arms. Her face as 
 she looked at him was full of astonished 
 gratitude, but there was no trace of a smile 
 on it ; it seemed even more sad than before.
 
 344 
 
 "Oh," she murmured presently, "you are 
 very, very kind to me. You are being kind, 
 as it were, to a person upon her death-bed ; 
 for of course now it is all all over between 
 us." 
 
 " All over ! " he echoed. 
 
 "You can never," she said, "be my friend 
 now you know me, especially now you have 
 found out how I have been lying to you. 
 But oh the shame of it all ! I was always 
 so afraid you might guess it; and I couldn't 
 bear to think you should know who the per- 
 son was." 
 
 He took her hand and placed her arm 
 in his, and they moved away toward the 
 shadow of some orange-trees. She was 
 quite passive she went exactly as he guided 
 her ; but she seemed reassured a little by all 
 his tender treatment. Presently she began 
 again, and her voice sounded like a child's. 
 
 "I was so young," she said, "when he 
 made me bad first ; and at one time, long, 
 long ago, he had been really good and nice 
 to me. I don't know when he became dif- 
 ferent. I suppose when I got prettier. I
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 345 
 
 had hardly left the school-room, I remember, 
 when he began to lend me horrid French 
 novels. I didn't understand them ; that was 
 one thing ; at least not till a long time after- 
 ward. I have had" and she gave a little 
 nervous laugh " I have had, you see, to live 
 up to my education." 
 
 At last Vernon spoke. " By and by," he 
 said, "when I have gone away from you, I 
 shall pray Almighty God to damn that man's 
 soul forever." 
 
 " Hush ! hush ! " she said. "It was my fault 
 as well as his. I knew what was right then 
 as well as I do now. But you see by this 
 time, don't you, that I can never again be 
 what I once was ? I know you are horrified 
 at me ; but I can't help it." 
 
 " I believe," said Vernon, slowly and with 
 effort, " that some moral revulsions are pride 
 in its highest form. I might be pleased, per- 
 haps, to think you had never sinned ; but God 
 would condemn that feeling, and I condemn 
 it also. The shepherd loves the lost sheep 
 when he finds it, even though it is lame and 
 wounded by its wanderings, and surely he
 
 346 A Romance of 
 
 knows best what is loveable. You will be a 
 far finer character when you come to your 
 soul's home again than you would have been 
 had you never left it." 
 
 " When ! " she repeated. " Yes, you may 
 well say that ; but that when is never. I can 
 still see the gates of that very home you 
 speak of, but I see them 
 
 "'With dreadful faces thronged and fiery arms.' 
 
 There is no way back into Eden." 
 
 " I was foolish," said Vernon, " in the way 
 I talked this morning. I don't ask you any 
 longer to become an innocent girl again. I 
 ask you to become a holy woman instead ; 
 that is far better. Among the highest 
 saints in heaven, will be faces deepest scarred 
 by the battle. You are right, very likely, that 
 there is no way back into Eden ; but I am 
 not a great quoter of texts, yet I still remem- 
 ber this one : ' We all die in Adam, but we 
 may all live in Christ.'" 
 
 She looked at him with a piercing eager- 
 ness, and said, " Do you really believe that ?" 
 
 Vernon was embarrassed, as he had been
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 347 
 
 once before already, by her direct question- 
 ing. 
 
 "I believe it," he said slowly, "and you 
 will help my unbelief." 
 
 She dropped her eyes, reflecting. " Sit 
 down," she said, "on that seat for a moment." 
 
 It was strange how, through all her sor- 
 rows, the feminine fascination of her com- 
 mand still continued. Vernon obeyed si- 
 lently. No sooner had he done so, than 
 softly, like a shadow, she sank on her knees 
 before him. "If you will not mind hearing 
 me, I am going to say a prayer," she said. 
 With a movement of kindness that was then 
 almost mechanical, he laid his hand upon her 
 shoulder ; her hands were folded before her 
 face. Vernon was glad that she was not 
 watching him. He felt that his thoughts 
 were wandering far from hers, and that his 
 face, rigid and melancholy, would at once 
 have betrayed the fact. Presently a low 
 sound broke from her, and he caught the fa- 
 miliar accents as of a little child's " Our 
 Father." He meanwhile, in a bitter and 
 blank wonder, let his eyes stare about him,
 
 348 A Romance of 
 
 as he thought, "Does prayer mean any 
 thing?" 
 
 That night he slept a heavy dreamless 
 sleep. He had not yet had time to settle 
 either into hope or misery ; and his last 
 memory as he sank to sleep was simply one 
 of Miss Walters' parting words : " Will you 
 see me to-morrow morning ? If we go to 
 San Remo that day, it will not be till the 
 afternoon at any rate."
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 349 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 *T*HEIR meeting next day began with a 
 low-toned quiet that came of intense 
 exhaustion. The first things said referred 
 to the Walters' movements, and Vernon 
 learned that they were actually going, in the 
 course of the next few hours. 
 
 "For one reason," she said, "I am rather 
 glad. There are so many things I can write 
 far more clearly than I could say them." 
 
 Vernon meanwhile had had time to be 
 struck with one thing ; and this was a curious 
 change in the style of Miss Walters' dress. 
 In place of her usual dainty toilette, what 
 she wore now might have been almost called 
 dowdy, but for the unconscious grace which 
 her figure and bearing gave it. 
 
 " I never saw you," he said, "in that frock 
 before."
 
 350 A Romance of 
 
 She smiled faintly. " Thereby hangs a 
 tale," she said. " I used to wear this dress 
 when your friend Mr. Campbell knew me." 
 
 "Campbell!" exclaimed Vernon. "Do 
 you mean Alic Campbell ?" 
 
 " Didn't I tell you ?" she said. "I meant 
 to have done so ; but I was so confused last 
 night." 
 
 "Are you, then, the person that has changed 
 his whole life for him ? * Good God ! why 
 but a fortnight back he was here in this 
 very place, and he was telling me all about 
 you ; only he never said your name, neither 
 did I mention yours. He was with me only 
 a night, and then went on his way, little 
 dreaming he had been so near you. Do 
 you know where he was going ? To a 
 friend of yours, that he might hear news of 
 you." 
 
 Miss Walters gave a long sigh of relief. 
 "What an escape!" she said. "I know he 
 was coming abroad to hunt for me ; but I 
 got my friend, Mrs. Crane, to contrive some 
 respite for me. He has been at Sorrento, I 
 know, with her, talking night and day about
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 351 
 
 me. Perhaps, now, you wonder less why I 
 reproached myself." 
 
 "He thinks you a saint, poor fellow ; and 
 has been trying all he can to become worthy 
 of you." 
 
 " I know he thinks me a saint," said Miss 
 Walters, "and that was what I could not 
 bear. It is more crushing to be thought 
 better than it is to be thought worse than 
 you are. And I should not be surprised at 
 Alic Campbell's misjudging me. He only 
 thought I was what at the time I was really 
 trying to be. I seemed to him to be a very 
 simple person. Yes this is the dress he 
 knew me in : I think almost the only dress. 
 I really did hate the world just then ; and I 
 tried in every way to mortify my wicked 
 vanity. I wore the same dress this morning, 
 as a sign of the same spirit. I couldn't bear 
 to put anything on that should make my 
 wicked body seem beautiful." 
 
 Vernon answered her in an oddly absent 
 manner, " And has the spirit of that time 
 come back to you ? " 
 
 " Do not you know it has ? " she said
 
 352 A Romance of 
 
 vehemently ; " and if you will only help me it 
 shall never leave me again. Oh, please be 
 kind to me, and let me lean on you for a lit- 
 tle while longer, and don't refuse me your 
 support, because I tell you I can't do with- 
 out it. It's quite true I shall go straight 
 to the dogs without you." But Vernon gave 
 no answer : he was simply staring into va- 
 cancy. " What is it ?" she asked, half fright- 
 ened. " Is anything the matter with you ?" 
 
 Then he fixed his eyes on her. As he 
 did so she seemed to divine his meaning, 
 and her lip quivered with a sort of expectant 
 terror. 
 
 " You told me," he said, " about your un- 
 happy time at Monaco ; and at that time 
 Colonel Stapleton was in the Holy Land." 
 
 He spoke very slowly, and her cheeks 
 turned from pale to scarlet. With a sudden 
 effort she regained command of herself ; the 
 flush died from her cheeks, and she said to 
 him in a sad, clear voice, " Do you think such 
 affection as Colonel Stapleton gives a woman 
 is of a kind that is likely to keep her faithful 
 during his absence ? "
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 35 jj 
 
 " Cynthia, my dear Cynthia," cried a voice 
 in the adjoining drawing-room, " Is that you ? 
 and are you talking to Mr. Vernon ? Ask 
 him to stay and have breakfast with us. It 
 is ordered at twelve o'clock." 
 
 " It is my aunt," exclaimed Miss Walters. 
 " Yes, Aunt Louisa, we will be with you in 
 another moment. Come " and she turned 
 to Vernon " our conversation is over now ; 
 and now at once I can speak the utter, 
 utter truth to you. You have got now the 
 lowest dregs of my cask." 
 
 "Must we go yet?" Vernon whispered. 
 *' Only one word more with you ? " 
 
 " No," she said. " I must go, even if you 
 need not. It is twelve already. Come, will 
 you have breakfast with us ? " 
 
 She was about to push the curtains aside, 
 and go into the drawing-room, when Vernon 
 caught her by the arm, and forcibly drew her 
 near him. " God bless you," he murmured. 
 " God guard and save you ! " And instead 
 of kissing her he made a hasty sign of the 
 cross upon her. 
 23
 
 35 1 A Romance of 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 H^HAT afternoon, left to his own thoughts, 
 he did what he had not done for a fort- 
 night. He called upon Frederic Stanley. 
 He found him in his little bare sitting-room, 
 apparently deep in thought at a table strewn 
 with papers ; but Vernon's entrance brought 
 a pleasant smile to his face. 
 
 " It is a long time," began Vernon, " since 
 last I came to see you." 
 
 Stanley detected Vernon's feeling, and 
 adroitly disclaimed the apology. " Had I 
 more room for visitors," he said, " I would 
 have asked you to come before now. I fear 
 you will think that I affect to be very inac- 
 cessible." 
 
 He spoke in" this way out of a quick sense 
 of delicacy. The emotion betrayed by Miss
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 355 
 
 Walters, when he dined at the Chateau St. 
 John, he had set down to a feeling on her 
 part for Vernon, and though this particular 
 conjecture was wrong, it had led him more or 
 less to the truth. He had gathered that be- 
 tween the two there had arisen some special 
 intimacy, which he hoped might result in 
 good ; and, it was little surprise to him that 
 he was himself lost sight of. What did sur- 
 prise him most, however, was the dejection of 
 Vernon's aspect, which was but ill concealed 
 by his constant efforts at talking ; indeed, at 
 last he ceased to attempt concealment. 
 
 " Stanley," he said, " the last time I was 
 here the day I came with Campbell I 
 asked a favor of you. I wonder if you 
 would now repeat it. Will you come and 
 dine with me this evening, and name your 
 own hour ? I am out of spirits for many rea- 
 sons, and to give me your company would be 
 an act of Christian charity." 
 
 " You look worn out," said Stanley. " You 
 have had, I trust, nothing much to trouble 
 you. I shall certainly come to dinner. Shall 
 we say six thirty ? "
 
 356 A Romance of 
 
 The rest of that afternoon was to Vernon 
 a vigil of misery. The painful excitement of 
 the last two days was ended, and he now for 
 the first time grew conscious of the effect 
 those days had had on him. It was as though 
 he had been bruised all over in an accident, 
 and the bruises one by one were becoming 
 distinct tortures. Every moment of thought 
 or memory made him feel what his condition 
 was. Several times, as he dwelt upon Miss 
 Walters, tears too quick for repression filled 
 his eyes and fell from them. In another mo- 
 ment, as he still dwelt upon her, sorrow gave 
 place to loathing ; and loathing in its turn 
 to intense attraction. At one time it was, 
 "Can I ever touch her again ?" at another, 
 " Why did I not make her my mistress ? " 
 And then again sorrow obtained the mastery. 
 
 The hysterica passio had its own way with 
 a vengeance ; tears blinded him, and he let 
 them fall helplessly. 
 
 The sum of his sorrows, however, did not 
 end here. He had the thought of Campbell 
 also to prey upon him Campbell, the friend 
 whom he had supplanted, or toward whom,
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 357 
 
 at least, he had played a supplanter's part. 
 But this sorrow was of a somewhat different 
 order. It did, it is true, but add to and com- 
 plicate his wretchedness ; but it braced, it 
 did not unnerve, him. It demanded his judg- 
 ment even more than it roused his feelings. 
 Finally, there was an image that did both 
 equally. It was the image of Colonel Sta- 
 pleton. When he had run the round of his 
 other wretched reflections, he found fierce 
 relief in his hatred of this man. At first he 
 was busied with various schemes for fighting 
 him ; but, considering the pretext, this did not 
 seem possible. He would be blasting a rep- 
 utation, most likely, in the very act of aveng- 
 ing it. Nothing was left him, at any rate 
 for the time being, but to fan his anger by 
 the most elaborate expressions of it. No 
 mediaeval anathemas could have excelled 
 Vernon's broken mutterings. " May he die 
 slowly, and may the spirit of God curse him ! 
 May he cry for eternity for a single drop of 
 water, and may none be given him. May 
 my own death be sweetened by the sound 
 of his shrieks in hell." Such were a few of
 
 358 A Romance of 
 
 the ejaculations in which anger embodied 
 itself. Then anger in its turn would again 
 collapse into sorrow. " My angel, my angel," 
 he would say, " what has this devil done 
 to you ! " And the procession of tortured 
 thoughts would begin once more where it 
 started from. 
 
 Such excitement, however, brings its own 
 relief, and by the time Stanley came Vernon 
 was wearied into a sort of quietude. But 
 though the waves had ceased to lash them- 
 selves, there was only night over them, and 
 with their spent force they were still murmur- 
 ing disconsolately. " The meaning of life is 
 still blind as ever to me," was the thought 
 that was now filling him. " God will not an- 
 swer ; all the heavens are silent. In the infi- 
 nite hush of space is but one solitary sound 
 the tides of human history, as they moan like 
 a homeless sea."* 
 
 Vernon did not season his dinner with this 
 forlorn philosophy, but its results were visible 
 in his sad and spiritless conversation, which 
 was relieved only by an occasional show of 
 
 * " The meanings of the homeless sea." Tennyson.
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 359 
 
 irritation at the mention of two subjects. 
 These were none other than Campbell and 
 Miss Walters. Stanley, as was not unnatu- 
 ral, spoke often about them both of Miss 
 Walters guardedly, of Campbell with more 
 freedom ; but Vernon's answers were so short 
 and listless, that it was plain there was some- 
 thing wrong with him. Stanley could not 
 guess what, though he tried many solutions. 
 By and by, however, he thought he had 
 found a clue. 
 
 " May I ask," said Vernon, with a tone of 
 reviving interest, " what sort of work it is with 
 which you are always occupied ? " 
 
 " I am writing a small volume," said Stan- 
 ley, " on the teachings of St. Thomas Aquinas. 
 I am doing so at the suggestion of the arch- 
 bishop, who wishes to issue a series of prim- 
 ers, containing each an account of some great 
 Catholic theologian." 
 
 " Happy man !" said Vernon, " how I envy 
 you!" 
 
 " Do you mean you envy me because of the 
 kind of work ? Or do you envy me merely 
 because I have work at all ? "
 
 360 A Romance of 
 
 "A little," said Vernon, "because you have 
 work at all, but chiefly because it is work that 
 subserves a cause you worship." 
 
 " I know," said Stanley, " that you do not 
 worship my cause ; if you did you would be- 
 long to it. But your envy has a moral that 
 may apply even to you." 
 
 Vernon drank a glass of wine and stared 
 blankly at Stanley. " I wish to goodness," 
 he said, " I could find out how that was." 
 
 " Well," said Stanley, speaking now a little 
 dryly, " if you will not be offended with me, I 
 will try to tell you. A man of your powers, 
 and in your position, may have either the 
 fullest of lives or else the emptiest ; and if he 
 does not achieve the first, he will probably 
 have the second thrust upon him. I am not 
 speaking of religion, I am speaking of com- 
 mon happiness." 
 
 "Well," said Vernon, "go on. I am lis- 
 tening." 
 
 "A fool, if he be rich," said Stanley, "is 
 occupied very easily. There is no saying 
 what trifles may not content him. But a 
 strong man's mind is like a corrosive acid.
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 361 
 
 It eats through countless interests that suffice 
 to absorb others. It even takes the gilt off 
 vice, and it makes gambling vapid. What it 
 asks is, 'Give me something to work for that 
 I can feel is worth the work.' Now for the 
 bulk of mankind there is a ready answer to 
 this. They must work to live, or at least to 
 live in comfort ; and all that they now do is 
 to make a virtue of necessity. But the rich 
 man's task is by no means as simple as this. 
 He has p.ot to make a virtue of necessity, but 
 to make a necessity of virtue. By an act of 
 will and choice he must take that yoke upon 
 him that the larger number are born with. 
 He must choose some line of action ; he 
 must devote himself to something. What 
 makes a man is the sense that he has com- 
 mitted himself." 
 
 "True," said Vernon, "but the struggle 
 lies in choosing. In choosing a life's work 
 it is just the same as in marrying. Life 
 might be lived with a hundred different 
 women ; it can with consistency be lived with 
 only one ; and however charming might be 
 the choice I pitched upon, her own welcome
 
 362 A Romance of 
 
 would be drowned by the ninety-and-nine 
 farewells. It is all very well to say choose, 
 but what is to make one choose ? " 
 
 " No doubt it is often difficult," said Stan- 
 ley. " It is one of the rich man's trials. 
 That is the very point I am urging. But 
 such choices, or if you like to put it so, such 
 renunciations are made daily. Every one 
 makes them who meets with any success in 
 life. The soldier does, the statesman does, 
 even the man of fashion does. Every one 
 of these men, in some sort, takes the veil. 
 He chooses one part, and he renounces 
 others. Let him once do this, and his life 
 is thronged with motives. He walks firmly, 
 with firm ground under him. For the first 
 time he becomes, properly speaking, a man." 
 
 " He may gain his manhood," said Vernon, 
 " but he says good-by to his youth." 
 
 " Well," said Stanley, in a slight tone of 
 contempt, "would you keep youth beyond 
 its time ? Belated youth is sillier than second 
 childhood. You ask me what is to drive 
 you to your choice ? I should say many 
 things might do so. Ambition might, or
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 36 \ 
 
 common sense, or a natural interest in the 
 welfare of others ; or, in the point of marry- 
 ing, natural affection. You see I am putting 
 religion, for argument's sake, quite out of 
 the question." 
 
 " Yes," said Vernon, " and, so far as I am 
 concerned, that prevents you from under- 
 standing me. Given religious faith, all the 
 rest becomes simple. Things worthy of your 
 self-devotion at once surround you on every 
 side, and you welcome you do not deplore 
 your sacrifices. Happiness comes to you 
 then by a very different process by super- 
 natural sight, not by artificial blindness." 
 
 " I think," said Stanley, smiling, " you are 
 paying religion a somewhat misplaced com- 
 pliment. It, no doubt, does bring us happi- 
 ness, but it does not bring it to us ready- 
 made out of a bandbox. You don't have a 
 good cry and then get a sugar-plum. Indeed, 
 too many tears, I believe, and too many sen- 
 sations of peace, are less often signs of relig- 
 ious depth than of shallowness. One of the 
 worst spiritual signs we can detect in our- 
 selves is, that we are touched with the
 
 364 A Romance of 
 
 pathos of our own condition. I remember 
 a young Catholic who once told me of the 
 doubts he was tempted by, and who had re- 
 solved very rightly to submit reason to faith. 
 ' Of course,' he said at last, ' I can never 
 forget my difficulties, but* and the tears 
 filled his eyes ' I will wear them round my 
 head, as an intellectual crown of thorns.' I 
 advised him to do so, but not to talk about 
 it : 'If you suffer patiently God will bless 
 you ; but do not suffer before the looking- 
 glass.' Religious life, Vernon, you may de- 
 pend upon it, has, when it is worth anything, 
 a very prosaic side to it." 
 
 " I," said Vernon, " connect religious life 
 with emotion less perhaps even than you do. 
 Faith would redeem me not through he 
 heart, but through the intellect. To do our 
 work in the world we must suppose that men 
 are loveable and worth working for ; but it 
 would quite content me to believe the fact 
 without feeling it. Love in this case is like 
 gold, and belief is a sort of paper currency. 
 If the bills of faith were only endorsed by 
 the intellect, I should be quite content, and
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 365 
 
 should be in no hurry to cash them. The 
 only wages I should ask for my work would 
 be to know that my work was not wasted. 
 That knowledge, my dear Stanley, would 
 guide me through the shadows, though I 
 have not the least expectation that it would 
 conjure me into the sunshine." 
 
 "Surely," said Stanley, "you don't want 
 faith to tell you that you could at least do 
 something that would be of some use in the 
 world. There are certainly some whose lives 
 you could make easier." 
 
 "I measure," said Vernon, "my fellow- 
 creatures by myself. If I have no soul, they 
 have no souls either ; and if I am a fool to 
 be pleased by the best of the world's play- 
 things, they are even greater fools if they 
 are pleased by worse ones. If I consider 
 myself not worth working for, how can I 
 find satisfaction in working for inferir du- 
 plicates of me ? " 
 
 " Of course," said Stanley, curtly, " you can 
 never know till you have tried. But I am 
 wrong : you have tried. You were very 
 kind to the lame child here. You would find
 
 366 A Romance of 
 
 it easier than you think to discover some 
 path of duty." 
 
 " Listen," said Vernon, " you speak of that 
 child. You may say if you like that what I 
 did for her was a kindness. Very well, then, 
 consider this. A certain old peasant woman 
 has an extremely dirty daughter. This fact, 
 even were the daughter healthy, would hardly 
 make me radiant. Why should it do so 
 because I have made her but half a cripple ? 
 The result of my kindness at its best is some- 
 thing that is less than uninteresting." 
 
 " Why did you do it then ?" 
 
 " Out of good nature, I suppose. I have 
 plenty, I think, of that. My dear Stanley, 
 we are talking openly, so perhaps I may say 
 to you what I should say to no one else. I 
 have tried philanthropy on a more extended 
 scale. I happen to have about nine thousand 
 a year. Of this I give a good two-thirds to 
 entirely unselfish purposes I do so at this 
 moment. But I get no pleasure from this ; 
 or if at times I do, my reason very soon 
 steps in and destroys it. It acts, as you 
 said most justly, like a corrosive acid upon it.
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 367 
 
 But you were only thinking of frivolous pleas- 
 ures. I assure you I find them all equally 
 destructive." 
 
 Stanley looked at Vernon in perplexed 
 surprise; and then, with a faint smile, "You're 
 a curious man," he said. 
 
 "Excuse me," said Vernon. " I am not at 
 all curious. I only have a habit of applying 
 logic to everything." 
 
 "Yes," said Stanley, "and natural love to 
 nothing." 
 
 " I could love well enough," said Vernon, 
 "if- ." Stanley stared at him. He had 
 stopped short abruptly ; his eyes were fixed 
 upon the ceiling ; and he was biting his lip 
 as if in acute pain. Presently, with a visible 
 effort, he recovered himself. " If," he re- 
 sumed, " if I could be sure of two things, 
 that the woman I loved had a soul to give 
 to God, and that she cared to give it. But 
 even then, you see, an assent of the reason 
 is needed. Belief should precede, or at least 
 accompany, feeling." 
 
 " You are speaking, I think," said Vernon, 
 " of the love of man for woman. Surely, for
 
 368 A Romance of 
 
 you, then, that is a somewhat singular doc- 
 trine. As far as I can understand the Cath- 
 olic view of life, its chief aim and object is 
 the love not of woman, but God." 
 " You are perfectly right there." 
 "Very well," said Vernon, "rob life of its 
 aim, and begin your amours then. A woman, 
 then, is a mere animal like yourself ; and if 
 your desires are very strongly set on her, she 
 will be far more likely to quench your relig- 
 ious longings than to excite them. So far 
 as I can see there is but one simple way in 
 which human love can be allied with divine 
 love, and blessed by the Christian Church ; 
 and that is by treating it as a mutual exhor- 
 tation on the part of those concerned in it to 
 the service and love of God. In so far as it 
 is more than this, in so far as their attention 
 fixes itself not on God, but on their own two 
 personalities, it seems to me that it must be, 
 from your stand-point, a concession to hu- 
 man weakness, not an element of Christian 
 strength." 
 
 " You are wrong," said Stanley. " You are 
 confusing two things the characteristic error
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 369 
 
 of the whole modern school. Let me explain 
 to you how the Church regards the matter, 
 and you will find that her view is a more 
 liberal one than yours. The Church teaches 
 that, sin only excepted, God made every- 
 thing. He made man and he made man's 
 affections, and he implanted in each of us 
 what Saint Thomas calls an interior instinct, 
 by which, when developed, we recognize his 
 existence. From my point of view, as you 
 call it, that is a fact, is it not, as much as the 
 law of gravity ? " 
 
 " I have no doubt of it." 
 
 " Very well then, the fact remains, whether 
 or no we believe in it. Apples fell to the 
 ground before the days of Newton, and souls 
 may be moved to God even before they 
 know of his existence. One of the chief 
 ways in which they are thus moved is 
 through the affections. These human affec- 
 tions are the expressions of God's will, and 
 rightly exercised they are in themselves good. 
 There is something holy in the love of a 
 brother as a brother, or of a wife as a wife, 
 but these are not to be confounded with the 
 24
 
 37O A Romance of 
 
 love of God, any more than they are to be 
 dissolved from it. They are so like it, how- 
 ever, that they prepare the way for it." Stan- 
 ley looked at Vernon and saw how worn his 
 face was. " Do you see," he added, gently, 
 " what my meaning is ? " 
 
 " Partly," said Vernon, " and yet it does 
 not meet all my question. Still, I shall think 
 it over." 
 
 He said this sadly, and with an absent air, 
 as if his thoughts were wandering. 
 
 " I hope," said Stanley, who had been 
 watching his face anxiously, " that you did 
 not mistake my meaning when I spoke about 
 religion and emotion. Emotion, that is affec- 
 tion, is the very heart of religion ; and the 
 surest way to be forever cut off from God, is, 
 not to be misled by the intellect, which does 
 but divert your eyes from him ; but to quench 
 your powers of loving, which is putting your 
 eyes out." 
 
 " He says the same thing that Campbell 
 said," thought Vernon when Stanley had de- 
 parted. " After all, I suppose there is some- 
 thing in it. Something ! why, once when I
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 371 
 
 had faith like Stanley's, I might have said 
 the same myself. A pure human affection is 
 the calyx of divine faith. But what is my 
 condition ? Stanley has not touched upon 
 that. What haunts and threatens me is the 
 foregone conclusion that divine faith is a lie/ 
 This set of thoughts seemed for a long time 
 stationary, occupying his mind like the figure 
 in a kaleidoscope. But at last a touch came, 
 and the figure changed. That touch was 
 given by the image of Miss Walters, as, with 
 her " pale, predestined face," she came gliding 
 like a ghost across his imagination. " My 
 own ! " he exclaimed aloud, as he started from 
 the sofa he was lying on, " you may at least 
 reach God through me, though I may never 
 reach him through you." This passionate 
 thought filled and overmastered him, and the 
 listless bitterness he had felt all through the 
 evening disappeared before it. " I must write 
 to you," he said, "even though I cannot speak 
 to you." 
 
 His pen moved rapidly ; he never paused 
 to hesitate. " You entirely fill my thoughts," 
 he began. " Your image haunts me, your
 
 372 A Romance of 
 
 eyes are looking at me. My white angel, 
 my pure lily of Eden ! Yes, you are that by 
 nature. For God's sake, my own one, be 
 true to yourself. For God's sake, I say ; 
 well, and for mine too, if you like it for 
 mine too. All my life is turned into one 
 long mute prayer for you, that you may put 
 away from yourself every taint of evil. Hate 
 it, learn to hate it! Let it revolt you as it 
 once revolted you ! I will do all I can ; but 
 don't trust to me only. Help me too ; try to 
 see with your own eyes. My sight is very 
 feeble ; I am but a poor guide to God. I am 
 like a blind man leading the blind. I only 
 discern a glimmering, feeble light, and I am 
 trying my best to feel my way toward it, carry- 
 ing you with me. Will you not try to open 
 your own eyes also, and give me a little 
 counsel a little assurance? My head is 
 heavy, my eyelids ache with sadness. Did I 
 not love you, I should have only asked to 
 possess you. Your lips and arms could have 
 given me all I longed for. But love is stron- 
 ger than passion, and its demands are limit- 
 less, not for the lover, but for the loved. I
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 373 
 
 am not trying to use fine language when I 
 say that I am consumed with care for you. 
 Scales have fallen from my eyes ; I see now 
 what I never saw before, and that is the 
 meaning of Christ's love for men his long- 
 ing for their salvation. Oh Cynthia, could I 
 only die for you could I only take your sins 
 on my head ! Pierce my hands with nails 
 let me hang on the tree in agony, if only I 
 might bear your sins and leave you once more 
 spotless. I would be scourged, and spit upon. 
 I would let my whole life be broken. 
 
 " Cynthia, my knowledge of you has in- 
 deed worked a change in me 1 "
 
 BOOK IV.
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 T7"ERNON'S state of mind next morning 
 was not changed ; he was still pos- 
 sessed by the same sorrow and solicitude. 
 This, it is true, was not utterly unrelieved. 
 The woman who had thus so completely 
 filled his imagination, had confessed had 
 insisted on her love for him. In this fact 
 certainly there was food for satisfaction ; 
 and flying gleams of the most delicious hap- 
 piness would at moments illuminate all his 
 mental landscape with 
 
 "The light that never was on sea or land." 
 
 But these did but serve to make his gloom 
 gloomier ; and his heart ached with pain 
 whenever it beat with pleasure. In this 
 somber condition he betook himself out-of- 
 
 377
 
 378 A Romance of 
 
 doors, to chew the cud of his disquietude. 
 First he paced his garden, but its bounds 
 seemed soon too narrow for him, and he 
 strayed into the public road. Not far from 
 his own gates were those of the Chateau St. 
 John ; and as he was passing these he could 
 not but pause. He leaned his forehead 
 against the bars, and looked up the winding 
 drive. It was a green vista of eucalyptus 
 and of orange-trees, with here and there a 
 cloud of foamy lilac-blossom ; but its soft 
 beauty did but fill Vernon with bitterness. 
 The one thought that kept on repeating 
 itself was, " My Cynthia, could I save you, I 
 would die for you." Once a carriage passed, 
 which had two well-dressed strangers in it. 
 At the first sound of wheels he had suddenly 
 faced about, in the fantastic hope that it 
 might be Miss Walters coming back again ; 
 but after an instant's glance he turned away 
 impatiently. He could not endure the sen- 
 sation that he was stared at. Not long after 
 he heard more wheels approaching ; but this 
 time he had no impulse to look ; he tried 
 not even to listen. Listen, however, he soon
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 379 
 
 found he must, when the following sound 
 struck on him. 
 
 " John "-it was uttered in a voice that, 
 though somewhat raised, was like velvet 
 " is this where Lady Walters lives, do you 
 know ? " 
 
 " I believe it is, your Grace." 
 
 " Is it worth trying, I wonder?" this was 
 addressed to another person. " Shall I go 
 and leave a card on her ? Come get up 
 for a moment ; you must be sitting on my 
 card-case." 
 
 In answer to this injunction came a slight 
 leonine groan ; but it was quickly drowned, 
 for the velvet voice welled forth again, " Well, 
 upon my word, if that is not Mr. Vernon ! " 
 
 Vernon at this was compelled to turn and 
 show himself, and there face to face with him, 
 in a large open carriage, was the duchess, 
 Lord Surbiton, and a smart-looking young 
 lady of some sort. 
 
 "Well," said her Grace, "and you are a 
 nice young man, you are ! I have been here 
 for two whole days, and you have never once 
 been to show yourself."
 
 380 A Romance of 
 
 Vernon replied that he had not known of 
 her arrival. 
 
 " The fact of the matter is you're a great 
 deal better employed. This is far more ro- 
 mantic, isn't it, than red fans and restau- 
 rants ? " 
 
 " What is ? " said Vernon, absently. 
 
 " What ? to be looking through a gate up 
 a lovely young lady's avenue especially 
 when it's a young lady you have already 
 carried off in your carriage. However, Mr. 
 Vernon, you go further than the gate, I 
 suppose, sometimes." 
 
 The duchess did not laugh ; but her voice 
 when she was amused had a certain subtle 
 quality which not only expressed her amuse- 
 ment, but transmitted it. It passed now with 
 Vernon like an electric shock. He was in- 
 stantly confronted with an absurd image of 
 himself, and to his own intense surprise he 
 heard himself burst out laughing. 
 
 " Certainly," he said, " I was not waiting to 
 take her another drive, for both she and her 
 aunt are away at the present moment." 
 
 "Very well, then," said the duchess, "there
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 381 
 
 is our question solved. We will put off leav- 
 ing our cards, and will go straight home again. 
 Wait a bit, though. Lord Surbiton, you had 
 better get out and walk, or else you'll be hav- 
 ing indigestion again, and be unable to eat 
 your dinner. Come, out you get I know 
 exactly what is good for you. And listen," 
 she added, when Lord Surbiton had at last 
 descended, " you may as well give me my furs 
 back again. You won't want them you know, 
 when you're getting warm walking." Then 
 turning to Vernon, "And now," she said, 
 "since you're not waiting for anybody, sup- 
 pose you come back with us, and let us give 
 you some tea. Whenever I see any one 
 now, I am dying to show my mansion to 
 them." 
 
 Vernon mechanically accepted this invita- 
 tion. He took his seat opposite the young 
 lady, and was vaguely conscious of being 
 introduced to Miss Ethel somebody. "Mr. 
 Vernon," the duchess said "a philosopher, 
 and a great admirer of every species of 
 beauty." Miss Ethel's eyes were sparkling, 
 and they watched the duchess continually,
 
 382 A Romance of 
 
 as though every instant she was expecting 
 some amusement. 
 
 " Has Lord Surbiton," she said presently, 
 " got indigestion ? What a very unromantic 
 thing for a poet ! " 
 
 " My dear," said the duchess, " it is no 
 wonder he has, considering the way he feeds 
 himself. When he arrived the other day to 
 stay with me, what should you think he had 
 brought with him ? A cold plum pudding, if 
 you please, wrapped up in his carpet-bag ; and 
 he actually eats slices of it at six o'clock in 
 the morning. What did he do, Mr. Vernon, 
 that time you were good enough to entertain 
 him ? One thing I know he did not do and 
 that was to give my order to the gardener. 
 What I told him to say was that I could have 
 no ants on the walks, and that they were to 
 be killed with boiling water. Now I ask old 
 Surbiton if he made this quite clear to the 
 man, and that when I give an order I mean 
 it ; and all I can get out of him is that 
 countess somebody I don't know her name 
 or nation has the finest ankle he ever saw. 
 I told him ankles were all very well ; but
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 383 
 
 it's not so nice when you have ants biting 
 them." 
 
 "Yes," smiled Miss Ethel, "but didn't Col- 
 onel Stapleton give your message ? " 
 
 "As for Colonel Stapleton," said the 
 duchess, " he's even worse than Lord Sur- 
 biton. He seems to have spent his entire 
 time with Miss Walters, till the wind was 
 taken out of his sails by who should you 
 think ? The curate. It strikes me, Mr. 
 Vernon, that you have not been doing all 
 you might have done, if you let your special 
 young lady fall into other people's hands like 
 this. I assure you our fat colonel is full of 
 her. I was going to have asked him over to 
 stay with me, only I was afraid Mrs. Grantly 
 would have his eyes out. However, he shall 
 come for my fancy ball. That will be quite 
 safe. There will be no time then for grum- 
 bling." 
 
 "I think," said Miss Ethel, "Colonel 
 Stapleton is very amusing." 
 
 " Do you know him ? " asked Vernon, with 
 an odd, blank abruptness. 
 
 " Oh, yes. He has staid with us twice for
 
 384 A Romance of 
 
 Ascot week. We have a small house near 
 the race-course." 
 
 "Amusing!" said the duchess. "Oh yes, 
 of course he is ; and so artful, which is far 
 better than amusing. He's going to order 
 me all my Chinese lanterns, and my blue and 
 red fire, and - - I forget what else. Oh, 
 some Strasburg pies, and some specially dry 
 champagne. I quite delight in the colonel. 
 He's a most unselfish creature." 
 
 Vernon listened to all this as though it 
 were a noise in a dream, making little effort 
 himself except at some random smiles. 
 Presently under the wheels came the crunch- 
 ing of new-laid gravel, and in another mo- 
 ment or two they were at the door of the 
 grand hotel. 
 
 Vernon had been in the building several 
 times before ; but when he now entered he 
 saw such a metamorphosis that, for the time 
 being at least, he was surprised into common 
 attention. Where there had hitherto been a 
 bleak solitude, there was now life and luxury. 
 The large entrance hall was green with palm- 
 trees, and gay with flowers. The white mar-
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 385 
 
 ble floor was strewn with Oriental carpets, 
 and on the softest of these was a yelping 
 Pomeranian dog. There were larger tables 
 draped with bright - colored heavy clothes, 
 and covered with books, photograph-frames, 
 and a thousand-and-one knickknacks. A stout 
 English butler and a spruce groom-of-the 
 chamber gave to the scene a dignity all their 
 own, and busy under their direction were 
 some footmen with red waistcoats. Hardly 
 had her Grace entered when a variety of 
 orders, in tones of silver conveying a will of 
 iron, went flying in all directions. " Put that 
 plant nearer the wall." " Where are you 
 going with those Venetian glasses?" " How 
 often have I told you that those doors are 
 to be never left open ! " In answer to which 
 came the rapid but hushed response of "Yes, 
 your Grace ;" " No, your Grace." 
 
 " Now, Mr. Vernon," said the duchess, 
 "you must come and look at the drawing- 
 room ; or rather, to be quite accurate, I should 
 say one of the drawing-rooms ; for I assure 
 you our splendor here is quite political, and 
 we have five or six of them. There ! " she 
 25
 
 386 A Romance of 
 
 said as they entered, " it's getting to look 
 liveable ; but there are still some screens 
 and things that I want a little advice about." 
 
 " My ! Mr. Vernon, and is this you again?" 
 exclaimed a lady, slowly raising herself from 
 an exceedingly deep arm-chair. It was none 
 other than Mrs. Grantly, looking the picture 
 of piquant languor, and arrayed in the most 
 charming of tea-gowns. " I guess, Duchess," 
 she said, " I'm just tired out. I've been 
 around for the last two hours showing Barnes 
 where to place the flowers. Well, Mr. Ver- 
 non, and how are you by this time ? Are 
 you getting along pretty well out here ? " 
 
 Vernon made some answer to this, but 
 one so little in his usual manner that Mrs. 
 Grantly was quite struck by it. " Duchess," 
 she exclaimed, " here is Mr. Vernon quite 
 out of sorts. He thinks, like Lord Surbiton, 
 that all life is hollow." 
 
 " That's a great deal more than Lord Sur- 
 biton himself is," said the duchess, "at least 
 at six o'clock in the morning. I've been tell- 
 ing him, and I may now tell Mr. Vernon, that 
 if they think life hollow, they had better go
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 387 
 
 in as I do, not for cold plum-pudding, but for 
 old furniture. Look, Mr. Vernon, there is 
 my last purchase those six Louis Seize chairs. 
 I bought them at Grasse, out of the house 
 of a certain notary. Four thousand francs is 
 the sum he has done me out of ; and now his 
 daughter, I hear, is going to law with him, 
 because she declares they are her heir-loom." 
 
 Vernon praised the chairs with as much 
 interest as he could muster, and then forced 
 himself to say something h propos of the fancy 
 ball. 
 
 " You'd better," said the duchess "be get- 
 ting a dress ready, for I can tell you, we 
 shan't allow any idle make-shifts none of 
 your black dress-coats with a bit of pink satin 
 tacked on to them." 
 
 " I have a dress," said Vernon. "It is a 
 Spanish peddler's. It makes me look rather 
 a blackguard, but I suppose that doesn't 
 matter." 
 
 " Oh, dear no," said the duchess. " It 
 will only make you popular." 
 
 " And when," said Vernon, " is this fes- 
 tivity to be ? "
 
 388 A Romance of 
 
 11 As soon as we can manage it. I don't 
 quite know yet who will be in the house, but 
 I shall know more presently, when the post 
 comes. I mean to ask about a hundred from 
 Cannes, and about half that number from 
 Nice." 
 
 At this moment tea made its appearance, 
 and with the tea a large budget of letters. 
 " You must excuse me," said the duchess, as 
 she tore open envelope after envelope, " but 
 these are all from our expected guests. I 
 think," she went on presently, when the work 
 of inspection was over, " I think we may 
 manage the ball toward the end of the 
 coming week. Montey Moreton comes to- 
 morrow, who will of course lead the cotillon, 
 and I must have a talk with him about it." 
 
 The sight of the post's arrival made Ver- 
 non restless. He longed to go home to see 
 if there were no letters for him ; but the 
 duchess loved conversation, and he was un- 
 able to get free. At last, however, a sud- 
 den rescue came. Captain Grantly entered 
 the room, with the Sporting Times in his 
 hand. In an instant the duchess turned to
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 389 
 
 mm, and a sudden gust of the spirit sent her 
 thoughts in a new direction. " Well, Captain 
 Grantly," she exclaimed, "and what about 
 the City and Suburban ? " 
 
 Vernon saw his opportunity, and at once 
 made use of it ; but when he was at the door 
 he was again recalled for a moment. "Mr. 
 Vernon," said her Grace, " come and dine 
 with us to-morrow. We shall be a larger 
 party by that time." 
 
 He had no excuse to plead, so he accepted 
 and went his way. 
 
 This sudden plunge into the common noises 
 of life confused Vernon at first as a sudden 
 fall from a cliff might. It made him feel for 
 the moment doubtful where he was. Per- 
 haps in some degree this was a slight relief 
 to him, but the shock soon wore away, and 
 his former cares returned to him. When he 
 entered his own house, however, he at once 
 found food for excitement. Lying on his 
 table was a letter from Miss Walters. It 
 was dated " San Remo." 
 
 " We arrived here," she wrote, " at about 
 six o'clock. There was such a lovely sunset
 
 3QO A Romance of 
 
 such spaces of clear primrose, fading be- 
 hind violet hills. I don't know why but as 
 I looked at it, it made me think of you. Per- 
 haps it is because I associate you with every- 
 thing that is pure, and suggests withdrawal 
 from earth." As Vernon read this he raised 
 the letter to his lips and kissed it. " The 
 post goes at ten," it went on ; " and I have 
 very little time ; but I must, I must write to 
 you. I have been so saddened this evening. 
 Mrs. Crane has been talking to me about 
 Alic Campbell only for a few minutes, it is 
 true ; but she will begin again to-morrow. 
 It is so hard I was going to say so tire- 
 some ; but this is not the thing that I want 
 to write about. It is you it is only you. I 
 want to tell you how good, how forbearing 
 you have been to me ; and yet words can 
 never give my meaning. No, my own, and 
 nothing ever can, unless some day or other 
 my life does. I was miserable when you 
 knew me, but it was with a hopeless misery. 
 There was no germ of any amendment in it, 
 and the only effort I made was a lazy effort 
 to kill it. Don't you remember what I said
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 391 
 
 to you that first morning in the garden, 
 about my thinking that the church laid too 
 much stress upon purity ? I tried to per- 
 suade myself that we daily even the best of 
 us did things far worse than those special 
 ones that tormented me. But oh, I could 
 not. I was but a very half-hearted liar to 
 myself ; and you at a touch put all my lies to 
 flight. Had you not done that I should have 
 gone on sinking deeper. You found me not 
 so much drowning as being sucked down in 
 a quicksand ; and you held out a hand to 
 help me. If you do not let me go, I shall 
 by and by, I hope, free myself ; but oh, I 
 have one prayer to make to you. Do not be 
 too hard on me. Make a little concession to 
 my extreme weakness. Let me love you and 
 love goodness for your sake, a little while 
 longer, without asking me to do more than 
 that. Some day, if you will still help me, 
 and hold me, and keep me pressed close to 
 you, I may be able to say what I suppose 
 you want me to say : " I love God even 
 more than I love you ; and yet for this 
 very reason I love you more than ever."
 
 39 2 -A Romance of 
 
 But I can't say that yet. Have patience : 
 I shall learn in time. I wonder. I often 
 wonder was God ever as kind to a sinner 
 as you have been ? Your own unhappy 
 Cynthia." 
 
 All this covered several pages, and from 
 the middle of them there dropped out a small 
 packet. The nature of this was explained in 
 a brief postscript : " I have found in my 
 despatch box the inclosed little picture of 
 myself. I hate it for what it reminds me of ; 
 but if you can allow it to remind you only of 
 me, perhaps you might like to have it." 
 
 Vernon undid the wrappings of silver pa- 
 per, and found within a small oval photo- 
 graph, finished with extreme skill like a min- 
 iature. There Miss Walters was ; there was 
 no mistaking her. She was in a white ball 
 dress, with her fair shoulders visible, and a 
 scarlet and silver opera-cloak clinging, but 
 barely clinging to them. Her eyes looked 
 full at you ; her cheek rested on her beautiful 
 clasped hands ; and round her fair hair was a 
 wreath of the darkest myrtle-leaves. Vernon 
 gazed at it fascinated ; it seemed to speak to
 
 The Nineteenth Century 393 
 
 him. There was in her cheeks a deep rose- 
 tint which, when he had known her, was 
 habitual. He could have almost fancied that 
 they blushed because he looked on them. 
 What did the picture mean ? Her expression 
 in it, her very attitude, was ambiguous. It 
 might be that of a Magdalen in sanctity, on 
 the brink of relapsing into sin ; or a Magdalen 
 in sin on the eve of seeking for the Saviour. 
 As he continued looking, the duchess and 
 her friends faded in his memory till they be- 
 came nothing but irksome shadows ; and his 
 one impulse was to immure himself with the 
 image of this beautiful woman. The direction 
 his thoughts were taking became soon appa- 
 rent to him. "If she will not be God's," 
 he said, "she must and she shall be mine !" 
 He looked at the picture again, and he no- 
 ticed a new detail in it. On her bosom there 
 hung a locket. His attention fixed on this, 
 and it seemed to him that it bore some 
 inscription. There was a small magnifying 
 glass on the table close at hand, and with 
 its aid he deciphered two initials. They 
 were "J. S."
 
 394 A Romance of 
 
 "Jack Stapleton!" he exclaimed, and 
 seizing the picture he tore it into small frag- 
 ments. 
 
 He was a sober man again. He now went 
 back to her letter. He read it, and he re- 
 read it. There was much in it, but not all 
 that he longed for. The anxiety that had 
 preyed upon him, the anxiety for another's 
 sake, once more took hold upon him ; and 
 when night came he had still failed to be 
 comforted. 
 
 The day following he wrote again to Miss 
 Walters. His letter expressed the same so- 
 licitude as his last one, and his day was 
 occupied with the same thoughts about 
 her. As for himself, and his own private 
 claims on her, these were cauterized, so to 
 speak, by the fire of his unselfish longings. 
 Her welfare, not his own satisfaction, was 
 in literal truth the one thing that engross- 
 ed him at least the one personal thing. 
 There is that exception necessary. For 
 with his wishes for Miss Walters wider 
 thoughts would mix themselves, and he 
 could not but identify the hopes of the
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 305 
 
 human race, as a whole, with those he en- 
 tertained or despaired of for one woman 
 in particular. 
 
 Much to his annoyance a certain recollec- 
 tion haunted him the recollection of his 
 engagement to dine that night with the 
 duchess.
 
 i Romance of 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 TT was not to be helped however. As eight 
 *- o'clock was striking, the tall doors of the 
 hotel were being thrown wide to receive him. 
 Well-trained servants, with all the manners of 
 London, were adroitly helping him to get rid of 
 his great coat. More doors were opened, and 
 then, sharply and in an instant, came the sea- 
 like murmur of the polite world conversing. 
 
 The duchess's party had indeed increased 
 by this time. The dim air of the draw- 
 ing-room, stained with subdued lamp-light, 
 seemed full of varied colorings, from the 
 dresses of divers ladies. Vernon, as he 
 entered, had almost a sense of shyness. His 
 eyes were not dazzled, but he felt as if his 
 mind were blinking. He was breathing an 
 atmosphere that it seemed he had long been
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 397 
 
 a stranger to. Here was the London world 
 once more enfolding him with its familiar 
 sights and sounds, and full of the memories 
 of the pleasures it once gave him. He felt 
 it to be all unusual. It gave him a giddy 
 sense, as if he had just come off a steamer. 
 Still he was obliged to exert himself ; it was 
 impossible to shirk into a corner. Before 
 long he discovered an old acquaintance or 
 two, and as he moved from one to the other, 
 he felt himself getting more at home again. 
 When they went into dinner, Miss Ethel 
 fell to his share, looking exceedingly bright 
 and pretty ; and she reminded him, with a 
 slight tone of reproach, that she had met him 
 before in London. The long dinner table, 
 with all its gleam and glitter, gave Vernon 
 an experience like that of a saint's inverted. 
 He was being dazzled by a vision not of the 
 next world, but this ; and it seemed to be 
 moving him to reverse his old communion 
 with it. Miss Ethel's brightness began pres- 
 ently to tell on him. It was of a quiet, 
 almost a demure kind, but it possessed the 
 power of provoking men to respond to it :
 
 398 A Romance of 
 
 nor did Vernon prove an exception. Cham 
 pagne, too, came to assist its influence, and 
 very soon he began to laugh quite naturally. 
 By the middle of dinner he had become so 
 mundane in his mind, that he turned round 
 and glanced at his neighbor on the other 
 side. He wondered when he had done this, 
 that he had not done so sooner. She was a 
 dark woman, singularly beautiful, with luxu- 
 rious long-lashed eyes. In a minute or two 
 these eyes met Vernon's, and said plainly 
 that she would be very glad to talk to him. 
 Upon this he achieved that prettiest of all 
 toy adventures the breaking that dainty, 
 delicate ice-film which exists between guests 
 in the same house, when they have not been 
 introduced formally. 
 
 After dinner, when the gentlemen had 
 re-arranged themselves, Vernon found that 
 sitting next to him was the Lord Lieutenant 
 of his county a peer of great distinction, 
 and a Conservative ex-minister. Here was 
 a new distraction. The noble lord at once 
 plunged into politics and home matters. He 
 soon gave others a flattering personal turn.
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 399 
 
 " I can tell you,' 1 he said, " you made yourself 
 extremely popular in shire. I was talk- 
 ing the other day to one of the farmers from 
 your part, who calls himself so he told me 
 a Radical. Well, in spite of your politics, 
 you had won his heart, I can assure you ; and 
 I hear the same story of you in various other 
 quarters. The Workmen's Conservative Club, 
 which you did so much to help forward, is 
 getting on admirably. I hope sincerely that 
 you are still thinking of Parliament. I've 
 not the least doubt, for my own part, that if 
 there were a petition, we should unseat Tom 
 Bowden ; and in the event of another contest, 
 no one would have a chance against you." 
 
 All this discourse put Vernon in better 
 spirits. He began to feel he was waking up 
 in earnest. He waived the allusions to him- 
 self, although he was not insensible to them ; 
 but he plunged with interest into various 
 questions of politics ; and the image of Miss 
 Walters, which had been hitherto still watch- 
 ing him, seemed to melt at such magic words 
 as land, labor, and capital. 
 
 Meanwhile, there had been a change made
 
 400 A Romance of 
 
 in the drawing-room. A large curtain at one 
 end had been raised, v and displayed the drop- 
 scene of a charming miniature theatre. The 
 gentlemen once more showed themselves ; 
 and, to the slight alarm of some of them, it 
 appeared there were to be some charades. 
 Vernon was pressed to take part, but he re- 
 fused stoutly. His sadness, banished for a 
 moment, was already coming back to him. 
 He found, however, that no denial would be 
 taken ; and when he found that he would 
 be acting with his dark-eyed neighbor of 
 the dinner-table, he consented with sufficient 
 grace. 
 
 When the corps dramatique were retiring 
 to mature their plans, he discovered a fa- 
 miliar presence, which had till now escaped 
 him. This was Mrs. Crane, exceedingly 
 well pleased with herself for being of the 
 duchess's party, and looking at himself with 
 a charity all her own. She informed him 
 she was not going to act herself, but that she 
 was ready to do her best in the green-room, 
 and that she would rouge or powder any- 
 body, provided it was not a woman. Noth-
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 401 
 
 ing could have been less pleasant to Vernon 
 than the apparition of this lady ; and though 
 he tried to be as civil as he could to her, he 
 left her on the very first opportunity. 
 
 The charades began. Vernon felt from 
 the first moment that he and his dark-eyed 
 beauty had some sort of attraction for each 
 other ; and when the concluding act came, 
 it was his part to make love to her. From 
 old habit he could not help infusing a flavor 
 of personal tribute into the tender things he 
 said to her; and when, at the end of the 
 scene, he had to lead her off the stage, he 
 .continued the process till he had brought 
 her out of doors into the moonlight. There he 
 remained talking with her, leaning against a 
 great vase of geraniums. All his attentions 
 to her were as unreal as a ghost's ; but for 
 this very reason he did not attempt to check 
 them, and they certainly to one observer 
 looked marked enough. This observer was 
 Mrs. Crane, who was leaning against the 
 window-curtains, and, as she observed, the 
 small passion broke in her, which, by strain- 
 ing a compliment, might perhaps be called 
 26
 
 402 A Romance of 
 
 her jealousy. It was a passion certainly of 
 no very dreadful intensity. It might lead 
 her to laugh from malice ; it would never 
 make her pale from rage ; and instead of 
 pursuing its subject, she would be far more 
 likely to play a practical joke.
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 403 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 H^HE events of that evening were not with- 
 out their after effect on Vernon. He 
 carried away with him from the duchess's a 
 certain amount of excitement, which deranged 
 his mind and was very far from pleasing it. 
 Since his intimacy with Miss Walters, it was 
 as though he had been descending deep into 
 the hidden places of life ; and the world on 
 the surface, with its laughter, noise, and sun- 
 light, had faded away to a mere shadowy 
 memory. His only companions had been 
 thoughts of sin, and holiness, and the awful 
 gulf between them ; and his only lights had 
 been tapers at shrines for prayer. But now 
 the darkness seemed to be slowly parting, 
 and the day and the things of day appearing 
 like gray clouds through it. Sounds which
 
 4OA A Romance of 
 
 he thought he had said good-by to forever 
 once more assailed his ears, and mixed them- 
 selves grotesquely with the voices to which 
 only he had of late been listening. He felt 
 as though two worlds had come into collision, 
 and he was surrounded by the dissolving frag- 
 ments of both of them. The world of prayer, 
 of penitence, and of aspiration, where sin was 
 the one calamity, and communion with God 
 the one success worth striving for ; the world, 
 on the other hand, of balls and duchesses, of 
 private theatricals, and the gossip of Mayfair 
 these two worlds seemed to have struck 
 and wrecked each other, and each seemed 
 equally unreal. 
 
 So Vernon felt when he lay down to rest ; 
 so he felt, too, when he awoke next morning. 
 But next morning there was a new sign in 
 him. The world which had thus come back 
 again he now felt had brought with it a 
 breath of grateful air. He thought of a 
 thousand little things that occurred last 
 night, or the afternoon before, and sighed, 
 " Oh, God, if I could only laugh at them ! 
 But my heart aches, and the laughter I long
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 405 
 
 for pains me." Still, even in spite of this, 
 he had laughed somewhat. He had been 
 amused for moments, and had forgotten the 
 burden that was bound to him ; and it was 
 on his lips only he checked himself to say 
 in so many words, " I have climbed up out of 
 a charnel house, and have breathed the air of 
 heaven." 
 
 He was first conscious of this change of 
 disposition when he began to write to Miss 
 Walters, which he did that afternoon. His 
 words and thoughts would not flow freely as 
 hitherto. The intense solicitude which had 
 racked him for days into misery was more or 
 less relaxed. It was not that his intention 
 for a moment wavered. He was still re- 
 solved, as much as ever, to help her ; but he 
 was now master of the resolve, the resolve 
 was no longer master of him. He was not 
 happy, he had not become light-hearted. He 
 was in some ways more wretched than ever ; 
 but a vision of happiness, a vision of gay 
 spirits, had, like a gleam of sunshine, once 
 more broken across his life. "Ah, Cynthia, 
 Cynthia," he thought, "why do you compel
 
 406 A Romance of 
 
 me to be serious ? Could I only be sure that 
 you had recovered your own natural strength, 
 that you were strong and confident in your 
 own self-respect, how happily we might walk 
 together ! Our fears, our hopes, our anxie- 
 ties need not be kept always on the stretch. 
 What could I not give to be able to laugh 
 again without an aching heart ! " The con- 
 sciousness of such feeling in himself had, so 
 far as he knew, one effect only. It turned 
 his moral devotion to Miss Walters from an 
 impulse into a conscious duty. Because he 
 found some difficulty in writing to her, he 
 only wrote more earnestly, and with intenser 
 consideration. 
 
 He had just completed this task it was 
 then about four o'clock when two male 
 figures passed the windows of his library. 
 A moment after these were around and en- 
 tering. They were Lord Surbiton and the 
 Conservative ex-minister. The visit, it ap- 
 peared, was one of more than ordinary com- 
 pliment. There was something like business 
 at the bottom of it, and of a very flattering 
 nature. The ex-minister had just received
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 407 
 
 intelligence that a relation of his own, who 
 sat for a certain borough, was to accept the 
 Chiltern Hundreds, and it was now suggested 
 to Vernon that here was a new opening for 
 him. Thri visit lasted for some time, and 
 then Vernon was left to consider the matter 
 over. The new range of prospects that were 
 now presented to him stirred his mind like 
 fr'jsh, bracing sea-wind, and he wandered out- 
 of-doors to digest the sudden excitement. 
 He paced nearly the same ground that he 
 had done two days ago, but with different 
 thoughts to busy him. He passed again the 
 gates of the Chateau St. John, but he did 
 not stop now to peer through the bars and 
 meditate. Instead of that, he again had re- 
 course to Stanley. 
 
 " My dear fellow," he exclaimed, as he 
 broke into the priest's sitting-room, " I have 
 come to have another talk with you." 
 
 Stanley stared at his visitor. It was hardly 
 the same Vernon. A new light danced in 
 his eyes, there was a gay smile on his lip. 
 " Stanley," he went on, " I have taken your 
 advice at last I am going to commit myself,
 
 408 A Romance of 
 
 or at least I shall try to do so. There is 
 another chance of my getting into Parlia- 
 ment, and if matters turn out as I think they 
 will, I shall be going home directly." 
 
 " I am very glad to hear it," said Stanley. 
 " You will find," he went on, smiling, " that 
 to have a useful purpose before you, will 
 change your views about many things." 
 
 " It not only will," said Vernon. " It has 
 already done so. I have a little property in 
 the east end of London. A project has re- 
 vived in my mind with regard to that, which 
 I had a year ago, but which I have since 
 let drop. It is for a kind of work-house ar- 
 ranged on a new principle, which shall give 
 even more relief than such places do at pres- 
 ent, and yet be without what I consider their 
 chief drawbacks. I made the plan for the 
 building myself, and had arranged nearly 
 every detail. I thought, for a sort of motto 
 above the door, to put this : " Come unto 
 me, all ye that travail and are heavy-laden, 
 and I will refresh you." 
 
 "And who was the 'I?'" said Stanley. 
 41 Did that mean you 9 Take care, Vernon,
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 409 
 
 take care ! Have we not already agreed to 
 distrust too eager emotion ? " 
 
 Vernon, however, was not to be disheart- 
 ened. All his serious thoughts, all his anx- 
 ieties to find something in life worth working 
 for, forced themselves into the mould of this 
 new excitement ; and Stanley, as he heard 
 him talk, began to feel stronger hopes of 
 him. Vernon, indeed, at this moment drew 
 vigor from three sources. First, there was 
 the thought of Miss Walters. She was a 
 beautiful woman, she had a strong hold on 
 him, and it seemed in his power to redeem 
 her whole character. Then there was this 
 prospect of active life suddenly breaking in 
 on him ; and, lastly, there was the pleasant 
 world at the duchess's, which was stinging 
 him back into common social consciousness. 
 This last influence, indeed, so far increased 
 upon him that on the following day he pro- 
 posed to give a luncheon-party. This found 
 favor in the eyes of every one, and arrange- 
 ments were made accordingly. 
 
 The life of Miss Walters meanwhile had 
 been outwardly less eventful, but not less so
 
 4io A Romance of 
 
 inwardly. Whenever she could she retired 
 to her own bedroom, the view from which 
 was beautiful : and at a table by the win- 
 dow she pored over Vernon's letters. The 
 first that reached her from him, after she 
 had left the Chateau St. John, was the one 
 to which she recurred the oftenest. The 
 strength of the feelings it stirred in her may 
 be gathered from the very first words of her 
 answer. 
 
 " My beloved," she wrote, with the accent 
 duly inserted a fact which made her smile 
 herself after she had written it " I should be 
 indeed ungrateful if I did not live for you, 
 since I know you would die for me. As I 
 read your letter, it was as though you were 
 close to me as though your arms were 
 round my waist holding me. Will you ever 
 know what to a woman that sense is of being 
 held, of being clasped, of being supported ? 
 It seems to draw the very soul out of one. 
 If you were here I could fall on my knees 
 and worship you. Between these two last 
 sentences do you know what I have done? 
 For a good ten minutes I have been leaning
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 411 
 
 forward, with my face upon your letter, 
 thinking, thinking, thinking about you. It 
 was very silly, no doubt ; but oh, my darling, 
 could you only know what my thoughts 
 were ! You need have no fear for me, as 
 long as you fill my being. There is no 
 room for any evil there. But I won't bore 
 you with my affection any longer. I will 
 tell you what has been boring me. Dear 
 Mrs. Crane has been at me again about Alic 
 Campbell. She is always asking me if I 
 don't like him ; and I believe if I have ever 
 said a word in his favor, she has written off 
 and told him of it. I do like him in a way. 
 But he treated me like a saint, and a simple 
 saint into the bargain, which you know I am 
 very far from being. That is one thing 
 in him which was always jarring me. But 
 he is your friend. I would like him for your 
 sake, if he only would not love me. Well, 
 Mrs. Crane has heard from him, and he is 
 coming, it seems, back from Sorrento soon. 
 What shall we do ? Poor fellow, I am very 
 sorry for him. He will want to come to you, 
 at least for a day or two. You told me he
 
 412 A Romance of 
 
 would do that. You must think over what 
 had best be done about it." 
 
 The next letter she received from Vernon 
 contained the full news of the arrival of the 
 duchess's party, and of his own intercourse 
 with them. This, however, was very soon 
 told ; and he then passed on to graver sub- 
 jects, repeating his former advice, and his 
 former wishes for her welfare. " As to mere 
 affection," he said in concluding, " I cannot 
 express myself properly. But you must re- 
 member me as I have been, when I have 
 been speaking to you ; and with the aid of 
 this memory you must read between the 
 lines when I write to you. If I did not care 
 as I do for you I could pour out fine ex- 
 pressions by the page ; but to be really 
 serious makes me silent." 
 
 This letter crossed that of Miss Walters's 
 which has just been given above, and, though 
 she tried to avoid the impression, it struck 
 her as a cold return to it. It seemed to blow 
 like a chilly air over her ; it produced in her 
 a sense of isolation ; and though she suc- 
 ceeded in concealing its exact nature from
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 413 
 
 herself, she could not avoid giving it some 
 expression. This took the form, when she 
 wrote that day to Vernon, of begging him to 
 come to San Remo. " We are planning an 
 expedition," she said, "into the mountains 
 behind here. They are so beautiful a 
 world of woods and gorges, where every 
 valley has its snow-fed river in it, and every 
 height its village and its domed sanctuary. 
 We think of going next Friday. Oh, if you 
 could only come ! We want it to be Friday, 
 because on Saturday the other Miss Crane 
 the one you know, will be here for a 
 night or two, and I would so far Bather go 
 without her. Try and come. It is a very 
 short journey, and hour by hour I feel I want 
 you more. I told you," she went on her 
 pen was now running away with her, "that I 
 felt as though your arm was round me. Do 
 not withdraw it ; I might so easily fall away 
 again. To see you even for one day would 
 be a kind of sacrament to me. Come to me 
 oh, do come keep my life full of you, 
 or something else will fill it. I can throw 
 a new light, I think, on the way in which you
 
 414 -A Romance of 
 
 have helped me. You have made me be- 
 lieve again in the possibility of goodness in 
 men. Before I knew you I thought they 
 were all bad. The Duke of Wellington said 
 that the cause of panic in an army was the 
 belief on the part of each soldier that the 
 others had lost confidence, and would not 
 obey orders. I was suffering from a kind of 
 moral panic. Human nature is not logical ; 
 and the feminine nature, I suppose, is the 
 least logical part of it. It is for that reason 
 that example helps me so. I am not logical, 
 my love. All my trust in goodness, and all 
 my strength for it, is founded upon you." 
 
 The letter went, and before she could get 
 an answer to it, there came another from 
 Vernon. In this there was more description 
 of the various doings at the duchess's, and a 
 long account of the suggestions made to him 
 & propos of standing for Parliament. "If 
 this plan," he wrote, " really comes to any- 
 thing, it may require me to return very soon 
 to England. If I were not anxious for 
 you, I should go happily ; but how can I 
 be happy when every step I take my heart
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 415 
 
 is almost broken with anxiety for fear a poor, 
 wounded child I am carrying may be in pain 
 
 As Miss Walters read this she was con- 
 scious of a painful agitation. She repeated 
 an action which she had already described to 
 Vernon. Her head drooped, she leaned 
 heavily upon the writing-table, and her face 
 rested blindly on the letter that lay before 
 her. "Going" she thought "going back 
 to England ! and so little said of his sorrow 
 for leaving me ! " These were her two 
 thoughts, and long as she remained motion- 
 less there were none but these that occupied 
 her. 
 
 By and by, however, a revulsion of feel- 
 ing came. She reproached herself and said, 
 " I am selfish. Why should I be always 
 troubling him ? " And she set herself then 
 and there to write to him in a changed 
 tone. " I have been wrong," she began. " I 
 have been crying to you like an unrestrained 
 child, and I believe I have fostered my sense 
 of weakness by thus going on deploring it 
 Surely it is time that I now felt confident, 
 and your last letter, I think, has given me
 
 4i 6 A Romance of 
 
 some reason for being so. It has made me 
 feel that I can take an unselfish interest in 
 the career which I hope may be opening to 
 you. And what a relief to fix one's thoughts 
 on something utterly apart from one's own 
 condition one's own bad or good, and to 
 project one's interests outward ! When you 
 come on Friday, as, my love, I know you will, 
 what joy it will be to me to talk all this over 
 with you ! Did I not tell you that I could at 
 least do one thing for you that I could 
 stimulate you to make the very best use of 
 your powers ? Even now I foresee that when 
 you come over here, there will be a new light, 
 a new gladness in those eyes of yours, whose 
 looks I know by heart ; and which so many a 
 time I have known full of sadness only." 
 
 In this account of herself, undoubtedly, 
 there was a certain amount of truth ; and she 
 did her best to bring her feelings into accord 
 with it altogether. She took Vernon's letter 
 in her hands, as if she would grasp her nettle, 
 and went out-of-doors with it. The house was 
 fronted by a long slip of garden, which had 
 a pleasant terrace as its boundary, overhang-
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 417 
 
 ing the public road. Beyond the road was 
 the railway ; beyond that moved the glossy 
 blue of the sea; and the view for the 
 saunterer was framed by the fronds of palm- 
 trees. It was to this terrace that Miss 
 Walters took herself; and, attempting to 
 compose her thoughts, she paced it to and fro 
 slowly. Her dress was still of extreme sim- 
 plicity. She was very different from the 
 Miss Walters whose entrance had been so 
 noted in the restaurant. Still, since the day 
 that Vernon had marked the change, she had 
 become more soignee again in some ways. 
 Her dove-colored velvet hat, it is true, was 
 old and faded. Her dress of the same color, 
 was faded, too, and was of some common 
 stuff ; but by some magic on her maid's part 
 or her own, its simplicity savored more of 
 the world than of the cloister ; and she was 
 gloved and shod daintily now as ever. She 
 had studiously avoided lately much contem- 
 plation of herself in the glass ; but to-day, as 
 she went out, she could not avoid noticing 
 that she looked beautiful, and that the faded 
 tints became her ; and, in spite of her sorrow, 
 27
 
 4i 8 A Romance of 
 
 there went through her a thrill of vanity. In 
 an instant this was cast into the treasury of 
 her dominant passion ; and she said to herself, 
 with her heart full of Vernon, " My body at 
 least is worthy of your acceptance." 
 
 Had she wished in the terrace to consult 
 another looking-glass, she might have found 
 one in the many glances that were turned to 
 her from the road below. But of these she 
 took little heed. So absorbed, indeed, was 
 she in her own thoughts that a servant from 
 the house had overtaken her without her 
 having heard his footsteps. In his hand was 
 a tray, and on the tray was a telegram. Her 
 eye fell first upon the name of the sender. 
 It was Vernon. Her face flushed with pleas- 
 ure. She crushed the paper in her hand, 
 and continued her walk at an increased pace, 
 feeling that between her palm and fingers 
 she was clasping tight a treasure. She 
 would not read it yet ; she would enjoy the 
 throbs of uncertainty. " Perhaps," she 
 thought, " he may be coming even before 
 Friday this evening this afternoon per- 
 haps by the next train." This last possibility
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 419 
 
 was suggested by the noise of a railway 
 whistle ; and presently, like a black reptile, 
 smelling of smoke and coal-dust, the train 
 went sliding by. She watched the carriage 
 windows, hoping to detect his face at one 
 of them ; but not having done this, she 
 resolved to inspect the telegram. She half 
 unfolded it ; but then she staid. Un- 
 certainty still charmed her ; and, she looked 
 at the unreal paper with a smile of pensive 
 tenderness. It was still not opened when 
 the sound of her own name startled her. 
 It did more than startle her, for she knew 
 the voice that uttered it. It was that of 
 Colonel Stapleton. Instinctively she thrust 
 the telegram into her pocket ; and in a 
 state of mind that was at first but blank 
 astonishment, she stood stock still for a 
 moment, and then went forward and greeted 
 him. As she did this there was a smile on 
 her lips that came of long habit. It is im- 
 possible to make an entire change in one's 
 manner to a person who is unconscious of 
 any reason for a change. Some change in 
 hers, however, there without doubt was, for
 
 420 A Romance of 
 
 the colonel at once declared she was "grum- 
 py," and " out of sorts." When this meet- 
 ing took place they were standing near a 
 small summer-house ; and by a rapid move 
 of the colonel's in another moment they had 
 sat down in it. 
 
 " Come," said he, " what on earth is the 
 matter with you ? You shouldn't treat me 
 in this way, for I can only stay ten minutes. 
 I've come over with some lawyer's papers, 
 for Molly Crane to sign, and in another half 
 hour I shall have to start for Nice again. I 
 heard you were in the garden, so I couldn't 
 help having one try at finding." 
 
 The news that the colonel was going gave 
 Miss Walters great relief, and brought a 
 smile to her face that was perhaps more cor- 
 dial than she meant it to be ; for the colonel 
 took her by the chin and turned her face 
 toward him. At his touch, however, she 
 started back abruptly, though the smile did 
 not desert her. 
 
 " Remember, Jack," she said, " I'm going 
 to have no more of your nonsense. We are 
 too old, both of us, for that kind of thing."
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 421 
 
 "Tin not," said the colonel, "though I 
 believe I'm in too great a hurry for it 
 However, I shall be back here to have an- 
 other look at our Molly in a couple of days. 
 I've engaged a room a first-rate one at 
 the Hotel Victoria. Such a view from it, I 
 can tell you ! You must come and see it 
 yourself one of these days little cross, vin- 
 dictive minx that you are ! " 
 
 When the colonel said he was in a hurry, 
 he really spoke the truth. There was a cer- 
 tain bal masque at Nice that evening, to 
 which he was going to escort a select party 
 of friends ; and so anxious was he that he 
 should not miss this that he very soon was 
 taking leave of Miss Walters, though with- 
 out informing her as to the joys that lay 
 before him. 
 
 As soon as he was out of sight, Miss Wal- 
 ters took out the telegram, and now she at 
 once read it. It was not a lengthy docu- 
 ment ; it consisted simply of this : " I can't 
 come on Friday. I am asking a party that 
 day to lunch with me. I will explain by 
 letter."
 
 422 A Romance of 
 
 The curtness and the coldness, as she 
 thought it, of this despatch had an effect as 
 sudden on her as that of a physical blow. 
 Her first outward expression of her inward 
 feelings was a rapid movement to the para- 
 pet of the terrace, on which she leaned her 
 arms, and looked fixedly toward the railway 
 station. " What a fool I was," she murmured, 
 " to have driven Jack away ! " 
 
 An hour after this she was in her bed-room 
 kneeling, for the most part silent, but now 
 and again whispering, " How wicked I am ! 
 Shall I never make myself good for any- 
 thing ? " The same night she began another 
 letter to Vernon. 
 
 " I don't know," she wrote, "if I shall send 
 you this. I shall see as I go on. I don't 
 like to trouble you, and to make you 
 wretched ; but nothing that I could tell you 
 could make you half so wretched as I myself 
 am. You tell me to say my prayers; you 
 tell me to love God. I try to do both. I 
 have tried each night to do so. But I feel 
 more or less as you do. It is not a man's 
 privilege only to find his reason at war with
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 423 
 
 his faith. A woman sometimes can have the 
 same greatness thrust upon her ; she, too, 
 can doubt the reality of all that she thinks 
 most valuable. I have had bitter experience 
 of this these days I have been away from 
 you. All the holy things that we were 
 brought up to long for, and for which, till 
 
 I had ruined myself, I did long what 
 
 do you think they now seem to me ? Like 
 one of those fallen rocks in the middle of a 
 great ocean, which sailors see sometimes, and 
 which then disappear suddenly. What tricks 
 are played one by the various faculties of 
 one's being ! Yes ; I believe one five min- 
 utes, and I disbelieve another. You know 
 my opinion about the Catholic Church. I 
 have often told you how impossible it is to 
 me to believe in its teachings literally. Well 
 what do you think I have done, and done 
 in real good faith, more than once lately? 
 I have prayed to Saint Mary Magdalene ! 
 What does it all mean, my friend, this bizarre 
 confusion of emotion, thought, and judgment? 
 If I had no faith, I should not be so misera- 
 ble as I am. That is what seems so hard
 
 424 A Romance of 
 
 to me. I have enough faith left to make me 
 miserable, but not enough to make me hope- 
 ful. My faith has lost its courage ; but, like 
 other cowards, it can still bully. My life is 
 bitter with the lees of a belief whose finer 
 spirit is evaporating. 
 
 " Do you not see how, when one is in this 
 state, the desire for self-respect becomes of 
 the same nature as one's belief and faith? 
 Self-respect, it is always being whispered to 
 one, is nothing; neither is there any need 
 for any self-condemnation. It is our judg- 
 ment of our past, not our past, that fills us 
 with self-reproaches. 
 
 " My friend, out of this chaotic mind of 
 mine your love might call peace and order. 
 But now what shall I say to you ? I begin 
 to feel, or at least to fear, that your love is 
 
 getting . But no. I will not finish the 
 
 sentence. I will wait till I hear what you 
 say to-morrow morning. My darling, I dread 
 your letter." 
 
 Vernon's letter arrived. It was full of re- 
 grets that he could not come to San Remo 
 on Friday. It was full, too, of little details
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 425 
 
 and incidents that he judged would amuse 
 Miss Walters ; and it begged for her sym- 
 pathy in his hopes of a new career. It was 
 impossible to say that it was not written most 
 affectionately. But for all this, her instinct 
 observed a want in it not a want she could 
 blame, one only she could shudder and won- 
 der at. It did not put him in a different light 
 before her, but her own relation to him. Her 
 answer expressed this. 
 
 " Dear," she wrote, continuing her last 
 night's letter where she had left off, " I have 
 got yours of this morning, and I think I will 
 send you what I have already written. I am 
 sorry you can't come on Friday, but I have 
 no doubt you are amused better where you 
 are. So far as I can gather, you are very gay. 
 That must be pleasant. And now let me tell 
 you that I have done one thing that you told 
 me to do. I have been reading between the 
 lines of your letter, and doing this very care- 
 fully ; and I feel that a change is coming 
 over them. I can't explain to you what or 
 where it is. You write still as kindly even 
 as lovingly as ever. But my instincts, as you
 
 426 A Romance of 
 
 know, are very quick; and my instincts tell 
 me this that you, though you do not yet 
 know it, are getting tired of me. I do not 
 complain. I know I am not worthy to keep 
 you : and yet you cannot wonder if I feel it a 
 little bitterly, when I see my last hope in this 
 world, and for aught I know in another, slip- 
 ping so soon so soon away from me. My 
 aunt and I are coming back in a day or two. 
 
 " A letter has been sent on to us from 
 your dear friend the duchess, to ask us to 
 come to her fancy ball. I think we shall go. 
 I have a dress with me which I once wore in 
 Florence ; and I shall have it done up at 
 Nice, where we stop for a night on our way 
 back. Of course you will go. I expect you 
 will find it very amusing. 
 
 " I am sorry to have to write as I have 
 done. It took me some time to bring myself 
 to do so ; but it is best to be quite honest, at 
 least with the people one is fond of." 
 
 What reply to expect to this Miss Walters 
 did not know. The effort she had made in 
 writing it, and in acknowledging to herself 
 what she had said in it, left her in dull dejec-
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 42" 
 
 tion. At luncheon, however, this was some- 
 what broken in upon by an unwelcome and 
 unexpected sight. When she went down into 
 the dining-room her aunt and Mrs. Crane 
 were already seated ; but they were not alone. 
 Miss Walters perceived that there was a 
 beautifully dressed visitor with them, whom 
 in a moment more she recognized. It was 
 the other Mrs. Crane. 
 
 This lady was fresh from the Cap de Juan, 
 and was full of accounts of the duchess and 
 her doings. Many smart people were shy of 
 Mrs. Crane ; but Mrs. Crane was never shy 
 of them. Every one of a sufficient position 
 was spoken of by her with a familiarity that 
 implied anything but contempt, though it 
 continually took the form of it : and an im- 
 mense amount of gossip was rattled off by her 
 during luncheon about Algy this and Mabel 
 that, with their proper style and title some- 
 times added in a parenthesis. Vernon's name 
 occurred several times. He was going to give 
 a luncheon party, he had written a charade, 
 he had taught a young lady to play lawn-ten- 
 nis, he had frequent private conferences with
 
 4.28 A Romance of 
 
 the Conservative ex-minister. All this, how 
 ever, was being only dropped by the way, 
 among the other flowers of information that 
 Mrs. Crane was scattering, till Miss Walters 
 said with affected carelessness : 
 
 " Mr. Vernon seems to be contributing 
 much to the general amusement, and I have 
 no doubt to his own." 
 
 There was something in Miss Walters' 
 tone a certain pain or pique in it that 
 touched as it were a spring in Mrs. Crane's 
 being. She had amused herself so well at 
 the duchess's with a certain young guards- 
 man that Vernon's coolness to her had quite 
 escaped her memory. But when Miss Wal- 
 ters spoke, it somehow or other came back to 
 her, and seemed in common justice to de- 
 mand some slight punishment. Memory and 
 imagination at once came to her aid, in 
 friendly struggle as to which should be most 
 active. 
 
 "Mr. Vernon," she said, "may amuse other 
 people well enough, but he amuses himself 
 even more. Perhaps, however, it is ill-na- 
 tured to say that, for there was one other
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 429 
 
 person at least who I hope has been as well 
 pleased as himself." 
 
 Miss Walters, as she heard this, drew a 
 sharp breath, and her hand closed tightly on 
 a fork she was idly trifling with. Her eye 
 fixed on Mrs. Crane with a helpless stare of 
 attention, and she was struggling for self- 
 possession to make some common remark 
 on the matter. Her aunt, however, saved 
 her the trouble. 
 
 "And is Mr. Vernon," she said, smiling, 
 " a great admirer of young ladies ? What 
 should you say, Cynthia? You and he are 
 such friends." 
 
 Mrs. Crane shrugged her shoulders a little. 
 "As for young ladies," she said, "it depends 
 what we mean by that. Mr. Vernon likes 
 them married. There's one quite to his 
 liking at the Cap de Juan now, and he sits 
 in her pocket every evening." 
 
 Miss Walters at last contrived to force a 
 smile to her lips, and to utter three words, 
 while it was still on them. " Who is that ? " 
 she said. 
 
 It was the lady with the dark eyes, to whom
 
 430 -^ Romance of 
 
 Vernon had made love in the charade. 
 " She's one of my best friends," Mrs. Crane 
 said, "so of course one can allow for her lit- 
 tle eccentricities ; but we all know that dear 
 Lily is not bashful." 
 
 Miss Walters discovered after luncheon 
 that Mrs. Crane was going to stay at San 
 Remo for a day or two, and for the first time 
 in her life she sought her company volun- 
 tarily. She proposed that they should go a 
 walk together. During the course of this 
 tete-h-tte, Mrs. Crane was brought back to 
 the subject of Vernon's doings, and induced 
 to give more particulars, which she did on 
 the following principle. Mr. Ruskin has ob- 
 served that one of the commonest faults in 
 painting is the representation by the painter 
 of more than his eye sees. He thinks he 
 has seen distinct leaves, whereas really he 
 has only seen green shadow. Mrs. Crane 
 was afflicted with exactly the same delusion. 
 She saw shadow, and she thought she had 
 seen kisses. The little scene on the terrace, 
 after the charade was over, was presented in 
 this way to Miss Walters, and a number o(
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 431 
 
 other incidents of something the same na- 
 ture. 
 
 The following morning when Mrs. Crane 
 met Miss Walters, " My dear child," she ex- 
 claimed, " what a lovely frock that is of 
 yours ! You weren't looking half so well yes- 
 terday. Indeed, I did think you were wear- 
 ing the willow for a certain friend of ours, 
 whose little doings we talked about. But 
 this, I suppose, is put on in honor of Colonel 
 Jack ; as to-day, I believe, he is going to 
 honor San Remo."
 
 432 A Romance of 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 "\ ^ERNON'S time meanwhile had been 
 * passing pleasantly enough ; but though 
 his conduct here and there might have been 
 such as to explain, it was in no case such as 
 to justify, Mrs. Crane's conception of it. The 
 letter, therefore, that Miss Walters had sent 
 to him, when she received his telegram, was 
 an unexpected and inexplicable blow. Its 
 immediate result was to rouse his anxiety for 
 her to a greater intensity than it had ever 
 reached before ; and he proceeded at once 
 to write to her, with even more than his ac- 
 customed earnestness. He was full of won- 
 der at the impression he had given her ; he 
 was hurt bitterly at having hurt her. But 
 next day, when he thought the matter over 
 again, he would not deny that there was some
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 433 
 
 foundation for her charge, even though there 
 might be no direct truth in it. The bright- 
 ness of the world certainly had attracted him. 
 It had come to him like fresh air and sun- 
 shine ; and it had been little short of rapture 
 to him to be able to laugh gayly and talk 
 lightly again. He could not deny, too, that 
 among the fair guests of the duchess there 
 were several whose good graces he had found 
 some pleasure in winning. He had felt him- 
 self to be popular ; he had felt himself to be 
 fit for the world. He had felt himself to be 
 liked by many ; and he had found this a re- 
 freshing change after having been loved by 
 one. He acknowledged all this to himself ; 
 but was there, he asked, any wrong in it ? 
 
 What answer, he wondered, would this let- 
 ter of his elicit from her ? He had to wait a 
 day before it elicited any. It reached Miss 
 Walters the afternoon of her walk with Mrs. 
 Crane, and that evening she was unable to 
 write anything. But by the evening follow- 
 ing her answer was written and posted. Ver- 
 non at last received it. 
 
 !l My dear, dear friend," she said, " I have 
 28
 
 434 A Romance of 
 
 received that last kind letter of yours. You 
 will think that my answer to it is very 
 strange. I am intensely weary ; there is the 
 same languid heaviness in my mind that 
 there is in the air before a thunder-storm. I 
 cannot tell, but I think, perhaps, that this 
 may be a good condition for me to write in. 
 I am not perturbed for the moment by any 
 violent feeling. 
 
 " You know how little sanguine I have 
 been about my own case. My mind misgave 
 me all the time, that I needed more help than 
 I had any right to expect of you. The in- 
 tense, the tender devotion that you have 
 shown for me, and for my welfare I know 
 how true it has been. I do not for a moment 
 doubt it. I am not one of those unjust 
 women who say that a feeling cannot be true 
 because it does not last forever. We do not 
 judge of bad feelings in that way. Why 
 should we judge so of good ones ? No ; I be- 
 lieve that you have had at heart my welfare 
 in the truest and best of ways. I believe that 
 you have loved, and that you do love me. 
 Were I other than I am were I only now
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 435 
 
 what I once might have been, we might have 
 been happy all our lives together. It is my 
 fault, it is not yours, that what has happened 
 has happened. I am speaking deliberately, 
 and with the conviction that I speak truth, 
 when I say that the only love, the only devo- 
 tion, that could have saved and redeemed me, 
 would have been a devotion too sad and 
 sorrowful for your bright nature to have en- 
 dured it. 
 
 " ' Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel ? ' 
 
 I am not applying that line to you, but 
 somehow or other you suggested it. What I 
 would say with regard to you is, who expects 
 a swallow to carry a millstone ? I in life 
 should be a millstone hung about your neck. 
 You could not lift me. There is nothing 
 left for you but to spread your wings and 
 leave me. 
 
 " Dear, the strongest personal hold I could 
 have had on you, would have been through 
 your lower nature. Had you had less self- 
 command, less self-denial, I might have held 
 you through that. I know it, though I ought
 
 436 A Romance of 
 
 not to know it. But you can command your- 
 self ; and I revere your strength, because I 
 realize your temptations. I must explain 
 myself. I say the strongest personal hold. 
 What is actually your strongest feeling for me, 
 indeed what is practically now almost your 
 only feeling for me, is your desire that a soul 
 should save itself. But listen to me. It is a 
 soul, not my soul, that you are anxious for. 
 
 " You remember the little lame child you 
 so kindly carried to its home. You carried 
 it in your goodness ; but you were glad to 
 put your burden down. I am to you like 
 that poor child. 
 
 " I have no anger against you as I write 
 this. I feel no bitterness or desperation ; 
 though these may very soon come on me. 
 But I am calm, just yet. 
 
 " I have not formed this judgment of you 
 from your own letters only. I have heard of 
 you from a third person a person I cannot 
 endure, and who, I am sure, said what she 
 did say out of a more or less defined ill- 
 nature. The person I speak of was Mrs. 
 Crane, who tells me that she has been at the
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 437 
 
 duchess's ; and seems to have kept a sharp 
 eye on your doings. There are several 
 things she told me which I, of course, do not 
 believe for one instant. But, subtracting the 
 falsehood, I could easily see the truth. I 
 could see how, as the world and its bright- 
 ness once more came back to you, your let- 
 ters to me grew not less kind, not less purely 
 intentioned, but shorter and less earnest. 
 If a man would really redeem a woman, she 
 must be all in all to him. That is a truth, 
 dear friend, you have not learned yet. I think 
 yes, I think that, had I been different, I 
 might perhaps have taught it to you. But 
 never mind. The dream is over. Had it 
 been longer, the awakening would have been 
 harder to bear even than it is. After all, 
 what does it matter? You know many 
 women as bad as I am, perhaps even worse, 
 and you think their company pleasant enough, 
 and you never waste a tragic thought on 
 them. 
 
 " Well, we have talked about the world. 
 It will be in the world that we next meet. 
 The fancy ball is the day after to-morrow, and
 
 438 A Romance of 
 
 we do not return till that evening. We shall 
 meet again there. I wonder if you will rec- 
 ognize me. 
 
 " I told you Mrs. Crane had been over 
 here. Some one else comes to-day. Ah me ! " 
 
 She had added in a postscript, " No, you 
 are not all I thought you were. Surely were 
 you what a man ought to be, you would be 
 able to love in a more human way than you 
 do. There is something wanting in you. 
 You are good enough to make me wish for 
 holiness ; not good enough to make me able 
 
 to attain to it. You are ." But here she 
 
 stopped, and tore off the leaf on which all 
 this had been written.
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 439 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A/TISS WALTERS in her letter had spoken 
 1-**- no more than the truth. Until the 
 ball Vernon was not able to see her, neither 
 was there any chance of writing to her. It is 
 true that the ball was to be the following 
 evening, and the interval of waiting was not 
 long. But to him it seemed long. He was 
 perplexed, bewildered, miserable. Miss Wal- 
 ters filled his mind to the exclusion of all 
 other thoughts. They had been driven away 
 by her letter, as though by a scourge of cords. 
 He could fix his attention on nothing except- 
 ing her. His grave plans for the future, his 
 pleasant amusements of the hour or the mo- 
 ment, were all ruined by her image. It shat- 
 tered his peace like a persistent street organ. 
 It would not let him alone. It forced itself
 
 44 A Romance of 
 
 on his consciousness. What should he think 
 of Miss Walters? What of himself? He 
 could give himself no answer. In forlorn 
 hope of comfort he betook himself to Stanley, 
 with whom lately he had been having much 
 serious intercourse, and talked long and 
 earnestly with him about our influence over 
 others, and the responsibility that influence 
 lays on us. 
 
 His acquaintance with Miss Walters was 
 the first incident in his life that made such 
 influence a reality to him. That opened his 
 eyes to the vast and appalling issues that 
 might hang on his own conduct. It seemed 
 suddenly to have placed in his hand the en- 
 tire future of another ; and he trembled when 
 he saw the value of what he was thus unex- 
 pectedly holding. He had resolved, however, 
 with the most intense sincerity, that he would 
 do his utmost ; or, rather, he had not so much 
 resolved as been seized with a desire to do so. 
 The desire had come first, and the resolve 
 afterward ; and the thought that here at 
 least was one good deed made plain for him 
 had been a taste of the bread of life to one
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 441 
 
 who spiritually was starving. But now, it 
 seemed as if this bread was to be like Dead* 
 Sea fruit. It was turning to ashes in his 
 mouth. And why ? How had he been false 
 to his trust? What on earth had he done 
 that Miss Walters should write thus to him ? 
 His first impulse was to tax Mrs. Crane with 
 lying, and he trusted very soon to get the 
 matter right again. But by and by he began 
 to suspect uneasily that in Miss Walters' im- 
 pression of him there might be some amount 
 of truth. He might be wanting, possibly, in 
 that personal solicitude which was the thing 
 she seemed to hunger for, and which indeed 
 he had himself professed ; and this misgiving 
 was haunting him when he went to talk with 
 Stanley. 
 
 By the time, however, the conversation was 
 over, he had worked off some of his more 
 painful excitement, and went away once again 
 prepared to be sanguine. But his hopes now 
 were of an anxious and solemn kind. The 
 night before the ball he spent alone, thinking 
 over his life, his powers, and what he should 
 really do with them ; and his earnest purpose
 
 442 A Romance of 
 
 with regard to a single woman tinged with its 
 earnestness all his other resolutions. As for 
 Miss Walters, he had fears about her of which 
 he could not define the nature. The closing 
 words of her letter, in especial, made his mind 
 misgive him : " I told you Mrs. Crane had 
 been over here. Some one else comes to-day. 
 Ah me ! " Who was the some one else ? What 
 did it all mean ? There were moments that 
 night, as he tried to compose himself to sleep, 
 when he hardly dared to think of this ; and 
 when, after hours of weary tossing, his eyelids 
 at last closed themselves, he had been forced 
 to stifle arbitrarily all such doubts by deter- 
 mination. 
 
 With the following morning, however, they 
 all came back again, and his excitement be- 
 fore long had grown a physical pain to him. 
 One picture only was before his eyes all day, 
 that was his meeting this very night with 
 Miss Walters ; and as he dwelt continually 
 upon this single prospect, he felt, or hoped 
 he felt, that the personal love she longed for 
 was growing distinct and strong in him. 
 
 Evening at last drew on. He had invited
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 443 
 
 Stanley to dinner. The priest's company was 
 the only thing that soothed him. He went 
 upstairs to prepare himself before his guest's 
 arrival ; and here he experienced another 
 jar to his feelings. His fancy dress, now that 
 the time had come for wearing it, seemed a 
 hateful and degrading mockery, and he sev- 
 eral times thought of avoiding the ball alto- 
 gether. How could he bear to be making a 
 fool of himself, outwardly, when his whole 
 inward being was as dark as death itself, and 
 concerned with as serious issues ? But to 
 remain away was even more hard than to go ; 
 so he overcame his reluctance, and put on his 
 costume. It was a relief to him, beyond any 
 of his expectations, that this was quiet both 
 in form and color, and required no alteration, 
 or, as he would now have called it, disfigure* 
 ment of his face. It is true that there should, 
 by rights, have been a gaudy scarf about his 
 waist, but he would not submit to this ; and 
 he found himself when his toilet was com- 
 pleted, all in black with the exception of some 
 coarse stockings. He was simply a Spanish 
 peddler a familiar figure in every town on
 
 444 -A Romance of 
 
 the Riviera. He looked so little fanciful 
 that he might pass unnoticed among any 
 Southern crowd. He even found something 
 in his appearance that actually harmonized 
 with his feelings. 
 
 Stanley remarked, when he came to din- 
 ner, on the somber aspect that his dress gave 
 Vernon, and said, with a laugh, " I should feel 
 rather afraid of you, if I met you on the Cap 
 de Juan, in any of these dark lanes. By the 
 way," he went on presently, " you have not 
 heard, I suppose, about Alic Campbell." 
 
 Vernon started. " Heard what about him?" 
 
 " He is coming to-night, to sleep at my 
 little pension. I got a telegram from him a 
 few hours ago. He is on his way back to 
 England ; but he only says a word or two." 
 
 The mixed shock and pleasure which this 
 news caused was not, in one way, a bad thing 
 for Vernon. It brought him face to face 
 with an anxious practical embarrassment, and 
 acted on him as a species of moral shower- 
 bath. His first fear was that Campbell would 
 come to him that evening, before he was safe 
 out of the house ; and his wish was to write
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 445 
 
 to him before meeting him. " What time 
 does he come?" he asked of Stanley. The 
 answer somewhat reassured him. It could 
 not well be before half-past ten. 
 
 Vernon abruptly rose from the table. 
 " Stanley," he said, " will you excuse me for 
 a minute or two ? I will write Campbell a 
 note. I have something particular I wish to 
 say to him ; and I shall be more at ease when 
 I have got it off my mind." 
 
 He went into his library, and before long 
 came back again. " Perhaps," he said to 
 Stanley, "you will give this to Campbell. 
 Life is full of sad coincidences. This after- 
 noon I received, sent back to me, a letter I 
 wrote to him some three weeks ago, begging 
 him to come and stay with me. There is 
 something ghastly in having your own words 
 sent back to you, especially when you have 
 in many ways much changed since you wrote 
 them." 
 
 After this Vernon became more restless ; 
 and his eyes began to gleam with an unnatural 
 excitement, which contrasted curiously with 
 the worn look of his face. When dinner was
 
 446 A Romance of 
 
 over, he went to the open window, and re- 
 mained there for some moments silent. The 
 evening was warm, but the moon had not yet 
 risen, and the sky was thick with stars. A 
 soft breeze came blowing up from the sea, 
 and brought a splash of waves with it. Ver- 
 non sniffed the air, as if it were a kind of 
 smelling-salts, and proposed to Stanley that 
 they should go outside and enjoy it. Stanley 
 assented. No sooner were they on the gravel 
 than Vernon began to step out vigorously. 
 At an increasing pace they made the circuit 
 of the garden ; they did the same thing for 
 the second time. Then the garden bounds 
 grew too small for Vernon, and nothing would 
 satisfy him but that they should wander out 
 upon the rocks. The project pleased Stanley ; 
 he was himself being braced by exercise. The 
 rocks in question were part of the same reef 
 as that on which Vernon with other compan- 
 ions had been clambering not so long ago ; 
 and access was to be had to them from his 
 own garden, as well as from the duchess's. 
 In a few moments more he and Stanley had 
 descended a winding path, and found them-
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 447 
 
 selves almost on the sea-level. The long reef 
 before them was indented with miniature 
 fiords, in which the dark water swayed and 
 gleamed under the starlight. Here the breeze 
 breathed fresher, the noises of the waves came 
 clearer, and the naked skies and stars towered 
 over them in the treeless air. 
 
 Presently Vernon began abruptly, "We 
 have often, Stanley," he said, " talked about 
 human affection ; and even yet I hardly 
 know what to think about it. Is it more 
 than, or is it less than, a desire for another's 
 good?" 
 
 " It includes that," said Stanley, " but it is 
 beyond doubt more than that. A desire for 
 another's good, and a wish or will to work for 
 it, is what we should have for every human 
 being ; but if, in speaking of affection, you 
 mean that special personal longing which is 
 what we mean by the word usually, then affec- 
 tion is more than a mere zeal for souls. In- 
 deed, it is almost impossible to have the latter, 
 unless you have at least the capacity for the 
 former. You must have at least the power 
 of being fond of some one, or of some special
 
 44 8 A Romance of 
 
 ones, or you will never have the power of being 
 zealous in God's sense for all." 
 
 " To me," said Vernon, " that longing for 
 the individual seems sometimes but the inten- 
 sity of self-indulgence. Stanley, for reasons 
 which I cannot explain to you, this has been 
 brought home to me with a fearful personal 
 force. In following one's own salvation one 
 may be stealing the salvation of a friend." 
 
 " I have no wish," said Stanley, calmly, " to 
 inquire into any of your secrets ; but the case 
 you state I can very easily imagine. It is by 
 no means uncommon. The life of the Chris- 
 tian is full of such paradoxes, and the Chris- 
 tian philosopher accepts and is not daunted 
 by them. I have been studying you, if you 
 will let me say so, for some time past ; and in 
 a certain way your condition, I think, is sin- 
 gular. The most sensitive part of you is the 
 intellect, just as with many men it is the 
 senses ; and there has fallen full on your in- 
 tellect the dissolving forces which are at work 
 in the world about us. They are every- 
 where ; in the air they breathe, in the light 
 we see by. Only on your mind the scattered
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 449 
 
 rays have been focalized. The denials of the 
 intellect have gone far, in your case, towards 
 paralysing the affirmations of the affections. 
 
 Vernon was picking his way carefully over 
 the ledges of the rocks ; and this slow fash- 
 ion of walking gave him full time to attend 
 to Stanley. At last he said in a slow con- 
 strained voice, with his eyes fixed on the 
 sea : 
 
 " That is just my stumbling block. The 
 intellect does deny the affirmations of the 
 affections. Against my will it annihilates 
 them." 
 
 " And why is that ? " said Stanley, with 
 sudden vigor. " Is it the fault of your in- 
 tellect or your affections ? My dear Vernon, 
 I know quite well that our intellectual diffi- 
 culties are not things to be pooh-pooh'd, nor 
 can they be in all cases set down as wicked- 
 ness or perversity. But believe me, that in 
 many cases intellectual denial is based upon 
 moral trifling. The intellect is a mill. It 
 will grind if you bring grist to it : if not, it 
 will only turn and turn. And what brings 
 grist to it ? First and foremost I should say
 
 450 A Romance of 
 
 that love did. In that thing, so despised of 
 you a man's common natural affection for 
 another human being is the germ not only of 
 all morality, but of all philosophy. To love 
 another, is to affirm the external world ; it is 
 to create creation, it is to open the eyes to 
 God. What can the senses do for you ? Can 
 they even prove to you that you are not 
 alone in the universe, and that all its shapes 
 and seemings are anything but modes of your 
 own aimless consciousness? No were it 
 only for the senses, you would be unredeemed 
 in dreamland. There is a passage," Stanley 
 went on, "in the writings of a modern Eng- 
 lish physicist one of the bitterest of the 
 younger generation of English freethinkers 
 which seems to me very happily put, and 
 which I know well by heart. The infer- 
 ences, he says, of physical science are all infer- 
 ences of my real or possible feelings ; infer- 
 ences of something actually or potentially in 
 my consciousness, not of anything outside it. 
 There are, however, some inferences which are 
 profoundly different from those of physical 
 science. When I come to the conclusion that
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 451 
 
 YOU are conscious, and that there are objects 
 in YOUR consciousness similar to those in mine, 
 I am not inferring any actual or possible feel- 
 ings of my own, but YOUR feelings, which are 
 not, and cannot by any possibility become objects 
 in my consciousness"* 
 
 " I agree with you," said Vernon, " that is 
 very happily put. It is your first step to- 
 ward redeeming yourself from dreamland to 
 realize that you are not the only dreamer. I 
 was trying some time back to write down my 
 own feelings with regard to life ; and my one 
 complaint was that I lived in a world of shad- 
 ows, and that my fellow-beings had no living 
 reality for me." 
 
 " Exactly," said Stanley ; " that is the very 
 point I am insisting on. To a man who does 
 not love, his fellow men will be shadows. 
 What gives them reality for you is the act of 
 loving of loving some other creature of a 
 like nature with yours. Love truly is in that 
 way creative. It is the passionate affirmation 
 of a fact which your senses never can assure 
 you of. It seems to be small, and to deal 
 
 * Lectures and Essays, by W. K. Clifford, vol. ii. p. 72.
 
 45 2 ^ Romance of 
 
 with passing and local issues; but it contains 
 in it the assent of your nature to the reality 
 of the universe. Look at the stars above us 
 look at the sea about us ! It is but a com- 
 monplace of philosophy, which no school 
 doubts of, to say that all the worlds are held 
 in the hollows of our own minds. The only 
 universe you would ever know, or dream or 
 think of, would perish, so far as you could 
 tell with your perishing, were it not for one 
 belief that in that universe there were other 
 minds like yours, which like yours reflected 
 it. Doubt this, and you must then doubt 
 everything; but if you love, you will be un- 
 able to doubt this. The man can never logi- 
 cally be a sceptic who can say what a man I 
 know said to a woman who is now dead: 
 " In your soul also, there is for me a universe. 
 Time, space, and eternity these are there 
 also ; so, too, is the infinite world of matter, 
 from Orion and the Pleiades to that blue 
 forget-me-not in your bosom." 
 
 At this moment they were rounding a small 
 headland that ran out between Vernon's gar- 
 den and the large domain of the hotel. The
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 453 
 
 reef of rocks stretched right ahead of them, 
 brown and black, toward the open sea. The 
 moon was still unrisen, yet the rocks looked 
 more distinct than they would have done un- 
 der mere starlight ; and here and there it 
 seemed a wan color flickered on them. This 
 was remarked on both by Vernon and Stan- 
 ley ; and when they had gone some paces 
 farther, they suddenly came on the explana- 
 tion of it. Far up, beyond a slope of shrubs 
 and cypress trees, were a thousand lamps 
 burning, and colored fumes of emerald-green 
 and ruby were floating up into the clear night 
 air ; while in the midst of all stood the great 
 hotel itself, looking like some palace of en- 
 chantment a mystery of cloud and marble. 
 
 The thought of Miss Walters came to Ver- 
 non with a renewed intensity. He turned to 
 Stanley and said, " I must go : my time is 
 come. I will go this way, I think, through 
 the duchess's gardens, if you can get back 
 without having me to guide you. Your com- 
 panionship, my dear fellow, has been more 
 comfort to me than I can tell you ; and there 
 is one thing which, if it did not trouble you,
 
 454 -d Romance of 
 
 I should like you to do for me. I told you 
 I had jotted down some of my thoughts on 
 things especially such things as religious 
 faith and affection. I did my best to be 
 honest, and I wish you would read over what 
 I wrote. I left it on my writing-table in the 
 library, in a blue envelope. If you go through 
 the house you will find it there. And by the 
 way," he added, as Stanley and he were sepa- 
 rating, " if Campbell does not want to go to 
 bed directly, I shall be back from the ball 
 soon. He will find me in by half-past twelve. 
 I am very tired. I shall be sure to be back 
 by then. Last night I slept ill. To-night I 
 am looking forward to sleeping better, and 
 more calmly."
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 455 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 \ \ 7 HEN Vernon parted from the priest, he 
 climbed from the lonely rocks, and at 
 last entered the duchess's brilliant portals. 
 He was like a man just dead coming to life in 
 another world. Before his eyes in gay con- 
 fusion was a throng of moving colors, 
 among flowers, and lights, and palm-trees ; 
 and on his ears in quick cadence burst the 
 measured crash of waltz music. 
 
 He was at first quite bewildered ; he could 
 recognize nobody. At last he saw the duchess, 
 who was standing near the ball-room door. 
 He exchanged a few words with her, and she 
 rallied him on the severity of his appearance. 
 But while she was speaking another sound 
 startled him. It was the voice of Colonel 
 Stapleton. Vernon did but catch a word or 
 30
 
 45 6 A Romance of 
 
 two, but these few words were enough. "The 
 fact is," the colonel was saying to somebody, 
 "I've been away from Nice for some days ; 
 and, of all the places in the world, at San 
 Remo." 
 
 The duchess heard the colonel's voice 
 also, and at once called to him. " Well," said 
 her Grace, " and where is she ? I'm dying to 
 have another look at her." 
 
 " Coming," said the colonel, gayly. " Some- 
 thing has tumbled out of her hair, and she's 
 gone into the cloak-room to get it put straight 
 again." 
 
 " We're talking, Mr. Vernon," said the 
 duchess, "of your friend Miss Walters. If 
 you haven't seen her yet, I can tell you, you 
 should at once go and look at her. We had 
 expected, you know, that we should have had 
 you in attendance on her, instead of our fat 
 friend here. Look, now there she is, with 
 a dozen men round her already. Go at once 
 and talk to her." 
 
 Vernon looked as the duchess bade him, 
 and there Miss Walters was ; but for some 
 time he was rooted to the spot His limbs
 
 The Nineteenth, Century. 457 
 
 seemed to be giving way under him. He 
 could not move an inch. What he had heard 
 since he entered the ball-room had to all ap- 
 pearance petrified him ; and he could only 
 stare about him stupidly. 
 
 "Can't you see her?" said the duchess, 
 as she was turning away to speak to a new 
 arrival. " There she is ; I believe she calls 
 herself a " Snowdrop.' ' 
 
 Thus urged, Vernon moved mechanically 
 toward the place where Miss Walters was. 
 She was all in white. Her dress was trimmed 
 with snowdrops, and she wore in her hair a 
 wreath of the same flower. She had her 
 usual calm manner, which seemed to show 
 that admiration came to her as a thing of 
 course ; but through this calm more ani- 
 mation than usual showed itself ; her eyes 
 looked larger and more luminous, and her 
 cheeks had a deeper flush on them. No won- 
 der she was the centre of an admiring circle. 
 
 As he drew nearer he saw she was slightly 
 rouged, and that the darkness under her eyes 
 was not only that of nature. In the case of 
 most women he would have thought nothing
 
 45 8 A Romance of 
 
 of this, but here it gave a strange shock to 
 him. He joined the group, pressing his way 
 into it with a something that, had he been 
 less pre-occupied, he would have felt to have 
 been almost roughness. But he could think 
 of no such trifles now. He moved like a 
 somnambulist more than a waking person. 
 In a moment Miss Walters caught his eye. 
 She advanced in a marked way to meet him, 
 and the others perforce had unwillingly to 
 disperse themselves. " Come with me," she 
 said, " to that window for a moment. I can 
 talk to you only for a moment now." 
 
 " Only for a moment ! " he exclaimed. 
 " Good God, Cynthia,tell me what is this that 
 has happened to you ! " 
 
 " Be in this window," she said, " at half- 
 past eleven. I can't talk to you now not 
 with all these people about me ; and I can't 
 get away before. But be here then, and we 
 will go for a little into the garden. Remem- 
 ber the place that door close to the ladies' 
 dressing-room. I shall escape there on pre- 
 tense of finding a smelling-bottle, and shall 
 be with you, unobserved, in an instant. Don't
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 459 
 
 talk to me to-night in public if you can help 
 it. I don't think I could bear it. Now go 
 away and amuse yourself. I know you have 
 many friends here." 
 
 They went back to the throng, and were 
 almost instantly parted in it. But Vernon 
 was utterly unable to collect his wits to talk, 
 and he could hardly reply coherently to the 
 commonest greetings or inquiries. Before 
 long he had found the scene unendurable, 
 and he escaped by himself into the garden. 
 The walks about the house were too bright 
 with lamps. What he wished for was silence 
 and darkness. He found his way into a by- 
 path, and slowly paced up and down in medi- 
 tation, waiting wretchedly for the appointed 
 time to arrive. On Miss Walters herself he 
 could hardly bear to let his thoughts rest ; 
 but the image, if not the thought of her, was 
 continually present to him. His thoughts, 
 however, found another object, and this was 
 Colonel Stapleton. His whole being grew 
 concentrated into a hatred of this man, and 
 signs of the feeling began to rise to the sur- 
 face, in the shape of broken mutterings.
 
 460 A Romance of 
 
 " May God in heaven for ever damn and 
 curse you ! May I be cursed myself, so that 
 I only secure your everlasting misery. Beast, 
 the clay you were made of, was black and 
 fetid with the vilest sewage of life ! For your 
 own filthy pleasure you have broken and 
 trampled on the whitest and purest soul that 
 ever looked out of the holy eyes of woman. 
 God curse you, you dog ! May I die to- 
 night and awake in hell to-morrow, if only I 
 might gloat forever there over your ever- 
 lasting agony ! " Such were the sounds that 
 came from his lips half audibly ; and in this 
 condition he wandered to and fro, for he 
 knew not how long. He was roused by and 
 by, however, by hearing a step behind him, 
 and in another instant a hand was laid on 
 his shoulder, and a rough voice was or- 
 dering him to be off and about his business. 
 The stranger addressed him in a mixture of 
 French and English the former broken, the 
 latter coarse. The meaning of the incident 
 presently became clear. The man was one 
 of the house servants, and Vernon in his 
 peddler's dress had been seen and mistaken
 
 Tke Nineteenth Century. 461 
 
 for some suspicious character ; nor, when he 
 cast a glance down at his garments, could he 
 much wonder at what had happened. The 
 servant departed with many apologies, and 
 some suppressed amusement ; and Vernon, 
 annoyed at the interruption, went back to- 
 ward the house. He consulted his watch. 
 Time had passed faster than he had thought 
 possible. It was a few minutes after half- 
 past eleven. He hastened to the appointed 
 window, from which a flight of steps led down 
 into the garden, and there Miss Walters was. 
 She had plainly been waiting. She was look- 
 ing about her anxiously. He ascended a 
 step or two. She came down to meet him. 
 "You are too late," she said in a low tone. 
 
 " Too late ! " he echoed. 
 
 "Yes," she said. " Some one else has dis- 
 covered that I was about to escape into the 
 garden. It is with difficulty that I have se- 
 cured ten minutes or so, alone. He will be 
 looking for me presently. I told him I would 
 remain here. But come now, let us move 
 away quickly. The time is short, for where- 
 ever I go I know he is sure to find me. At
 
 462 A Romance of 
 
 the end of the straight terrace there is a bench 
 take me to that." 
 
 They passed down the walk in silence, nor 
 did either speak until they had sat down to- 
 gether. Then Vernon very gently put his 
 arm round her waist, and tried to draw her 
 to himself. But she would not permit of it. 
 " No," she said passionately, " that must never 
 happen again. I am not fit for you. We 
 know both of us we have quite agreed by 
 this time that I am not fit for you." 
 
 " Cynthia," he exclaimed, " tell me what all 
 this means ! Who is it that is coming here to 
 look for you ? I am not asking you out of 
 any captious jealousy. If it were any one 
 who would be good to you, and for his sake 
 you chose to leave me, I would tease you 
 with no prayer to keep you." 
 
 " That is just it," she cried bitterly. " I 
 knew you would let me go. That is just the 
 bitterness. You have the same care for me 
 that a priest might have or a doctor ; it is not 
 the care of a human being that loves me. It 
 is my welfare you care for, it is not me. I am 
 your penitent or your patient ; I am not the
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 463 
 
 one woman who could make life happy for 
 you." 
 
 " You are wrong," said Vernon ; " for I do 
 love you. If you knew how wretched you 
 had made me, you would not doubt my 
 love." 
 
 Her eyes softened, and she looked at him 
 with a despairing tenderness. " You speak 
 the truth," she said. "You love rne enough 
 to be made wretched by me, but not enough 
 not nearly enough to be made happy by 
 me." 
 
 " Tell me," said Vernon in a whisper, " who 
 is it that you say will come here to look for 
 you ? " 
 
 "You ask me," she said, " if he was a man 
 who would be good to me. He is not. He 
 knows no more of goodness than he knows of 
 Hebrew ; and he has no more compunction 
 for the soul that he has crushed by his kisses 
 than he would have for a beetle that he trod 
 on, in his path, by accident." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " said Vernon. " It 
 seems that my head is swimming. I must 
 know who you mean. I need not ask his
 
 464 A Romance of 
 
 name. But for God's sake tell me what have 
 I done ? What horrid crime have I committed 
 that you should leave me for him ? Surely my 
 own one surely my angel, it is not too late 
 to come back to my arms again. He can 
 never surely this is not possible have re- 
 covered his old influence over you ? " 
 
 " Oh, my heart ! " she exclaimed, pressing 
 her hands hard on it. " How my heart is 
 beating." 
 
 He put his arm about her waist, and she 
 now made no resistance. She let herself be 
 passively drawn toward him, and once again 
 she was resting quietly in his embrace. As 
 she yielded she fixed her eyes on him, and 
 said with a quick, painful gasp, " He has dis- 
 covered everything ! " 
 
 There was a long silence. Neither looked 
 at the other. By and by Vernon again spoke 
 to her, but her eyes were closed, and she 
 would give him no answer. He took her 
 hand, and then again he spoke to her, but 
 there was still no answer ; and he now saw 
 that she was unconscious. He tried to revive 
 her by fanning her, but this produced no
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 465 
 
 effect. He then bethought himself of a foun- 
 tain close at hand, and he hurried off to dip 
 his handkerchief in the water. On his way, 
 however, he heard footsteps ; and he stood 
 aside for a moment under the shadow of a 
 cypress tree to listen. The sound came 
 nearer. It was a man's firm tread. He was 
 walking slowly ; and presently Vernon caught, 
 whistled softly, a fragment of a vulgar song, 
 popular in London music-halls. A moment 
 later, and the man's figure was visible. It 
 was Colonel Stapleton. One of the many 
 pet dogs of the duchess was trotting by his 
 side, and with a soft, kind caress he stooped 
 down to pat it. The moon that was now 
 risen shone full on his face on the sleek 
 blonde moustache, the well-trimmed beard, 
 and the waterish gray eyes, with their some- 
 what puffy lids. It shone, too, on his well- 
 shaped hands, and glittered on his heavy gold 
 rings. At sight of him, Vernon was as it 
 were, fascinated. His eyes fixed themselves 
 on the colonel ; his teeth were set, and his 
 hands clenched themselves till the nails tore 
 the palms.
 
 466 A Romance of 
 
 The colonel never dreamed that he was 
 watched. 
 
 " I'm getting a big boy now 
 I'm getting a big boy now * 
 
 Such was the burden of the ditty with which 
 he was enchanting the ear of night, as he 
 went past the cypress tree. At that instant, 
 from the shadow, a Spanish peddler sprang on 
 him, and laid a hand upon his throat. It was 
 like the grip of a wild beast in its strength, 
 its rapidity, and its savageness. The colonel 
 was utterly unable to free himself from the 
 grasp of his unrecognized assailant, who said 
 nothing, but whose shadowed face was fixed 
 on him. The colonel knew in an instant the 
 strength of the grasp that held him. He 
 made no effort to free himself, nor did he 
 seem in any degree to lose his presence of 
 mind. What he did was the work of a single 
 instant. In a single instant from his pocket 
 there had flashed out a small revolver : a 
 sharp sound for an instant broke the silence, 
 and the form of a Spanish peddler fell flat and 
 motionless across a bed of cinerarias.
 
 Tke Nineteenth Century. 467 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A BOUT half an hour previous to the 
 ^F* above incident, a battered and dirty 
 carriage had arrived at Stanley's pension; 
 and Campbell, seated at supper in the little 
 brick-floored salle-a-manger, was opening 
 Vernon's letter. 
 
 " My dear, dear Campbell," it ran, " do you 
 remember some idle words of mine, for which 
 you reproved me ? I said that my true metier 
 would be that of wooer-in-ordinary to all my 
 male friends. I would make love for them, 
 and when once I had won the heart of what- 
 ever woman was in question, I would hand it 
 over to the man who wanted it. I remember 
 also I said to you, ' Would you let me do your 
 wooing for you on these terms?' Campbell 
 
 God, Destiny, or the Devil heard me when
 
 468 A Romance of 
 
 I said that. Unhappily I have fulfilled my 
 metier, only I cannot hand the heart over to 
 you that I have won. Do you know who 
 my neighbor is, at the Chateau St. John 
 the woman about whom I spoke to you 
 the woman I drove home at night with ? 
 You need not tell me the name of your 
 friend. I know it ; she is my neighbor. I 
 could not help what has happened. I never 
 knew that I was fighting against you till it 
 was too late. The event in many ways has 
 been to me a sad one. I have become much 
 changed since that day when last you left me. 
 If you can bear to do so, come and see me 
 directly. You told me that my face was 
 changed from what it was when first you 
 knew me. Perhaps when next you see me 
 it may have suffered one change more." 
 
 Campbell had supped alone, as Stanley 
 was upstairs busy ; but when Stanley by and 
 by came down again, he found Campbell 
 with his face white as a sheet. He rose ab- 
 ruptly, and seized Stanley's hand. "Stan- 
 ley," he said, " do you know the news you 
 brought me in that letter? Do you remem-
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 469 
 
 ber," he went on in a whisper, "what I told 
 you about myself the last morning I was; 
 here? The woman I told you about was 
 Miss Walters ; and Vernon is going to marry 
 her." 
 
 Stanley started and remained quite silent, 
 staring in Campbell's face. Presently he cast 
 his eyes down to some papers he had in his 
 hand, and said, " I have been just reading 
 some of Vernon's thoughts. He wants you 
 to go and see him. Will you come to-night? 
 Can you bear it ?" 
 
 "I don't know," said Campbell, "what I can 
 do or bear! Then suddenly he exclaimed, 
 " Yes, I will go. I will face everything ; and 
 you, Stanley will you come with me? 
 Come ! " 
 
 The two men set out together, and they 
 went silently along the white moon-lit road. 
 On their way the silence was only once 
 broken. Once Campbell opened his mouth, 
 and said, " I hope Vernon will be happy." 
 
 They reached the garden gates ; they saw 
 lights in Vernon's villa gleam through the 
 leaves like glow-worms. When they got near 
 
 /
 
 47 ^ Romance of 
 
 the door there were several men standing 
 about, and conversation of some sort was 
 proceeding rapidly. "Stanley," said Camp- 
 bell, " I wish you would go in first, and see 
 if he has people with him." 
 
 Stanley advanced, and the group at the 
 door eyed him. He was recognized in a mo- 
 ment or two by one of the servants, who at 
 once advanced to meet him, and said some- 
 thing to him in a very subdued voice. 
 
 Stanley was led by the servant into a 
 small dimly lighted vestibule at the back of 
 the villa, and remained there for some min- 
 utes. When he came out, he set himself 
 to find Campbell, and he at last discovered 
 him in the library. He was reading. He 
 had found open on the writing-table Vernon's 
 letter to himself, which had that same even 
 ing been sent back to the writer ; and it 
 had now at last reached the person it was 
 addressed to. One or two of the passages 
 arrested his attention, in spite of the pertur- 
 bation of the moment, and in a dreamy, dazed 
 way he kept reading and re-reading them. 
 "What do I find has happened?" this was
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 471 
 
 one of the passages "Something glad, 
 strange, and altogether unlocked for. Out of 
 the ashes of my manhood has re-arisen my 
 youth my youth which I thought I had said 
 good-by to for eternity ; and the divine child 
 has again run to meet me, with its eyes 
 bright as ever, and with the summer wind in 
 its hair." There was another passage also 
 "Oh, the sweetness and rest of this serene 
 self-possession." He was repeating these last 
 words to himself when Stanley entered. 
 
 " Campbell," said Stanley, in a strange, un- 
 natural voice, " there is another shock in 
 store for you. Shall I break it to you 
 slowly, or can you bear it now? It has 
 to do with the most solemn of all human 
 events." 
 
 Campbell rose with a sort of desperate 
 look, and Stanley whispered a few words in 
 his ear. "Good God," gasped Campbell, and 
 he seemed to be almost tottering. Stanley 
 grasped him by the arm, and led him into 
 the vestibule. There on a sofa was some- 
 thing like a human form, covered with an 
 Oriental table-cloth, with gaudy arabesques
 
 47 2 ^ Romance of 
 
 on it, and fringed with heavy gold. Stanley 
 slowly raised one extremity of it, and a face 
 was visible, calm, and placid like a boy's, only 
 bloodless and with no color in it. 
 
 Campbell stood over it as if petrified, 
 Some words he had just been reading came 
 into his mind. " Out of the ashes of my man- 
 hood has re-arisen my youth. Oh, the sweet- 
 ness and rest of this serene self-possession ! " 
 Except for this, his mind seemed like an ut- 
 ter blank, till with a start he turned to Stan- 
 ley, and said piteously, "Ah she what of 
 
 her ? Does she know of this ? " 
 
 Stanley looked into Campbell's eyes fixedly 
 for some moments, and in the room there was 
 a deathly silence. At last he said, " She 
 knows nothing, and she never will." 
 
 In the Protestant part of the Cannes Ceme- 
 tery may be now seen two headstones, not 
 close together, for it was found impracticable 
 so to place them ; but still not far apart. Un- 
 der one of them sleeps Vernon, more soundly 
 than he had done during the last three weeks 
 of his life, with the leaves of his confessions 
 clasped on his breast and buried with him.
 
 The Nineteenth Century. 473 
 
 The other headstone bears this inscription, 
 suggested by Alic Campbell: 
 
 CYNTHIA WALTERS. 
 
 SHE DIED SUDDENLY OF HEART DISEASE, 
 APRIL THE IOTH, 1881. 
 
 *' Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God." 
 
 THE END.
 
 /2mo, cloth , $1.25 
 
 An Unofficial Patriot 
 
 By HELEN H. GARDENER 
 
 " It is a side of the slavery question of which North- 
 ern people knew nothing. "John A. Cockerill, N. Y. 
 Advertiser. 
 
 " Strong and picturesque sketches of camp and field 
 in the days of the Civil War." San Francisco Chron. 
 icle. 
 
 "The book is being dramatized by Mr. James A. 
 Herne, the well-known actor, author and manager." 
 N. V. Press. 
 
 "It tells a splendid story." -Journal, Columbus, O 
 
 " Will be sure to attract the attention it deserves." 
 Philadelphia Press. 
 
 " In its scope and power it is unrivalled among war 
 stories." Ideas, Boston, Mass. 
 
 "In many ways the most remarkable historic*, 
 novel of the Civil War." Home Journal, Boston, Mass. 
 
 " The interview with Lincoln is one of the finest bits 
 of dialogue in a modern book." Chicago Herald. 
 
 " Will probably be the most popular and saleable 
 novel since Robert Elsmere." Republican. 
 
 " One of the most instructive and fascinating writers 
 of our time." Courier -Journal. Louisville. 
 
 "Is calculated to command as wide attention as 
 Judge TourgeVs "Fool's Errand." N. Y. Evening 
 Telegram. 
 
 " Has enriched American literature." Item, Phila- 
 delphia. 
 
 ' 'Remarkably true to history. ' '-Inter-Ocean , Ch icago 
 
 " Entitled to a place with standard histories of the 
 War. " Atlanta Journal. 
 
 KKW YORK: R. F. FENNO & COMPANY
 
 A 000127560 1