mm s V THE WHITE DOVE BY • WILLIAM J. LOCKE O White Dove of the Pity Divine J. H. Skunk NEW YORK : JOHN LANE COMPANY • MCMXI LONDON : JOHN LANE - THE BODLEY HEAD / if V i J ?/• Copyright, 1899, By John Lane All rights rtservt* r John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S.A. T V OvyMpi* tov avSpos 227605 CONTENTS 'Chapter Page I. Father and Son i II. The Shadow in a Life 17 III. Sylvester consults the Stars .... 36 IV. Leroux speaks 51 V. De Mortuis 65 VI. The Walden Art Colony 78 VII. The Dangerous Hour 94 VIII. Triumph 122 IX. Damon and Pythias 128 X. Sylvester does Battle 150 XI. Unrest . . . . 174 XII. The Cause wanes 191 XIII. The Uses of Adversity 208 XIV. At Ayresford 224 XV. A Strip of Pink Paper 241 XVI. At Bay 261 XVII. A Wedding Eve 279 Contents Chapter Page XVIII. Fellow-Travellers 299 XIX. The Sword falls 320 XX. "Oh, White Dove of the Pity Divine" 338 XXI. Heritage 357 XXII. A Glorious World 381 THE WHITE DOVE CHAPTER I FATHER AND SON " Life is a glorious thing/* said the girl. Sylvester Lanyon looked at her half in amusement, half in wistfulness. There was no doubt whatever of her sincerity. Therein lay the pathetic. To reply that the shadow of death and suffering clouded life's glory was too obvious a rejoinder. So he smiled and said, — " Well ? " " We ought to conquer it, make it our own, and live it to the full." " If it is to be conquered by us weak wretches, it can't be such a glorious thing," he remarked. " But who said we were weak wretches ? " she retorted. " You 're not one, and I 'm not one ! " She laughed, flushing a little. " No, I *m not," she repeated. If Sylvester Lanyon had been endowed with the power of graceful words, here was a chance The r White Dove for a pretty compliment. It was challenged by the girl's self-conscious glance and by the splendid vitality of her youth ; for Ella Defries usually carried the air of a conqueror with a certain sweet insolence. Some such idea passed vaguely through his mind, but, unable to express it, he said, shifting his ground lamely, — " You see I 'm getting elderly." " Nonsense ! " she said. " You 're only five and thirty. My own age to a day." " I don't quite follow," said he. " A woman is always ten years older than a man. You ought to know that." "And "that proves? " " That you ought to go into the world and win fame and mix with the brilliant men and women in London who can appreciate you." "I don't want to mix with more brilliant men and women than those who are under this _ roof of Woodlands," said Sylvester. lA Ella flushed again, but this time she droopeoV^< her eyes and bent her head over her sewing forl^ some time abandoned. A smile played round V & her lips. ^ - — " Your Aunt Agatha, for instance." " No, dear soul. The other two." Father and Son He rose and filled his pipe from a tobacco jar on the mantel-piece. The room, furnished with the solid mahogany and leather of a by- gone generation, was his father's particular den, where, however, of all rooms in the house, he was least likely to find the privacy for which it was set apart. Ella, during her periodical visits to Ayresford, calmly monopo- lised it; Sylvester strolled in naturally from his widowed house over the way ; Miss Agatha Lanyon, although she pretended to cough at the smoke, would leave her knitting promis- cuously about on chairs and tables, while the little grandchild Dorothy spilled the ink with impunity over the Turkey carpet. There was a silence while Sylvester lit his pipe and settled down again in the leathern armchair by the fire. " I want no better company than the dear old man's, and yours," said he. " My conversation is not fit for an intellect- ual man," said Ella, with a humility that con- trasted with her conquering attitude of a few moments before. * You are a very clever girl," said Sylvester. She shook her head with a little air of scorn and threw her sewing on the table. 3 The White Dove " Oh, no. It pleases my vanity to think so. But what do I know in comparison with you ? What can I do ? You go to a bedside and hold the keys of life and death in your hand. To you, all the hidden forces and mys- teries of nature are every-day commonplaces. Professor Steinthal of Vienna, whom I met the other day at Lady Milmo's, told me that, if you chose, you could become the greatest bac- teriologist in Europe." " Did he say that ? " asked Sylvester, eagerly. " Yes, and that is why you ought to go away and live in London and fulfil your life gloriously/ ' A look of amusement came into his grave eyes, and lit for a moment the sombreness of a face prematurely careworn. " I am going to London," he said. " I sold the practice this morning." Ella rose from her chair impetuously. " Why did n't you tell me at once, instead of letting me say all these silly things ? It is just like a man." "You took my apathy so much for granted," he said, laughing. " I suppose I am a weak wretch, after all," said Ella. 4 \ Father and Son Sylvester put down his pipe and stood by her side. " It is really all your doing, Ella. This is not the first time you have pointed out my way to me. And it won't be the last, will it?" There was a note of pathetic appeal in his tone that made her heart beat a little faster. Of all the phases of his manhood that her instinctive feminine alertness had caused him to present to her, this one moved her the most strongly. An unwonted shy tenderness came into her eyes. " It is for you to settle that," she said. He looked at her for a moment as if about to speak, but some inward conflict seemed to check the words. A man's memories and dead loves rise up sometimes and stare at him in sad reproach. " I wish I had the gift of speech," he said. "What do you want to say ? " she asked gently. He smiled whimsically. "If I could tell you that, I should have the gift." " You '11 let me see something of you in London, won't you ? " " Why, of course ! Whom else should I want 5 ^ The White Dove to sec ? Frodsham's practice is a large one — I am buying a share, you know. A specialist generally has his hands full. I shall fan e neither the time nor the desire to go about butterflying. Besides, it is only a few people thai HI e me. I 'm generally looked upon as a ' stick/ " His head had been turned aside ; and while tb - *-e had been no danger of his glance meet- hers, Ella had scanned his face as % a girl does that of a man who is already something more to her than friend or brother. It was thin and intellectual, somewhat careworn, with deep vertical lines between the brows. The hair was black and wavy, thinning a little over the temples ; the features well cut and sensi- tive ; the eyes, deeply sunken, possessing keen- ness, but little brilliance ; a moustache, standing well away at each end from the cheeks, accen- tuated their sharp contours. Yet in spite of the intellectual delicacy of the face, the tanned, rough skin, corresponding with the well-knit wiriness of his frame, gave assurance of strong physical health. The last epithet in his remarks, §o at vari- ance with the character she was idealising from her scrutiny, moved her rea as the French say." " I can't think how you stand him," said Sylvester. " Oh, you can stand a devil of a lot if you try," said the old man, laughing. " Have some whisky before you go ? " But Syl pleaded urgency, went out for hat 34 The Shadow in a Life and coat, and returned ready for departure. His father accompanied him to the front door. " By the way, Syl," he said, " do you really think so hardly of the woman who sins, or was it only that Usher made you contradictious ? " " I think a woman must be pure and chaste. If she falls, she falls for ever. Why do you ask ? " " I only wanted to know if you were genuine." " It is the most sacred of my convictions," said Sylvester, gravely. The two men shook hands, and the door closed behind Sylvester. The father listened to his quick footsteps crunching the gravel until the sound died away. Then he turned and sighed. " My poor lad, God help you," he said. 35 CHAPTER III SYLVESTER CONSULTS THE STARS Sylvester walked home from his case, along the undulating high-road patched with moon- light and shadow, swinging his stick. The night was crisp with a touch of frost, and the air smelt sweet. Now and then a working- man regaining his home after town conviviali- ties, passed him by with a salute to which he replied with a cheerier good-night than usual. One he stopped, and discoursed with him at length on family ailments, much to the man's surprise ; for Sylvester was renowned far and wide for his shy silence as well as for his skill. Once he began to whistle an air, wofully out of tune, and then broke into a short laugh. Yes, Ella was right. It was good to be alive, to feel heart and brain and body on the alert, responsive to outer things. But whence had come the change ? It was years since he had felt so young and conscious of power. Was it the touch of a girl's fresh cheek against his 36 Sylvester Consults the Starb lips ? He did not know. The feelings that had prompted the act were too new, too unde- fined, for immediate analysis. The spell of the benumbing heartache that had held him nerveless for four long years seemed to be broken, and he was a man again. He looked upward at the stars in the simple fancy that the dear dead wife, the Constance he had worshipped so passionately, was gazing down upon him with happy consent in her pure eyes. The love he had given her was immortal, and she knew it. It was no dis- loyalty to love another sweet woman on earth and to put his own broken life and his mother- less child into her keeping. . . . Yet after a few moments he lowered his gaze for a while and walked on, his heart filled with the old love. He was one of those reserved natures, cap- able of intense feeling, yet incapable of out- ward expression, who make for themselves few friends and are often condemned to loneliness of soul. Born with greater cravings for sym- pathy than most men, they have less power to demand it. This is too busy a world for us to stop to wonder whether a man wants what he does not ask for ; too many are clamouring loudly for what we cannot give. So the unfor- 37 ■ The White Dove tunates are passed by unheeded, each working out in his heart his little tragedy of unfulfilled longings. But when a finer spirit comes and divines their needs, then their hearts leap towards it and cling to it with a great unex- pressed passion of gratitude. Such had been the beginning of Sylvesters love for his wife ; such that of his dawning love for Ella. Each in her way had comprehended his solitude ; un- asked in words, but spiritually besought, each had filled it with her influence. He needed the peculiar sympathy that a woman alone can give, her companionship, her practical intellect, to complement his theoretic mind. His nature cried dumbly for a whole-hearted, expansive creature to give objectivity to life. Left to himself, he sank into routine ; he lacked the power of bringing colour and harmony into his world. This the woman he loved could do. Once, for a few short years, a woman had changed his universe. Then she had died, and the blackness of night had encompassed him. He had suffered silently, as a strong man suffers, rarely mentioning her name, but eating out his heart in desolation ; and then Ella had come. He had known her from early childhood, but had last seen her as the schoolgirl of no account. 38 Sylvester Consults the Stars Now she had sprung into his horizon, a young and splendid woman of amazing opposites, who compelled attention ; and she was the only woman other than Constance who, during all his life, had sought to know him and to act towards him tenderwise. Nevertheless, he could not say as yet that he loved her, in the sweet and common way of love. The old and new hung equipoised on a delicate balance. The vague sense of this, perhaps, was one ele- ment in the rare exaltation of his mood. Another element, no doubt, was the final resolve he had taken that morning, to go to London, whither his ambitions summoned him. He was a specialist of some note in zymotic diseases. His researches had met with a recog- nition not confined to England. He had felt keenly that he was giving up to the small circle of a country practice what was meant for the general needs of mankind. London was the only place for study and work ; for the quick amassing, too, of the small fortune that would free him from the necessity of earning daily bread and would allow him to realise his dreams of a great bacteriological laboratory, where he could devote himself exclusively to independent research. 39 The White Dove It was at the urgent entreaty of Constance that he had bought, just before his marriage, the practice at Ayresford. A year's life there had made him regret London. A little later he had spoken of returning. She had thrown her arms about him and implored him by all his love for her to stay. She had a horror of London ; why, she could not tell. It was un- reasonable, but the fact remained. London would kill her, — its gloom, its hardness, its cruelty. It had been the same story whenever he had broached the subject. And then, Dorothy. The child was delicate, would pine away in the reek and fogs of the town. All her woman's armoury of passionate weapons had been employed. And he had yielded, out of his great love. Her death had set him free. But it had taken him four years to realise his freedom. The mere thought had been anguish. Now he could gaze upon the past with calm- ness and the future with hope. As he walked along, he began to picture the vigorous life before him. He passed from wide conception to trivial details, — the fittings of his library, domestic economies. A room for Dorothy — he pulled himself up short. He had arranged to part with her. The prospect brought a 40 Sylvester Consults the Stars pang. His father's comfort in the child, how- ever, was a consolation. He thought of him tenderly, — the dear old man, the most gener- ous and unselfish being who had ever blessed the earth. He was a man of deep reverences ; his father, his dead mother, and his dead wife were enshrined in his Holy of Holies. Doro- thy, then, should remain at Ayresford. Per- haps the separation would not be for long. There was a means of shortening it whose readiness was a great temptation. The vision rose before him of the child's dark curls nes- tling against a girl's soft shoulder. Often had he seen the reality of late, and it had disturbed his depths. Was it not his duty to give the little one so sweet and strong a mother ? Again he consulted the stars. He had reached a set' of workmen's cottages in process of erection, on either side of the road, which marked the beginning of the town. The moonlight beat hard upon them, showing up vividly their windowless and doorless skele- tons and the piles of bricks, mortar, and lime- covered boards at their thresholds. He had passed the first block and was about to traverse a cross-road that led to the railway station, when a dog-cart containing two men and some lug- 41 . The White Dove gage turned out of it sharply on to the high- way. Before he could realise the fact, the vehicle suddenly lurched, the horse plunged, and in a moment the occupants were thrown heavily on to the road. Sylvester could see at once the cause of the mishap. A pail of mor- tar left by the roadside, either through careless- ness or urchin mischief, had caught the wheel. He ran forward. One of the men, the driver, rose, and shaking himself went to the horse's head, which was turned round in calm inquiry. The other man lay still. " Hurt ? " cried Sylvester. ' No, doctor,' ' replied the driver, who belonged to the George Hotel of Ayresford. " The gentleman may be." He left the pacific animal, and bent with Sylvester over the prostrate form. It was that of a handsome, full-blooded man in the prime of life. He had fair hair and a great moustache. His face gleamed very white beneath the moon, and his eyes were glassy. The driver supported his head, while Sylvester straightened the inert body, which had remained huddled together after the fall, wrapped in a disordered Inverness cape. Ap- parently no bones were broken. Sylvester felt 42 Sylvester Consults the Stars his pulse, which was just perceptible. Then suddenly he viewed the mans face full, and started back in amazed distress. " Good heavens ! it 's Frank Leroux ! " " That 's the gentleman's name, sir," said the driver. " How do you know ? " * He telegraphed from London for' a bed to-night, saying that he was to be met by the last train, which I just did, sir." " But he 's my oldest friend," exclaimed Sylvester. " Leave him to me and see if the trap is all right. Bring the cushions for his head." He pursued his investigations. Leroux was alive. A trickle of blood damped his hair. After a while Sylvester drew an anxious breath. It was a severe concussion ; how grave he could not for the moment estimate. To drive him in the narrow two-wheeled cart was out of the question. He hailed the driver, who had righted the vehicle. " Get an ambulance as quick as you can from the Infirm y. That's nearest." The man touched his hat, and mounting drove off at a forced speed. Sylvester remained eroux, and, having done all that was mo- The White Dove mentarily possible, was at last able to reflect upon the entire unexpectedness of his presence. They were old friends, had been at school and at Guy's together. Leroux, who was somewhat of a waif in the world, had spent many holidays here in Ayresford, at Woodlands. And even after he had thrown over medicine for painting, they had maintained the old relations. Sylves- ter had reckoned upon him being best man at his wedding ; and when for some whimsical reason, which Sylvester could never discover but attributed to the artistic temperament, he declined and went off to Norway, the bride- groom elect knew no one intimately enough to appoint in his stead save Roderick Usher, against whom he had a constitutional antipathy. Although he had seen little of him during his married life, owing to his confinement in the country, and had heard little cf him of late years, save that he was abroad, Sylvester still entertained for him the warmest affection. How, therefore, was he to explain this sudden unannounced appearance in Ayresford? was preposterous that Frank Leroux should put up at the George Hotel ; as preposterous as if he himself, in earlier days, had driven there instead of to Woodlands. The act was a sort 44 Sylvester Consults the Stars of treason against friendship, and Sylvester felt absurdly hurt. He wished that Leroux would straightway recover consciousness and health so that he could rate him soundly for his unfriendliness. But there the man, with all the mystery of motive locked in the dull brain, lay helpless and inert, amid the builder's refuse from the fantastic shells of houses hard by. It was an ironical way for friends to meet after an absence and a silence of years. Some stragglers from the station came up, passengers by the train, one or two porters, and the postman with the bag of local mails, and offered assistance. Sylvester declined, ex- plaining briefly. Not daring to proffer sug- gestions as to the patient's treatment, they cursed in honest terms the offending pail and the worthless hands that had moved it, and loitered around. Dramatic incidents of a public kind are rare in Ayresford, and each man determined to make the most of this one, conscious, perhaps, of a lurking regret that he had not seen the accident. Soon the dog-cart returned, bringing the am- bulance and a couple of bearers from the In- firmary. Leroux was lifted on to the stretcher and covered with a blanket. The bearers 45 The White Dove started, the muffled form between them giving a ghastly suggestion of death in life ; Sylvester walked by the side, the stragglers followed, and the trap brought up the rear. " To my house/' said Sylvester. The melancholy procession went on its way through the outskirts of the little town. The cottages gave place to villas, then came houses standing on their own grounds. Opposite the front gates of Woodlands was the doctor's house. Sylvester dismissed his followers at the gate and, taking Leroux's portmanteau from the trap, opened the door for the bearers and their burden, and directed their way up- stairs. The old housekeeper, roused by the tramping, met them on the larding. "It's a man hurt," explained Sylvester. " Frank Leroux. We '11 put him in my room." A short while afterwards, the unconscious man was settled in Sylvester's bed, a fire lighted, and Sylvester was left alone. Able to make a more minute diagnosis, he grew very grave and prepared for an all-night sitting. In the morning Leroux was still uncon- scious. Sylvester sent for a trained nurse, and 46 Sylvester Consults the Stars as soon as she arrived and had received her in- structions, he went over to Woodlands. The family were at breakfast. Miss Lanyon, a faded elderly woman, her lean shoulders en- veloped in a black shawl, paused in the act of pouring out tea, tea-pot in hand. " Oh, Sylvester, what a dreadful thing ! We have just heard. How is he ?" He briefly described the accident and hinted at the result, which might be fatal. Every- thing depended upon treatment and nursing. He had been up all night. " How tired you must be ! " said Ella. A world of tenderness underlay the com- monplace words. Sylvester looked at her gratefully. She was deliciously fresh and sweet in her simple morning dress, and again Sylvester felt how gracious a thing was life, — especially after his night's battle with death. They talked of Leroux. All were deeply shocked by the news, for he had been a uni- versal favourite. In the days past Ella had been accused of a schoolgirl flirtation with him. Miss Lanyon used to save up especial household goodies for his consumption during the holidays. Matthew, always fond of youth, had loved the boy's frank nature, and in his 47 The White Dove generous way had seldom let him leave the house without a five-pound note, or a wateh, or a silver-mounted walking-stick in his pos- session. And now the prodigal had returned in this dismaying and tragic fashion. "What I can't understand/' said Sylvester, "is why he did not announce his coming, — why he should suddenly turn up at that ungodly hour. There are plenty of day trains." He appealed unconsciously to his father, who made no reply. But a little later, when Miss Lanyon and Ella had left the room, Matthew said, suddenly breaking a short silence, — " I was expecting him." " Why did n't you tell me ? " asked Sylves- ter, involuntarily. " He was in some trouble apparently, and asked to see me alone this morning on business." " I wonder what it could have been ? " " I wonder," said the old man, drily. Sylvester flushed, as if at a rebuke. Know- ing his father, he was aware of indiscretion. Matthew had always maintained the most impenetrable reserve as regards his business 48 Sylvester Consults the Stars affairs ; the son had been trained from child- hood to look upon them as sacrosanct, and to question was an indecency. " I beg your pardon, father," he said defer- entially. " I mentioned the fact, for obvious reasons," said Matthew. " Quite so," said Sylvester, and then hesi- tating and finally blurting it out, as if he were ashamed of it, he added, — " I know you are a father confessor to every poor devil in trouble." The old man looked at his son and his kind eyes grew a little moist. Any tribute of faith and love from Sylvester touched him deeply. But he laughed and said characteristically, — " There are some people who '11 tell you anything, if you 're only soft-headed enough to listen to them." Then he nodded towards the window, and waved his hand, — " There is one, anyhow, who does n't want a confessor." It was Ella, standing in the clear March sunshine of the garden, looking in through the French window, and holding up a bunch of fresh-gathered violets. With a word of adieu to his father, Sylvester went out and joined « 49 The White Dove her. She pinned the flowers in his button- hole and for ten pleasant minutes they walked along the trim-kept paths. " You were not angry with me last night ? " he asked. She murmured very meekly, — " If I were, I should not be here with you now." "I never thought I should — ever do such a thing again/' he said awkwardly. " I could n't help it. It has made a different man of me." She drew herself up quite proudly and looked him straight in the eyes. They were brave, clear eyes, and so were the man's that met them. " Are you in earnest ? " she asked. " Am I the man not to be in earnest ? " he answered. The doctor's page, running across the strip of lawn to them, broke the spell with the time- honoured morning announcement, — " There is some one in the surgery, sir." Sylvester dismissed the urchin and looked at his watch. It was some minutes past his con- sultation hour. " We will have a long talk this evening," he said, bidding her farewell. 5° CHAPTER IV LEROUX SPEAKS Matthew and Miss Lanyon were standing under the front porch talking over poor Frank Leroux when Ella came up with a very happy face. "What a colour you've got, child!" cried Agatha Lanyon. " It is the fresh country air. I was being choked in town." "And the country people," suggested the elder lady, archly. "And the fresh country people," assented Ella. "My dear," said Matthew to his sister, "this is the first time we've been compli- mented on our adorable rusticity." " We don't count," said Miss Lanyon. " I never knew you could be so wicked," cried Ella, taking her by her shoulders and kissing her. Whereupon she disappeared into the house. 5* The White Dove " I do hope it is settled," said Miss Lanyon, with a little sentimental sigh. "What?" " Sylvester and Ella. Do you mean to say you have n't noticed ? I have been following it all for months." Miss Lanyon had reached the age when one lives in the romances of others. " I believe you amuse yourself, Agatha, by mixing up your young friends and sorting them out in pairs, like gloves," remarked Matthew. Miss Lanyon denied the charge indignantly. This was quite a different matter. Anybody with eyes could see how things were tending. It was a match. She was sure it was a mar- riage made in heaven. " I like heaven-made marriages as little as machine-made boots," said Matthew. " Both are apt to come undone in unexpected places. But if these two are thinking of a wholesome earth-made union — well, I shall be delighted." " But has n't Syl told you anything ? " " Not a word." " Could n't you ask him, Matthew ? " " My dear Agatha," said he, drawing him- self up, " how can you suggest my committing such an impertinence ? " 52 Leroux Speaks Miss Lanyon worshipped her brother, but she felt there were many odd corners of his mind which needed the housewifely besom ; just as there were cobwebs in his office which, on the rare occasions when she entered it, made her fingers twitch. But being organi- cally acquiescent she sighed again sentimentally, and brought Matthew his hat and stick. For Ella, the hours of that day were winged with sunshine. She loved Sylvester as deeply as one of our untried, pure-minded Northern girls can love ; and with larger wisdom, too, than most. For she had lived a free life in her aunt's eccentric house in London, and had sifted the vanities of many men. Passion would only be evoked by the clasp of encir- cling arms and would rise to meet claiming lips. As yet in Ella it lay a pure fire hidden in the depths of a fervent nature. But all the sweet thrills of a woman's early love were hers, — the pride in a strong man's wooing, the fluttering fears as to her sufficiency for his happiness, the resolves, scarce formulated, to raise herself to his level, the dim dreams of a noble life to- gether, striving for the great things of the world that are worth the winning. Added thereto was the delicate charm, essentially ferm- 53 The White Dove nine, of triumph over the shadows that had fought with her for possession of his heart. When she entered her room to dress for dinner that evening, she took down her frocks and laid them on the bed, and stood a while in deep thought. She must look her best to- night. She chose a simple cream dress with chiffon round the bodice and sleeves. Half- way through her toilette she clasped her white arms over her neck, and looking in the glass held long converse with her image. It seemed so strange that she, with all her imperfections of soul and body, should be chosen to guide a man's destiny. Then lighter fancies prevailed, and she spent anxious moments in arranging her thick auburn hair. When she came down at last, with a diamond-hilted dagger thrust through the coils, and a bunch of violets peep- ing shyly from the chiffon in her corsage, Matthew paid her an old man's compliment. " Do I look nice ? " she asked, gratified. " I 'm glad ; for you once told me that you liked me in this frock." There are times when the sincerest of women can be most blandly deceitful. A general practitioner may propose to him- 54 Leroux Speaks self many pleasant occupations for his spare hours, but his patients dispose of them effectu- ally. On this particular day, when Sylvester craved leisure to watch over Leroux and to open his heart finally to Ella, impossible people fell sick at interminable distances, tiny human beings came with preposterous haste into this world of trouble, and larger ones gave sudden and alarming symptoms of leaving it. It was one of those well-known days of sudden stress when a country doctor eats his meals stand- ing and wearing his overcoat. Finally, an evening visit from which he reckoned on being free by nine kept him by an anxious bedside till nearly eleven. But he had found time to despatch to Ella a few lines scribbled on a leaf of his pocket-book : — Dearest, — I can't come, much as I long to. Will see you in the morning. S. L. This was almost the first letter he had ever written to her ; certainly the first love-letter. The new sweetness of it soothed Ella's disappointment. At half-past eleven he reached his house, a very weary man. He put on his slippers, stretched himself, yawned, and thought wist- 55 Ti.e White Dove fully of bed. But first he must go to Leroux, whom he had only seen at odd intervals during the day. He was pouring himself out some whisky when the housekeeper entered the dining-room, smoothing her apron. " I 'm glad you 've come, Mr. Sylves He's took worse, nurse says. His tempera- ture has gone up to 104." He nodded, swallowed the drink, and went upstairs. The nurse was bending over the bed in the dimly lit room, adjusting the ice- bag. The sick man's portmanteau had been unpacked, and the contents were piled upon a chest of drawers. The clothes he had been wearing were hanging from a row of pegs against the door. The flap of the jacket turned outward, revealed in the breast-pocket a letter-case stuffed with papers. With the air of a man accustomed to prompt action, Syl- vester withdrew the letter-case and locked it. up. The nurse confirmed the housekeeper's statements. " He has been delirious at times," she added. Sylvester bent down and placed the ther- mometer in position, then waited, looking gravely down upon his friend. Leroux's face was congested. His hands moved feebly. 56 Leroux Speaks Now and then he moaned. Sylvester examined him closely, inspected the temperature chart of the last few hours, questioned the nurse as to their history. A surmise that had been troubling him most of the day now converted itself into a certainty. Leroux must have been drinking heavily of late. Thus it was that meningitis had set in from the concussion. But why should Leroux, once the sanest and cleanest of men, have taken to drink ? The pity of it smote Sylvester. The gay spirit brutalised, the noble mind o'erthrown. His heart yearned over the unconscious man. His father had spoken of Leroux being in trouble. He conjectured pitiful histories of downfall. With a sigh he turned away, gave final directions, and went to bed. Three hours later he was waked. The nurse outside the door was calling him. Accustomed to sudden rising, he leaped up, and thrusting on dressing-gown and slippers, went back to the sick room. Leroux was in full tide of violent delirium, his words, wonderfully articu- late, striking almost spectrally upon the utter silence of the house, — " It is better to die than to live in hell on earth. ... If you give me up, God Almighty 57 The White Dove will give me up. . . . What is his love to mine? " The nurse, who had been on duty since ter, was young and nervous. " He has been like this for an hour. I could n't stand it any longer." " We will go away to the south," continued Leroux. " No one minds what a painter does — For God's sake don't give me up — " "You can go to bed, nurse," said Sylvester. " I '11 sit with him." The tired girl, glad to gain some extra and unexpected hours of slumber, retired gratefully. Sylvester sat by the bedside. It was as well, he thought, that the man's poor secrets should be blabbed into a friend's ears instead of a stranger's. He tried not to listen, but to think of other things, — Ella and his meeting with her on the morrow. But the clear voice, now rising ir tly emphasis, now sinking to a murmur losing itself in guttural incoherence, continued its tale of love and despair, so that Sylvester could not choose but piece it together in his mind. It was a common tale of unlaw- ful love : a passionate man, a yielding woman, a deceived and adoring husband. Sylvester, whose reserved, chaste nature had caused him 58 Leroux Speaks to f**ain himself in a narrow groove of orthodox morality, felt strangely repelled by the confes- sion. He had always regarded Leroux as the soul of honour. The thief of a man's wife was lowered in his esteem. There was a silence. He rested his head on his hand and wearily dozed. Suddenly came a cry from the bed, a cry of great pain and longing,— " Constance — Constance ! " The name, fitting in with a waking dream, brought Sylvester with a leap to his feet, and he looked in foolish bewilderment at Leroux. The latter murmured incoherently. Had he dreamed the voice crying out the name so distinctly ? He held his breath, trying to seize the half-formed syllables. " Constance — my love — " ■ - had come again. He had not been dreaming. The voice rose once more, and each word came sharply cut from the sick man's lips. " Sylvester will never know" Then the tremendous horror of the revela- tion crashed down upon the man, stunning his brain, paralysing his limbs. The great drops of sweat stood on his forehead, and his eyes 59 The White Dove were staring. And Leroux, who had struck upon a quieter vein of reminiscence, babbled on of the happy days of his love. The first thunder-clap had passed. Thought began to return. Sylvester sank into a chair and stared at the ground. The once clear vis- ion of the past was distorted into a phantasma- goria of leering shapes. He shivered as with an ague, rubbed his eyes, and looked sharply at the man on the bed. Which of the two was delirious ? Leroux raved of death and despair. The involuntary confession was too complete; mistake was impossible. Yet the other was impossible. Constance guilty of this hideous- ness ? Her life a lie ? The firm anchorage of his soul but shifting sand ? He had wor- shipped her as more than woman, — as the purest, chastest thing that God had ever given to man for his guidance. It was a ghastly fig- ment of Leroux's drink-besotted brain. He rose, went to the drawer in which he had locked Leroux* s letter-case, and taking it out with shaking hands, deliberately turned the contents on to the corner of the chest. In spite of the revulsion of faith he had a sicken- ing certainty of finding there what he hoped he would not find. 60 Leroux Speaks There it was, staring him in the face amid a heap of stamps, visiting cards, pencilled mem- oranda slips, letters, and law papers : a soiled, crumpled letter in his dead wife's hand. He took it up, and from it dropped a lock of fair 'hair, — her hair. He read it through steadily. It was a letter of passionate love, leaving no doubt as to guilt ; of despair, almost madness ; such a letter of abandonment as a woman writes but to one man in a lifetime. It bore no date save the day of the week, — Wednesday. Even in his agony he contrasted the difference be- tween this woman and the serene, methodical wife who would as soon have left a letter un- dated as the household dinner unordered. He threw the letter and the lock of hair into the fire, and watched the two little flames in the glowing coals. The paper curled, the hair writhed; then a little light ash remained. Methodically he replaced the cards and papers in the letter-case and locked it up again in the drawer. Then he stood at the foot of the bed and watched the man who had done him this great wrong, his brain on fire with be- wildering fury. The name of his wife came again from the man's lips. A red cloud passed before Sylvester's eyes. For a moment he 61 The White Dove seemed to lose consciousness of manhood, to become a wild beast. When he recovered, he found himself glaring into Leroux' s eyes with his fingers at his throat. How near he had been to murder he did not know. He drew himself up and wiped the sweat from his forehead, shaken to the depths by the beast impulse. The reaction brought self- control. He resumed his vigil by the bedside, listening grimly to the words of Leroux, now less frequent and distinct. Yet though he could master his actions, he did not combat with the increasing hatred that took the place of the old affection. At times he considered calmly whether such a man should be allowed to live. In his weak state one quick blow over the heart would stop its beating for ever. The man had done more than wrong him. He had killed his soul, made it an awful thing to live. Yet, as if in contempt of such imag- inings, he rose once or twice and changed the bandages with a surgeon's delicate handling, and moistened the swollen lips with ice. Gradually all the phases of realisation developed themselves in his mind. Far off memories recurred, touched the flesh. It was their marriage bed whereon Leroux was lying. 62 Leroux Speaks He shuddered from the manifold horror of it, and for the first time broke into a hoarse cry. Toward morning the fever lowered and Leroux lay still. Streaks of a ghostly daylight crept in through the Venetian blinds and barred the floor. The nurse came to take over her watch. Sylvester gave brief instruc- tions, and, going to his room, threw himself on his bed and slept heavily. At the moment of waking he had a sense of nightmare, was all but congratulating himself on his release ; but another instant brought the full flood of memory. He rose, shaved, dressed himself as usual, and went down to breakfast. At the bottom of the stairs was a quick patter of feet and two little arms were thrown around his limbs. It was Dorothy. He started back, looked at her stupidly. Then roughly disen- gaging her, he thrust her aside and hurried in- to the breakfast room. A new and sickening doubt convulsed him. Was she his child? She came in a while later, shyly holding by the maid-servant's skirts, regarding him with scared reproach. Never had her father been cross or rough. Ungentleness from him was incomprehensible to her child's mind. " Run away upstairs," he said, controlling 63 The White Dove his voice, then added to the servant, "Take Miss Dorothy into the nursery." The child burst into tears, as the maid led her out. Tender-hearted a man as he was, for all the world he could not have called her back. H CHAPTER V DE MORTUIS He received his patients in the consulting- room, visited Leroux, and went on his morn- ing rounds. On his return, he perceived Ella at the gates of Woodlands. He raised his hat and was proceeding to turn into his own little carriage drive, when she made a gesture of arrest. He pulled up, descended from the trap, and went to meet her. " How is poor Mr. Leroux ? we have all been so anxious. Of course the nurse has reported, but we wanted to know from you." " I am afraid it 's a serious matter," said Sylvester. " Do you mean that he may die ? " " Possibly." " I am so sorry," she said, laying a sympa- thetic touch on his arm. " I know what a dear friend he was." " A dear friend," he assented grimly. 5 65 The White Dove "You are looking so fagged. You have been sitting up all night, I hear. Two nights." He confessed his vigils, explained Leroux's symptoms, and gave her an authoritative report for his father. If he found any material change since the morning, he would send a message across. The topic exhausted, there was a short silence. She tried to speak, after an embarrassed glance, but his sombreness daunted her. He was taking this danger of his friend greatly to heart. " You are coming in to see Uncle Matthew some time to-day ? M she asked. " It depends upon my work," he said. " I have a great deal to occupy me." With a word of adieu he left her and went into his own house. Ella passed through the gate of Woodlands and strolled slowly down the shrubbery walk, carrying a little burden of depression. For all his anxiety on Mr. Leroux's behalf, he might have made some reference to his letter, some allusion to the sweet and delicate suspense of their present relations. She felt vaguely disappointed at the lack of appeal to her sympathy. But her spirits revived when Matthew Lanyon, coming briskly home to lunch, overtook her and 66 De Mortuis asked her in his cheery voice for news of the invalid. She took his arm in girlish fashion and gave him Sylvester's message. " He seems dreadfully distressed," she said. " Poor old Syl ! But he '11 pull him through. He does n't realise his own powers. I don't think we respect Syl half enough. He's a great physician, you know." He rattled on, proud of his son, quite glad to have a pretty girl hanging, in that daughterly way, on his arm. He stopped now and then, pointing to the tiny green shoots on the trees. The fine weather of the last few days was the cause. Did Ella remember how black every- thing was only a week ago ? He spoke as if it were a miracle performed for the first time and not the recurring phenomenon of a million springs. A thrush flew out of a laurel bush. He named it, followed it with his eyes to the elm where it alighted, stooped down and picked a snail from the middle of the gravel, where it might get crushed, and threw it lightly on the grass. The tender simplicities of the old man touched the girl deeply that afternoon, and his steady optimism made her feel ashamed of her misgivings. So the sun- shine came into her heart again. *7 The White Dove But two days passed before they saw Syl- vester. News came frequently. Leroux was sinking. At last Sylvester entered the library at the hour of tea and announced gravely, — " He is dead." Miss Lanyon uttered a little cry, and tears flooded her eyes. Matthew held out his hand. " I 'm sorry, Syl." " He died about half an hour ago," said Sylvester. " He never recovered conscious- ness, so what were his las f wishes God alone knows. I have put all his papers into a sealed envelope, which I had better hand over to you, father." Matthew took the packet in silence and locked it in a drawer of his writing-table. "You had better let me look after the funeral too, Syl," said he, kindly. " It 's the first chance I 've had of doing anything for the poor fellow." " Thank you, father," said Sylvester. Miss Lanyon tearfully enumerated Leroux's virtues. What a frank, open-hearted, gener- ous lad ! And to be taken away, like this, in his prime ! Who could fathom the will of God ? Ella remained silent, grieved at 68 De Mortuis Sylvester's loss. But he refused to meet the ready sympathy in her eyes, and looked stonily through the window on the grey March sky. Presently he turned away. To remain there longer was unendurable. w I have a patient to see, some way out. One must n't neglect the living for the dead." Then for the first time he met Ella's glance, and a special application of his saying occurred to him. " Good-bye, all," he said, and strode hur- riedly from the room. He drew a deep breath on reaching the open air. It was good to be alone, away from the torturing irony of sym- pathy. And it was good to be away from the foreshadowing of reproach in a woman's eyes. That night, before he slept, he shut his teeth upon a horrible repulsion, and went into the death chamber to see that all things had been decently done. The man lay cold and pale, his jaws swathed and his eyes closed, an awful sphinx. Sylvester stood and gazed upon him till his heart grew as cold as the dead man's. It was well that he was dead, so that he could blab the disastrous secret no more. Sylvester had questioned the nurses dis- 69 The White Dove creetly. To his relief he had found that the delirious ravings had made no impression on their memories. He alone had been the con- fidant. He had tended the man with devoted skill. The strain of that terrible task was over. Now the dead past would bury its dead, — his own heart and youth therewith. He was glad the man would no longer cumber the earth — and he was glad that his wife was dead. Three days afterwards, Leroux was buried. A fussy elderly man, Leroux's cousin and sole surviving relative, shared with Sylvester the post of chief mourner, and departed into the unknown whence he came. Sylvester stood by the grave with a set, impassive face, and his father stood by his side, looking strangely like him. On the drive home it was Sylvester who exchanged a few courteous remarks with the cousin ; but the old man remained singularly silent. They sat together alone that evening in the library. " Leroux died intestate," said Matthew, breaking a long silence. " He was in a troubled state of mind and was coming to me to help him with his will." 70 De Mortuis " He had been drinking heavily," said Sylvester. " I presumed so. He had roughed the will out. He only had a few thousands. But Dorothy was to have the greater part. I showed the draft to John Leroux to-day, who is a man of great wealth. He is desirous that his cousin's wishes should be carried out. " I can accept no gifts from Mr. John Leroux," said Sylvester. The old man argued the point. Morally the money was Dorothy's. Sylvester listened stubbornly. He revolted at the thought of touching Leroux' s money. It was a ghastly impossibility. He repeated, — " I cannot accept it." " Money is money, Syl, after all ; and I may not be able, perhaps, to do what I had hoped for Dorothy." "While my daughter bears my name I can support her decently. If Mr. Leroux will not benefit by what is legally his, he can devote it to charity. It is a matter of principle." They were both inflexible men, and they understood each other's nature. Matthew did not press the point. 7i The White Dove " Very well," he said in a business tone. " I will tell Mr. Leroux of your decision." But the impassiveness of his tone was belied by the almost yearning earnestness with which he regarded his son, who sat staring into the fire. He would have given years of his own happiness to know whether a gnawing suspicion were baseless ; but the question could not be put. Sylvester was silent. What troubles were at work behind his sombre brow the old man could not fathom ; and Sylvester, though his heart was bursting, could not speak. How could he disclose, even to the being who now was dearest to him in the world, his wife's shame, his own dishonour? Better to keep the hideous fact locked up in his breast. But yet, if he could have found a rush of tumultuous words, what heart-ease were in it ! So many, with that great gift of expansive- ness, had come to his father and gone away comforted, and he, the son deeply loving and deeply loved, was powerless to utter a com- plaint. He bit his lip to repress a groan. And so it was all through the remainder of his residence in Ayresford. His relations with his father continued their old undemon- strative course. To please him, he assumed 72 • De Mortuis his wonted cheerfulness and spoke of matters political and parochial. And by degrees the old man forgot the cloud he had seen hanging over him and only thought of his approaching departure. Dorothy came to live at Wood- lands, so as to grow accustomed to the change, said Sylvester, and he only saw her on his rare visits. He forced himself to be kind and take notice of her as formerly. But the sight of her was a great pain. Ella he avoided as much as possible, never seeing her alone. One day she was standing by the porch as he came up. " Is my father in ? " he asked. " He has n't yet come back from the office." " I will go and meet him there," he replied, and went away forthwith. " Have you and Syl quarrelled ? " asked Miss Lanyon, who had observed the scene from indoors. Ella laughed ; not a happy laugh. " You are behind the times, Aunt Agatha. Nowadays unceremoniousness is a proof of friendship." " I should call it rudeness, my dear," said Miss Lanyon. " That's a proof of affection," said Ella. 73 The White Dove But she went quickly up to her room, lest the elder lady should see the angry tears that rose i'n her eyes. At first she strove to explain away his change of attitude. Then she examined her own con- duct, with a view to discover therein some possible cause. She could find none. A dull sense of pain and dread crept over her. What did it mean? He had kissed her, all but asked her to be his wife, and now, suddenly, he ignored her existence. The realisation of the fulness of her love for him smote her cruelly as she lay awake at night. She shrank, fearful-eyed, from the prospect of life without him. It stretched before her a dreary waste of futile years. Then the quick hope of youth came back. It was some foolish misunder- standing. Sylvester was worried, preoccupied, saddened. There were so many things to be reckoned with in the strenuous life of a man. He would speak, explain. All would be well. But the days passed and that of Sylvester's departure drew nigh. He had hurried it on. His successor had arrived, been introduced to the practice ; no advantage could be gained by remaining at Ayresford, where all save his father was strangely hateful. Ella waited, but 74 De Mortuis Sylvester never spoke nor looked her way. At last she could bear the mortifying suspense no longer. It was the evening before his departure. She was sitting with Miss Lanyon in the drawing-room after dinner, having left the two men below to their coffee and cigars. Her companion was silently knitting, her eyes somewhat dim, poor soul, at the prospect of Sylvesters absence. Ella went to the piano and tried to play, but her heart was not in the music. The men lingered downstairs. An hour passed. The silence and the aching of her own suspense acted on her nerves. Sud- denly she left the room and went downstairs and opened the dining-room door. Both men rose as she stood on the threshold, a graceful figure, with heightened colour and eyes un- usually bright. " I want to say something to Syl before he goes," she announced boldly. " Here he is," said Matthew, coming for- ward. " I was just going into the library for a little as you came in. No, really, Syl, I was. I '11 join you upstairs when you have had your chat." "You spoil me, Uncle Matthew," said the girl, touched, as she always was, by his old- 75 The White Dove fashioned courtesy. " Why can't Syl and I go into the library ? " " Because I 'm master in my own house, my dear," smiled the old man. He closed the door behind him. Sylvester motioned Ella to a chair. " No," she said. " I have not come to stay." She was silent for a moment, looking at the tip of her slipper that rested on the fender. " Have I done anything to offend you lately, Sylvester ? " she asked at length. " Nothing that I am aware of," he answered gravely. " We don't seem to be such good friends," she hazarded. " I am sure you must be mistaken." • The cold formality of the phrase was a knell to her hopes. She looked up somewhat pite- ously and met hard, unsympathetic eyes. " I thought — you made me think — " she began. He raised his hand slightly to check her. " If I did," he said coldly, " I was wrong. I owe you all my apologies." There was a moment's silence. " If I could say more, I would," he added. 76 De Mortuis But a quickly gathering anger in the girl's heart suddenly broke out. She drew herself up, flaming-cheeked, with eyes flashing through the tears that would come. "You have behaved horribly, cruelly, and I want never to see your face again." Sylvester bowed his head. A swift rustle of skirts, a sound of the' door, and she was gone. He raised his head and drew rather a choking breath. He knew that Ella had just cause for reproach. But what could be done ? The new budding love had been killed out- right. He regarded her with aversion, with something akin even to horror. And his heart was as cold as a stone. J 77 CHAPTER VI THE WALDEN ART COLONY It was a Sunday in June, a year after Sylvester had come to London, and the great stretch of the Park, past Stanhope Gate, north of Achilles' statue, was thronged. The warm breath of the afternoon air scarcely stirred the leaves that chequered with shade and sunshine the mass of cool colour below. Above shone the vivid green of the foliage and the sea-blue of the sky ; but beneath the branches the air was tempered by the reflection of the whites, the pale greys, the delicate blues and lavenders, and the soft pinks of dresses and parasols. It was the ordinary crowd that sat there, very fashionable, somewhat vulgar below the sur- face, but delicately picturesque, like human flower-beds in a sweet but formal garden. And on the walks beside and around and be- tween passed the endless procession of loungers. The hum of talk, the subdued patter of foot- steps, and the frou-frou of soft drapery hung upon the air. 78 The Walden Art Colony Sylvester sat in the sun at the edge of one of the parterres, flanked, on the one side, by an elderly matron chaperoning a line of laugh- ing girls, and on the other by a white-mous- tached, red-faced Anglo-Indian laying down the law to a neighbour on the preparation of curry. Sylvester stared moodily at the parterre in front, separated from him by the pathway, and felt very lonely. Despite his loss of faith in man and woman, he hungered dumbly for the human companionship from which he shrank. The first sense of novelty over, his practice in London had failed to stimulate him. The interest was absorbing, but unthrilling. He began to realise that he was degenerating into a consulting and recording machine, — very sensitive, it is true, but a machine all the same. He lived alone in a formal house in Weymouth Street. In the morning he rose early, worked in his laboratory, saw patients, ate, saw more patients, worked again in his laboratory, ate, and till bedtime read or worked again among the endless test-tubes and retorts. And so, without change, day after day. His common- sense told him that it was not a healthy life for a human being. But how to alter it effec- tively save by mixing with his kind? And his 19 The White Dove kind was hateful to him. He had grown to be a recluse, misanthropically brooding over its worthlessness. Yet now and then, as to- day, instinct drove him into the crowd. He caught himself half envying the crowd's irresponsible gaiety. It was quite within his power, as far as external conditions were con- cerned, to become as one of those he saw and to surround himself with laughter-loving friends. He wondered vaguely what it would be like. " It 's the proportion of turmeric that does it," exclaimed his neighbour, in a more em- phatic tone than he had hitherto used. " The only man I knew that had the secret was poor old Jack Hilton — you remember Jack Hilton — of the Guides ? He ran off with Mrs. Algy Broadbent." Sylvester shivered slightly. A cloud came before his eyes. Were all men dishonourable and all women faithless ? Was all this refined and nicely civilised crowd rotten to its soul ? He looked furtively around. Who could tell what Messalina lurked beneath yonder girl's pink and white skin and innocent fresh eyes, what villainy and meanness lay concealed be- neath yonder young soldier's specious bearing 80 The Walden Art Colony of manliness ? Disgust banished the haunting envy. A man who had been chattering to the girls on his left took leave of them with a great sweep of his hat. In the act of passing Syl- vester, he stopped short and regarded him as though in astonishment. " Trone de Vair ! and by all the oaths of the vehement South, what are you doing here ? " " How do you do, Roderick ? " said Syl- vester, rising and formally shaking hands. " Oh, I 'm bursting with fatness, which is more than I can say for you. But what are you doing in this galley ? " " Why should n't I be here ? " " The eternal fitness of things. One does n't as a general rule, for instance, meet the Arch- bishop of Canterbury at a Covent Garden ball." He spoke in a hearty voice, with somewhat exotic gestures. Roderick Usher had spent part of his schooldays in France, and was fond of insisting on his cosmopolitan training. He was dressed in the most perfectly fitting of frock-coats and patent leather boots, and wore faultless grey suede gloves. His only depar- ture from the commonplace severity of fashion- 6 81 The White Dove able attire was a yellow Indian silk bow whose ends spread over the front of his coat He had light fuzzy hair that protruded bushily be- hind his glossy silk hat, and his yellow beard was pointed in the Vandyke pattern. He was of medium height, rather stout ; his face was broad and ruddy, at first sight giving the im- pression of frank good humour ; but his eyes, small and somewhat shifty, although hidden behind gold pince-nez, detracted from the gen- eral air of handsomeness that he was pleased to cultivate. Besides, the deep lines of near- ing middle age were growing troublesomely obvious. Sylvester replied in a matter-of-fact way to his last remark, — " I was working in my laboratory all the morning, and I felt the need of air. Wey- mouth Street is not far. I don't come here as a rule.'' " Bless you, my friend, there 's no need to apologise. The place belongs to you just as much as it does to me. How's the old man?" " Which old man ? " asked Sylvester. " Your old man, my old man, both our old men. Our antique but venerated Damon and Pythias." The Walden Art Colony "My father is very well," replied Sylvester, stiffly, " and so, I believe, is yours." "A la bonne heurel So you Ve come to London to make your fortune ? You steady scientific files always do. We poor artistic devils generally manage to make other peo- ple's." " I don't quite understand," said Sylvester. The other laughed and drawing a cigarette from a silver case lit it daintily. " I don't suppose you do. You approach a paradox as solemnly as if it were a disease. We play bat and ball with it. That makes the difference between us. Have a turn ? " Sylvester assented somewhat reluctantly. He disliked the son as much as he disliked the father. But the spirit of lonesomeness had been weighing on him to-day, and human instinct craved relief. They moved away and took their places in the sauntering procession on the broad walk. " Why don't you do more of this sort of thing ? " asked Roderick. " You treat life by rule of thumb, as if it were a science. It is n't; it "s an art, — the finest of the Fine Arts. Col- our, form, relief, action, sound, articulation, all combined, capable of a myriad permutations, 83 The White Dove any one of which can be fixed by the inspira- tion of the moment." " My way of life suits me best," replied Sylvester. "I teach people how to kill bacilli; you teach them how to kill time." " Time 's a deadlier enemy than all your bacilli, my friend, and takes a devilish sight more killing. But we won't argue. Argument is a discord in the symphony of existence. Besides, it's too confoundedly hot." Here he bowed in his grand style to a pass- ing lady acquaintance. " Ideals can exist outside of little glass bottles, my dear Sylvester," he resumed. " Perhaps you may be surprised at hearing I am approaching the attainment of one of the ideals of my maturing years. It's a great scheme for the purification of art and the ennoblement of life. It is my own conception. Have you been to the Royal Academy yet ? " " No," said Sylvester. " I have n't had the time." " Happy man ! You have been spared a soul-rending spectacle of England's utter de- gradation. In all our art — drama, music, paint- ing, poetry, architecture — it is the same. The vulgarity of commercialism, the banality of 84 The Walden Art Colony meretricious prettiness, the hand and brain working mechanically while the soul is far away wallowing in pounds, shillings and pence, or following a golf ball, or philandering in my Lady\s boudoir. The true artist is suffocated. But we 're going to change all that." " How are you going to manage it ? " asked Sylvester, with polite indifference. " Ah, that 's my secret. A great and glori- ous scheme just on the point of ripening. We are going to catch our artists young, painters, musicians, poets, the whole celestial brood, and keep them out of contamination, — give them free elemental surroundings for their art to develop. They will become the teachers and the guides of the race. To carry this dream through to a reality is something to live for, — to make one feel twenty again, with all one's glittering illusions." " You are going to carry it through ? " said Sylvester. " My boy, I should just think I am," replied Roderick, taking his arm confidentially. " Funds have been slow in coming in, but people are promising support, now that they see the magnificence of the concern. I '11 send you our prospectus and other publications. 85 The White Dove You can judge for yourself. Perhaps your father would like to further the work." " You 'd better ask him,", said Sylvester, drily. " But where does the money go to ? " " To the Colony. Did n't I tell you it was to be a colony P The Walden Art Colony. After a time it will be self-supporting; the produce will sell in the European and Ameri- can markets, and the Colony will wax rich. It will become the world's great Palace of Art." " How will this fit in with Thoreau and un- contaminated nature ? " Sylvester put the question idly. He took faint interest in Roderick's iridescent scheme, which seemed to have no bearing upon the realities of life, as he understood them. But he could not help wondering as to the mental attitude of the fools who were providing the money to launch it. "It's too complicated to explain now," replied Roderick. " You read the literature I shall send you." He pulled out his watch. " Dear me ! it is ten minutes to six, and I promised to meet Lady Milmo and Miss Defries at the quarter by the statue. They are my two most enthusiastic disciples. Shall we turn and seek them ? " 86 The Walden Art Colony " I think not," said Sylvester. " I 'm too dull a dog for fashionable dames. I should be a discord in the polka, or whatever you call it, of existence." Roderick laughed with good-humoured indulgence, showing a set of white, even teeth. " The same old intransigeant" said he. " Well, go your ways. I '11 convert you to the Colony yet, and make you a director ! Auf wiedersehen ! " Sylvester shook hands with him in his glum style and strolled on towards the Marble Arch, glad to be winning homewards again away from the froth of fashion and the jargon of art. He smiled once on his way. It was at the idea of his father, shrewd-headed abhorrer of cranks, putting his hands in his pockets for the Walden Art Colony. Not while there was a lazy miscreant with wife and children in Ayresford, he thought. How could a man of the world like Roderick imagine him to be such a fool ? But Roderick, with his cheery air of con- fidence, followed the southward stream of people. "How do, Usher?" said a young man, passing by. 87 The White Dove Roderick stopped him. " My dearest boy, I have n't been able to see you to shake you by the hand. The play's immense, colossal. You Ve marked a new era, — the Marlowe of our time." " Very good of you to say so," murmured the dramatic author. " It is my most esteemed privilege," said Roderick, and waving an adieu with his well- gloved hand, he went on his way to Lady Milmo. At the corner he looked about for a moment, and not seeing her sat down and waited. He gazed on the soft blue sky and stroked his pointed beard, letting his thoughts wander whither they would. " I am so sorry, Mr. Usher," said a voice. He started to his feet; Lady Milmo and Ella were before him. " A thousand pardons. I was gathering the wool of sweet and bitter fancy ! Oh, no, you are not late, indeed not. Won't you sit ? It is somewhat deserted here, but it is more rural than further up ; we can talk more freely." " I am sure you can talk interestingly any- where," said Lady Milmo. She was a small elderly lady dressed some- 88 The Walden Art Colony what youthfully. She wore a little rouge, a trifle of black along the eyelashes, and a co- quettish straw hat with pink roses and an osprey feather. She seemed thoroughly con- tented with herself and her surroundings. " One gets into the habit of talking in the key of one's environment/' said Roderick, reflectively. " Don't you think so, Miss Defries ? " "It is the fault of this social life of ours," replied Ella. " There are so many affectations and insincerities around us that we are afraid to be genuine." " It is a great charm of Lady Milmo and yourself that with you one is bound to be genuine." " I do like people to appear just as they are," smiled Lady Milmo. " That is what we are working for," said Roderick ; " the return to sincerity and simple truth." " Well, what have you to tell us ? " " Good news. Raynham has come round, and will take a seat on the Council. He may get a couple more Academicians. One further item in my debt of gratitude to you, Miss Defries." 89 The White Dove " It is very little I have been able to do," said Ella. " I only asked Mr. Raynham to receive you. Your own earnestness and con^ viction won him over." An old gentleman came up and spoke to Lady Milmo. Roderick politely yielded him his chair and took possession of a vacant one on the other side of Ella. " It is your womanly sympathy and courage all through that I have to thank ; your cheer- ing in depression, your encouragement in the face of defeat. If the star of success has arisen, it is you who have dispersed the obscur- ing clouds. A man may set his heart on a thing, but a woman keeps it there." He spoke in a low voice, and Ella leaned towards him* to listen. Her cheeks flushed. The flattery was sweet, and there was a subtle vibration in his voice that stirred her. " One would die if there were not something noble to live for," said she, suddenly throwing off the stealing languor. " To rise every morning and look forward to sixteen inevitable waking hours that will not bring one throb to the pulses, one inspiring hope ; to go to sleep each night feeling dull and useless, and so on for endless months and years, — it is an unliv- 90 The Walden Art Colony able life. It is you I have to thank for putting an interest in my way." " I love to hear you speak like that," he said admiringly. " Pray God you keep your enthu- siasms. There are thousands who never know the thrill. It should be part of our mission to awaken their souls. There is one friend of ours, for instance, who needs it to make him a great man. Oddly enough, I have just left him — dear old Sylvester Lanyon, you know. I found him sitting a little higher up, looking like a sick raven among birds of paradise." Her clear girl's eyes effected feminine con- cealment of the old pain that every reference to Sylvester had caused her for the past year. Her heart rebelled against it, resenting the inefficacy of time to cure. Wantonly she ignored it. " I have not set eyes on him since he settled in town. He never comes to see us. He is still mourning and moping, I suppose. The world is for the living, not the dead ; don't you think so ? " "Yes. He should marry again. A woman of exuberant vitality, who would carry him along with her." "We'll have to find him a wife, Mr. Usher," she replied gaily. 91 The White Dove Thus she proved to herself defiantly that all her foolish feeling for Sylvester was dead ; that she had also attained a standpoint of generous forgetfulness of wrong. " And send him out with her to doctor the Colony/* laughed Roderick. " It would be the making of him. As it is, he is a man of fine honour and strong character. Even if one's own spiritual horizon is wider than that bounded by his narrow orthodoxy, yet one can but admire the steadfastness with which he keeps within its limits. I have always had, as you know, a great affection for him." The girl's responsive nature was touched by the generous tribute. Roderick took a sudden leap in her esteem. She had her own haunting and miserable ideas as to Sylvester's honour, but the praise pleased her, — the fact of a man's loyalty to the ideal of a friend. At least, so she half consciously analysed her feelings. The talk went on, and time passed. Lady Milmo's friend departed and mingled in the stream that began to make for Hyde Park Corner and home. She turned to Ella and Roderick. cc The dear, tiresome general has been enter- taining me with his corns while I have been 92 The Walden Art Colony dying to hear all about the Colony. And now it's too late. You must come soon and see us, Mr. Usher. It is useless to try to talk here. Why did n't we say Battersea ? I 'm afraid we 're sad creatures of convention." " Miss Defries will make an adequate report, I am sure," said Roderick. " But Raynham's accession to the cause was my main item of news." They all rose and walked to Hyde Park Corner. There he saw the ladies into a cab and swept one of his elaborate bows as they drove off. But he remained for some moments on the curb in front of the Park gates absently watching the hansom until it was lost amid the traffic. " I wonder," he said half aloud, " I wonder." And he walked slowly up Piccadilly, his eyes bent on the pavement, his hands behind him, with the air of a man in deep and some- what harassed thought. 93 CHAPTER VII THE DANGEROUS HOUR A few days afterwards Ella was lying on a sofa in her aunt's drawing-room in Pont Street. It was a hot afternoon, the windows were open, and the sun blinds tempered the light. Between their edges and the tops of the flowers in the window-boxes she could see a great band of golden sunshine. Having been to a late dance the evening before and to a stuffy but ad- vanced picture exhibition in the morning, she was feeling physically languid, and glad to be excused from attendance on Lady Milmo, who was indefatigably attending a charitable com- mittee. In her hand she held a letter that had come by the early afternoon post. It was from Matthew Lanyon, bright and gossipy on the surface, but her quick perception divined an undercurrent of sadness. He was looking forward to her promised visit in August. If only he could persuade Syl to come down too, it would be quite like old times. But perhaps 94 The Dangerous Hour it would be better for Syl to get right away among the Swiss mountains, as he proposed. There was nothing like a complete change for a jaded Londoner. He had come down for a week-end lately and was looking fagged and overworked. The garden had never been lovelier. The rhododendrons were out and all a mass of bumble-bees ; he had never seen so many in his life. He was writing late at night, on his knees in the library. Dorothy had made a complicated web of Berlin wool all over his writing-chair, by way of fitting it up as a carriage for her doll, which was throned in the midst, and of course he had not dared to disturb it. " I think I make an average grandfather," he wrote, " but I do wish some one had given me a few lessons as to how to become a mother." The fragrance of the country garden stole elusively upon the hot London room, and awakened a longing to get away from the glare and chatter into the cool quietude of Woodlands ; to exchange the heavy dinner- party where she was due in a few hours' time, with its heavy hot-house flowers and its artifi- cial talk, for the peaceful summer evening in 95 The White Dove the summer-house under the trees, in the com- pany of the dear old man, so sane, so sincere, and of Miss Lanyon, whose gentle mind seemed to have lain in lavender. She was tired ; her heart was tired. The beautiful world lay hid- den behind a mountain, up which she was climbing wearily, vainly. Her feet were tan- gled in an inextricable maze and her steps were devious. Where could she find a guide ? She conjured up the picture of the old man's kind, grave smile, and longed, as only a girl can who is enmeshing her life, to throw her- self down by his knees and open all her heart. Had he appeared at that moment at the door, she would have arisen and with a cry, half sob, half welcome, have thrown her arms about his neck and burst into tears. " If only he could come ! " she said, and she sank vaguely into the imagined solace. But what could she say to him ? The formu- lated query crystallised her thoughts into chill dismay. Hew could she make known, even to him, the humiliation of that last interview with Sylvester, expose to him the nakedness of her outraged pride ? She shrank from the thought. And the history of the year's follies ? No. Never. She crumpled the letter fiercely 96 The Dangerous Hour in her hand. Then, suddenly repenting of her violence, she smoothed the sheet tenderly and kissed it and slipped it into the bosom of her dress. The year's follies. In this hour of lassitude and depression — rare to Ella, but common to all her sex, coming to woman with rhyth- mic iteration as inevitable as the tides — they rose up one by one before her, and her cheeks burned with shame. First it was Lionel Kavanagh, the poet and aesthetic critic. She had been reckless, craving excitement, forget- fulness of her burning humiliation. All through the season a year ago, she had flirted with him, openly, outrageously. He was one of Lady Milmo's menagerie, and used to sprawl on the hearth-rug and alternate rhapsody with mor- dant wit. And alone in her company he would sail perilously near the wind with sen- suous allusiveness, until one day he grew bold and brought her a sonnet frankly sensual. She tore the manuscript into tiny pieces dur- ing an ominous silence, and ordered him out of the house. The next was Bertie Hether- ington, who made violent love to her at Aix- ies-Bains, whither she had been led by Lady Milmo's wandering fancy and rheumatic ten- 7 97 The White Dove dencies. He was a fresh, wholesome young Briton in a Hussar regiment. The vehe- mence of his devotion was sweet to Ella, and she kept him hoping longer than she knew was right. Perhaps if he had possessed more brains she might have married him. But when he wrote her an impassioned letter in which he affirmed that his heart beet only for her, the spelling caught the humorous side of Ella's fancy and she laughed herself out of her entanglement. Yet she had wronged him, just as Sylvester had wronged her, and she had wronged herself. The fresh bloom of her maidenhood had gone. Her sensitive pride magnified the taint. In London once more, the need of an occupation, an aim, a purpose, tormented her. She had tried the ignoble and found it bitter. She craved the higher plane of devotion to a cause, something elevated, impersonal. The ordinary pursuits that call forth a woman's self-sacrifice did not appeal to the unrest of her imagination. Besides, her young blood rebelled against self-suppression. In the stress and storm she caught at the first thing to her hand: Roderick Usher's Utopian scheme for the regeneration of art and the consequent 08 The Dangerous Hour purification of society. She was carried away like a straw on the crest of his vehement pro- pagandism. From an occasional attendant at her aunt's receptions, he became a regular visitor. Together they elaborated the scheme, discussed the details. She worked with him in obtaining supporters and canvassing for subscriptions. At first the correspondence, the interviewing, the plotting and intrigu- ing, kept her enthusiastically occupied. She made converts among the young artists and poets who came to the house, inveighing against the tame formalism on the one hand and the morbid exaggeration on the other that were the curses of modern art. She attended meetings in fashionable drawing-rooms and expounded her theories. Notoriety followed her doings. A weekly paper published an illustrated interview with the priestess of the new gospel. She believed in the scheme. It was auda- cious, but practical. It was impossible for convincing art to flourish in the midst of the social insincerity and commercialism of the day. The teachers of men must lead a higher life than the taught ; to have authority, must dwell aloof from the world ; to have inspira- 99 The White Dove tion, must draw it from the pure wells of nature and their own hearts. These postulates being allowed, the logical consequence was the con- ception of a colony of earnest and devoted artists in some sequestered spot where the worlds Babel came but as an echo. Such a spot was readily obtainable in California. A large ranch, in one of the loveliest valleys of the Sierra Nevada, was for sale. Extensions could be built indefinitely at a comparatively trifling cost. Thither the band of youths and maidens, uncorrupted as yet by the deadening influences around them, would proceed, and settling down would allow to flow unchecked the genuine founts of their genius. They would be in Arcadian ignorance of the arch destroyer of art, the public taste, and thus be beyond the reach of the temptation to pander to it. They would reveal the truth as it came crystallised in song or poem or picture from their own souls. The lack of pence would not disturb their serenity. Those who could afford it would pay a modest monthly contribution to the general fund. The penni- less children of genius would obtain free food, shelter, and all the privileges of the Colony. The subscriptions of the supporters of the lOO The Dangerous IlouV movement in England would defray their ex- penses. A commission would be levied on the profits of any work produced in the Colony. This, in the course of years, when public taste was revolutionised and the Waldenites' pro- ductions obtained great prices, would place the Colony beyond the need of subscriptions or of contributions by members. It would be- come, in Roderick's words, " The world's great Palace of Art." Roderick himself was ready to sacrifice his future in London so as to take up the post of director of the Colony at a hand- some salary. She believed in the scheme still ; success, in fact, justified her faith. But in this hour of self-abasement she distrusted the sincerity of her enthusiasm. How much had she done genuinely for the cause ? How much, uncon- sciously, for the man ? The question racked her. He had woven his influence around her life. Her name was publicly associated with his. She dreaded meeting him, yet felt the heart taken out of the day on which she was not working under his direction. Whither was she tending ? She could not answer. Not where happiness would lie. To have brought herself into this morass was the last and great- IOI i;;v 11id%Hite Dove est of the year's follies. In her helpless anger she hated the scheme and all that she had done to further it. A sickening surmise as to its futility overspread her retrospect. She clasped her hands over her hot eyes and again longed for Woodlands. Suddenly she sprang to her feet, and smoothed her dress and hair hurriedly, as if ashamed of her nerveless- ness. She would write to Matthew Lanyon then and there, yield herself wholly to her need of expansion, and let what would flow from her pen. She sat down resolutely at the ornamental escritoire and drew out writ- ing materials. She had never given him any definite account of the scheme. She had al- luded to it vaguely, somewhat flippantly, partly anxious to amuse and partly fearful of criti- cism. The mention of Roderick Usher's name had been rare. She had followed the secre- tive instinct of her sex. The old man's refer- ences hitherto had been jocular ; deceived by her manner, he had merely regarded her inter- est as an idle young woman's harmless hobby. Even in this letter that she carried crumpled in her bosom, he had asked her how her artistic Robinson Crusoes were getting on. He should know the history of the whole I02 The Dangerous Hour movement, her own hopes and fears, — perhaps more of her difficulties. She would write what- ever words came into her mind. She dipped her pen in the ink, dashed off the date and " My darling Uncle Matthew," and was starting the text of the letter, when the door opened. " Mr. Usher, miss," announced the parlour maid. Ella closed her blotter with a petulant snap, but rose and greeted her visitor with a smile. Roderick looked cool and point-device in a grey frock-coat suit. A slight baldness in front gave his high forehead an air of intellec- tuality. He had called, he informed her, just to report progress. And as he talked she sat, her chin resting on her knuckles, watching him with that wistful gaze that comes from a woman's weary uncertainties. " There, that is all," he said in conclusion ; " and I am glad there 's no more." "Why?" asked Ella. " Because you want a holiday, — a respite from the worry of affairs. Enthusiasms entail an expenditure of vital force ; so there are times when the temperament is at a low ebb, and ought to be treated with gentle indulgence." 103 The White Dove " Do you think I am at low ebb, Mr. Usher?" " You are tired, — a little mal de vivre. Is n't it so ? " He said it so kindly that her first impulse of resentment died away. " How do you know I *m not simply physi- cally out of sorts ? I was dancing till four this morning and till three the morning before/* He smiled with a touch of indulgent superi- ority. " As a sailor who knows the sea reads all its moods on its surface, so I read yours in your eyes. Confess. You have been feeling the burthen of life and have not known whence came its heaviness ; and you have been long- ing for relief in the fresh, cool arms of Mother Nature." " Perhaps," she said, looking away from him. "You are not offended?" he said, after a pause. He had a very musical voice, trained to modulation of feelings. " My heart is always near my lips and at times speaks indis- creetly." Ella turned round with a short laugh. <£ No, I am not offended. Of course not. 104 The Dangerous Hour But it was scarcely fair to turn me inside out like that without warning/' Immediately she regretted her confession. His acute perception had half flattered, half frightened her. She felt now that she had yielded some of her ground. She strove to regain it. , " But it's all nonsense," she added. " And very contemptible, just because it 's a close day, with a stuffy dinner-party looming ahead." " Phases of morale are never nonsense," he replied. " No one knows what unrest is better than I. We must find the remedy." " What do you suggest ? " " Happiness." " What is happiness ? " "The pursuit of the ideal on the wings of—" "Of what?" " Dare I say it — in all delicacy ? Of love." Ella again turned her face aside, uncertain whether to resent the implication or to make a light answer. Her hesitation was his oppor- tunity. " I, too, have been feeling depressed of late," he said. " All pleasure has in time to be paid for with pain. In a few months our scheme ™5 The White Dove will be launched, — the scheme that you and I have built up with pieces of our hearts, — and I shall go away to end my life in carrying out its working. I shall be alone. My helper and sweet comrade will no longer be by my side. Thus I, too, sigh for happiness." He smiled sadly, but she saw that his eyes were regarding her keenly from behind his gold pince-ne z. " We won't think of that," she said hastily. "So many things may happen between then and now." Roderick rose, rested his hand on the back of her chair, and bent over her. " One thing might happen that would fill the months with glory, and inaugurate our project in the radiance of the rising sun. Yet not for the scheme's sake, but for our lives' sake — for the sake of the expansion and de- velopment of all that is yearning within us to find utterance — Ella — Will you come with me?" She sat, looking straight before her, her lips apart, her body slightly swaying. Words ; would not come. She vaguely wished that something could happen to rid her of his presence, that he could disappear, there and 1 06 The Dangerous Hour then, once for all, out of her life. Yet she felt it impossible to dismiss him. Some mysterious feminine chord had been struck whose echoes proclaimed his right to stand over her and speak to her thus. " What are you saying ? " she murmured, with an almost piteous emphasis on the last word. " I am telling you that I love you, Ella, that my life is bound up in you, that I need you for the accomplishment of my manhood. And I am asking you to come with me to this sweet new land, to be my helper and my star. Say that you will come with me." " Give me time," she breathed. " I can't say — I have been living in a whirl so long. I don't know what I am or think or feel. I will give you an answer some day — soon — not now." " I will wait devotedly for your answer," said Roderick, in his courtliest manner, and moved a pace or two from her chair. Ella looked up at him, almost grateful for his assurance. " We will fix no period," she said. " To have to give such a reply by a definite date — " 107 The White Dove " I do not ask it," said Roderick, quietly,* though his heart was beating fast at the cer- tainty of victory. "You have given me the food of hope, whereon I can live meanwhile." " Could you not bear suspense ? " she asked. " I might not answer as you would like." " I could bear anything for your sake," said he. Then, after a pause, " And now good- bye. I must have solitude to dream over my happiness." She gave him her hand ; he bent over it and kissed it, and she felt his lips hot against her skin. It gave her a little shudder of re- pugnance, and the feeling remained after he had gone. And yet his fascination was strong upon her. He dominated her will as no man had done before. She was conscious that he had the rare power to penetrate to the core of her woman's weaknesses, to understand her as a botanist understands a plant, and the rarer power to touch the fibres delicately, so that it became a pleasure to be weak. Again, her somewhat exaggerated conception of his wide spiritual and intellectual horizon moved her emotional temperament to wondering respect, 1 08 The Dangerous Hour and she thought gratefully of the expansion of her own under his influence. With the in- complete vision wherewith the wisest of women must of necessity regard a man, she saw him strong and masterful, clearing his way reso- lutely to a definite end. She felt that he brought this air of mastery into his love ; and he had created a need of him within her. He held her bound by many chains. And as she stood in the drawing-room, half-con- sciously rubbing the spot on her hand where his lips had rested, she felt the chains grow tighter, one by one. Her maid came into the room. " When will you dress, miss ? " She remembered the dinner-party and gave her directions. She wished that she had not to attend it. And then unbidden came the long- ing for " the sweet new land " with its freedom and freshness, and her cheeks flamed at the sudden realisation of what it all implied. Her glance fell upon the blotter in which lay the just commenced letter to Matthew Lanyon. She sat down again at the escritoire and took up her pen. But the mood had passed. She found herself writing artificially, in the jargon of her set. Artgrily she fore up 109 The White Dove the paper and threw the fragments into the waste-paper basket. No ; better nothing than the insincerity he despised ; she loved him too dearly for that So the letter, that was to reveal her inmost struggling self, remained unwritten. She was very silent as Lady Milmo and her- self drove to the dinner-party. Her head ached and her limbs were tired. " The man who takes me down will over-eat himself dreadfully, ,, she remarked, as the car- riage pulled up. " I don't think there is any danger," replied her aunt, who was a woman of experience. And she was justified ; for the girl's youth asserted itself, and as the meal progressed the headache was forgotten and Ella enjoyed her- self thoroughly. " I rather think your partner will want some supper, poor man," said Lady Milmo, on the homeward journey. "It's his own fault; he would talk," said Ella, laughing. Lady Milmo patted her niece's knee affec- tionately. " I love to see you getting all that enjoy- ment out of life, my dear. Yoru seem to take no The Dangerous Hour it out in great chunks, like my neighbour this evening helping himself to iced pudding." Ella thought of her enjoyment with a whim- sical feeling of shame, a touch of disappoint- ment at not being as jaded as she had expected. But with the quiet darkness of the night her conflict of doubts returned. After all, what trivial topics she had discussed, what inanities she had laughed at, what spiteful little shafts of malice she had flung. If she had enjoyed it, so much the worse spiritually and morally for herself. Oh, the past year ! It had cor- rupted her. She looked back wistfully upon the girl whom Sylvester had kissed at Wood- lands. That fresh, shy, sweet something she had given him then was hers no longer to give to any man. What she could give to Roderick Usher, if she yielded to him, she did not know; certainly, not that. She was very young, very much unversed in the dark and crooked ways of life, in spite of her experience of men and things ; intensely eager to keep herself pure and proud, to love the highest when she saw it. It is not to be set down to weakness, therefore, if she grew very sorry for the girl whom Sylvester had kissed, and cried herself miserably to sleep. 1 1 1 CHAPTER VJII TRIUMPH The facilities that London offers as a hiding- place are proverbial. A man in good position may disappear entirely from his friends and yet be living for many years as a grocer's assistant half a mile away. But when two acquaintances who belong to the same social class have no particular reasons for lying hidden, they are bound sooner or later to meet. Now Sylvester and Ella had not set eyes on each other since the eve of the former's departure from Ayres- ford, when he had said things which Ella firmly believed at the time had broken her heart. This was not unnatural, seeing that he held rigidly aloof from the society in which Ella moved. Neither did he frequent theatres nor operas nor picture galleries, nor places of public resort. But he went this year to the Ladies' Soiree of the Royal Society, first, be- cause he had been unable to attend the sterner masculine assembly df the former eVenin'g, and, Triumph secondly, because he desired to meet two or three scientists of European reputation who he knew would be there. Lady Mil mo, who went everywhere and was proud of taking everywhere her beauti- ful niece, was at the soiree also with Ella. Their progress through the rooms was slow, as they knew many people, and the crowd was great. Suddenly Lady Milmo pulled Ella's arm. " Dear me, if that is n't Sylvester Lanyon ! " Ella looked instinctively in the indicated direction, and as her eyes fell upon him, her heart gave a great throb. He was in earnest conversation with an elderly man who wore an order of some kind, enforcing his argument, according to a familiar trick of his, with the forefinger of one hand and the palm of the other. His brown, intellectual face and well- knit figure marked him as a man of some dis- tinction. To Ella's dismay he appeared to her the one distinguished personality in the room. His face had grown more worn than she re- membered it, and his hair greyer at the temples. She found herself pitying him. " Come," said Lady Milmo, " I 'm going to give him a good talking to." Before Ella 8 i*3 The White Dove could resist she had adroitly edged through the press and arrived within his reach, Ella following mechanically. " Oh, Dr. Lanyon, fancy meeting you here. Ella and I have jars and jars of pickled rods * for you. Why do you never come near us ? Is it because we 're so aggravatingly healthy ? " Sylvester murmured an apology. Indeed, he had no reasons to offer. Lady Milmo was an old friend. He confessed his rudeness. " Madame/' said Sylvester's companion, with a low bow. " Professor Steinthal ! I did n't know you were in London. Forgive me." She turned to speak to him as Ella and Sylvester confronted each other. Ella put out her hand. " I hope you are well," she said. " Quite well ; and you ? " " You ought to be able to judge." " You seem to be in good health," he said " What maladies may lurk beneath the surface, I cannot tell." " I don't suppose you can," she was tempted to say. She saw that he understood, but he made no reply, and there was an awkward pause. 114 Triumph " I 'm going to see Uncle Matthew in August," she said at last " So I have heard. I 'm going to Switz- erland, so I shall not have the pleasure of meeting you. Do you know many people here ? " The pointed banality of the question angered her. " Will you never have a kind word to say tome?" she flashed out in a quick under- tone, then she turned and greeted the professor effusively. Thus, whatever wild, uncontrollable hopes were newly born at the first sight of him, they were frozen at once to death. She went home in a furious rage of humiliation. He was a man of ice and steel, an automa- ton equipped with an intellect, scarcely a man at all. She put an imperious end to her doubts. Roderick Usher called next day, and spoke as one inspired with lofty ideals. Before her fascinated vision he seemed to place realities where hitherto the void had yawned or shadows at the most had shimmered. Life stretched infinitely in front of her, a lush garden, fertile with a myriad beauties. Her expanding souJ i«5 The White Dove shone out of dewy eyes. All the blindness, all the weakness, all the deluded nobility of her nature, lay revealed, pathetically defence- less. It was Roderick's golden hour, when he knew that he had her at his mercy. He rose, flung out his arms in a passionate gesture. " Come to me, Ella. Our destinies demand it." She too rose and faced him, her eyes shin- ing like stars, and held out her hands. "Yes, I will come," she said. Roderick went into the warm June sunshine, thrilled with triumph, holding his head high. He walked along heedless of direction, turned into Hans Place and completed an entire cir- cuit of the gardens before he realised what he had done. He paused, to think of some des- tination. Then he laughed aloud.