o 
 
 THE CAGE
 
 THE CAGE 
 
 BY 
 
 HAROLD BEGBIE 
 
 AUTHOR OF " THE PRIEST." 
 "THE VIGIL." ETC. 
 
 HODDER & STOUGHTON 
 
 NEW YORK 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
 
 // may be compared to a cage : the birds without despaire 
 
 to get in, and those within detpaire to get out. 
 
 MONTAICNI. 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY GEORGE H. DORA* COMPANY
 
 PREFACE 
 
 MOST decent people will be disposed to agree with 
 me, whatever their religious opinions, and whatever their 
 experience of married life, that if every woman in Chris- 
 tendom behaved after the fashion of Mme. Bovary or 
 Mme. Anna Karenina, it would soon be exceedingly ill 
 with the world. 
 
 But few people who discuss this question of marriage 
 perceive that, unless religion is acknowledged as the 
 foundation of human life, a great many more reasons can 
 be found why every woman should seek her own individ- 
 ual pleasure, and behave, if she so wish it, in the manner 
 of the two ladies mentioned above, than logical reasons 
 can be manufactured to prove why she should suffer a 
 cold unselfishness and endure all the thousand wounding 
 restraints of a virtue which merely strangles and suffo- 
 cates the human nature. 
 
 At the end of her life, so full of tragic mutiny against 
 society, and so desolate with the intensity of its own pas- 
 sionate and unyielding individualism, Mme. Sand wrote 
 in her Journal: "The cure for us is far more simple 
 than we will believe. All the better natures amongst us 
 see it and feel it. It is a good direction given by ourselves 
 to our hearts and consciences." 
 
 When a man has made up his heart and conscience 
 (the two must go in step together, or no pace and no road 
 will ever be comfortable) how to answer Life's question, 
 "Whither goest thou?" he will find little difficulty in an- 
 swering the subsidiary questions of society with which 
 he is challenged on his way. But until he is conscious of 
 
 2229172
 
 direction, each particular little question will assume the 
 magnitude of the question itself, and he will be as puzzled 
 in his intellect, as he is troubled and restless in his heart 
 all the long way of his journey. 
 
 "If a man," says Coleridge, "is not rising upwards to 
 be an angel, he is sinking downwards to be a devil. He 
 cannot stop at the beast. The most savage men are not 
 beasts : they are worse, a great deal worse." 
 
 "The cure for us is far more simple than we will be- 
 lieve. It is a good direction given by ourselves to our 
 hearts and consciences." 
 
 Social questions are only difficult and dangerous 
 while the one central and eternal Question of Life, 
 Whither goest thou ? remains unanswered.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. HERITAGE 1 
 
 II. THE Two DESTINIES _ 30 
 
 III. THE BIRD WITHIN 59 
 
 IV. BORHAVEN _ - 66 
 
 V. CREEK COTTAGE _ 74 
 
 VI. CURIOSITY - 76 
 
 VII. MR. ALDRICH MAKES A MOVE _ ~ 79 
 
 VIII. THE "SAND WASP" 92 
 
 IX. 1857 _.. 100 
 
 X. FLIGHTING _ _ _ 112 
 
 XL NAPIER'S RELIGION 128 
 
 XII. A DOOR Is CLOSED _ -.138 
 
 XIII. ANOTHER Is OPENED 151 
 
 XIV. THE Two LETTERS _ 163 
 
 XV. THE UNEXPECTED _ 168 
 
 XVI. A FALLING TIDE 191 
 
 XVII. ON THE GROUND OF HONOUR _ _213 
 
 XVIII. IN EARNEST _ _....229 
 
 XIX. THE PROMISE _ 244 
 
 XX. THE "SAND WASP" PUTS TO SEA 254 
 
 XXI. THE UNCONQUERABLE HOPE 261 
 
 XXII. BACK TO EARTH 286 
 
 XXIII. A SECOND MARRIAGE ... ....302
 
 "WHERE WOMEN ARB HONOURED THE DIVINITIES ARE 
 COMPLACENT ; WHERE THEY ARE DESPISED, IT IS USELESS TO 
 PRAY TO GOD."
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 HERITAGE 
 
 THE name of Robert Campbell Ainslie is still 
 remembered in Edinburgh. Anecdotes concerning 
 him and laconicisms attributed to his lips are almost 
 as numerous, and now are nearly as tedious, as those 
 which embalm for posterity the memories of historical 
 personages. Many sayings are doubtless ascribed to 
 him which he never uttered. He was one of those 
 rough and honest personalities who make an iron 
 impression on a conventional generation, and whose 
 dust mingles with the earth only that their impressive 
 ghosts may stalk the ways of men in the embroideries 
 of Aberglaube. For the historian, he was a fashion- 
 able physician with common-sense notions on the 
 subject of diet, great honesty and courage, and a 
 penetrating knowledge of human nature. 
 
 His father was a second-hand bookseller in St. 
 Giles's Ward, who had enjoyed the patronage of Sir 
 Walter Scott. The tall and narrow shop is still 
 standing ; it is still consecrated to the rags and bones 
 of literature : a student of the University is perhaps 
 at this moment running -his hand along the dusty 
 shelves in quest of some second-hand text-book which 
 was grubbed and dog's-eared by contemporaries of 
 
 B I
 
 2 THE CAGE 
 
 Robert Ainslie. In this obscure sHop, surrounded 
 by the squalor of a great city and stimulated by the 
 narrow circumstances of his own home, Ainslie 
 studied, meditated, formed his judgments, and grew 
 to manhood. Every morning, when he hurried to 
 school with his long-reaching stride and a strapped 
 bundle of books under his arm, he saw a multitude 
 of barefoot, ragged, ill-nourished and neglected 
 children swarming over the pavements and shivering 
 in little confraternities of suffering at the entry to 
 every pestilential close on the way. Every night, 
 when he bent over his books in a miserable garret at 
 the top of the tall house, he heard through his hands, 
 which were pressed tight over his ears, the drunken 
 laughter and the screaming cries of men and women 
 staggering and fighting in the ill-lit underworld of 
 Edinburgh beneath his window. Perhaps these 
 things influenced his character; for he was one of 
 those rare people who not only observe, but appre- 
 hend what they observe. He knew that the men and 
 women who were drunken at night were the fathers 
 and mothers of the children who shivered and starved 
 in the morning, and that the children were Posterity. 
 He used to regard the bugle of the Highlanders ring- 
 ing "Lights out " from the Castle as a warning to the 
 wicked city. "One night," he said to his younger 
 brothers, "it will be the Last Trump, and Hell will 
 get a bellyful out of Edinburgh." 
 
 It was indignation with the follies and perversities 
 of mankind which led him to become a doctor. 
 "People don't interest me," he used to say, "but their
 
 HERITAGE 3 
 
 machinery does; I cannot bear the sight of a cheated 
 body." The only absolutism in a period of demo- 
 cracy is that of a physician, and this strong-willed 
 man, who was a scientific and not a sentimental 
 humanitarian, became a doctor in order that he might 
 rule men. "My kingdom," he said, "is posterity." 
 
 His practice began with the poor, and ended with 
 the rich. At the outset of his career, when he him- 
 self hungered among the hungry, his prescriptions 
 were mostly drafts on charitable societies for meat and 
 bread. "Those whom you call the poor," he once 
 said to a politician, "I call the hungry." He attri- 
 buted the brutalities of the poor to ill-nourished 
 bodies, and the vices of the rich to over-nourished 
 bodies. He declared diet to be the supreme question 
 of the human race. "Dr. Ainslie," asked a wealthy 
 merchant, troubled in his conscience by the employ- 
 ment of a physician who did not support the Free 
 Kirk, "do you, sir, or do you not, believe in a devil ? " 
 
 "No," he answered, "I believe in three devils, a 
 trinity of devils; one for each end of the stick, and 
 one for the middle; the devil of the poor is starva- 
 tion, the devil of the rich is gluttony, and the devil 
 of everybody is ignorance." He earned little or no- 
 thing for feeding the poor; the rich paid him extra- 
 vagant fees for taking away their dinners. "I began 
 my practice," he used to say, "by filling the hungry 
 with good things ; I end it by sending the rich empty 
 away." He never cultivated the bedside manner of 
 a fashionable physician. "What do you prescribe 
 for me ? " he was once asked by a wealthy and neurotic 
 
 B 2
 
 4 THE CAGE 
 
 woman. "A 'scrubbing brush," was his answer. To 
 one of his wealthiest patients, a Calvinist who sought 
 to convert him, he said indignantly, "Why, man, 
 your God is my devil." 
 
 His vogue did not come till he was at middle age. 
 At that time people said of him that he had the body 
 of Bismarck, the face of Moltke, and the soul of 
 Cromwell. His appearance was certainly handsome 
 and impressive. His heavy and austere countenance 
 bore the marks of endurance rather than the signs of 
 effort and struggle. He had helped all his brothers 
 to make a start in the world, and had buried his 
 father and mother before his fortunes took their turn. 
 The struggle of his early life accounted for the two 
 chief fears which governed his character, the fear of 
 poverty and the fear of wealth. He felt the terrible 
 injustice of the one, and the frightful responsibility 
 of the other. These two fears became more forceful 
 the more he succeeded. He earned money only to 
 give it away. He practised the severest economies. 
 He regarded the least of luxuries in the light of a vice. 
 
 Ainslie fell in love but once in his life. This was 
 with an old English soldier, a general in the Madras 
 Army, who, with his wife and daughter, came to 
 Edinburgh, his body shattered by wounds, and tor- 
 tured by fever, to put himself under Ainslie's care. 
 The two men grew fond of each other. The old 
 bearded soldier was a hero of what Heine called the 
 mattress-grave. In spite of great physical pain and 
 the misery of being nailed to a bed, he was radiant 
 with cheerfulness, easily provoked to humour, and
 
 HERITAGE 5 
 
 always grateful for kindness. The man believed in 
 God. Ainslie would sit for sometimes a whole hour 
 on the edge of the old warrior's bed, regarding affec- 
 tionately the wasting, ivory-coloured face with its 
 long greying beard, and listening with a profound 
 sympathy to the faint voice of this once vigorous 
 commander of artillery. They exchanged anecdotes. 
 They quoted Burns against each other. They laughed 
 at the new theory of microbes. They discussed the 
 politics of the day. They smiled together, laughed 
 together, shook hands with a clasp that meant affec- 
 tion. The general loved the doctor his large eyes 
 shone and his face became illumined with pleasure 
 at Ainslie's entrance. "The sight of you does me 
 good ! " he used to say, smiling. And the doctor 
 loved the old soldier. "General Dobson," he said, 
 "you've taught me the pleasure of a chat." During 
 their intimacy came the failure of the Oriental Bank, 
 ruining General Dobson. Ainslie kept the news 
 from him. He provided Mrs. Dobson with money, 
 and bound her to secrecy. The general died without 
 knowing of his ruin. After his death, Ainslie married 
 the daughter. 
 
 He explained to this lady, a capable, vigorous, and 
 rather amusing woman of the world, who was then 
 thirty years of age, and to her mother, his convictions 
 concerning money. He made it plain to his future 
 wife that she was marrying a poor man, and one who 
 intended, God helping him, to remain poor all the 
 days of his life. "I have no wish to be rich," she 
 said ; " only comfortable." " While people are hungry
 
 6 THE CAGE 
 
 no one can be comfortable," he answered. "That is 
 very true," said the lady, feeling suddenly cold, but 
 quickly recovering her self-confidence. 
 
 At the age of fifty-three, Dr. Ainslie became the 
 father of a daughter, who was named Anne, after her 
 English grandmother, the old and diminutive Mrs. 
 Dobson, who now formed a member of the house- 
 hold. The child brought happiness to the doctor's 
 heart. He had the tenderness of all stern and lofty 
 souls for little children. His own child came close 
 to his soul, like a whisper from heaven, like a touch 
 from God. It was difficult to believe that the stern 
 and bluff physician of the consulting-room was the 
 same man as the father carrying his child in his arms 
 and bending upon it looks and smiles of the most 
 ingratiating gentleness. It was this child who made 
 Robert Ainslie an open and avowed enemy of priestly 
 authority. He refused to have the infant baptized. 
 "If God has set a curse upon my child," he declared, 
 "I'll have nothing to do with Him. Such a God is 
 a Monster." A righteous man's defiance of the Al- 
 mighty may be a matter for rebuke, it is not con- 
 temptible. But Ainslie did not think that he defied 
 God. 
 
 Mrs. Ainslie, who was becoming a figure in Edin- 
 burgh society on account of her husband's fame, 
 watched the tenderness of the doctor towards their 
 child with a secret hope. She was sick to death of 
 the mean circumstances which governed her home. 
 Her vigorous efforts to break Ainslie of parsimonious 
 habits had quite failed. She hoped to stop the
 
 HERITAGE 7 
 
 fream of her husband's charities with the hands of 
 her child. With considerable care, for the doctor 
 was not a man to be duped, she spoke about the 
 future of the little Anne. She constantly referred in 
 his hearing to her own childhood, to the refinements 
 of her home, to the educating splendours of her youth' 
 when her father commanded the Madras Artillery 
 and reigned at St. Thomas's Mount. "A gloomy 
 home darkens the minds of children," she said to 
 one of her friends, "it makes them long for fool- 
 ish pleasures and dangerous vanities; don't you 
 think that is true?" "It depends on the mother," 
 interrupted the doctor, "and sometimes on the 
 father." 
 
 The man whose personality was easily the chief 
 force in the Edinburgh of that day, and whose fame 
 as a consulting physician spread into foreign 
 countries, lived in one of the grey houses in Darna- 
 way Street, wore threadbare broadcloth and a shabby 
 hat, kept no carriage, employed but two servants, and 
 allowed his wife fifty pounds a year for the clothes 
 of herself, her mother and her child. This little 
 family had porridge for breakfast, and dined in the 
 middle of the day. The linen was coarse, the furni- 
 ture was solid and plain ; the walls of the rooms were 
 distempered. To a woman with social ambitions, 
 this home was like a prison. To a woman of taste, 
 as can easily be imagined, it was horribly ugly. To 
 the doctor, who hurried up the narrow stairs to his 
 child's nursery, it was an altar. 
 
 At the height of his fame, and when every hour of
 
 8 THE CAGE 
 
 his time was engaged, Ainslie was still the personal 
 friend and comforter of the poor. His handsome 
 figure and austere countenance, to the end of his days, 
 were familiar in St. Giles's Ward. He helped the 
 sons of poor people in their education, assisted 
 families to emigrate, provided food for the starv- 
 ing, clothes for the naked, work for the unemployed, 
 and homes for the homeless. He was a menace to 
 owners of insanitary properties, a terror to sellers of 
 adulterated food, and a thorn in the side of civic 
 authority. No private man was ever so effective a 
 politician. Few men have ever exercised so generous 
 a liberality. It is said of him that when his income 
 stood at twelve thousand pounds a year, he was 
 living on five hundred and, beyond insurance, saving 
 not a penny. 
 
 Dr. Ainslie, in spite of his tenderness for Anne 
 and his sympathy with the sufferings of the poor, did 
 not permit himself the luxury of emotion. He was 
 perhaps too busy a man to be religious. He did not 
 dream. He neither regarded the flowers at his feet 
 nor contemplated the stars over his head. His 
 universe was the body of man. Materialism could 
 boast in him of a man who was religious without a 
 religion. If he lacked that sweetness of nature and 
 that beautiful yearning after God which makes Victor 
 Hugo's Bishop Myriel so delightful, so enchanting 
 a character, he yet possessed a more robust and heroic 
 hatred of injustice, and this, as we have seen, was 
 not without its service to humanity. Religion in our 
 day does not deny her immense obligation to the
 
 HERITAGE 9 
 
 apostles of physical morality. Thirty years ago the 
 antagonism between faith and science was fiercer and 
 perhaps more honest. Dr. Ainslie could never wholly 
 forget the unscrupulous and wicked opposition which 
 science had encountered from religion. "Most of 
 the attacks upon science," he once said, "have come 
 from men wearing spectacles." To a short-sighted 
 minister who ventured to argue with him on the 
 limitations of human knowledge, Ainslie replied, 
 "What are the facts? You don't believe in miracles. 
 You believe in the oculist." 
 
 One winter's afternoon, in the year 1885, a note 
 was brought to Dr. Ainslie, as he sat in his consult- 
 ing-room at the back of the house with his dark grey 
 eyes fixed upon the face of a gentleman who had 
 travelled from Chicago to describe his .sufferings from 
 dyspepsia. The letter was marked " Urgent," and the 
 servant said that the messenger awaited an answer. 
 Dr. Ainslie opened the envelope swiftly by means of 
 a paper-knife, and drew out a thin sheet of paper. 
 His heavy eyebrows came together as he read; then 
 a light of illumination shone in his face; he looked 
 up quickly, and said to the servant, "Say I will come 
 directly." 
 
 He rose from his chair like a man in a hurry. 
 " You crossed in a steamer ? " he asked, looking down 
 at his patient. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Were you sick?" 
 
 "A little."
 
 [io THE CAGE 
 
 "Wait for the equinox and go back in a sailing 
 ship." 
 
 The waiting-room was full of patients. He opened 
 the door, and addressed the group, who rose at his 
 entrance. In a sentence he announced that he was 
 called away and that he would be absent for an hour. 
 He begged them to excuse him. As he picked up 
 his hat in the hall, the front door opened and his 
 wife and daughter entered. The child, seven years 
 of age at this time, ran forward to her father and 
 embraced his legs, laughing up into his face. "I am 
 in a hurry," he said, and disengaged himself. 
 
 He left the house, and walking at a great pace 
 made the descent to Princes Street, and crossing the 
 city took his way past Heriot's Hospital to a small 
 cul de sac running out of a turning from Lauriston 
 Place. His thgughts were so deeply engaged by the 
 message which had brought him to this neighbour- 
 hood that his wonderful faculty of observation was 
 entirely unemployed ; he saw nothing, heard nothing, 
 noticed nothing. He could hardly have told by what 
 route he had come. The message which carried his 
 feet to this dingy locality had sent his soul a journey 
 into the past. 
 
 Ten years ago he had received a visit from a well- 
 dressed, boyish and soldier-like young Englishman 
 who gave his name as Napier, and instantly disowned 
 that name when he came into the doctor's presence. 
 
 "I have a matter of the greatest delicacy and im- 
 portance to lay before you, sir," he had said, standing 
 in the lamplight of the doctor's study. "I cannot
 
 HERITAGE 11 
 
 explain to you all the circumstances, but I ask you 
 to trust me and to do what I most earnestly beg you 
 to do. You are not only a great doctor; you are a 
 good man; that is why I have come to you." 
 
 The busy doctor, who had Wellington's wholesome 
 disgust for flattery, made a movement of impatience 
 with his hands. "Sit down," he said, and pointed 
 to a chair. The walls of the consulting-room were 
 dark with books. Dull red curtains were drawn 
 across the windows. The floor was polished and 
 spread with cheap rugs. A gas-stove burned in the 
 fire-place with a saucer of water in front of it. The 
 doctor sat in shadow; the green-shaded lamp threw 
 its light on the delicate, flushed face of the visitor. 
 
 "What do you want?" asked Ainslie. 
 
 The young man continued his story: "There is a 
 girl living at this address in the name of Mrs. Napier, 
 who will shortly become a mother." He reached for- 
 ward and handed the doctor a piece of paper. " I am 
 called away ; I cannot possibly remain ; I am anxious 
 for the mother's sake and for the child's that she 
 should not suffer. If I can leave matters in your 
 hands, I shall be satisfied; my conscience will be 
 lighter, and my heart will be less miserable. I have 
 brought with me some bank-notes, a little over a 
 thousand pounds, and I ask you I implore you, sir, 
 to take this money and use it as you think best for 
 the mother and for the child. Don't, I beg you, tell 
 the mother that I gave you this money. Don't say 
 a single good word for me. Say that I sent you to 
 her, and that is all. When she is over her trouble
 
 ia THE CAGE 
 
 let her think that you yourself are helping her out 
 of kindness of heart. I want her to forget me. If 
 she hates me so much the better." 
 
 "You mean, in plain language," said the doctor, 
 who hated sentimentalism and despised emotion, 
 "that after ruining this poor girl, you are deserting 
 her?" 
 
 "Let me remind you, sir," said the young man, 
 "that you do not know all the circumstances." 
 
 "Only the facts," retorted the busy man, beginning 
 to be irritated. 
 
 The visitor did not wince. The terrible judgment 
 in the great doctor's eyes would perhaps have shaken 
 an assassin ; this graceful young man remained im- 
 perturbable and composed. After a moment he said 
 quietly 
 
 " For God's sake, sir, do what I ask." 
 
 "I'll do nothing of the kind," replied the doctor, 
 getting up. He stood between the lamp and his 
 visitor. "You have broken a woman's heart and 
 ruined her life. You want me to patch things up 
 with a thousand pounds. You're a blackguard." 
 He pointed to the door, and moved again towards 
 his table. 
 
 The young man remained where he was. He met 
 the angry challenge of the doctor's eyes with unflinch- 
 ing humility. "You are quite right. I am a black- 
 guard. That is why I have come to you." 
 
 "Why don't you marry this girl?" 
 
 "I cannot, for her own sake." 
 
 " Are you a married man ? "
 
 HERITAGE 13 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Then I'll tell you what you are. You are a liar. 
 You can marry this girl. You ought to marry her. 
 Instead you're deserting her." 
 
 "No." 
 
 "You said you were going away?" 
 
 "Yes, that is true." 
 
 "Why must you go?" 
 
 "It is against my will." He paused a moment. "I 
 can assure you of that. If you only knew I " 
 
 "Knew what?" 
 
 "How I want to stay." 
 
 " Where are you going ? " 
 
 For a moment the young man kept silence. The 
 doctor could hear his breathing. Then he answered 
 
 "To prison." 
 
 In the lamplight of the room the two men looked 
 at each other. 
 
 The doctor studied his visitor with a closer scrutiny. 
 The young man was something more than a gentle- 
 man. He was refined, elegant and gracious. There 
 was charm in his presence, in his manner, in his 
 gesture, in his voice. He was pleasant, brilliant, in 
 quite a manly fashion beautiful. It was difficult to 
 believe that this almost girlish young aristocrat was 
 going into prison ; it was impossible to think that he 
 was lying. 
 
 "I am sorry for you," said the doctor, at the end 
 of the scrutiny. 
 
 "I am sorry for the girl," answered the youth. 
 Then he added, "Don't tell her that I am going to
 
 i 4 THE CAGE 
 
 prison. I beg you not to. It would make her fonder 
 of me." 
 
 In spite of the doctor's arguments, he refused to tell 
 his real name or to give any details of the crime which 
 was carrying him to prison. He said that his arrest 
 might be delayed, but that it was inevitable. He 
 had one overmastering desire, that the woman should 
 be led to believe, when she was well enough to bear 
 it, that he had deserted her. Again and again he 
 repeated with transparent sincerity this eager desire. 
 "I have just written to my mother," he concluded; 
 "it is my confession of everything. I have told her 
 that this particular matter is in your hands. She is 
 a proud woman, but I hope she will help the child, 
 through you, in case anything should happen to me. 
 The money, which I leave with you, I regret to say, 
 is the last penny I possess in the world." 
 
 Dr. Ainslie most unwillingly accepted the mission. 
 The young man passed out of his house and out of his 
 life, but not out of his memory. He attended the 
 woman through her confinement, and visited her 
 frequently after the child was born, a healthy boy, the 
 express image of his father. Then, before he had 
 spent a shilling of the money left in his hands for 
 their well-being, the mother and the baby disap- 
 peared. The landlady could tell him nothing. The 
 woman had paid her bill and taken her departure. 
 
 Dr. Ainslie, such was his nature, and so numerous 
 were his occupations, was more vexed by than inter- 
 ested in this mystery. He made no inquiries about 
 the woman and child ; he was but little curious con-
 
 HERITAGE 15 
 
 cerning the father. In the busy life of such a man 
 romance finds no welcome, mystery is driven from 
 the door. He invested the money left in his hands, 
 and attended to his business. 
 
 One day, some months after the disappearance of 
 mother and child, an old lady called upon Dr. Ainslie 
 and refused to give any name. It was the mother of 
 the youth who had gone to prison. She was dressed in 
 heavy mourning, and wore a dark veil over her face. 
 She asked for news of the woman and the child. Dr. 
 Ainslie had to confess his ignorance of their where- 
 abouts. The old lady seemed relieved. He spoke of 
 money left in his hands, and declared his wish to get 
 rid of it. "I could not touch it," said the voice 
 behind the veil. "And I cannot keep it, ma'am," he 
 retorted. "It is a solemn trust," answered the voice 
 sternly; "some day the child will demand it of you." 
 She went away, and next day the post brought Dr. 
 Ainslie a five-pound note enclosed in a piece of paper 
 on which was written "Dr. Ainslie's fee," in the thin 
 pointed handwriting of an old lady. For seven years 
 the mysterious visitor presented herself once a year 
 at the house of the doctor ; on each occasion she came 
 heavily veiled, and on each occasion she refused to 
 accept the accumulating money which the doctor 
 pressed her to take, and on each occasion her visit 
 was followed by a five-pound note enclosed in a sheet 
 of paper with the inscription, "Dr. Ainslie's fee." 
 
 Then the visits ceased. 
 
 Three years had passed away since that last visit, 
 and now in the winter of 1885 the whole memory of
 
 16 THE CAGE 
 
 this mysterious affair was suddenly and tragically 
 revived. The note which had summoned the doctor so 
 urgently was from the girl abandoned by the young 
 man who had gone to prison. She was dying. 
 
 Dr. Ainslie was conducted to a small bedroom at 
 the back of the house so high up that it caught all 
 the red splendours of a winter sunset. A bird was 
 singing loudly in its cage by the window. The 
 little apartment was neatly furnished and not without 
 touches of refinement. The walls were covered with 
 a blue-and-white paper; the dressing-table was draped 
 with blue-glazed linen covered by white muslin ; 
 where the carpet, which was only a blue felt, did not 
 reach the walls the floor boards were painted white. 
 On a bed against the wall, which was covered by a 
 knitted cotton counterpane, with her head towards 
 the window and her feet towards the fire-place, lay 
 the woman he had come to see. She had seven or 
 eight hours to live. 
 
 Ainslie brought a chair to the bedside and sat 
 down. The woman was passing through a fit of 
 gasping. The counterpane rose and fell with the 
 violent heavings of her body. He took a soft towel 
 and passed it gently over her streaming forehead. 
 Her eyes, which were filled with a staring terror, the 
 effect of her pain, turned towards him and thanked 
 him for this kindness. The bird sang cheerfully in 
 its cage. 
 
 "You will be easier in a moment," he said, and 
 placed one of his hands on the feverish and wasted 
 fingers which were picking at the sheets. "Be in no
 
 HERITAGE I? 
 
 hurry. I remember you perfectly. I am here to 
 help you." 
 
 The sunset illumined the little room, but left the 
 woman's face in shadow. It looked dark and obscure 
 on the pillows, which were grey in the shadow. Her 
 dark hair was like a sea of death in which the poor 
 drowning face floated mistily. 
 
 When the spasm was over, and she had moistened 
 her lips, she said to him, "Will you tell him, after 
 I'm gone, that I was happy?" 
 
 The doctor hesitated. "Yes," he said, "I will tell 
 him." 
 
 The flicker of a smile passed over the woman's face. 
 "I haven't been a trouble to him," she said, in a 
 whisper; "I haven't spoilt his life." 
 
 " Does this bird worry you ? Shall I move it from 
 the window ? " 
 
 "Oh no; it doesn't worry me." 
 
 " Why did you go away from me ? " asked Ainslie, 
 bending nearer to her. The bird was singing so 
 cheerfully that he had difficulty in hearing the 
 woman's voice. 
 
 "So as not to trouble him," she answered. "I was 
 ruining his life. I knew he would come back to me." 
 She gasped for a moment. "Everything helped me," 
 she continued. "The baby came when the regiment 
 was going away; he had to leave me in Edinburgh; 
 he couldn't help it, and that was my chance to save 
 him." 
 
 "And the baby?" 
 
 "I thought of the baby, too," she answered.
 
 i8 THE CAGE 
 
 "It was a boy, the image of his father." 
 
 " I have paid a woman to bring him up as her own 
 child." 
 
 " So that he might not trouble his father ? " 
 
 "Yes; and never be ashamed of his mother." 
 
 " Where is he now ? " 
 
 "Leave him. It is better. He will never know." 
 
 "But his father gave me a sum of money for you 
 and the child, too." 
 
 Her eyes brightened; the wax-like pallor of her 
 face was suffused with a soft fire; her lips parted in 
 a smile. The doctor never forgot the look in those 
 dying eyes as she breathed the proud words, "He 
 loved me 1 " 
 
 "You appear to have loved him, too," answered the 
 doctor. 
 
 She closed her eyes; she was still smiling. Her 
 expression was sublime enough for Simeon at the 
 moment when he breathed the first Nunc Dimittis. 
 She was satisfied. Life had no more to give. 
 
 The last flame of sunset died away; the room 
 became cold; the bird stopped singing. 
 
 "You must tell me where this boy is," said the 
 doctor. "You have sacrificed yourself for the man. 
 You have been noble there. But you are a mother. 
 You owe it to your child that he should have the 
 protection and the influence of his father. Besides, 
 I must get rid of the money." 
 
 Very gently he reasoned with her, and at last, 
 chiefly because she herself had saved a sum of money 
 for the child, she yielded to his insistence. He
 
 HERITAGE 19 
 
 received from her dying lips the whereabouts of the 
 son she had given up for the sake of the father from 
 whom she had hidden her life. From those dying 
 lips, too, he received the simple story of her exist- 
 ence during the past ten years. She had first ob- 
 tained employment in one of the smaller Edinburgh 
 hotels, and out of her wages had paid for the support 
 of her child; her one object in life had been to pre- 
 vent the man she loved from discovering her. Neither 
 she nor the child must ever irk that life. Then she 
 had become the stewardess of a Club in George 
 Street, and not only had paid the increased demands 
 of her child's foster-parents, but had laid by a sum 
 of money to meet any future demands in case she 
 should lose her employment or fall ill. She had pro- 
 vided for every contingency. Her life had been one 
 long, cheerful devotion to duty; her happiness had 
 been the certain knowledge that she was no longer a 
 source of ruin to the man she had loved. 
 
 It was quite clear to the doctor that she knew no- 
 thing of her lover's crime or imprisonment. But she 
 knew what he did not know. The true name of the 
 lover. 
 
 "Did you hear nothing of this man all through 
 your solitude ? " he asked, in the deepening darkness 
 of the room. 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "Or read nothing about him in the newspapers?" 
 
 Her eyes brightened. " Is he married ? " she asked. 
 The tone of her voice told him that her eyes had 
 brightened. 
 
 C2
 
 *> THE CAGE 
 
 The doctor bent nearer to her. "I must tell you 
 something," he said. "I do not know his name. I 
 know nothing about him. He came to see me. He 
 showed me that he loved you. He left money with 
 me. Then he went away " 
 
 "With his regiment." 
 
 "You are sure of that?" 
 
 "His regiment went away; he had to go with it." 
 
 "And you have never heard a word about him 
 since ? " 
 
 She shook her head proudly. "I haven't tried," 
 she answered. Then she began to think. " But, how 
 will you tell him that I have been happy ? You don't 
 know who he is ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 She was silent for a long time. "Perhaps it is 
 best," she said at last, very slowly and almost wearily. 
 "He may have forgotten by now. Yes, don't try and 
 find him. Only, if he comes to see you, some day, 
 tell him I have been happy." 
 
 " His mother comes to see me." 
 
 " His mother I " Her eyes opened wide. " His 
 mother I Are you telling me the truth ? " 
 
 "Yes. She has been to see me. Seven times. 
 When she comes again, I will tell her about you. 
 She will tell her son. He shall know." 
 
 "His mother!" she whispered. "His mother I 
 How strange that seems." 
 
 "She will help your child." 
 
 "I can't understand. His mother! Why did his 
 mother come ? "
 
 HERITAGE 21 
 
 "It was his wish that she should be kind to you." 
 
 The trouble left her face. "Oh ! " she breathed in 
 a long-drawn pleasure. Then she whispered, "How 
 beautiful I How beautiful ! " 
 
 "Would it not be best for you," asked the doctor 
 presently, "to tell me the name of the man ? " 
 
 "No! Oh no! " she answered, with a smile. "It 
 has never passed my lips." 
 
 When Ainslie left her it was after six o'clock. He 
 lighted a lamp for her, and left her with the landlady. 
 Snow was falling with a steady persistency when he 
 came into the street. He hurried back to his house, 
 saw those patients who were waiting for him, and 
 without taking food set out again for the address 
 given him by the woman. For the first time since 
 his child was born he did not visit her in her cot. The 
 clocks were striking nine when he opened the door. 
 It was still snowing. 
 
 He took a tram at Waterloo Place, and travelled to 
 Leith. His way ran through an apparently intermin- 
 able mean street of small houses, whose shuttered 
 windows were rimmed with light, and whose roofs 
 were white with snow. No one was to be seen in the 
 long vista of snow and gaslight. Not a sound issued 
 from the shuttered houses. At last he perceived at 
 the end of the avenue of gas lamps a black mass of 
 buildings with immense chimney-stacks fluttering 
 tongues of crimson fire in the black sky. He knew now 
 that he was in the neighbourhood of the street for 
 which he was seeking. Arrived before the buildings, 
 he pulled up and looked about him. He could see
 
 aa THE CAGE 
 
 the masts of ships over the roofs of houses. Sounds 
 of life came from a dirty public-house at a distant 
 corner. Through the flakes of descending snow he 
 saw white letters on the great gates of the building : 
 Paton's Engineering Works. As he looked at the 
 familiar name, the dark figure of a child passed 
 across the white letters. The doctor hailed the boy, 
 and the little figure stopped in front of the dark 
 gates. 
 
 Ainslie crossed the road, and asked the direction 
 of the street he was seeking. The boy pointed ahead. 
 The finger that he lifted was blue with cold. Ainslie 
 looked down and saw that the boy was shoeless; 
 that the little legs were stooping forward, that the 
 shoulders were rounded, that the face of the child was 
 glassy with cold and hunger. 
 
 "Why aren't you at home?" he asked, feeling in 
 his pocket. 
 
 "I'm going." 
 
 " Do you live in this part of the world ? " 
 
 The boy nodded. 
 
 "Whereabouts?" 
 
 "Same street as yours," answered the boy. His 
 teeth rattled. 
 
 "Come along with me, then," said the doctor, and 
 gave his hand. "Have you got a father and a 
 mother ? " he asked, as they went forward through the 
 snow. 
 
 "And three brothers and four sisters," answered the 
 boy. 
 
 " Is your father unkind to you ? "
 
 HERITAGE 23 
 
 "Not unless I'm late home." 
 
 "You are late to-night? Why? What have you 
 been doing?" 
 
 "Looking at the Works." 
 
 " What Works do you mean ? " 
 
 "Paton's." 
 
 " Why have you been looking at them ? * J 
 
 "I like them." 
 
 They arrived in the street. "I want number thirty- 
 six," said the doctor. 
 
 "That's ours," said the boy. 
 
 The doctor stopped. "What's your name?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "Hugh." 
 
 "And your surname?" 
 
 "Logan." 
 
 " How old are you ? " 
 
 "Ten." 
 
 The doctor walked on till they came to a lamp. He 
 stopped again. "Look up at me, laddie," he said. 
 In the flickering light of the gas he recognized this 
 shivering boy as the child of the mystery. A strange 
 emotion visited the old doctor's heart. He thought 
 of the handsome young father who had left him to 
 go to a prison; he thought of the mother who was 
 probably dying at that very moment. And here, 
 holding his hand, was the child. After a brief 
 scrutiny, he said, "You're the boy." 
 
 "I've done nothing wrong," answered the child. 
 
 When Ainslie knocked at the door of number 
 thirty-six, it was opened by a harsh-faced woman,
 
 24 THE CAGE 
 
 who no sooner saw the boy in a man's charge than 
 she turned round to the lighted room, and exclaimed 
 over her shoulder, "The young devil's been up to 
 mischief." 
 
 A man rose behind her, and there was a clatter of 
 children's feet on the floor. 
 
 "The boy has done no harm," said the doctor. 
 
 He stood in the entrance of the room, holding the 
 child's hand. 
 
 It was a working-man's kitchen small, low-roofed, 
 draughty, and stone-floored. A table was laid with 
 a rough supper in the middle of the room. An 
 oil-lamp with a tin reflector hung from one of the 
 walls. There was a fire in the grate. On the top 
 of the range a soot-blackened kettle was hissing 
 steam and the lid of a greasy saucepan was begin- 
 ning to heave and fall with a low bubbling sound, 
 emitting a pungent smell which reeked into the 
 room. 
 
 Seated at the table was a young man shabbily 
 dressed, but marked by education with unmistakable 
 signs of refinement. It was evident that this young 
 man was a lodger. As soon as he perceived the 
 doctor he rose hastily from his chair. The man 
 Logan had just begun to speak; the wife was frown- 
 ing at the visitor; the children were clamouring round 
 the group in the doorway. 
 
 "Mr. Logan," said the young man in a solemn 
 voice, standing in a dramatic attitude of repose, "this 
 is the great Dr. Ainslie." 
 
 Ainslie looked over the heads of the workman and
 
 HERITAGE 25 
 
 his wife, who at once stared their astonishment at the 
 visitor, and said to the young man, "I've seen you 
 before." 
 
 "My name, sir, is Ramsay M'Gavin," answered the 
 young man. 
 
 The doctor nodded. "I remember you very well. 
 I'm pleased to see you, Mr. M'Gavin." 
 
 He then removed his hat, and came further into the 
 room. "Mrs. Logan," he said, "if you'll kindly give 
 the laddie his supper, and get him to bed, I'll be 
 better able to talk to you and the goodman. I've 
 some business with you." Then, after a long study 
 of the boy's face, he turned to M'Gavin. 
 
 "I didn't know you were lodging in these parts, 
 Mr. M'Gavin." 
 
 "It's a very healthy locality, sir," answered the 
 young man, with a faint flush. 
 
 The doctor looked about him. "There's a kettle 
 boiling on the fire, Mr. M'Gavin," he said after a 
 pause. "If you've a bath on the premises, it would 
 be an admirable mixture to put the water in the bath, 
 add the boy, stir quickly with a good brush or a piece 
 of flannel, and then empty the boy into warm 
 blankets." 
 
 "I'll see to it, sir." 
 
 " I think his feet must be a little wet." 
 
 "It's verra likely, sir." 
 
 When the children had left the room, and while 
 their shoes could be heard clattering up the rickety 
 stairs, Ainslie explained to Logan and his wife that 
 he had come for the boy Hugh, come to take him
 
 26 THE CAGE 
 
 away. "I understand there's nothing owing," he 
 concluded. 
 
 "He's been well mithered, doctor," said the man, 
 who felt an instinctive fear of Ainslie. 
 
 "We've always treated him as one of our ain," said 
 the woman, not without challenge. 
 
 "You'll no doubt have done your best." 
 
 "But, doctor," said the woman suddenly, "how did 
 you know that Hughie was the one. He doesn't 
 know himself, and we've always called him a Logan." 
 
 "I recognized him," said the doctor, and fixed his 
 eyes on the woman. 
 
 "Ay," said the man Logan, "he was always differ- 
 ent from the others." 
 
 Before he took his departure, Ainslie paid a visit to 
 the room occupied by M* Gavin. It was a garret 
 under the slates, with a truckle bed in one corner, a 
 kitchen table in the window, a chest of drawers and 
 a washstand side by side against the wall near the 
 door. The table was crowded with books, and there 
 were books on the chest of drawers, the bed, and the 
 floor. A little brass lamp, a penny bottle of ink, a 
 sheet of blotting-paper, and several exercise books 
 were squeezed between the many piles of volumes 
 stacked upon the table. On the walls were two 
 pictures, one of Pasteur, the other of Lister. 
 
 The great doctor realized that here was a painful 
 and laborious student of medicine who knew infinitely 
 more than he knew about that science, and who would 
 yet never succeed. "M.D.," he thought to himself, 
 "will never mean Many Dinners for this poor lad."
 
 HERITAGE 27 
 
 Knowledge of human nature was wanting; the well- 
 stored brain lacked the synthesis of a personality. 
 He felt a father's pity for the young man. 
 
 Ramsay M* Gavin was one of many obscure young 
 men at the Royal Infirmary for whom Dr. Ainslie 
 provided. He was the son of a widow who had once 
 been a servant in the doctor's house. His first step 
 was to serve in Ainslie's dispensary and deliver 
 medicines at the houses of patients. The young 
 man's life since then had been one long effort to 
 justify the patronage of the great physician. Every 
 examination that he passed was to him a glory ; every 
 scholarship that he won was an ecstasy. "Dr. 
 Ainslie will hear of this," he used to say. He went 
 first to the University and then to the Infirmary. The 
 turning point in his career was the visit of Pasteur to 
 Edinburgh for the tercentenary of the University. 
 M' Gavin came under the spell of that very great man. 
 Ainslie was his providence ; Pasteur was his god. It 
 was from Ainslie he got the opportunity to become a 
 respectable professional man ; it was from Pasteur 
 he received the divine enthusiasm to be a man of 
 science. 
 
 "So you're lodging here?" asked Dr. Ainslie, 
 looking about him. "And your mother, Mr. 
 M* Gavin? Where is that grand woman?" 
 
 "Through your kindness, sir," replied the student, 
 whose heart was swelling at the thought that Robert 
 Ainslie stood in his room, "she's living in great 
 comfort in Peeblesshire." 
 
 "You're supporting her, no doubt?"
 
 28 THE CAGE 
 
 "Out of your bounty, sir." 
 
 The great doctor's thoughts went back to his 
 student days. "You'll be the better man for the 
 struggle, Mr. M'Gavin." 
 
 "I'm wanting for nothing, sir." 
 
 Dr. Ainslie thought for a moment. " Mr. M'Gavin," 
 he said, "I'm taking away the boy Hugh to-morrow. 
 He's not the son of these Logans. I happen to know 
 something about his antecedents. It occurs to me 
 that he might go to Portobello for a bit. Would it 
 suit your convenience to take charge of him ? Porto- 
 bello's a rare air for study." 
 
 "I am your servant, sir." 
 
 "You've observed the boy, I dare say," said the 
 doctor, after a pause. "What do you make of him, 
 Mr. M'Gavin?" 
 
 The student, with one of the dramatic gestures 
 which were quite natural to him, indicated his books. 
 "I've had no time, sir, for observation." 
 
 Dr. Ainslie thought to himself, "And that just 
 damns you, my poor boy, as a doctor." Aloud he 
 said, "He's been fairly treated on the whole, I 
 suppose ? " 
 
 "The Logans are decent people, sir. I've always 
 understood the boy was not precisely their own. 
 They have no doubt been hard on him occasionally. 
 But perhaps not without justice. He has a disposition 
 to go wandering about the streets, sir. He has played 
 the truant many a time. He's verra often late to his 
 meals." 
 
 Ainslie nodded his head. "Well, Mr. M'Gavin,"
 
 HERITAGE 29 
 
 he said, "may I ask you to say nothing to these people 
 as to the boy's destination, and to bring him to me 
 to-morrow at one o'clock ? " He put his hand in his 
 pocket and produced a bank-note. "If you'll be so 
 considerate as to provide him with a small wardrobe 
 and a carpet bag, I'll be greatly obliged to you." 
 
 The doctor took his departure. He gave the 
 Logans a couple of sovereigns, and told them that 
 Mr. M 'Gavin would take charge of the boy in the 
 morning. 
 
 "I've no doubt, sir," called the wife as he moved 
 to the street door, "that the laddie's mother is a rich 
 lady?" 
 
 "No, ma'am," he answered, "she's a dead woman." 
 
 As he made his lonely way to the tram, the old 
 doctor said to himself, "A dead woman 1 I know no 
 more of the boy than they do."
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THE TWO DESTINIES 
 
 MANY people in Portobello who can recall the latter 
 part of the 'eighties, may still remember the pretty 
 picture which was made winter and summer, in all 
 winds and weather, by two charming children stray- 
 ing together on the seashore. Their companionship 
 was so continual that it attracted attention ; the perfect 
 understanding which existed between them was so 
 amiable that it delighted the observer. The boy, 
 some three years the senior of the girl, was a slim, 
 vigorous, gracefully-made child, with dark hair, a 
 sun-burned, freckled face, and brown eyes remarkable 
 for their size and brilliance. He wore neither cap 
 to his head nor stockings to his feet, and was usually 
 dressed in a blue jersey, flannel knickerbockers, and 
 sandshoes. The little girl, who was much shorter 
 and plumper, had black hair, grey eyes, and a skin 
 that was almost golden. She wore in summer a Zulu 
 hat, which was more often in her hand or hanging 
 down her back than on her head, and cotton frocks, 
 pink or pale blue, with a girdle round the waist. In 
 winter she was generally seen in a brown jersey and 
 a brown skirt, with a knitted cap pressed close over 
 
 30
 
 THE TWO DESTINIES 31 
 
 her head. She, too, winter and summer, went bare- 
 legged. 
 
 The beautiful intimacy of these two children, who 
 would often stray so far away on the lonely sands 
 that they looked like specks in the distance, was 
 presided over by a little old lady and a grave young 
 man, who sat together on a bench facing the sea, 
 each with a book. Occasionally, two or three times 
 a week, perhaps, these guardians would be joined by 
 a heavily built and severe-looking old man, who, 
 greeting them and telling them to stay where they 
 were, would stride away across the sands, like one in 
 a vast hurry, and make his way to the children. 
 Residents in Portobello recognized this visitor and 
 pointed him out to their friends. "That is the great 
 Dr. Ainslie of Edinburgh," they would say, with 
 something of the pride of possession. 
 
 Dr. Ainslie had placed the boy Hugh under the 
 care of Ramsay M' Gavin in a house close to the sea, 
 occupied by the widow of a medical man whom he had 
 long befriended. He gave the boy the name of 
 Napier, under which his mother had lived when he 
 first visited her. On the mother's grave in Edinburgh 
 cemetery, to which he took the boy, was the name of 
 Mary Napier, and the date of her death. "You must 
 be proud of your mother," he said, standing there 
 with a hand resting on the boy's shoulder; and then 
 he added in a tone of voice which Napier never for- 
 got, "Your mother was a loyal woman; a brave 
 woman; a good woman." Hugh was told that he 
 had been placed under the care of the Logans at
 
 32 THE CAGE 
 
 Leith because of a great sorrow which took his father 
 away from Edinburgh and made it necessary for his 
 mother to live alone. "You need not talk of these 
 things to any one," said the doctor, watching the 
 boy's brown eyes, "but you must remember them; 
 and if your father comes back, you must tell him 
 that you are proud of your mother." 
 
 The rapid change made in the boy's appearance 
 by cleanly habits, wholesome food, and the bracing 
 air of Portobello, satisfied the observant doctor, and 
 having assured himself that the boy was a good boy 
 and clean-minded, he sent Mrs. Dobson and Anne to 
 take up their quarters with Ramsay M* Gavin and 
 Hugh Napier in the widow's house. He saw that 
 the streets of Edinburgh were not good for his child, 
 that the solitude of her nursery was beginning to 
 depress her; he spoke to his wife, made his request 
 to Mrs. Dobson, and the change was effected. Anne 
 went to Portobello for a few weeks, and stayed there 
 for all the impressionable years of her childhood. 
 
 It was at this period that Dr. Ainslie, seeing the 
 solitude of his wife and being frankly addressed on 
 the subject by Mrs. Dobson, made an ampler allow- 
 ance for household expenses, a generosity which per- 
 mitted Mrs. Ainslie to consolidate her position in 
 Edinburgh society. She gave a musical afternoon 
 once a fortnight, entertained eight or ten guests to 
 dinner once a week, and, arrayed in fashionable 
 millinery, made a distinguished figure in the 
 Assembly Rooms and in the drawing-rooms of such 
 plutocrats as the Patons.
 
 THE TWO DESTINIES 33 
 
 While the mother, with an ever-increasing excite- 
 ment, adventured further and further into the distrac- 
 tions of the polite world, the daughter, straying at 
 the side of Hugh Napier along the Portobello sands, 
 with 
 
 "The delight of the wind in her eyes 
 And the hand of the wind in her hair," 
 
 entered the enchanted world of a child's friendship 
 that exquisite Eden from which the flaming sword of 
 maturity too soon drives us forth. 
 
 The temperaments of these two children were as 
 distinct as their sex. Napier was keen and vivid, with 
 a boy's love of daring, a boy's delight in action and 
 accomplishment. Anne was practical, with a girl's 
 receptiveness for the breathings and glances of nature, 
 with a quiet sense of the ridiculous. But their com- 
 munion was perfect. He, with his high talk of the 
 things he meant to do in life and his impatience of 
 Ramsay M* Gavin's tedious lessons, was never so 
 loquacious and never so happy in being loquacious 
 as when he walked with this little girl, who carried a 
 doll in her arms, kept her eye upon the tea-hour, and 
 who would sometimes stop him to say : "Isn't that a 
 lovely cloud ? " 
 
 He was friendly with boatmen and fishermen. He 
 liked to sit on the side of a boat against which sailors 
 were leaning their broad backs, listening to their 
 talk. While he was so engaged, Anne sat on the 
 sand, with her doll in her lap, her eyes gazing out 
 to sea, her lips murmuring soft words to a dulcet 
 lilt. He would come back to her t throw himself down
 
 34 THE CAGE 
 
 at her side, and plunging his fists into the thin sand, 
 say : " I should like to have a boat. But these men 
 don't know much. You see real sailors at Leith." 
 
 She understood him perfectly. His ways were not 
 her ways, but she could see things with his eyes. 
 A boy, she felt, ought to sail a boat, ought to wish 
 to be a fisherman, ought to talk about the business 
 of the sea rather than of the sea itself. She admired 
 him for the swiftness of his paces, for the strength of 
 his little arms, for his wonderful knowledge of ships 
 and their gear. When he made fun of her doll's 
 house, her tea-set, her cooking-stove, and her habit 
 of putting her dolls to bed, she liked it and smiled 
 at him. 
 
 There was nothing sentimental in their friendship. 
 They came down to breakfast, the freshness of early 
 morning in their veins, not only to eat, but to banter 
 each other, to argue, even to quarrel. Later in the 
 morning when Anne was dismissed by her governess 
 and Hugh by Mr. M'Gavin, they would compare 
 notes of what they had learned, Hugh grumbling 
 at the dullness of his task and Anne championing the 
 cause of learning. When they lay on the sands, 
 after their bathe in the sea, eating water biscuits, 
 which made a great many crumbs in their laps, Hugh 
 would be silent and turn over on his side if Anne 
 talked. And in the afternoon, when they met again 
 for delightful hours on the sands, their companion- 
 ship would begin with a certain amount of roughness 
 and disputation. Hugh would snatch her doll from 
 her hands, and run away with it ; or take her up in his
 
 THE TWO DESTINIES 35 
 
 arms and pretend to push her in the sea; or tease 
 her for being a good girl who never dirtied her pina- 
 fore, and who sapped at her lessons. Or, he would 
 stray away from her, and join groups of fishermen, 
 and forget that she was waiting for him alone on the 
 sands. 
 
 But their real relationship to each other manifested 
 itself when the pulses quieted towards the evening. 
 Then it was, quite unconsciously, that Hugh would 
 put his arm round her neck as they dragged their 
 feet homewards, and talk to her as freely as he 
 talked to his own soul. Then it was that gentleness 
 existed between them and all the pretty seriousness 
 of childhood. The games of the day were over, the 
 quarrels forgotten, the banter exhausted. The hand- 
 some boy, with his arm round the little girl's neck, 
 his eyes on the sand before him, his feet kicking 
 lazily at pebbles, starfish, or shell of hermit crab, 
 would speak about his future in which Anne was 
 always to have a place. "I shall be an engineer at 
 Paton's," he would say; "and I shall live in Porto- 
 bello, and have a boat here, and I'll take you sailing 
 alone, and we'll catch fish and bring them home for 
 our tea; and when my holidays come we'll go on a 
 big ship to foreign countries, and see the West 
 Indies." And if she ever asked about his life at 
 Leith he would tell her of Paton's Engineering Works 
 the noise of hammering on steel, the row of 
 monster furnaces, the incredible strength of gigantic 
 cranes, the grinding, buzzing, and hammering of 
 
 innumerable turning wheels. He would tell her of 
 
 D a
 
 36 THE CAGE 
 
 the immense piers, the vast docks, of ships from Hol- 
 land, and Germany, and Russia; of the real sailors 
 he had talked with in those mighty docks. He spoke 
 of his foster-father to mention his immense strength. 
 His foster-mother, he used to say, was very strict 
 with him. If Anne asked about the children of those 
 parents, Hugh would speak of the strength of the 
 boys, and tell her how they fought other boys. He 
 never breathed a word concerning the poverty of that 
 home. Leith for him was the gate to the sea. The 
 Logan household faded more and more in his mind as 
 only a grey and unnecessary background to the docks, 
 the pier, the shipping and the sea. 
 
 When they went to Edinburgh on half-holidays 
 Anne liked to go to Cumming's Bazaar in Cockburn 
 Street; Hugh preferred Lennie, in Princes Street, 
 the optician who sold engines and all manner of 
 mechanical toys. If they went to Robert Grant's 
 book-shop in Princes Street, or to Andrew Elliott's, 
 they drifted to different shelves, Hugh in quest of 
 adventure books, Anne in search of romance. It was 
 only at Vallance's sweet-shop in Hanover Street that 
 they manifested a common taste; Edinburgh Rock 
 united them. 
 
 Anne noticed that Hugh had great influence with 
 her father. One day the doctor met them and asked 
 if they were happy. "I should like a pony," Hugh 
 had answered. The two children had seen the Eng- 
 lish cavalry regiment from Jock's Lodge exercising 
 their horses on the sand, and the sight had made a 
 great impression on the boy. The doctor said that
 
 THE TWO DESTINIES 37 
 
 they should have a pony between them. "Father 
 gives you whatever you ask for," Anne said to 
 him that evening. "He's jolly kind," answered 
 Hugh. 
 
 The pony was a great pleasure to them, but while 
 Hugh soon tired of riding and returned to his affec- 
 tion for ships, Anne loved the little shaggy creature 
 for itself, and paid many visits to its big loose-box 
 where it looked no larger than a mouse with 
 sugar and chopped carrot. The pony would follow 
 her about. Hugh said it was not a real horse ; it was 
 more like a pet lamb. 
 
 There was one incident in their childhood which 
 Hugh never told to Anne. She was amazed one day 
 as they walked on the sand to hear him say to her 
 under his breath, "That boy wants to fight me." A 
 group of dirty little boys, familiar enough on these 
 sands, had just gone by; Anne had scarcely noticed 
 them. "Why should he want to fight you?" she 
 asked. "I know he does," Hugh answered. The 
 two boys had never spoken to each other; they had 
 merely passed a dozen times, perhaps, and looked into 
 each other's eyes. The spontaneous enmities of boys 
 are not to be explained. 
 
 One evening Mrs. Dobson asked Hugh to take a 
 letter to the post. On his way home he came sud- 
 denly upon his little enemy of the sands. He was 
 accompanied by a much bigger boy, a youth, almost 
 a young man. As they approached Hugh, the boy 
 pointed at him with his finger and spoke to his com- 
 panion. Hugh felt his heart begin to beat hard and
 
 38 THE CAGE 
 
 was troubled in his breathing; he kept close to the 
 wall, and came on at a slower pace. When they were 
 quite close, the young man suddenly stepped in front 
 of Hugh and stopped his progress with a menacing 
 attitude perfectly terrible to the lonely boy. Then this 
 bully turned to the smaller boy, his companion, and 
 said, " Go on ; hit him ! " At this the little boy came 
 forward, he was about the same size as Hugh, and 
 hit him suddenly a stinging blow on the mouth ; after 
 that he ran away, and the big boy covered his flight, 
 scowling down on Hugh, but without speaking a 
 word. The tears rushed to Hugh's eyes; his lips, 
 which were numb from the blow, began to quiver ; he 
 stood there, shaking all over, miserable, defeated, and 
 afraid. When the big boy moved away, which he 
 did very slowly at first, looking back over his shoulder 
 at Hugh with the same terrible menace in his scowling 
 eyes, Hugh, manfully fighting his sobs, continued 
 his way with hanging head and choking rage in his 
 heart. There is scarcely anything more shattering 
 to a high-spirited boy than to feel that he has played 
 the coward. 
 
 He never told Anne of this incident. It became 
 one of the secrets of his life. He was glum and sullen 
 for several days after, and told Dr. Ainslie that he 
 should like to go to school. He felt ashamed of being 
 seen in the streets of Portobello, with the memory of 
 that blow on his lips. He thought that every lad 
 who looked at him must know about it. 
 
 One day as he and Anne were returning from a walk 
 on the sands, the little girl was first astonished and
 
 THE TWO DESTINIES 39 
 
 then terrified to see Hugh spring suddenly forward 
 from her side and rush towards a group of little boys 
 who were walking home with nets and bottles of fish. 
 Into this group rushed the furious Hugh, very white 
 of face and trembling in every limb. He got in front 
 of one of the boys and shouted to him, in a thick 
 voice which shook with nervous excitement, "Come 
 on ! Hit me, now ! I dare you I " 
 
 Anne felt as if the world were coming to an end. 
 She stood where he had left her. The sky was going 
 round; the sands were in commotion. Then she gave 
 a little cry and clutched her doll tight to her breast. 
 Hugh was fighting. He looked like a devil. 
 
 The fight ended quickly. Down went the enemy 
 of Hugh, bellowing and bleeding, and the other boys, 
 stooping over him, shouted in a loud and terrifying 
 chorus, each shaking and wagging a threatening bare 
 hand at the victor, "I'll tell my father of you ! " 
 
 Hugh walked away, and Anne ran after him. 
 " Why did you fight like that ? " she exclaimed. 
 
 "He cheeked me," rejoined Hugh, breathing hard. 
 
 Warned by the now satisfied boy not to say a word 
 about this matter either to Mrs. Dobson or her father, 
 Anne kept the terrible memory in her heart. She 
 often lived the scene over again as she lay in bed 
 with her doll nestled against her breast. It was a 
 memory which made her suspicious of boys. She 
 thought it was horrible. She felt that Hugh was a 
 hero, but wicked. She always now hurried him away 
 from groups of boys on the sands. She told him that 
 if he fought again she should run home.
 
 40 THE CAGE 
 
 The chief personal influence on Anne's character 
 was not Hugh, and not her governess, but the grand- 
 mother who adored this charming little girl. Mrs. 
 Dobson was about the same age as her son-in-law, 
 that is to say, she was in the neighbourhood of sixty. 
 Her appearance was remarkable. She was extremely 
 small, under five feet, with a well-shaped, intellectual 
 head something too large for her body, and a strong, 
 sweet, brown face, which while it was intensely 
 feminine had yet the intellectual agility and the mascu- 
 line spirituality which one associates with a scholarly 
 ecclesiastic. Instead of the little lace cap which 
 covered the iron-grey hair worn in two swelling wings 
 over the ears, one wanted to see the scarlet cap of a 
 cardinal. The brow was high and bold; the eyes 
 dark grey ringed with pale blue; the nose aquiline; 
 the lips thin and firm; the chin long and gentle. 
 The colour of her skin was almost of gypsy brown, 
 and the wrinkles, which were numerous, had all the 
 fineness of a spider's web. 
 
 This delightful little old lady spent her days be- 
 tween literature and music. She played Mendels- 
 sohn, Beethoven, Chopin and Schubert. She read 
 biographies and novels. Her memory was very good. 
 She could remember vividly, and describe with anima- 
 tion incidents in her childhood and books which she 
 had read as a girl. She spoke French very prettily, 
 and could read a little German. She never did any 
 needlework, and was not in the least interested in 
 flowers. For the sea she had a great aversion. She 
 said that she preferred its ozone to its company. Her
 
 THE TWO DESTINIES 41 
 
 views as regards nature were very much those of Dr. 
 Johnson. 
 
 The mind of this little dry old woman was exceed- 
 ingly active and playful. She had the serenity of a 
 comic spirit. Whatever humanity was about, it 
 amused her. She expressed neither disdain nor anger 
 for her aversions, she laughed at them. People were 
 always merry in her company. She bantered Mr. 
 Ramsay M' Gavin on his devotion to Pasteur. She 
 laughed at Hugh for his blunders in the humanities 
 and his friendships with fishermen. She teased the 
 widow-landlady by hiding her knitting needles or 
 pinning the lawn streamers of her cap to an antima- 
 cassar. She amused herself by arguing about politics 
 with Anne's governess, a lady who established in 
 her own mind a correlation between the strictest 
 interpretation of Christianity and the most intol- 
 erant conservatism of privilege. It was only to 
 Anne herself that the old lady showed any mothering 
 tenderness. 
 
 From Mrs. Dobson, not from her governess, Anne 
 received a taste for reading and music. She would 
 stand by the piano while the old lady's withered hands 
 moved over the keys, watching the smiling face which 
 reflected the sweetness of the music. She practised 
 with the hope of one day being able to play like her 
 grandmother. Then they read aloud to each other; 
 the grandmother in a straight-backed arm-chair, the 
 child on a stool at her feet. When Anne mispro- 
 nounced a long word, the grandmother smiled, 
 laughed gently, and correcting her^ bent down to kiss
 
 42 THE CAGE 
 
 the little face upturned to her with a child's shame of 
 a fault. 
 
 But Anne received something more from her grand- 
 mother than a taste for music and a taste for read- 
 ing. She caught the active and energetic spirit of 
 the old lady's disposition. Anne had the slightest 
 of stammers, a nervous hesitancy over words begin- 
 ning with a hard consonant. "You must fight that 
 habit," said Mrs. Dobson; "it is as bad as tippling. 
 Tighten up your will. Say to yourself, / can; 1 
 will!" If Anne asked her how to spell a word, the 
 old lady told her to hunt it up in the dictionary. She 
 was for ever educating the child to be self-dependent. 
 Hugh found his old companion less disposed for the 
 frolics of early morning, and more unwilling for the 
 quarrelsome arguments of the afternoon. "Let's be 
 sensible," was one of her phrases. He was amazed 
 presently to find that she laughed at him for being a 
 dunce. When she preferred sitting with her grand- 
 mother to going a walk with him on the sands, he 
 felt the insufficiency of the feminine sex. He wanted 
 a boy friend. 
 
 At last something like a separation occurred. Hugh 
 went to school in Edinburgh, and his evenings were 
 spent with Ramsay M' Gavin preparing his home- 
 work. The children only saw each other on half- 
 holidays, which they sometimes spent together on the 
 sea; where Hugh, with his hand on the tiller, was 
 far too occupied in talking to the fisherman who held 
 the main-sheet to take notice of Anne. 
 
 Ramsay M' Gavin had now taken his degree and
 
 THE TWO DESTINIES 43 
 
 another brass plate, which made his bosom swell with 
 pride every time he beheld it, was at last fixed to the 
 iron gate of the dead doctor's house. But M* Gavin 
 earned more money as Hugh's tutor than he did as 
 a doctor. People did not send for him; his circle of 
 acquaintance was small; the influence of Dr. Ainslie 
 was not exerted in his behalf. The poor fellow^ with 
 his immense knowledge of medicine, had the mortifi- 
 cation of sitting in his room waiting for patients who 
 never came. When a case did fall into his hands, 
 he filled a note-book with his comments and made 
 a fresh study of the authorities with critical marginalia 
 sufficient to fill a volume. 
 
 Hugh Napier went to the university. He had 
 grown away from Anne, and was entirely devoted to 
 his dawning manhood. He had high spirits, great 
 pluck, and the blood ran hot in his veins. Among 
 his acquaintances was the son and heir of Paton, the 
 engineer. They both played football ; they were both 
 fond of the sea. This acquaintance never became a 
 real friendship. Dick Paton was rich, his friends 
 were the sons of rich men, and he was older than 
 Hugh. He hated work; he was famous for adven- 
 tures in the streets of Edinburgh; he boasted of the 
 whisky he could drink ; he told stories which were not 
 nice. But Napier, who had a clean and healthy mind, 
 was drawn to him because he represented Paton 's 
 Engineering Works, and because he possessed a small 
 yacht and knew a good deal about sailing. They 
 visited the works together, and went for an occasional 
 cruise. Napier also met Paton at Dr. Ainslie's house
 
 44 THE CAGE 
 
 in Darnaway Street on Sunday afternoons, where 
 Mrs. Paton, the mother, was a constant visitor. 
 
 One day Paton said to Hugh, inspired by his 
 mother to ask the question, "Are you any relation 
 of Lord Napier?" 
 
 "No," said Hugh. 
 
 " It's not a common name. What's your father ? " 
 
 It was the first question of the kind ever addressed 
 to Hugh. "He's abroad," he answered. 
 
 He noticed that Paton avoided him after this; he 
 also noticed that other students began to look at him 
 in an odd way. Paton had spread the story. "Did 
 you ever know a man," he asked, "who described his 
 father's profession as being abroad ! " 
 
 Hugh Napier grew sensitive. At this time he was 
 a good-looking boy, tall, slim, square-shouldered, 
 with a wonderful lightness of limb and great swiftness 
 of movement. He was really immensely strong, and 
 his constitution was that of a workman. He played 
 games with a hot earnestness. He hated to be beaten. 
 In social slippered hours he was cheerful and inclined 
 to quiet laughter. Sensitiveness was something new 
 to him. He tried to fight it. He sought the society 
 of fellow-students. He discovered that he was less 
 self-conscious with Anne than with these men. She 
 was now living in Darnaway Street, and he saw her 
 there on many occasions. Now and then they would 
 make excursions by tram to Portobello, and go over 
 the ground of their childhood, sailing on the sea in 
 the very boat of their old cruises. Anne learned to 
 take the tiller to help the boat in a gybe, to keep her
 
 THE TWO DESTINIES 45 
 
 in the wind. "You'll make a first-rate sailor," Napier 
 told her. 
 
 It happened once that when they returned from 
 one of these outings, the servant in Darnaway Street 
 fold Hugh that Dr. Ainslie wished to see him in the 
 consulting-room immediately. A cab was waiting at 
 the door, and Hugh instantly connected this mes- 
 sage with the vehicle. He left Anne at the foot of 
 the stairs, and went forward to the doctor's room 
 with a feeling of crisis in his heart. 
 
 He found there an old lady in black, who wore a 
 very dark veil over her face. Dr. Ainslie was sitting 
 at his table, his hands in his lap, his grave eyes fixed 
 upon Napier. 
 
 "You sent for me, sir?" said Hugh. 
 
 The doctor turned to the old lady. "This is the 
 young man," he said. 
 
 She rose from her chair, and placing one of her 
 hands on Hugh's arm, said in a gentle voice, "Come 
 to the window, will you ? " and led him forward. She 
 stood in front of him, her back to the window, and 
 studied his face, which was very pale. Hugh felt 
 her fingers working against his arm, and behind her 
 heavy veil caught sight of her eyes shining darkly. 
 
 "Yes," she said, "he is rather like." Then, letting 
 her hand drop from his arm, she said more briskly, 
 looking up at him, squaring her shoulders a little, 
 her hands crossed in front of her, "Well, Mr. Napier, 
 what do you want to be ? " 
 
 He kept silence, too surprised by the question to 
 think.
 
 46 THE CAGE 
 
 "Come," she said, "what profession do you wish to 
 follow?" 
 
 Still he was silent. 
 
 "You've got tastes, I suppose; wishes, inclinations. 
 What are they ? " 
 
 "I should like to go to sea," he said. 
 
 "To sea I You're too old for the Navy." 
 
 "I'm fond of the sea," he answered, shifting his 
 position. "I shouldn't mind how I went to it." 
 
 " Would you like to emigrate ? " 
 
 "I don't think so." 
 
 "People are very happy in Canada, and New Zea- 
 land, and places like that." 
 
 He was silent. 
 
 "Why wouldn't you like to make a start in a young 
 country ? " she asked, putting her hand on his arm 
 again, and moving it gently up and down. 
 
 "I don't know," he answered, and glanced at the 
 doctor. 
 
 "You're fond of the sea? y 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well, we must think about it. I'm not sure that 
 it is not a good idea. The merchant service is a 
 vigorous career for a young man." 
 
 She stood looking at him for some time in silence, 
 and then she walked back with him to her chair beside 
 the doctor's table, her hand still on Hugh's arm. 
 
 " Will you leave us for a moment ? " she said, and 
 Dr. Ainslie got up and went from the room. 
 
 The old lady stood in front of Hugh, a hand on 
 each of his arms, and looked up at him.
 
 THE TWO DESTINIES 47 
 
 "I will do what I can to make you happy," she 
 said. "I will help you. Tell me, now, if you have 
 been happy here ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Dr. Ainslie has been good and kind to you?" 
 
 "Oh, yes; very kind." 
 
 "And nothing has troubled you?" She waited. 
 " Why don't you answer ? " 
 
 "Well," he said, and hesitated. 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "I don't know who you are?" He laughed quite 
 frankly. 
 
 "I am an old friend of your family. You can tell 
 me everything." 
 
 Hugh became serious again. "Well," he said 
 slowly, "I should like to know who my father is. 
 That troubles me." 
 
 " People have asked you ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 The old lady considered. "Tell them that your 
 father is dead," she said quietly. 
 
 " Is he ? " Hugh asked, looking at the eyes behind 
 the veil. 
 
 "No," she answered. 
 
 "Shall I never see him?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "You cannot tell me why?" 
 
 "He has disgraced himself." 
 
 "Oughtn't I," Hugh asked, after a pause, "to be 
 with him, helping him, perhaps?" 
 
 She shook her head. Something in the handsome
 
 48 THE CAGE 
 
 boy's face touched her. "I will tell you something. 
 I am the mother of your father. He is my youngest 
 son. I once loved him more than all his brothers. 
 And he has broken my heart. You don't know what 
 that means. I pray God that you never may. It 
 is more than a phrase. Now, listen. Never try to 
 discover your father's identity. It means grief and 
 ruin for you. Be content with your present name. 
 Make your own life. Live it out like a man." She 
 pressed her hands closer to his arms. "And now kiss 
 me? " she said. 
 
 He stooped his head, and kissed her through the 
 veil. He could see that the dark eyes behind the veil 
 were wet with tears. 
 
 He went out, strangely shaken, and Dr. Ainslie 
 returned to the room. 
 
 For some weeks Napier lived an intensely lonely 
 life, keeping away from his friends, and staying away 
 from lectures. His high spirits deserted him. He 
 realized his place in society. The grave of his mother 
 in that beautiful Edinburgh cemetery which lies 
 beyond the Botanic Gardens haunted his thoughts 
 and filled his imagination with cruel reflections on 
 his origin. He was a man under the law, but un- 
 acknowledged by the law. The love passion of his 
 father and mother had become his crime. Man, as 
 well as God, visits the sins of the fathers upon the 
 children. Society asked him whence he came : he 
 could not answer. Religion, taking into sheltering 
 arms the lawful children of love to mark them with 
 the salvation of Mary's Son, frowned darkly upon
 
 THE TWO DESTINIES 49 
 
 this unlawful son of love. He could never enter freely 
 the ways of men ; never find an abiding place in their 
 homes. The most innocent question would disclose 
 his shame; the lightest word bring hot blood to his 
 brow. He was different. A man like unto other 
 men, he found himself an outlaw of society. The 
 most stinging word in the dictionary was his title. 
 
 He met Paton one day, who stopped him in the 
 street, and said, " I hear you are going away, Napier ; 
 is that true ? " 
 
 "I'm thinking of it." 
 
 "Oh, I'm sorry. We shall miss you. Where are 
 you going ? to look for your father ? " 
 
 "What do you mean ? " asked Napier, very quietly. 
 
 "You told me he was abroad t " answered Paton. 
 "Don't you remember?" 
 
 This encounter kept Napier away from the house 
 in Darnaway Street, where Paton was now a constant 
 visitor. He walked often along the Queen's Drive 
 and climbed to Arthur's Seat; or wandered to the top 
 of Calton Hill and, looking northward, rested his 
 troubled gaze upon the mist-wreathed peak of Ben 
 Lomond, swimming like a cloud above the haze of the 
 sea. It was to the sea that his eyes looked most hope- 
 fully the unfenced, churchless and triumphant sea, 
 which is supreme in its freedom from the little tyran- 
 nies of humanity ; the great sea promised him all that 
 his fellow-man refused. It would ask him no ques- 
 tions ; would care nothing for his origin ; and it would 
 call out in him all those qualities of his character 
 which witnessed to a full manhood. Out there in 
 
 B
 
 5d THE CAGE 
 
 the heave of trie great dark waters and the rush and 
 music of the winds there was solitude with labour, 
 labour with delight, and delight with adventure. To 
 be still, to abide in a city, to hang on the skirts of little 
 groups, coteries, and families this was impossible. 
 The sea called with the cheerful voice of adventure. 
 The very thought of it revived his high spirits. 
 
 One day he received a letter from Dr. Ainslie tell- 
 ing him to call in Darnaway Street. The time had 
 come for Hugh to take his life into his own hands. 
 Dr. Ainslie had said to his wife, "I see young Paton 
 with Anne a great deal. There must be nothing of 
 that kind. His father died a drunkard. The young 
 man is making a bad start. You must keep Anne 
 from any attachment there, as you would keep her 
 from infection." 
 
 "But she must see men," Mrs. Ainslie had returned, 
 "it would not do for her to see only this mysterious 
 young Napier." That remark had set the doctor 
 thinking. 
 
 Hugh presented himself, and the great physician 
 noticed a change in him. "What is the matter with 
 you ? " he asked. 
 
 "My parents," answered Napier. 
 
 The doctor spoke brave and sincere words to him. 
 "And now," he concluded, "what I advise you to do 
 is to take your degree don't be beaten by the 
 University and then travel. Travel will do you good. 
 If you like, Ramsay M* Gavin could go with you. 
 He can do nothing in Portobello, and he is waiting 
 now to purchase a practice in England. If you like,
 
 THE TWO DESTINIES 51 
 
 you can have his company. If not, go alone. See 
 the world. Move with men of other nations. Observe 
 and reflect. Form your judgments, and be interested 
 in the human race. You will have means enough to 
 travel at your leisure. Your mother saved some 
 money for you, and your father left with me a sum 
 of money which has accumulated, and now represents, 
 with the other, an income of eighty pounds a year. 
 The lady whom you saw here the other day " 
 
 "My father's mother?" 
 
 "She told you then? Well, yes; your grand- 
 mother; she has placed in my hands certain stock 
 which will increase this income to three hundred 
 pounds a year. You can draw on the Royal Bank 
 for that amount, and they will receive your dividends 
 for you. There is a sum of a hundred pounds stand- 
 ing to your credit, on which you can draw for making 
 a start in life. If anything should happen to me and 
 you should need legal advice at any time you can 
 call upon David Caverton, Writer to the Signet, in 
 St. Andrew Square. Keep him informed of your 
 movements. Mr. Caverton knows what I know about 
 you, what Mrs. Ainslie, Mrs. Dobson and Anne know 
 about you that you are the son of a patient of mine 
 who is dead, and whose relations in England are 
 disposed to be kind to you. They know this, and 
 nothing more." The old man, who had spoken with 
 the precision and coldness of a lawyer, rose from his 
 chair. He stood looking at Napier with grave, ques- 
 tioning eyes, the corners of his lips firmly depressed. 
 Then he slowly extended his hand, which Napier took 
 
 B 2
 
 52 THE CAGE 
 
 mechanically. "Remember," said the doctor, holding 
 his hand, "you are a man. You were born like every 
 other man. In the sight of God you are one with 
 the rest of the world. Nothing can make a human 
 being illegitimate. Keep your head up; look men 
 in the face; do something with your life." 
 
 Napier looked up with a quick and merry smile, 
 which reminded the doctor of the boy's bright child- 
 hood in Portobello. The money had changed the 
 colour of his horizon. "I'll do my best, sir," he 
 said. "I certainly don't mean to mope. At the same 
 time, I am different ; and different I shall have to be to 
 the end of my chapter. For instance " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Suppose, just suppose," said Napier slowly, and 
 quite diffidently, but with an amused smile, "that I 
 was " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Well, that I was in love with Miss Ainslie," he 
 said, with a laugh. He looked towards the window. 
 "It is a pure hypothesis. But you see what I mean, 
 sir?" 
 
 He looked quickly at the doctor, and then looked 
 away again. He disengaged his hand. He half- 
 turned to the door. "No, sir," he said, "I realize that 
 I am different. But I'm in good spirits. I'm glad 
 of this money. I know what I shall do. I shall buy 
 a boat and go a cruise. A degree is useless to me. 
 I shan't stay in Edinburgh. I shan't trouble cities 
 very much. But I should like sometimes to come back 
 and see you. I want to do that. I should pass my
 
 THE TWO DESTINIES 53 
 
 father in the street without recognizing him; I'd go 
 to the ends of the earth to do your bidding. You've 
 been splendid to me. I owe you everything, except 
 my doubtful origin." 
 
 He walked to the door, Ainslie at his side. The 
 doctor held out his hand once more. The boy, taking 
 that strong hand looked up again into the austere, 
 pale face of the big old man, and again uttered his 
 farewell and his gratitude. He knew the doctor hated 
 flattery, and concluded with a smile, "In my father's 
 name, which I don't know, and in my own, I thank 
 you, sir, for all your goodness." 
 
 "God bless you, Hugh Napier," said the doctor 
 slowly. Then he added, "Don't lose sight of us. 
 Come here whenever you wish." 
 
 Napier said to himself, as he walked past the Queen 
 Street Gardens, "That man loves me, but he would 
 not let me marry his daughter ! " This thought stuck 
 in his mind. It did not promise well for the future. 
 But he was in high spirits. He could get to sea. 
 
 He paid a visit to Ramsay M 'Gavin, and found that 
 solemn man overseeing a workman, who was remov- 
 ing the brass plate from the iron railings of the house. 
 "Through Dr. Ainslie's bounty," said M 'Gavin, 
 "I'm purchasing a verra decent practice in a place 
 called Borhaven on the Norfolk coast. You must 
 come on a visit to me, Hugh ; if you've the time and 
 the inclination." He produced with slow dignity a 
 visiting-card on which was printed, not engraved, 
 "Dr. Ramsay M'Gavin, M.D., M.A. Edin., Church 
 House, Borhaven! Norfolk."
 
 54 THE CAGE 
 
 Here at least was a friend. Napier was surprised 
 to find himself grateful for the existence of a man who 
 had once teased his life. He put it down to his high 
 spirits ; placed the card in his pocket-book and thought 
 no more about it. 
 
 One day, towards the end of his preparations, 
 Napier paid a last visit to his mother's grave. As he 
 drew near to the familiar spot he was startled to see 
 a beautiful wreath of white and violet flowers resting 
 on the stone. He approached the grave, and bending 
 down saw a card attached to the flowers, on which was 
 written in a masculine hand the one word, "Souvenir," 
 followed by the initial "A." 
 
 He felt an overmastering conviction that his father 
 had visited the grave. His heart began to beat 
 rapidly. His lungs became oppressed. He raised his 
 head from the grave and looked about him, to the 
 north, to the south, to the east, to the west. There 
 were groups of people scattered over this garden of 
 graves ; a man in shirt-sleeves was wheeling a barrow, 
 laden with grave-diggers' tools, over some planks 
 which led from grave to gravel path; a widow was 
 weeding a patch of flowers ; two children were running 
 down one of the paths, calling to each other. 
 
 The father whom he would pass in the street, had 
 visited this place, was now somewhere within the little 
 radius of Edinburgh for the flowers were quite fresh 
 and the son could not reach him. 
 
 That evening he went to Dr. Ainslie's house. The 
 servant asked him to go to the drawing-room. He 
 hesitated, thinking that he should ask to see the doctor
 
 THE TWO DESTINIES 55 
 
 alone. Then he thought that he might as well say 
 good-bye to the other members of the family, and 
 went up the stairs. 
 
 The Patons were there. Mrs. Paton sat with Mrs. 
 Ainslie on a sofa near the windows. Mrs. Dobson 
 was playing a game of cribbage with the doctor. 
 "I'm not supposed to be very well," said Ainslie; 
 "this is Mrs. Dobson's prescription; homoeopathic! " 
 Anne was seated at the piano, not playing, but look- 
 ing over a volume of music which Dick Paton was 
 holding in his hand, turning the leaves and saying, 
 "Oh, sing this; I like this; this is a jolly thing; a 
 stunner; do sing it." 
 
 Napier had come to ask the doctor about his father, 
 to tell him about the flowers on the grave. The scene 
 in the drawing-room, a scene of comfortable family 
 life, put the thought out of his head. 
 
 He said that he had come to say good-bye; that 
 he was going down to Lowestoft in a day or two's 
 time to look at a boat; and that he would do some 
 cruising before he returned. "Lowestoft," said the 
 doctor; "M'Gavin's down in that neighbourhood, 
 somewhere thereabouts." 
 
 He only stayed for half-an-hour ; but just before 
 he rose to go there was an incident which delayed 
 his departure. Mrs. Dobson suddenly exclaimed, 
 "Why, Robert, what's the matter with you?" Anne 
 hastened with a little cry to her father's side. Every- 
 body got up. "Ring the bell, Hugh," said Mrs. 
 Ainslie. The doctor, who was very white, with a 
 thick perspiration on his forehead, and his chin hang-
 
 56 THE CAGE 
 
 ing a little, said in a resolute voice t "Put me to bed. 
 Don't make a fuss. Put me to bed." 
 
 Napier waited till the old man had been put safely 
 to bed. The Patons left a little before him. He did 
 not see Anne, who remained with her father. Mrs. 
 Ainslie brought him the news that the doctor was 
 easier. "A good night will restore him," she said. 
 
 As he left the house a man crossed the street to- 
 wards him. They almost brushed shoulders. The 
 man did not look at him, for his eyes were fixed upon 
 the door of the doctor's house. Napier scarcely saw 
 him, for his mind was entirely occupied by this 
 anxious and distressing event of which he had just 
 been a witness. They passed each other, the son 
 going down to Edinburgh, the father standing at the 
 door of Dr. Ainslie's house, where Death was 
 knocking. 
 
 Before midnight the Spectre entered. A globule 
 of blood stopped the working of that capable brain. 
 
 Napier attended the funeral. Among the vast con- 
 gregation in the cemetery was his father. 
 
 The doctor left to his widow the house and furni- 
 ture in Darnaway Street and an income of five 
 hundred pounds a year, with reversion to his daugh- 
 ter. To Anne he left an income of one hundred and 
 fifty pounds a year. His will expressed the testator's 
 desire to preserve his wife and child from the perils of 
 riches and the pains of poverty. There were no fewer 
 than sixteen hundred beneficiaries under this remark- 
 able will, most of them poor people liviftg in Cannon- 
 gate and Cowgate,
 
 THE TWO DESTINIES 57 
 
 After the death of the great physician, Mrs. Ainslie, 
 whose indignation over the doctor's will increased 
 with every year of her widowhood, set herself to secure 
 Dick Paton as a husband for Anne. The beautiful 
 girl, who could not bear to hear her mother's miser- 
 able strictures on the dead father whom she had loved 
 devotedly, welcomed, when the period of mourning 
 was over, every distraction which carried her away 
 from home. She went on a visit to the Paton 's 
 country house in Ross-shire. She enjoyed driving and 
 sailing with Dick Paton. It gave her pleasure to go 
 with him to the stables, to the home farm, to the 
 distant cottages of keepers. She came from the 
 school-room and the limitations of narrow circum- 
 stances to the luxury, ease, and diversions of bound- 
 less wealth. She was very young. She found life 
 a good thing. Mrs. Paton was like a mother to her. 
 She bought her beautiful dresses, made her presents 
 of jewelry and lace, treated her with all the endearing 
 indulgence of a favourite. 
 
 This genial, good-natured soul was really fond of 
 Anne; but above all other things she desired that 
 her headstrong son should settle down. He was 
 living a dangerous life. The mother, who had nursed 
 her husband through endless attacks of alcoholism, 
 saw that Dick was fond of Anne, and she determined 
 that Anne should be his rescue. Anne was extremely 
 pretty ; she was beginning to arouse admiration in 
 Edinburgh ; she was distinguished-looking, and 
 charming. Mrs. Paton took the child into her 
 embrace, mothered her, fondled her and mortgaged
 
 58 THE CAGE 
 
 the beautiful heart with a hundred favours. Then 
 when Dick proposed, and Anne, in her ignorance of 
 the world, hesitated, Mrs. Paton embraced her, and 
 said, "He loves you. He is breaking his heart for 
 you. Don't be cruel; don't be hard-hearted, Anne." 
 
 While Anne, fresh from the school-room and with 
 only the smallest acquaintance among men, was yield- 
 ing to this appeal, for she liked Dick Paton, and only 
 a trifling uncertainty held her back, Mrs. Ainslie 
 said to her, "How can you hesitate? You profess 
 to be so fond of your father, and this is the marriage 
 that he wished you to make." She carried that lie 
 to heaven. 
 
 At the age of nineteen, Ann& was married to 
 Richard Paton. Everybody told her she was a lucky 
 girl. She felt excessively happy. 
 
 "It is a great thing for a girl," Mrs. Ainslie said 
 to one of her friends, with a smile of satisfaction, 
 "to be married in her teens. Catch the bird young, 
 and it gets used to the cage."
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 THE BIRD WITHIN 
 
 EVERY now and then the Divorce Court startles the 
 world with what newspapers appropriately call revela- 
 tions. A curtain is drawn away from the Incredible. 
 Virtuous people are horrified; the disreputable thank 
 God that they are not as other men. For a few days 
 English society is agitated by new knowledge. 
 
 These revelations, however, constitute the custom- 
 ary and familiar conditions of a great many people's 
 lives. They appear to them, too, perfectly natural 
 until they are removed for a brief hour from the 
 social world to the dissecting-room of the law courts, 
 and even then the effect is only that of conscience 
 turning over in its sleep. The number of people who 
 have no moral principles, who acknowledge no author- 
 ity over their wills, and recognize no responsibility 
 in life is not only very great, but tends to increase 
 every day in a society whose entire activities belong 
 exclusively to the material sphere. There are philo- 
 sophers clear-sighted enough to perceive, and honest 
 enough to admit, that the negation of religion leads 
 logically and definitely to the negation of moral 
 principles. The wonder is that society is not worse. 
 
 59
 
 60 THE CAGE 
 
 These devoted materialists, who have no occupations, 
 can see no purpose in the universe; their habitual 
 gluttony obfuscates their souls; they shrug their 
 shoulders at the idea of God; respectability wears in 
 their eyes the ludicrous garment of provincialism ; 
 they have no check to their passions, ambitions, and 
 desires other than those afforded by the limitation of 
 their purses and the capacities of their physical 
 energy. If there was no want or suffering in the 
 world, the lives of these people would be merely 
 stupid ; as it is they are crimes. If there was no God 
 these people would be only fools; as it is they are 
 devils. Their repentance is boredom, their remorse 
 is satiety. The incredible which startles us is the 
 inevitable. Everything base is possible to these 
 people. "The Possible is a terrible matrix." 
 
 Anne Paton found herself in a world which first 
 amazed her, then horrified her, and afterwards dis- 
 gusted her. It was a world which the Divorce Court 
 has now made familiar and which has therefore ceased 
 to be incredible. Her story begins from the moment 
 when this world had become intolerable. What has 
 gone before is necessary to understand what follows. 
 
 When she left her husband it was with the inno- 
 cence of her childhood torn away, the gaiety of her 
 youth silenced, the confusion of early womanhood 
 brought to definite knowledge. But her character 
 remained unaltered. She was still the daughter of 
 Robert Ainslie. Her spirit was fearless, confident, 
 and self-reliant. Her heart was not broken, her will 
 was not weakened. She was the child of the Porto-
 
 THE BIRD WITHIN 61 
 
 bello sands, quiet, contemplative, gentle, tender, 
 caressing, full of grace and apparently pliant, but 
 self-directed, conscious of right and wrong, in com- 
 mand of her feelings. 
 
 Robert Ainslie had said to her governess, "The 
 Bible, but no dogma." Anne was not religious, but 
 she was wholesome. 
 
 In the early days of her marriage, the days of her 
 amazement, Richard Paton had laughed at her; later, 
 in the days of her horror, when she pleaded and 
 appealed to him, he had shown impatience; finally, 
 in the days of her disgust, he had answered her remon- 
 strance with indifference which was dismissal. 
 
 There was no final rupture, no definite moment of 
 separation. Her appeals had been in vain, her re- 
 monstrance had effected nothing; they separated in 
 their dispositions before they avoided each other's 
 society. It was this avoidance which grew into defin- 
 ite separation. 
 
 Anne was happy in the companionship of her 
 grandmother, who had come to live with her six 
 months after her marriage. This little old lady, who 
 looked at life with amusement and discussed it with 
 irony, was a friending and strengthening presence in 
 the first months of Anne's disillusion. She kept her 
 granddaughter's mind healthily vigorous. She would 
 allow of no brooding. Instead of condemning Richard 
 Paton she laughed at him. Instead of advising 
 mutiny she counselled compromise. "Your marriage 
 is not a success," she said, "but it might have been 
 worse. That is one of the advantages of being a
 
 62 THE CAGE 
 
 lady; our husbands don't kick us. Richard is dis- 
 agreeable, but harmless. In a cottage, with hobnails, 
 he would be terrible." 
 
 Mrs. Dobson favoured the plan of avoidance. "Mar- 
 ried people with more than one house," she explained, 
 "can practise a Box and Cox arrangement without 
 any trouble. We can go to London when Richard 
 and his Corybantic crew are in Ross-shire; and we 
 can go to Ross-shire when he is in London. You 
 are only hit in the matter of the seasons. He will 
 have the pick." 
 
 Mrs. Ainslie gradually supplanted Anne as the 
 hostess of Richard Paton. The widow of Dr. Ainslie 
 liked cheerful people, she was really blind to iniquity 
 in fine clothes, in the conduct of her rich son-in-law 
 she could see nothing to disgust a wife or offend 
 society; she condemned Anne for what she called 
 fanciful ideas, and reminded her with no little elo- 
 quence of her marriage vows. She made her maternity 
 a pulpit from which she preached a perpetual sermon 
 on the Fifth Commandment. 
 
 Five years after marriage, when she was four-and- 
 twenty, Anne tired of the Box and Cox arrangement. 
 She wanted to be free of Mrs. Ainslie who scolded 
 her, and of Mrs. Paton who was offended because 
 she had neither checked Richard's excesses nor given 
 him an heir; she wanted, too, to possess some little 
 place which should be entirely her own, some plot of 
 earth which she could call home, some anchorage 
 where she could be free. 
 
 This anxiety was increased by the growing
 
 THE BIRD WITHIN 63 
 
 infirmities of old Mrs. Dobson, who was ill in 
 London and who began to suffer from long railway 
 journeys. 
 
 One of the few friends of her girlhood with whom 
 Anne had maintained any intimacy was Ramsay 
 M' Gavin. He had stayed once or twice, on his visits 
 to London, at her house in Wilton Crescent. Anne 
 had met him once in Paris, where he had gone for a 
 celebration in honour of Pasteur. He was pleasant to 
 her because he represented the past. She liked him 
 because he interested her in serious things. The tutor 
 of Hugh Napier had become the family doctor, the 
 scientific investigator, the politician, the philosopher, 
 the serious citizen of a great empire, the watchful dis- 
 ciple of progress. He wore a perpetual frock-coat, close- 
 buttoned ; his collar was wide at the throat ; his cravat 
 never deviated from black; his face was dour. Mrs. 
 Dobson entangled his slow-working mind with ques- 
 tions not the less searching for their quality of per- 
 siflage ; she was quick to see that he had no originality, 
 that he formed himself upon the model of Dr. Ainslie, 
 that his atheism and socialism were born of the labor- 
 atory and the study, not of the world. It diverted 
 her to break up his imposing syllogisms and his 
 grandiose inductions with the first stick picked from 
 the littered ground of human experience. She, too, 
 liked Ramsay M'Gavin. He amused her. 
 
 A visit had been paid by the two ladies to Borhaven, 
 where Dr. M'Gavin, whose mother kept house for 
 him, felt the pulse and examined the tongue of 
 humanity with "the air of his own Statue erected by
 
 64 THE CAGE 
 
 National Subscription." Norfolk was Mrs. Dobson'sJ 
 native county; she had been well in Borhaven. Anne 
 had felt the charm of this little fishing town, with 
 its ancient houses, its wide sands, its broad river, its 
 wooded hills, and its wild commons yellow with gorse 
 and purple with heather. 
 
 When the idea came to her of independence she 
 thought of Borhaven. 
 
 In reply to her letter, Dr. M' Gavin wrote to say 
 that there was only one empty house which would 
 suit her, and unfortunately this cottage was nearly 
 two miles from the town. He sent a careful plan of 
 the house, with exact measurements of the rooms, 
 passages, and staircases, but enclosed no photograph 
 and gave no description of the garden. It had been, 
 he said, the dwelling of an old woman whose son was 
 the principal grocer in the town ; she had died a year 
 ago, of no infectious disease. The drains were satis- 
 factory. This little house, -where the old lady had 
 liked to entertain her grandchildren in the summer, 
 was situated on the side of a creek opening from the 
 river, about a mile above the town. It was well built ; 
 the owner, who had been rich, had spent a great deal 
 of money on the fittings; the only fault with the little 
 place was its distance from the town and the absence 
 of a road to the door. The rent was 20 a year ; the 
 local taxes amounted to 3 los. 
 
 Anne went to Borhaven with her camera, ancl re- 
 turned to London satisfied and persuasive. Mrs. 
 Dobson listened to her descriptions, and when the 
 pictures came from the photographer, examined them
 
 THE BIRD WITHIN 65 
 
 carefully through a magnifying-glass. "If the 
 chimneys don't smoke and the walls are not damp," 
 she said, "it will do very well for me to die in." 
 
 " We shall be able to live on my own money," said 
 Anne. " We are free."
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 BORHAVEN 
 
 THE town of Borhaven, thanks to the nine miles 
 which separate it from the railway, has preserved in 
 its outward aspect the antique, cheerful, and humor- 
 ous spirit of our ancestors. The sunny harbour at the 
 mouth of the river, with its stump of a lighthouse, its 
 loose and slippery wooden steps, its weed-slimed 
 piles, its barges and fishing-smacks, its tarred sheds 
 and its litter of gear, looks as if it had been knocked 
 together for the scenery of a theatre. The red-faced 
 fishermen who lounge there in blue jerseys and vast 
 sea-boots which creak when they walk, are the true old- 
 fashioned children of the North Sea ; they are remark- 
 able not for good looks and vigour, but for strength, 
 cheerfulness, reliability. Their full faces, burned by 
 the sun and tanned by the wind, round, full faces lit 
 by little twinkling eyes and decorated with oiled hair, 
 present themselves before one stolidly with the self- 
 conscious but contented comedy of a pantomime mask. 
 This is, indeed, one of the places which has escaped 
 the thunders and the rushings of modern progress. 
 The streets are dark and tortuous; the gabled houses 
 
 lean and stoop and slant with the irregularity of 
 
 66
 
 BORHAVEN 67 
 
 tombstones; the iron-rimmed wheels of fish-barrow 
 and farmer's tumbril grind out a perpetual clatter 
 from the cobble-stones. And there is something of 
 antiquity in the odours of the place. 
 
 The shops have cellar-flaps in the pavement, and 
 dark interiors a step below the level of the street; in 
 their polished windows, full of good wares, one's 
 reflection catches a look of settled prosperity. The 
 bow-windowed inns, with beflowered porches and 
 trees in tubs at the side of the broad doors, look like 
 souvenirs of the stage-coach. On market days the 
 principal square of the town, which has a poultry- 
 cross in the centre and at one of the corners a little 
 timbered and diamond-paned moot-hall, is crowded 
 with carriers' carts from twenty neighbouring villages. 
 In the months of summer the inns and even the cot- 
 tages are filled with visitors, and it is at this time 
 that the numerous shops which deal in old furniture 
 and prints make their harvest for the winter. 
 
 Through the open doors of the little houses, a 
 visitor sees as he saunters through the narrow streets, 
 dark interiors peopled by children playing on the 
 stone floors, and ancient dames in cap and apron, 
 knitting or nodding in grandfather chairs beside the 
 hearth. In the gardens at the backs of their humble 
 dwellings he sees women busy at the wash-tub or 
 fastening with wooden pins clean linen to a rope 
 strung across potatoes and currant bushes. Cats doze 
 on garden walls. The cackle of poultry fills the air. 
 A dog's angry bark and the metallic rattle of its jerked 
 chain occasionally strike across the more peaceable 
 pa
 
 68 THE CAGE 
 
 sounds of humming insects and mothers singing to 
 their babes. From the beer-houses issue, with the 
 smell of ale and tobacco, the deep-toned buzz of sea- 
 faring argument, and from morning to night one sees 
 in the bright interiors of these little places a cluster 
 of humanity clad in reefer coats and peaked caps, 
 decorated with gold rings in their ears. The pave- 
 ment of the square is generally thronged by people. 
 Pilots and bargemen and the wives of fishermen move 
 there, with ladies who have ridden in on bicycles 
 from neighbouring villages to exchange their books 
 at the library or to make household purchases at other 
 shops. Obliging tradesmen in white aprons, with 
 pencils behind their ears, step quickly from behind 
 counters to take the orders of rich ladies seated in old- 
 fashioned landaus at the shop door. There is often a 
 procession of farm carts passing through the square 
 with hay, corn, beans, or peas for barges moored 
 against the side of the quay. The centre of the 
 square, with its white-railed cattle-pens for market 
 day, is usually occupied by children whose noisy 
 play is scarcely noticed in the continual rumble of 
 wheels over the cobble-stones. 
 
 The conservative character of the little town is due 
 not only to its distance from the railway. The 
 country round is before everything else a game estate. 
 The landlord sets his face against building houses. 
 
 In this way, while the picturesque character of the 
 town is saved from the ugliness of the modern builder, 
 there is below the gracious and charming appearance 
 of the archaic place an undercurrent of unhappiness
 
 BORHAVEN 69 
 
 and immorality. The place is stagnant. At the will 
 of one man, movement is arrested. Young men are 
 unable to marry because there are no houses for them 
 to occupy. The daughters of fishermen and labourers 
 bring up children with the help of their mothers, in 
 the houses of their own fathers. It is possible to 
 exaggerate the vice and to forget the virtue of this 
 place; but the immorality exists and is persistent. 
 All the efforts of religion to prevent this state of 
 affairs have failed. 
 
 Anne had felt the charm of Borhaven when for 
 the first time she and Mrs. Dobson had taken up 
 their quarters in the Harbour Hotel, an ancient struc- 
 ture, half wood and half white brick, whose bow- 
 windows overlook the quay, and are sometimes 
 drenched by the spray of the North Sea. 
 
 She had stood at the bow-window of her bedroom 
 looking with pleased eyes at the scene before her. 
 Beyond the quay, where a string of carts waited to 
 load a sprit barge with hay, she saw on the other side 
 of the shining river, and towering above four or five 
 little wooden cottages, two immense black-tarred 
 hulks, with curtained windows let into their sides, and 
 with flowers growing in boxes on their roofed-in 
 decks. Steps led from the tops of these strange dwell- 
 ings to the grass below, and on these steps children 
 were seated, whose bright pinafores fluttered in the 
 wind. At a little distance from the mastless hulks, 
 which looked like Noah's Arks, were the ruins of a 
 malt-house, a granary, and three or four wharves 
 brick buildings from which the glass and the frames
 
 70 THE CAGE 
 
 of windows, the tiles from the rafters, and the doors 
 from the hinges, had long since disappeared. A 
 sandy road led past these ruins, with only a few 
 loose-hanging galvanized wires strung from nodding 
 posts between it and a long, almost unbroken, vista 
 of green marshes, dotted with cattle, a prospect which 
 just then was bathed in the glittering haze of sunset. 
 
 To the woman conscious of a desire for emancipa- 
 tion, this wide scene of river and marsh, so beautiful 
 in its restfulness and so consolatory in its eternal 
 quiet, made an instant and powerful appeal. 
 
 It seemed to her then that she could be content with 
 the place; that her nature would never clamour for 
 excitement; that her temperament would be always 
 still; that for ever she could look at the sea and be 
 satisfied. The spell of environment was on her soul. 
 In this ancient sanctuary of Nature she became for 
 the moment a passionless nun. 
 
 "You are almost as enthusiastic as the major," said 
 Dr. M'Gavin. While Anne wondered who this major 
 was, the careful and far-seeing doctor proceeded to 
 balance^ the disadvantages of Borhaven against its 
 delights. He spoke of the drains. 
 
 Anne was not long in making acquaintance with 
 the major. She was introduced to this personage on 
 her first walk through Borhaven. "Ah, here comes 
 the major," M'Gavin said, as they entered the square. 
 Anne looked up quickly, and recognized an inmate 
 of the hotel. She saw approaching her a little, cor- 
 pulent, tight man, with a heavy red face and a white 
 moustache, who walked swiftly with the unmistakable
 
 BORHAVEN 71 
 
 carriage of a soldier proud of his profession. He 
 wore on his big head a very small, fawn-coloured 
 Homburg hat, pinched at the crown. His jacket was 
 buttoned across his chest, which was disproportion- 
 ately broad and deep; this little shabby jacket was 
 short in the sleeves, and was so strained in at the 
 waist that it showed a considerable expanse of trouser- 
 seat behind. The trousers fitted tightly round the 
 short legs, which were a trifle bowed, and were turned 
 high up over a pair of well-polished ammunition- 
 boots. He carried in his right hand an old ash stick 
 with much of the bark missing, and with the ferrule 
 blunted to a crumpled ring. A long-legged fox 
 terrier, with a head almost like a hound's, followed 
 at the major's heels. 
 
 They stopped and spoke. "I came here," he said to 
 her, laughing, "for six weeks. I have stayed for 
 eleven years ! " He assured her that it was the finest 
 place in England. He had never been so well in his 
 life. "An old fellow like me, too! " he said, laugh- 
 ing. He narrated that he had split the riding muscle 
 of his right thigh in India, that he -had got a bullet in 
 his bridle arm in Egypt, and that he had broken his 
 collar-bone badly at Punchestown and rather worse 
 at Aintree. "And yet I feel like a two-year-old: fit 
 for anything," he said cheerfully. He appealed to the 
 doctor. "Am I a fit man? am I sound? By Jove I 
 I should think I was ! Forty-six and three-quarter 
 inches round the chest; arms like a blacksmith's, legs 
 like a postman's I Ask Trooper if I can walk." He 
 patted his dog's head, laughed good-humouredly,
 
 72 THE CAGE 
 
 assured Anne that she would enjoy Borhaven, and 
 raising the little Homburg hat with an elaborate bow, 
 strode forward, the faithful Trooper at his heels. 
 
 "Major Lauden," said the M f Gavin, as they con- 
 tinued their walk, "is a very remarkable man. He 
 contradicts that broad generalization of Huxley's that 
 Nature sends physical disease after physical tres- 
 passes. He is a sad toper. He was in what they call 
 a crack cavalry regiment. In ten years he had wasted 
 eighty thousand pounds. And yet the man's body 
 remains a very perfect physical instrument. He walks 
 ten or fifteen miles a day. He swims in the sea winter 
 and summer. Sometimes he goes out with the fishing 
 fleet for two or three nights at a time, and helps pull 
 in the nets. He never suffers from dyspepsia, his 
 heart is normal, he has no lung trouble, and he is 
 fairly intelligent in his ideas. I have never known an 
 abstemious man more efficient in the body." 
 
 M 'Gavin told Anne that, so far as he understood the 
 matter, Major Lauden was something of a pensioner; 
 that is to say, the sons and married daughters of 
 the incorrigible gentleman clubbed together and paid 
 him a purposely narrow pittance on condition that he 
 remained at Borhaven and never left it. "There is a 
 gentleman here," said M* Gavin, "the district officer 
 of the coastguards, Lieutenant Henry Pleasant by 
 name, who tells me that it is no uncommon thing in 
 England to find some more or less disreputable mem- 
 ber of a good family living permanently in an out-of- 
 the-way hotel on an allowance made by his people." 
 Anne interrupted the doctor with an exclamation of
 
 BORHAVEN 73 
 
 pleasure. " How picturesque that is 1 " she said, stop- 
 ping to look at a scene in a narrow street full of old 
 stone houses by which they were just passing. The 
 sight which had moved her admiration was a common 
 spectacle in Borhaven. She saw the vicar of the town, 
 in cassock and biretta, coming slowly from evensong 
 surrounded by a swarm of affectionate children. In 
 the little ancient street, whose crowded perspective 
 ended in a massy arch, over which, in the midst of the 
 trees, could be seen the tower of the church, the pro- 
 gress of this group made a romantic and beguiling 
 picture. It was such a scene as charms the traveller 
 in Latin countries. The vicar, a tall, lean, scholarly- 
 looking man, with dark hair and a reddish-brown 
 moustache and beard, walked among the crowding 
 children like a veritable father in God. He wore 
 spectacles, and through these glasses Anne could see 
 that his dark eyes beamed indulgently on the children 
 chattering at his side and jostling each other for the 
 privilege of holding his hands. The man breathed a 
 spirit of universal benevolence. "That is our quack 
 doctor," said M'Gavinj "an incoherent man."
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 CREEK COTTAGE 
 
 THE house chosen by Anne for her future home 
 was a little white-brick cottage, whose walls were 
 covered by trellis-work once green and now faded to 
 a dull blue. This little cottage, which stood on green- 
 sward some fifty yards from the water's edge, was 
 surrounded by a low wall sprinkled with the gold of 
 lichen. At the gate there were two sentinel bay-trees 
 clipped to a precise pattern. A path formed of mill- 
 stones with cobbles in the interstices led from the gate 
 in the wall, between two broad herbaceous borders, 
 to the front door. There was a rustic arch half-way 
 up this path covered by roses Lady Gay, Dorothy 
 Perkins, Crimson Rambler, and Aglaia. Over the 
 porch of the front door and hanging in great tangled 
 clusters from the trellis-work on the walls, were 
 clematis, jasmine and honeysuckle. When Anne paid 
 her first visit, a scent of honey breathed in the little 
 garden, which was full of the hum of bees and the 
 singing of birds. 
 
 The cottage answered every desire in Anne's heart. 
 It was small, but beautiful ; it was solitary, but com- 
 fortable. 
 
 There were two sitting-rooms, four bedrooms, and 
 a little bath-room, a hot-air linen cupboard, and a use- 
 
 74
 
 CREEK COTTAGE 75 
 
 ful and practical suite of domestic offices. From the 
 back-door one walked into a very good kitchen garden, 
 with fruit-trees planted at the sides of the walks. At 
 the back of this garden was a little cliff of sandstone 
 and gravel, with firs and pines on the crest. "You 
 are sheltered from the worst winds," said the doctor, 
 "and you get all the sunlight." 
 
 "It is just what I want," said Anne. 
 
 "The postman comes here last of all," said the 
 doctor; "you could get him to pump the water and 
 do the rough work of the garden for ten shillings a 
 week." 
 
 "It is the very thing for me," said Anne. 
 
 Anne took great pleasure in furnishing this little 
 place, which was to be her home, her own dwelling. 
 The money left by her father had accumulated, and 
 out of this sum she made her purchases. She enjoyed 
 buying old furniture, choosing wall-papers and 
 chintzes, providing herself with household linen, and 
 planning the decoration of her tiny abode. 
 
 One of her chief purchases was Mrs. Beeton's cook- 
 ery book. She became an industrious student of 
 domestic economy. 
 
 A little frightened servant was engaged for twelve 
 pounds a year. Mrs. Dobson dubbed her "the 
 minion." Anne said the name was too adult, and 
 called her "minionette." This little creature, whose 
 real name was Emily, adored Anne, and an intimacy 
 grew between them such as exists between mistress 
 and servant in France. They both contrived to keep 
 down the bills.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 CURIOSITY 
 
 BORHAVEN said, "She is charming, beautiful, a 
 great acquisition but, where is her husband ? " 
 
 The question interested different people in different 
 ways. 
 
 It interested Mr. Aldrich, one of the three curates, 
 from the religious point of view. He was a lean and 
 bony man with a cavernous face, in which people saw 
 a resemblance to Savonarola. It was Mr. Aldrich 
 who denounced with a terrible invective the immorality 
 of Borhaven. He was the least compromising of men. 
 He was the most earnest priest of the parish. Canon 
 Case, the scholarly vicar, did not deserve his nick- 
 name of the Accusative Case; he was a theologian 
 more than a parish priest; he rarely interfered with 
 the lives of the people; he took no part in the social 
 life of the town ; his one theatre of operation outside 
 the vicarage study, where he wrote books of theology 
 and contributed learned articles to the reviews, was 
 the school; he devoted himself to the next generation. 
 
 But Mr. Aldrich, the senior curate, was a real 
 accuser. He neglected children because he could not 
 
 strike them. He struck at men and women with the 
 
 A
 
 CURIOSITY 77 
 
 burning indignation of a pure soul, an incorruptible 
 mind, a heart that had never known temptation. He 
 was a born fighter. In one of his sermons, on sinning 
 against the light, he had said, "I accuse you now to 
 your faces; in the next world I will accuse you to 
 God." 
 
 To this earnest and scrupulous priest the question 
 of Mrs. Paton's husband became a matter of serious 
 consideration. Any looseness of opinion regarding 
 the marriage laws roused the lion in his breast. 
 
 He knew what the rest of the parish knew, after 
 many months of sounding Dr. M'Gavin. Soon after 
 Anne's arrival Dr. M { Gavin's practice had suddenly 
 become brisk. He was called in by all the spinsters 
 for several miles round the town. Miss Potter, the 
 busiest and most indefatigable church worker, was the 
 first to be struck down. There was an epidemic of 
 curiosity. He found his patients perfectly well, but 
 inquisitive. He felt their pulses and evaded their 
 questions. He sent them medicine and increased their 
 curiosity. 
 
 Mr. Aldrich only knew that there was a Mr. Paton, 
 and that no divorce or separation had taken place. 
 This invisible husband, gossips said, was immensely 
 rich the owner of racehorses, with great houses in 
 London and Scotland. Why Mrs. Paton should be 
 living in a little cottage with one servant was incom- 
 prehensible. The neighbourhood arrived at a general 
 conclusion : there was something wrong somewhere. 
 
 But Anne was charming; about her not the basest 
 mind^in the place imagined scandal. The question
 
 78 THE CAGE 
 
 of her husband only added charm; it made he? 
 interesting. 
 
 People who have lived in a small town will know 
 without being told "how the neighbours talked about 
 this mysterious new-comer. It was natural that they 
 should talk. How stupid they would have been if 
 they had not been curious. Is not romance the breath 
 of existence? 
 
 Mr. Aldrich said, "I will handle this woman's 
 soul."
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 MR. ALDRICH MAKES A MOVE 
 
 MRS. DOBSON did not go to church. "Sunday," 
 she would say, "is the occasion when people put on 
 their best clothes and call themselves miserable 
 sinners." The thought of a rich landowner, receiving 
 first the homage of poor people at the lych-gate of a 
 church, and then proceeding to take the chief place 
 in the temple near to the priest who flourished under 
 his patronage, always made her scornful. "The most 
 important man in an English church," she used to 
 say, "is the unhappy person who can no more enter 
 the kingdom of heaven than a camel can go through 
 the eye of a needle." If people ventured to expostu- 
 late with her for this raillery, "Ah, but, you see, I take 
 Christianity seriously," was her confounding apology. 
 
 She disliked hearing beautiful language intoned. 
 Wretched singing set her teeth on edge. Long 
 prayers made her restless. The sentiments of the 
 hymnology made her indignant. This little old lady 
 had the realism of a man of science. It was her fixed 
 conviction that not one person in thirty realized the 
 meanings of words, or ever thought about what they 
 were saying. "Churches are full of parrots," she 
 would say. 
 
 79
 
 8o THE CAGE 
 
 But the little lady was not irreligious. On Sundays 
 she always read the collect, epistle and gospel for the 
 day, one or two of her favourite psalms, and a sermon 
 by F. W. Robertson or Charles Kingsley. She 
 never uttered a creed, because, as she said, she only 
 knew accurately what she did not believe; and she 
 never discussed religion, which she called a "painful 
 subject." 
 
 Anne, who had been brought up without any religious 
 training, did not go to church in Borhaven. She had 
 thought about religion, read about religion, but now 
 was in that condition of mind when people are quite 
 indifferent to the formal observances of their intellec- 
 tual attitude towards God. In a common phrase, she 
 did not give a thought to Church observance. Her 
 mind, it must be remembered, had never been brought 
 quietly and solemnly to contemplate the avenues of 
 approach to God which experience has laid across 
 the ages. She found herself quite happy and restful 
 without church-going. When she lived in London 
 she had gone on two or three occasions to a fashion- 
 able church in the neighbourhood of Wilton Crescent. 
 She described to her grandmother the magnificent 
 hats and the gorgeous dresses of the congregation. 
 The old lady had smiled and said, "Ah, my dear, you 
 have evidently been worshipping God with people 
 who have solemnly promised and vowed to renounce 
 the pomps and vanity of this wicked world." "Is it 
 all a sham ? " Anne had asked. From that time she 
 had put church-going out of her head. She had not 
 thought about it.
 
 MR. ALDRICH MAKES A MOVE 81 
 
 Mr. Aldrich remarked the absence from Borhaven 
 church of these two interesting ladies. 
 
 He began his work by asking Anne to come to 
 church. He pointed out that in the country people of 
 Anne's class exercise a considerable influence on the 
 poor. 
 
 Anne, who hated to give pain, readily promised to 
 come to church. It was all new and strange to her; 
 she was almost a stranger to the English liturgy; 
 when she made her first communion she was filled 
 with nervousness. A few months after she had kept 
 this promise, Mr. Aldrich persuaded her to take a dis- 
 trict in the town. She shrank from the commission, 
 but accepted it because of his earnestness. She visited 
 a little area of mean houses, helped various ladies of 
 the neighbourhood in such parochial charities as the 
 Maternity Fund and the Girls' Friendly Society, and 
 became gradually acquainted with all the careful 
 organization of an English parish. The day came 
 when she looked forward to visiting certain old people 
 in her district. She and Minionette made little jellies 
 and dishes which Anne carried on her rounds. She 
 grew to be fond of the Church in her own tranquil and 
 restful manner. 
 
 Peter Lott was the chief yeoman farmer of the dis- 
 trict, a justice of the peace and a county councillor. 
 His daughters were handsome, well-educated and 
 efficient women. They were devoted workers in the 
 parish, and Anne caught from these cheerful, whole- 
 some women not only something of a zeal for unselfish 
 work, but something of their loyalty to the historic
 
 82 THE CAGE 
 
 Church of England. She often visited Ferry Hall, 
 which was a beautiful and well-ordered place. The 
 five daughters of the old yeoman came frequently to 
 Creek Cottage. 
 
 A year had passed away when one day Anne met 
 Mr. Aldrich at Ferry Hall. The clergyman was rather 
 silent : his eyes rested very often on her face ; he did 
 not speak with his usual energy. Anne felt that his 
 eyes disconcerted her. When she left he rose and said 
 he would go with her. Anne felt uncomfortable. As 
 they walked across the fields to the town, he said to 
 her : "If you will let me, Mrs. Paton, I should like to 
 talk to you about yourself. May I do so? " 
 
 He turned his head, and looked at her. The man 
 had a disconcerting power of personality. His 
 earnestness was overwhelming. One felt that none of 
 the ordinary social reticencies existed in his mind. 
 He was like a father confessor, self-appointed. 
 
 "I don't quite understand," said Anne. 
 
 "It is about your marriage," replied the priest. "I 
 am distressed to think you are unhappy. I feel very 
 deeply for you. " 
 
 "Oh, but please," said Anne, wanting to quicken 
 her pace, "don't be distressed." She affected to laugh. 
 "I am perfectly happy, I assure you." 
 
 " Will you tell me about your marriage ? " he in- 
 quired, a note of intimacy in his voice. "You do not 
 live with your husband? You have been here a 
 year, I think ? " 
 
 "There is really little to tell. My husband and I
 
 MR. ALDRICH MAKES A MOVE 83 
 
 have different tastes. Instead of living unhappily 
 together, we live happily alone. That is all there is 
 to say." 
 
 The priest shook his head. 
 
 "These separations are dangerous." He turned and 
 looked at her. "May I suggest to you that it is your 
 duty to remain at your husband's side, whatever the 
 disagreeables may be ? " 
 
 Anne, who felt more than ever her desire to escape, 
 replied hastily, "Forgive me, but I have settled this 
 matter. I do not think about it." 
 
 "You are very young, Mrs. Paton," said the clergy- 
 man. "Let me, as your priest, make the suggestion 
 that God's purpose with you perhaps may be the 
 salvation of your husband's soul. Have you weighed 
 such a thought ? Have you considered your responsi- 
 bility ? To say that you have settled the matter is 
 forgive me for saying it only a hasty expression of 
 disrelish for a consideration of duty. There is nothing 
 more dangerous in modern times than the lightness 
 with which people regard their marriage obligations. 
 It is the sapping of society. It makes for carelessness, 
 flippancy, immorality. The Church has no plainer 
 duty in our time than to insist on the solemnity of 
 the marriage sacrament. On the manner in which 
 society regards the seriousness and the religious 
 character of marriage, depends the future of humanity. 
 It is the base of civilization. Let me, pray let me, 
 beg of you to consider whether this separation is not 
 dangerous for your husband, and whether it is not 
 
 09
 
 84 THE CAGE 
 
 God's will with you that you should fulfil, however 
 hard and bitter, your marriage vows." 
 
 Anne did not answer. Her heart was beating fast. 
 Her face was pale. She felt a commotion in her 
 thoughts. If any one else in the world had spoken 
 to her in this manner she would have been swift to 
 resentment. But what could she say to the priest at 
 her side, with his solemn voice, his terrible earnest- 
 ness, his obvious sympathy with her fate? She had 
 received from his hands the Eucharist. 
 
 "Don't let me hurt you; don't let me offend you," 
 he said. "I have a profound interest in you. Let me 
 leave in your heart just this one idea, Whether you 
 might not see your husband once more, and once 
 again endeavour to fulfil your vows?" He stopped, 
 holding out his hand to her. They had reached 
 a turning where their ways separated. "I shall 
 pray," he said in his intense way, looking deeply 
 into her eyes, "that God will help you to do your 
 duty." 
 
 She could not answer. To keep her eyes upon him 
 was difficult. She released her hand, and with a 
 hurried farewell, turned away. 
 
 She felt how good it was to be walking swiftly. 
 
 She went home in a vexed mood, which did not 
 altogether disappear at sight of the little grandmother 
 standing on a chair to fasten a drooping tendril of 
 clematis to the trellis-work on the house. Creek 
 Cottage had made even Mrs. Dobson fond of flowers. 
 
 Anne had been a year in her cottage, a year of joy 
 and peace and happiness, and now this inquisitive
 
 MR. ALDRICH MAKES A MOVE 85 
 
 priest had begun to irritate her with a reminder of 
 the miserable past. She stayed away from church on 
 the following Sunday. She was surprised to find that 
 she missed the service. She did not know that 
 quietly, imperceptibly, and with all the tender 
 graciousness of a summer dawn, the Liturgy of the 
 Church had been entering into her soul, colouring 
 and suffusing her thoughts with the sublime imagina- 
 tion of religion, filling her character with the con- 
 tinual incense of worship. She had not realized till 
 this empty Sunday, how much nearer during the past 
 year she had drawn in the dim and silent chancel of 
 her soul to the thought, the idea of God. 
 
 But she had the cottage, and she had the garden, 
 and she had her little grandmother. The days could 
 not be too long for her. She possessed the genius of 
 the house. Like all restful women, the home became 
 more and more her altar. She found an unceasing 
 pleasure in keeping it beautiful and making it express 
 her feelings. What the woman of fashion finds in a 
 new frock, Anne found, but with much deeper satis*, 
 faction, in the things of the house. She placed 
 flowers in vases, and composed with their colours 
 ideas that floated in her soul. The cottage was a 
 canvas on which she painted, a book in which she 
 wrote. The garden was herself. 
 
 Then, too, she had her friends. Mr. and Mrs. 
 Henry Pleasant were delightful. The Miss Lotts 
 pleased her; she liked their simple good lives; she 
 learned from them such diverse arts as how to help 
 poor people and how to make jam. Then there was
 
 86 THE CAGE 
 
 Major Lauden, who came often to the cottage for tea, 
 bringing Trooper with him, and always vowing at the 
 door that he had carefully shut the dog outside the 
 gate, and would it matter if the old fellow stayed in 
 the garden ? a question which ended in Trooper 
 entering the house. Major Lauden occasionally 
 borrowed a sovereign from Anne, good-naturedly, 
 laughing at the transaction. She liked him too well 
 to refuse. And he diverted the little grandmother by 
 his revolutionary ideas, crudely and hotly uttered, for 
 Major Lauden was a socialist and an agnostic. 
 
 No; she was not unhappy. Her life was pleasant. 
 This interfering priest had only disturbed her. The 
 deep waters of her soul were still; presently she 
 almost forgot that they had been ruffled. 
 
 And then one day something occurred to divert her 
 thoughts from any wandering inclinations towards 
 introspection. It was in July. Anne woke just before 
 six o'clock. The sun was level with her window, 
 making it a splendour. From the garden, like an 
 orchestra of aerial flutes came the piping rivalries of 
 little birds. The golden atmosphere of her room was 
 sweet with the scent of roses, mignonette and honey- 
 suckle. The breath of the dawn, drenched with thick 
 dews and glittering with sunbeams fresh from the 
 sea, entered the little low-ceiled chamber like a saluta- 
 tion. 
 
 Anne threw back the coverlet, pushed her hair from 
 her eyes, and rising from the warm bed, stepped into 
 the morning air. She brushed back the hair from her 
 eyes, and crossed the floor to the window*
 
 MR. ALDRICH MAKES A MOVE 87 
 
 At first her eyes were dazzled by the sun, and she 
 thought only of the change wrought in the night; 
 she had stood at this window before going to sleep, 
 looking at a nearly full moon which poured down on 
 the river a shaft of silver light, and made a ghostly 
 beauty of the dark green shrubs in the still and silent 
 garden. 
 
 Then her eyes grew used to the light. She drew 
 back quickly, her hands at her breast. For a moment 
 she stood confused; then she peeped out again from 
 behind the vantage of a chintz curtain. A sailing- 
 vessel, something like a fishing-boat, and something 
 like a yacht, was lying in the river at some distance 
 from the cottage, heeled over on its side, the boom 
 swinging, the sail flapping. The accident had evi- 
 dently only just occurred. A man on deck was hastily 
 picking up a quant when she first reached the window, 
 and now she watched him at the end of this long pole 
 pushing hard to get the yacht off again. He appeared 
 to her in the distance a slim, broad-shouldered man, 
 bareheaded, clad in a thin linen shirt and flannel 
 trousers. 
 
 "My friend," she said, laughing to herself, "you 
 will have to wait there till the tide rises again." 
 
 She turned away from the window, put on a dress- 
 ing-gown, slipped her pretty feet into list-shoes, and 
 gathering up her towels, sponges, and soap-dish, 
 opened the door and went along the passage to the 
 bath-room. 
 
 When she came back, she amused herself as she 
 dressed by glancing out of the window at the boat
 
 88 THE CAGE 
 
 on the mud and the struggling man on the shelving 
 deck. Before she had finished her toilet, he had 
 abandoned his struggles, and was leaning against the 
 mast, filling a pipe, and staring disconsolately at the 
 falling tide. 
 
 Anne went down-stairs. She opened all the windows ; 
 unbarred and unlocked the doors ; greeted Minionette, 
 who came sleepily into the kitchen with paper and 
 sticks for the fire, and then went out through the back 
 door to raise the hatch of the fowl-house. She stood 
 watching the emerging hens for a moment, who shook 
 their feathers and stretched their wings along an 
 elongated leg, and refused until this operation was 
 over to run after the hypothetical worms to which 
 chanticleer was summoning them with the most 
 tremendous puffings of his hackle feathers, the most 
 ceaseless and urgent duckings and bobbings of his 
 scarlet-capped head, and the most expostulatory and 
 inflammatory words of the barndoor vocabulary. 
 Anne laughed at them, and then entered the garden 
 and made her way to the front of the house. " I must 
 go and help that poor man," she said. 
 
 She lifted the latch of the gate in the wall, and 
 crossed the grass on the river-bank. She reached 
 the hard, where her feet made a pleasant sound on 
 the dew-glistening gravel, and stood on the edge of 
 the little quay. The man who was doing something 
 with tackle, looked up and saw her in the distance. 
 He waited to see what she would do. 
 
 "How much do you draw?'- called Anne, putting
 
 MR. ALDRICH MAKES A MOVE 89 
 
 her hand to her mouth and speaking very slowly and 
 distinctly. 
 
 He took his pipe from his mouth. "A little over 
 seven feet," he said, lifting his back from the mast. 
 The voice came with wonderful distinctness across the 
 water; the features of the face were indistinguishable. 
 
 "I'm afraid you'll have to wait till the flood's at 
 the full," called Anne; "the mud just here is very 
 soft." 
 
 He nodded his head. "There's no room for throw- 
 ing out a kedge," he shouted, with humour. Then he 
 added, by way of apology, "I was congratulating 
 myself on a long tack. It looked like a lot of 
 water." 
 
 Anne smiled. "Can we be of any service to you? 
 Have you got food ? " 
 
 "Yes, thanks. I shall be all right. This isn't a 
 new experience, I'm afraid! Many thanks all the 
 same." 
 
 She nodded, and turned back to the garden. He 
 put his pipe in his mouth, and looked along the deck 
 of his vessel. 
 
 Anne went indoors. She was amused and felt 
 happy. An incident of any kind is delightful to 
 people who live in simple quiet. She took Mrs. Dob- 
 son the old lady's early cup of tea, told her of the 
 boat on the mud, and then went down to see about 
 breakfast. When the table was laid and the drawing- 
 room dusted, she picked up her basket and scissors 
 and went into the garden for fresh flowers.
 
 90 THE CAGE 
 
 She looked up to see how the sailor was getting on, 
 and beheld him in the act of hurling a dinghey over- 
 board. The little boat made a great splash as it struck 
 the water, and ran out with the tide to the end of the 
 rope. Then Anne saw the sailor pick up a pair of oars, 
 and pull the boat in to the ship's side. 
 
 "He's coming ashore," she said; "we must ask 
 him to breakfast." 
 
 She began to wonder what he was like. 
 
 The sailor dropped his coat into the dinghey, and 
 then stepped in after it with the oars under his arm. 
 But instead of pulling to the shore, he got the 
 dinghey into midstream and rowed quietly away with 
 the ebbing tide. 
 
 "He's going back to Borhaven," said Anne; "we 
 shan't have to boil another egg after all." 
 
 The afternoon passed away. 
 
 The flood came up and lifted the deserted boat off 
 the mud. Anne watched its reflection trembling in 
 the running water. It made a difference, this strange 
 craft, to the familiar seclusion of the river scene. 
 
 Just before tea the latch of the gate opened, and 
 Ramsay M' Gavin walked up the stone path followed 
 by the man from the boat. Anne was reading in the 
 shade of a tree, with the little grandmother asleep in 
 a lounge-chair at her side. She got up and crossed 
 the square of grass to the path. 
 
 She looked at M' Gavin. His serious face made her 
 smile : he looked like Destiny, so solemn, so blood- 
 less, so unalterable. She glanced at the stranger.
 
 MR. ALDRICH MAKES A MOVE 91 
 
 He smiled at her. Then he laughed. Stranger no 
 longer ! 
 
 " Hugh ! " she said, and held out her hand. 
 
 He came forward with the pleasure and animation 
 of an old friend. He was laughing. "It's like a 
 breath from Portobello," said M' Gavin.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE SAND WASP 
 
 THE advent of Napier produced a great change in 
 the life of Anne Paton. This companion of her child- 
 hood not only revived in her heart the memory of 
 days inexpressibly sweet and innocent, not only 
 brought back to her and made intensely vivid the 
 whole pre-existence of her delightful and joyous child- 
 hood, but produced in the stagnant calm of her pre- 
 sent life the disturbing influence of his new character, 
 his new personality, the change which had overtaken 
 him in the years of their separation. 
 
 In some ways he was of all living creatures the most 
 familiar to her consciousness; in others, the most 
 unknown. 
 
 He had lived, she discovered, a nomad existence, 
 with no other dwelling than his little ship, which he 
 employed as an Arab uses both tent and camel. The 
 sea had been his desert, the harbours of the world 
 his oases and camping-grounds. But the solitude of 
 this existence had not infected his mind with gloom 
 or bitterness; on the contrary, he appeared in her 
 eyes as the one profoundly and largely happy person 
 she had ever known. The immense width of sea 
 
 horizons, the rejoicing strength of huge masses of 
 
 92
 
 THE SAND WASP 93 
 
 water, the wild liberty and unhampered freedom of 
 the great winds, seemed to have given something of 
 their splendour and their power to his mind. He wore 
 in his countenance nothing of the grey of cities; his 
 vocabulary stammered with no pedantries of conven- 
 tion ; he was wonderfully free of the ennui, weariness, 
 and pessimism of a dyspeptic and overworked age. 
 
 Anne perceived in this man a solid depth of char- 
 acter which distinguished him from the mere flaneur, 
 as a rock is distinguished from a pebble. She read, in 
 the hard lines of his bronzed face, in the solidity of the 
 broad temples, in the strength and security of his 
 dark eyes, the history of many a fight on the high 
 seas, many a long and silent struggle with the winds 
 of God. And these great contests seemed to her only 
 the allegories of his soul, which had been buffeted 
 and shaped in tempests. 
 
 She was interested in the quality of strength which 
 breathed from his personality. It was not the strength 
 which she had seen in the grave and austere counten- 
 ance of her father. It was some new form of strength 
 with which she had not yet made acquaintance. The 
 man's eyes, from which the smile seldom went, his 
 voice, which had a resonant undertone, impressed her 
 with a sense of courage, daring, joy she knew not 
 what of adventure, hardihood, and entire self-reliance. 
 He seemed to have come into the green quiet of her 
 little trim garden from the escarpment of some terrible 
 wind-swept mountain, where he had laughed at the 
 thunder and thrown stones at the lightning. Strength 
 was his cleaving-mark.
 
 94 THE CAGE 
 
 This man disturbed her by the question which his 
 whole personality presented continually to her own 
 life. Hitherto she had found her present existence, 
 with its simple duties, its regular routine, its humble 
 occupations, and its settled peace, a perfectly satisfac- 
 tory employment of time. But now, as she listened, 
 like Desdemona, to the stories and histpries of this 
 traveller, she found herself becoming every day more 
 conscious of smallness and narrowness in her life. 
 He had the same disturbing and stimulating effect 
 upon her quiet life that Lady Austen had on the Olney 
 household. Outside her cottage, Anne began to 
 realize, was the world. 
 
 The tiny dwelling which her exquisite taste had 
 made so charming and beautiful, and which stirred 
 the inhabitants of Borhaven to exclamations of admira- 
 tion, shrank in her eyes as she watched the amusement 
 it afforded to this strong-limbed Ulysses. " It reminds 
 me," he said, "of your little doll's house at Portobello. 
 Do you remember ? you saved up your pocket-money 
 and bought it at Cumming's Bazaar, in Cockburn 
 Street. The entire front red bricks, green door, and 
 little curtained windows opened to show the inside; 
 and you saved up more money and bought little fur- 
 niture, and ornaments, and pictures, and vases of 
 flowers for the interior. Do you remember? There 
 was a little brass lamp, with a chimney and white 
 globe, on the drawing-room table, which was of gilt." 
 He picked up a precious piece of Dresden china, a 
 comfit-box, from the table at his side. "This is 
 exactly the kind of thing you used to buy for your
 
 THE SAND WASP 95 
 
 doll's house; it is only a little bigger, and cost more 
 money. Does it" he looked up at her, smiling 
 "give you as much pleasure as the old toys? " 
 
 Her old doll's house ! She had forgotten it. She 
 had forgotten it in the excitement of a bigger doll's 
 house. This cottage was only a continuance of her 
 old make-believe; she was still playing at keeping 
 house ; her mind was still in the nursery. The limita- 
 tions of her sex came home to her. Women began 
 life with dolls and dolls' houses; they ended with 
 babies and housekeeping. 
 
 The mention of her old doll's house revived a 
 hundred memories. She recollected her old disputa- 
 tions with Hugh Napier. She remembered how he 
 had laughed at her, when he returned from sailing 
 with Portobello fishermen, to find her dusting the 
 little chambers of her doll's house and preparing the 
 dinner for its tiny inhabitants. In those days she had 
 called him a rough boy, and had countered his attack 
 on her doll's housekeeping with ironical references 
 to his blunders in the schoolroom. And now, she 
 told herself, it was just the same. He came from the 
 big sea to laugh at her doll's house. There was no 
 difference in his eyes between a farthing toy and a 
 priceless piece of Dresden china. They met after 
 many years on the old ground of sexual dispute. He 
 was still the boy. She was still the girl. 
 
 But the quarrel would not resume its old freedom. 
 He did not scorn her with roughness; he smiled at 
 her with polite and charming tolerance. And she 
 could not now charge this strong and self-possessed
 
 o6 THE CAGE 
 
 traveller, who had seen the great world and sailed 
 himself over the great seas, with blunders in grammar 
 and mistakes in spelling and arithmetic. Besides, 
 there was something deep, and profound, and per- 
 plexing in his character. He not only came to church, 
 but he visited poor people, was particularly kind to 
 the children of bad parents, and assisted some of the 
 worst outcasts whom no curate or district-visitor ever 
 went near. 
 
 The man had some greatness in him which made 
 an impression on her. Above everything else, he 
 perplexed her. 
 
 He had told her on the first day of his arrival that 
 he intended to stay only a few days in Norfolk waters. 
 He was going, he said, to the most beautiful place on 
 the earth to Svendborg, in Denmark. He described 
 to her the scenery, spoke about the delightful hos- 
 pitality of the people, and mentioned the names of 
 many friends in that country. "I had no idea that I 
 should find you here," he said; "I only came to see 
 how M' Gavin was getting on." 
 
 But he did not go away. His ship, the Sand Wasp, 
 lay in the harbour of Borhaven. He rowed his 
 dinghey almost every day up the river to Creek 
 Cottage. He sat with Mrs. Dobson in the garden 
 while Anne was busy in the house, and after tea 
 would walk with Anne along the river-bank, or row 
 her to the opposite shore and explore the woods, 
 which stretched far away to distant moorland. Some- 
 times he met her in Borhaven when she was making 
 the round of her district. He never spoke about going
 
 THE SAND WASP 97 
 
 away, and never referred to Svenborg. "I had no 
 idea," he would say, "that Norfolk was so beautiful." 
 Once he said to her, as they watched a blue-heron 
 flying among six or seven owls, which their walking 
 h\d put up from the long grass on the sea-wall, "I 
 think I shall stay to see the wildfowl arrive in the 
 winter." 
 
 No companion could have been pleasanter. His 
 temperament had caught the quiet of nature, with 
 which he withstood the enmity of nature. The 
 summer of his soul met the winter of misfortune and 
 laughed at it. He and Anne were very happy to- 
 gether. He had so much to tell; she had so willing 
 an inclination to hear. 
 
 Soon after his arrival, she paid one morning a visit 
 to his ship. It was there that the manner of his life 
 came home to her. The Sand Wasp was a solid and 
 compact vessel, with a length of forty feet and a 
 beam of eleven, drawing seven foot of water. His 
 sleeping cabin was aft a small chamber fitted with 
 two bunks and a place for washing, like a cabin in a 
 mail steamer. The saloon amidships, with the mast 
 coming through the decks at the fore-end, had a broad 
 lounge on the port side, with a bookshelf above it; 
 and on the starboard side there were curved lockers 
 and a table. This was a comfortable and cheerful 
 place, despite its smoky roof and the extreme sim- 
 plicity of its fittings. There was a fireplace and 
 mantelpiece at the end nearest the bows, and a cup- 
 board for crockery and provisions against the forward 
 bulkhead. 
 
 H
 
 9 8 THE CAGE 
 
 They went forward, and he showed her the little 
 fore-peak where he kept his Primus stove, his oil, his 
 spare gear, and where he did his cooking. Through 
 the chain-pipe in the deck above ran the links of his 
 cable, massive and rusty ; the end of this monster lay 
 on the floor in a thick and clumsy coil. "One realizes 
 your journeys looking at this chain," said Anne. 
 
 "There are two sounds I am very fond of," he said; 
 "the running out and the coming home of a cable." 
 
 She thought for a moment, and then said, " Arrival 
 and Departure ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 They climbed by the steep companion to the deck, 
 and sat down in the sun on the cabin top, leaning 
 their backs against the folds of the stowed mainsail. 
 
 "Do you like her?" Hugh asked. 
 
 "Yes; she's workmanlike; a traveller." 
 
 He said that he had built her in the same spirit as 
 that in which Dr. Primrose had chosen his wife and 
 she her wedding-gown. He described her good 
 qualities. "You must excuse my enthusiasm," he 
 said, laughing; "this is my home, my doll's 
 house." 
 
 "Why did you call her the Sand Wasp?" 
 
 "The sand wasp," he said, "is a little insect which 
 never sees its father or its mother, and which hasn't 
 the least notion in the world how it came into exist- 
 ence. It finds itself alive, and that is all. But when 
 the time arrives for this creature to lay its eggs, it 
 deposits them in the sand, and surrounds them with 
 the food exactly suitable for the young, but which is
 
 THE SAND WASP 99 
 
 food that she herself does not eat. Then off she 
 goes." He turned and looked at his companion. "I 
 know just about as much of myself as the awaking 
 sand wasp," he said slowly. "I gave my home a 
 companionable name."
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 ONE day, at a party given by the Henry Pleasants, 
 conversation turned upon marriage. Mr. Aldrich had 
 preached an extraordinary sermon on the previous 
 day, denouncing with fiery eloquence the modern 
 world's impatience of the sanctity of marriage. 
 
 Among the guests were Anne Paton and Hugh 
 Napier. 
 
 Miss Potter, secretary to the Girls' Friendly Society 
 in Borhaven, a most masterful Sunday-school teacher, 
 and a district visitor who was far too sharp ever to be 
 imposed upon, declared boldly that the sermon was 
 not a whit too strong and deserved to be printed. 
 
 The general feeling among the numerous Miss 
 Lotts seemed to favour the gentle idea, expressed in a 
 murmur, that perhaps Mr. Aldrich looked too much 
 on the black side of things. 
 
 Henry Pleasant, who was modest and self-con- 
 scious, a tall, thin, hatchet-faced man, quite unlike 
 the average naval officer, suggested that the marriage 
 laws pressed hardly on certain people. 
 
 The voice of Ramsay M* Gavin broke in upon this 
 tentative discussion. 
 
 100
 
 i857 ioi 
 
 "I will make a remark," he said in his solemn way. 
 Everybody turned to look at the doctor. " The Act of 
 1857," ne went on, folding his arms over his breast, 
 and crossing his legs, "is condemned by every intelli- 
 gent man who has studied it. Great suffering, 
 exceeding cruelty, and enormous immorality are the 
 only fruits, so far as I am aware, of that pernicious, 
 ill-considered and bigoted enactment. I have not 
 had the advantage of hearing the sermon to which 
 reference has been made, but I take it that Mr. Aldrich 
 limited himself to the rhetoric of this question, and 
 made no excursion into the domain of actual experi- 
 ence. He is probably not aware, for instance, that 
 the number of men and women whose husbands are 
 incarcerated in lunatic asylums, and who can get 
 no release from their impossible union, is something 
 like sixty thousand. The children of the husbands 
 are denied stepmothers ; the children of the wives are 
 denied breadwinners. I do not know whether this 
 state of things commends itself to the religious con- 
 science; but I can say with confidence that science 
 regards it as irrational, dangerous, and against the 
 best interests of the State." 
 
 He paused for a moment, and there was a low 
 murmur of amazement at the number of men and 
 women in society deprived by insanity of their wives 
 and husbands. Miss Potter, whose cheeks had red- 
 dened a little, and whose eyes blinked and shone, 
 kept a challenging gaze fixed upon the doctor. 
 
 "Mr. Aldrich is also probably unaware," resumed 
 M' Gavin, "of the profound problem which the Act
 
 102 THE CAGE 
 
 of 1857 has introduced into the body politic by making 
 it comparatively easy to get a separation order. These 
 separation orders do not allow of re-marriage. The 
 number annually granted in this country is some- 
 where in the neighbourhood of ten thousand. It must 
 be borne in mind that ten thousand separation orders 
 affect twenty thousand human beings. Now, a very 
 little reflection should be sufficient to make even an 
 ordinarily obtuse intellect cognisant of the grave 
 situation produced by separating every year twenty 
 thousand men and women, and forbidding them ever 
 to marry again. If their relations justify separation, 
 their humanity justifies re-marriage. I am on delicate 
 ground." 
 
 "I think," said Miss Potter, "that the law has no 
 right to separate them." 
 
 "But the fact stands," replied M'Gavin, "that the 
 law does separate them." 
 
 "Then," said Miss Potter quickly, seeing light and 
 immediately beginning to get up steam, "if they can't 
 agree, and if they choose to be legally separated 
 denying, mind you, their solemn altar vows if they 
 do that, let them suffer; they deserve to suffer." 
 
 She panted with the strength of her conviction. 
 
 "I am willing to agree with you," began Dr. 
 M'Gavin; but Miss Potter got off again. 
 
 " If for some trumpery reason of temper or disposi- 
 tion they go into the law courts and get an order for 
 separation," she said vigorously, "they invite what- 
 ever suffering comes to them; they bring it on them- 
 selves. No two people, I should think, ever agreed.
 
 1857 I0 3 
 
 Marriage, I have always understood, is a give-and- 
 take arrangement. A nice state of things, if every 
 man who had a tiff with his wife ran off to the magis- 
 trate and got a separation order ! Those who do 
 choose to do such a thing cowards and sneaks and 
 feeble creatures, I call them instead of deserving our 
 pity merit our most unmitigated contempt 1 " 
 
 People smiled and agreed. 
 
 "As I remarked a moment ago," said Dr. M'Gavin, 
 "I am perfectly " 
 
 With a toss of her head away from him, feeling 
 that she now had the suffrages of the meeting entirely 
 on her side, Miss Potter was off again. "Marriage," 
 she said, "isn't forced upon these people. They do it 
 themselves. It's their own act, their own choice. 
 They know perfectly well what they are about. They 
 are not children. If they make a mistake it's their 
 own fault. A man who marries an empty-head doll 
 deserves to suffer. A woman who marries a good- 
 for-nothing man deserves all she gets. No one forced 
 them into these unions. A pretty condition of things, 
 if the consequences of our own wilful misdoing are 
 to be an excuse for altering the laws of the land ! 
 When I hear of unhappy marriages I say, They did 
 it themselves. People go about the world seeming 
 to think that marriage is ordered by the policeman 
 and consummated, if I may use the word, by the tax- 
 collector. They talk about it as if it was nothing 
 more nor less than conscription. Marriage is a 
 person's own choice. I don't care how young the girl 
 is or how green the man is, they are both at a time
 
 104 THE CAGE 
 
 of life when anybody who is going to be any good 
 at all ought to have common-sense. If they haven't 
 got common-sense they are a nuisance to the rest of 
 the world. Experience is a school for fools as well 
 as for wise men; it certainly isn't a sweet-shop or a 
 kindergarten. People have no right to blame the 
 laws. Whatever happens, they do it themselves." 
 
 Again the vigorous views of Miss Potter met with 
 the general approbation. Henry Pleasant, however, 
 had a modest notion that she had not exhausted 
 the subject. "Dr. M'Gavin, I think, wants to 
 say something," he said diffidently, with an air of 
 apology. 
 
 "Dr. M'Gavin," said Miss Potter, "is a medical 
 man, and ought to know better than to talk nonsense. 
 Oh, it's no laughing matter. If he goes into the 
 houses of poor people telling them that they have a 
 perfect right to separate and live how they like, we 
 shall soon have pandemonium. What people require 
 to be told is that they must do their duty. People 
 don't want slacking; they want tightening up. All 
 this talk of democracy and the rights of man and 
 the greatest happiness of the greatest number, is a 
 slacking of the human race. If you want to see a 
 dirty doorstep, a miserable kitchen, starving children 
 and disgusting parents, go into the houses of Bor- 
 haven where the men talk about their rights. Religi- 
 ous people people who don't talk about their rights 
 but who do their duty keep a clean doorstep, have 
 a bright kitchen^ bake their own bread, take a pride
 
 i857 105 
 
 in their children, and would rather starve than beg 
 or go on the parish. These things are the facts of 
 life. People go up in the sky and forget facts when 
 they talk about ideas. Dr. M'Gavin knows as well as 
 I do that these things are facts. Slack a person, and 
 you send him to ruin. Screw him up, and you keep 
 him moving. All this talk about the hardships of 
 marriage laws is a slacking of society. It means 
 ruin." 
 
 One of the Miss Lotts suddenly remembered that 
 Anne Paton was living separated from her husband. 
 She glanced across the room as Miss Potter was 
 speaking, saw, or thought she saw, a look of pain 
 in Anne's face, and immediately whispered to one 
 of her sisters that it would be well to change the 
 subject. 
 
 Miss Potter noticed this whispering and stopped 
 abruptly. Her flushed cheeks became suddenly 
 scarlet under the terrible misgiving that she had said 
 something indelicate. Her stricken pause was the 
 doctor's opportunity. 
 
 "I should like to make one addendum to my 
 previous remarks," he said, with a steady persistency 
 which admitted of no interruptions. "I am perfectly 
 willing to say that the sixty thousand people with 
 their mates in lunatic asylums, and the twenty thou- 
 sand people annually separated but not divorced, 
 constitute a negligible section of the community. I 
 will even go so far as to say with Miss Potter, though 
 I doubt the Christian character of the remark, Let
 
 I0 6 THE CAGE 
 
 them suffer. But, what of their children ? Let us be 
 careful. We are speaking of posterity." 
 
 Before Miss Potter could make a reply the numerous 
 family of the Lotts made an imposing diversion, by 
 rising to take leave of their hostess. 
 
 Napier walked back with Anne. 
 
 The conversation, curiously enough, had made them 
 think of each other. Anne had felt that Miss Potter's 
 remarks must have hurt Napier in the person of his 
 mother; Napier had felt, with the Miss Lotts, that the 
 discussion must be painful to the separated wife of 
 Richard Paton. 
 
 When Anne had gone out, Mrs. Pleasant said, "I 
 never thought of Mrs. Paton ! I hope she didn't 
 think we were talking of her." 
 
 To which Miss Potter made reply, "She was not 
 in my mind, but I rejoice that she was present." 
 
 Darkness was falling over the earth as Napier and 
 Anne left the lighted streets of Borhaven behind them 
 and entered the wide fields through which a narrow 
 path led to the creek. A few stars were visible. A 
 cold wind blew from the north. The sound of the 
 sea came to them in a dull monotone. 
 
 Refreshed by the coldness and confident in the dark- 
 ness, Anne said to Napier, "Who do you think had 
 the best of the duel ? " 
 
 He laughed. "M'Gavin always amuses me. His 
 measured utterance, his professorial manner, his 
 dramatic tone, his expression of pompous gravity he 
 is the least conversational of men."
 
 i857 107 
 
 "And Miss Potter?" 
 
 "She has the crudeness which inspires, the energy 
 which acts, the common-sense which achieves. It 
 would be easy to laugh at Miss Potter. But the 
 world is better for her. I always admire people who 
 do things." 
 
 "And her opinions?" 
 
 He was afraid to cause her pain, and said that the 
 question of the discussion was too big for settlement 
 across cold tea-cups. 
 
 "I think that I am on the side of Ramsay 
 M 'Gavin," she said. "Oh, yes, I am altogether on 
 his side. What a barbarity to force people to live 
 together who cannot agree. Think of it in a little 
 house, where they cannot avoid each other ! The 
 daily, hourly jar upon the nerves : the perpetual irrita- 
 tion : the continued absence of peace and tranquillity : 
 the mind always living in a state of siege. How 
 dreadful ! Why should they live this cat-and-dog 
 life ? They are human beings. Their lives ought to 
 be as beautiful as possible ; they are made as wretched 
 as it is possible to conceive." 
 
 " No doubt the marriage laws press hardly on certain 
 people." 
 
 "I am quite with Ramsay M'Gavin. He is pomp- 
 ous and a little ridiculous ; but he is right." 
 
 "No; he is wrong." 
 
 She was surprised by this sudden challenge, and 
 turned her eyes to look at him. He was walking 
 beside her in the stubble, which was a little lower
 
 io8 THE CAGE 
 
 than the footpath ; the obscure profile of his face was 
 on a level with her own. She could see in the dark- 
 ness a vague seriousness hardening the shadowy out- 
 line of his face. His eyes were looking straight ahead 
 of him. 
 
 " Why is he wrong ? " she asked. 
 
 "He is tampering with the fundamentals of human 
 society." 
 
 She made no answer. 
 
 "In particular cases he might seem right; but for 
 humanity in general he is wrong." 
 
 "You think the human race is not to be trusted ? " 
 
 "I am sure that civilization depends upon man's 
 respect for woman." 
 
 She thought over this remark, and they walked on 
 in silence. The noise of his boots brushing against 
 the hard stubble made a rhythmic and liquid accom- 
 paniment to her thoughts. His long stride had a 
 quality of persistence which suggested destiny. In 
 the darkness, with the cold wind blowing through her 
 and past her, she felt as though something cruel and 
 inexorable was following her, that escape was im- 
 possible. 
 
 "Marriage," he said presently, "has given woman 
 her position of honour and respect. To preserve that 
 position is essential. Like music, woman either exalts 
 man or degrades him. Civilization is the work of 
 men, but it is in the hands of women." 
 
 "I agree with you; but unhappy marriages do not 
 make for anything useful. To dissolve them would
 
 1857 
 
 not injure happy marriages. On the contrary, un- 
 happy marriages tend to discredit the marriage state. 
 Why shouldn't people be happy?" 
 
 It was his turn to keep silence. 
 
 "Why shouldn't they be happy? " she asked. 
 
 "Miss Potter would tell you that we are not here 
 to be happy." 
 
 "But do you believe that?" 
 
 "I believe that discipline is more essential than 
 gratification." 
 
 "But it is a natural impulse to wish to be happy?" 
 
 "That impulse carries us beyond this earth, into the 
 universe up yonder " he looked for a moment to- 
 wards the stars. "To be satisfied here is impossible. 
 Directly one begins to think, one knows that happi- 
 ness here is a will-o'-th'-wisp. The pessimism of 
 philosophy, from Job to Schopenhauer, is its optim- 
 ism. The natural impulse for happiness is bigger 
 than the satisfactions of the earth. It is immortal. 
 We can't be happy here, because we belong to the 
 infinite. A man who is satisfied with this life is an 
 animal." 
 
 "Still, I think one may try to put an end to 
 wretchedness." 
 
 "Not at the cost of discipline." 
 
 " You are a Calvinist I " 
 
 "Perhaps." 
 
 "Where did you find your religion?" 
 
 "In the world." 
 
 "Your seriousness surprises me."
 
 no THE CAGE 
 
 "You have touched one of the two subjects on which 
 I am always serious." 
 
 "Marriage?" 
 
 "The restraints of society /* 
 
 "And the other subject?" 
 
 "Children." 
 
 "Ramsay M' Gavin is serious on that subject, too." 
 
 "He would build his posterity without a foundation. 
 To-morrow is nothing without to-day." 
 
 She said to him, half-laughing, "You are almost 
 as terrible as Mr. Aldrich." 
 
 "I have no objection to laughter. It depends on 
 one's mood. Sometimes I am inclined to rail at the 
 world; sometimes to laugh at it. But my principles 
 ** remain the same." 
 
 "On the whole, I think it is better to laugh." 
 
 "It depends on the mood." 
 
 "You were serious as a boy." 
 
 "Anything is better than tittering." 
 
 "Perhaps you live too much alone." 
 
 "At sea one is never alone. On shore I mix with 
 all sorts and conditions of men. It seems a lonely life, 
 but it isn't, really. If I had a hand on board I should 
 be conscious of solitude." 
 
 They came through a gate and made the descent 
 of the little cliff to the cottage. 
 
 "You are coming in ? " she asked. 
 
 "Not to-night." 
 
 "But do; we can give you dinner." 
 
 He thanked her, but refused.
 
 1857 in 
 
 As she gave him her hand she said, "Next time we 
 meet I shall want you to laugh at the enemies of your 
 principles." 
 
 "I hope I haven't depressed you." 
 
 " I am not sure. I will tell you when we meet again. 
 You have surprised me."
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 FLIGHTING 
 
 A MAN who sets a woman thinking makes love to 
 her. 
 
 Anne began to think about Napier. He became an 
 obsession. When she was watching the gardener's 
 winter digging, working with Minionette in the 
 kitchen, helping Mrs. Dobson to dress, or sitting by 
 herself with a book, this enigmatical man presented 
 himself to her mind and became the master of her 
 thoughts. 
 
 A step on the path of millstones made her look ex- 
 pectantly from the window; she was disappointed 
 when the visitor was not Napier. 
 
 His opinions on marriage were more than a surprise 
 to her; they were an irritation. She felt vexed with 
 him. If his experience had been hers would he 
 maintain those stringent opinions ? It was impossible 
 to think of him as a Puritan ; he could not really 
 be a Calvinist ; but he was apparently religious with a 
 severity that struck her as unusual and unpleasant. 
 
 A man in a cassock might pardonably hold the 
 views of Mr. Aldrich ; but these views did not 
 fit a man of the world who sailed the seas single-
 
 FLIGHTING 113 
 
 handed, who knew cities and men, who could laugh 
 and be amusing, who was interesting to women, and 
 whose attraction was his strong manhood. 
 
 She was puzzled to know from whence he got these 
 severe ideas. His presence in church had not seemed 
 strange to her ; she had accepted it without thinking 
 as part of the formalism and conformity of the age. 
 His visits to the houses of poor people, his kindness 
 to children, his benevolence to the outcasts at whose 
 doors no district visitor ever knocked, had seemed to 
 her the expression of an interest and a curiosity which 
 a student of humanity might exercise without mission- 
 ary zeal. The idea that he was religious struck her as 
 strange and confusing. She was disturbed by it. 
 But the more she reflected on what he had said to her 
 during that walk across the dark fields the more it 
 came home to her that this quiet and interesting man, 
 whose mind had once seemed an open book to her, 
 was religious. This thought, as we have said, dis- 
 turbed her. 
 
 She was led to wonder what view he entertained 
 of her own situation. Did he, too, think with the 
 interfering and impossible priest that she should go 
 back to her husband, go back to a life that was hateful 
 and degrading, and attempt to save a soul that was 
 dead even to the alphabet of refinement? Would he 
 say to her one day, It is God's will that you should 
 go back? 
 
 It seemed to her impossible. 
 
 The next time she saw him, much to her disquiet, 
 
 she found herself self-conscious. When we think 
 
 i
 
 1 1 4 THE CAGE 
 
 incessantly of a single person the actual presence is 
 sometimes strangely agitating. 
 
 He presented himself one bitter dark evening at 
 Creek Cottage, with a large duffle coat over his arm 
 and with a gun in his hand. He wore a fisherman's 
 jersey, and had heavy sea-boots on his feet. He did 
 not enter the drawing-room, but stood in the door. 
 He asked Anne if she would like to make experience 
 with flighting. He seemed happy and vigorous. 
 His face shone from the exercise of rowing, his dark 
 eyes were bright and animated. This cheerfulness of 
 his demeanour, reminiscent of their childhood, re- 
 stored Anne's composure. Mrs. Dobson, on her 
 sofa, regarded him over her spectacles as he stood, 
 cap in hand, at the doorway. "Ladylike work, killing 
 ducks," she said maliciously. 
 
 "It's the poetry of shooting," he answered; "it's 
 not the killing that's good, but the watching." 
 
 "And catching cold." 
 
 "Anne must wrap up." 
 
 To be with him pleased her. She said sfie would 
 come. 
 
 While she was up-stairs, putting on thick boots and 
 an ulster, Mrs. Dobson said to Napier, "When are 
 you going to Denmark?" 
 
 "It is too cold now." 
 
 "You intend to stay here?" 
 
 "For the present." 
 
 She watched him with a steady gaze which was 
 almost a scrutiny. "You live rather an idle life, don't 
 you ? Is that wise ? Idleness, you know, is danger-
 
 FLIGHTING 115 
 
 ous. Why don't you get some work to do, marry, 
 and settle down ? It would be good for you." 
 
 He smiled and shook his head. " I am quite safe," 
 he answered. 
 
 She seemed about to speak, but checked, and turned 
 to her book. "In the meantime, you are making me 
 sit in a draught." 
 
 "I will wait outside." He wished her good-night, 
 closed the door, and went into the garden. As he 
 stood at the gate, looking back to the cottage, he saw 
 the light in Anne's window and her shadow on the 
 blind. 
 
 Anne came down-stairs, made up the drawing- 
 room fire, kissed her little grandmother, and joined 
 Napier in the garden, who still had his coat over his 
 arm. 
 
 It was quite dark. The creek was almost full. 
 There was no hard blowing wind, but the air stung 
 the face and hardened the flesh. A sense of ice cold- 
 ness came from the ripples of the river breaking on 
 the shingle of the hard. 
 
 They got upon the sea wall and walked in Indian 
 file along the narrow path. The grey-coloured grass 
 was up to their knees. Not a sound reached their 
 ears. The rising river flowed without noise over the 
 saltings. They did not speak after their first sen- 
 tences of commonplace. 
 
 When they had gone half-a-mile up the creek 
 Napier slackened his pace and began to look about 
 him. 
 
 "This will do," he said, in a low voice. "Do you 
 II
 
 ii6 THE CAGE 
 
 mind lying down in the grass? I will spread my 
 coat for you/' 
 
 " But you will be cold ? " 
 
 "No; I'm well wrapped up." 
 
 He laid the duffle coat on the side of the wall, and 
 she lay down, the grass closing about her. 
 
 "Somehow this reminds me of Portobello," she 
 said, settling herself into a comfortable position. "It 
 is in the nature of an adventure. There's something 
 boyish about it." 
 
 He loaded his gun, looked down the creek to sea, 
 then across the marshes, inclined his ear to the sky, 
 listening, and then lay down in the long grass at a 
 little distance from her. 
 
 "It's great fun, flighting," he said, "even if one 
 doesn't get a shot. You'll enjoy hearing the duck 
 go over our heads if they do I They make a queer 
 ghostly noise, and it's so high up, something 
 mysterious about it." 
 
 They kept silence for some time, Napier listening, 
 Anne thinking. 
 
 "They're wonderfully clever birds," he said in his 
 low voice. "They've learned by experience that the 
 marshes aren't safe by day. They go out to sea 
 and wait for the night to fall, hungry all the time. 
 Then they come creeping across the skies at night to 
 feed in the rivers." 
 
 He half raised himself on an elbow, listening. 
 The melancholy cry of a redshank on the opposite 
 shore reached their ears. "That's the policeman of
 
 FLIGHTING 117 
 
 waterfowl," he whispered, lying down flat. "Some- 
 thing is moving." 
 
 The sound ceased; silence settled over land 
 and river; the wind began to move through the 
 grass. 
 
 Napier looked up at the sky. "I hope the moon 
 won't show. We shan't be able to see the duck if 
 it does." 
 
 An owl skimmed over their heads and glided away 
 into the darkness. 
 
 "Birds are wonderful creatures," he said, in a voice 
 which brought back to her his boyhood in an extra- 
 ordinary real and convincing fashion; it was as if 
 he was speaking to himself; the voice was low and 
 quiet, and sounded strangely in the silence and the 
 darkness. "No one can explain why some of them 
 live to be a hundred and over, whilst others die as 
 young as a dog. What makes the difference in time 
 between the life of a rook and a blackbird ? " 
 
 When they had waited some time he turned to- 
 wards Anne, and said, "It's rather horrible, when 
 you think of it, this killing of wildfowl. There's 
 something splendid in their flight from the Baltic; 
 the long journey through all kinds of weather; the 
 steady beating of their brave wings all the hungry, 
 homeless way, and then, when they sight rest and 
 food at last, England receives them with a charge of 
 shot. What a welcome ! what a reward for valour ! 
 But flighting isn't so bad as gunning. Henry 
 Pleasant offered me the use of his punt the other day;
 
 u8 THE CAGE 
 
 I was tempted, but I resisted. It's curious how 
 conscience interferes even in the small things of 
 life." 
 
 "Your conscience," she said, smiling and speaking 
 very softly, "is much more sensitive than it used to 
 be. I find it difficult sometimes to attach you to 
 Portobello. The only link seems to be the Sand 
 Wasp. In everything else you have changed." 
 
 " I used to be rather rude to you ! I was as rough 
 as could be. But they were good days. I often 
 think of your father." 
 
 "It was great fun when he took us into Edin- 
 burgh." 
 
 "Yes. I wish I could thank him now. A boy 
 never realizes kindness. He expects it. I should 
 like to thank your father." 
 
 "I think he was quite satisfied. He was very fond 
 of you." 
 
 "His influence lasts with me, which is something. 
 He was one of the best men I have ever known." 
 He laughed. "Doesn't old M 'Gavin make you smile 
 at times ? the way in which he tries to assume your 
 father's manner 1 " 
 
 Napier's low laughter sounded softly in the still 
 air. 
 
 "One thing always puzzles me about my father," 
 she said, turning on her side and looking towards 
 the water. "He was a very good man, as you say, 
 but he wasn't religious. He would have been very 
 hard, for instance, on Mr. Aldrich." 
 
 " Would he ? I am not quite sure."
 
 FLIGHTING 119 
 
 "I don't think he would even applaud some of 
 your opinions ! " 
 
 "Mine! " He turned to her, smiling. "You are 
 thinking of the other night. I am afraid I rather 
 depressed you. I thought about it afterwards. You 
 said I surprised you, and as I walked back it came 
 to me that I had forgotten my role of schoolfellow. I 
 might have been addressing a public meeting 1 " 
 
 "But you hold those views." 
 
 "I might have expressed them differently." 
 
 "You would still be a disciple of our Savonarola ! J1 
 
 "Who is that?" 
 
 "Mr. Aldrich." 
 
 "I have heard him preach. I rather approve of 
 him. He has the courage and common sense to 
 preach a hell. That brings us back to your father. 
 Your father wasn't really a man without religion; 
 he hated evil; he was only opposed to a particular 
 form of religion which happened to surround him 
 and interfere with his work. I am not at all sure 
 that he wouldn't have seen good in a man like 
 Aldrich." He stopped speaking for a moment, pluck- 
 ing at the grass in front of him. "You see, Anne," 
 he resumed, speaking slowly, as though troubled 
 about the choice of his words, "there is really an 
 unmistakable need now-a-days for recovering some 
 of humanity's ancient landmarks; one can't go about 
 the world, meet people, read books and newspapers, 
 study the condition of society and watch the move- 
 ments of politics without feeling that people are 
 making the most dangerous and foolhardy experi-
 
 120 THE CAGE 
 
 ments with civilization. It's like an engineer trying 
 experiments with the engines of a battleship in mid- 
 ocean. A great many things in civilization are 
 ridiculous, but the fundamentals are essential. One 
 can't help being serious when flippancy on the one 
 side and materialism on the other are reducing life 
 to a meaningless experiment. Anarchy is the only 
 result. I have met several intelligent anarchists in 
 Spain; they are much more logical and consistent 
 than the socialists, materialists, and flaneurs of Pro- 
 testant countries; if there is no God, no hereafter, 
 no conscience, and no progress of the spiritual life, 
 this life becomes a scramble, a chaos of self-assertion 
 and greed. Anything else is irrational. What is 
 evil if there is no good, and what is good if there is 
 no God ? The State makes crime, but the conscience 
 makes iniquity. Do away with conscience, and only 
 the policeman is left. Do you think a policeman 
 can carry the human race as far as, let us say, St. 
 Paul, to go no higher? Who can really say that 
 literature would be safer with Oscar Wilde for its 
 authority than Wordsworth? or art, with Aubrey 
 Beardsley than Michael Angelo? or politics, with 
 Horace Walpole than Burke or Garibaldi? I think 
 everybody must feel conscious of a hell and ruin in 
 front of the human race if the main road of advance 
 is not to be treated seriously. And I can't conceive 
 where the quality of seriousness is to be found if we 
 rule out a destiny in the infinite." 
 
 He got upon an elbow, and turned towards her. 
 "You would be quite as serious as I am," he said, "if
 
 FLIGHTING 121 
 
 you knew how flippancy is gaining ground all over 
 the world, among the great powers, as the chief force 
 of social life. The great powers, by the way, are 
 few in number. The vast majority of nations are 
 savages. That is important to remember. As for 
 this spirit of flippancy it is the most detestable spirit 
 in the world. It belittles the universe, dwarfs exist- 
 ence, and makes men and women horrible. One 
 laughs at the smooth creatures who creep about the 
 drawing-rooms of the world with insidious sneers and 
 poisonous mockery; but they are really as dangerous 
 as microbes. Atheism is a lion or a tiger; flippancy 
 is a bacillus. If you would know how deadly this 
 bacillus is, go into Russian society. Nothing is more 
 horrible than a godless nation. I am serious because 
 I loathe the titterer; and I loathe him because I see 
 his danger. If civilization were something perma- 
 nent and impossible of destruction I should not be 
 afraid of flippancy. But civilization, when one 
 knows the nations of the world, is a candle in the 
 midst of a hurricane. A few men in a very few 
 nations represent the soul of civilization." 
 
 "I can agree with everything you say," she an- 
 swered. "I shouldn't at all like you to be flippant." 
 
 "To come back to your father," he said; but she 
 interrupted him. 
 
 "I want just to say this. One can be dissatisfied 
 with human laws and wish to alter them, without 
 being either flippant or irreligious. No one would 
 accuse Ramsay M'Gavin of flippancy ! " 
 
 He made no reply for a moment. Something in
 
 122 THE CAGE 
 
 his silence warned her. She experienced that strange 
 telepathic sensation of expectation and disquiet which 
 tells us that our companion is going to bring con- 
 versation home to us, to make it intimate and 
 personal. She wondered what he would say to her. 
 
 "Since I last saw you," he said, slowly and diffi- 
 dently, " I have thought a good deal of our talk about 
 marriage. I was discussing the matter in a general 
 way, in the abstract. Perhaps (it's rather difficult 
 to put it nicely) you were thinking of an individual 
 case. We are very old friends, Anne, but even 
 brothers and sisters sometimes find it delicate work 
 to talk about their own private affairs; perhaps you 
 would rather I didn't say anything more?" 
 
 She found it difficult to make an answer. For 
 some reasons she would have liked to discuss her 
 own experience with this man; she even had a feel- 
 ing that it was necessary, to justify her point of 
 view. At the same time, a feeling of constraint held 
 her back; in some unaccountable fashion her 
 marriage made her ashamed; it seemed to degrade 
 her. 
 
 But curiosity, that most potent impulse in women, 
 settled her decision. 
 
 "You are thinking of my own experience?" she 
 asked, without looking at him. "I don't think it 
 influences my ideas. You see, it doesn't interfere 
 with my life. I am quite free." 
 
 "No; you are scarcely free, Anne. I mean, you 
 can't marry again." 
 
 "But I don't want to. I am perfectly content.
 
 FLIGHTING 123 
 
 No; my own case doesn't influence me. I think of 
 people tied to each other in one house, who can't 
 escape from one another, who live a double life in 
 one, who are perpetually miserable, wretched, and 
 irked. That seems to me a shameful existence, un- 
 thinkable. And, after all, marriage is a human 
 arrangement, so that one doesn't see why its regula- 
 tions should not be improved." 
 
 She wanted to discuss her own experience; she 
 wanted to tell her own story ; she wanted to discover 
 what he thought about it; but the difficulty, the 
 delicacy of such a colloquy had unconsciously urged 
 her away from the personal point of view. 
 
 "Don't you think that marriage is important just 
 because it is a human arrangement?" he asked 
 quietly. "Humanity makes law for its own well- 
 being. Because marriage is such a fundamental and 
 essential thing, men like Aldrich resist any tampering 
 with its safeguards. The human race can't afford to 
 make experiments with its foundations. The religious 
 point of view, which so many people consider intoler- 
 ant, is founded, after all, upon the instruction of One 
 who said that the Sabbath is made for man and not 
 man for the Sabbath. The interests of humanity 
 were certainly never closer to any man's heart than 
 they were to His. He, quite evidently, attached 
 enormous importance to the sanctity of marriage." 
 
 "And yet," she said, rather wearily, "one cannot 
 be blind to all this wretchedness and misery." 
 
 " Isn't it possible to exaggerate the wretchedness, 
 and to attribute to marriage the misery which is
 
 i2 4 THE CAGE 
 
 really due to quite different causes? You spoke 
 about people tied to each other in one house. In 
 the words of Miss Potter, They did it themselves ! 
 That remark of hers can be developed. I don't 
 believe that any difference can be irreconcilable be- 
 tween a man and a woman who have been married. 
 They may make it so, but, in fact, it is not. It is 
 inconceivable that any feud should be everlasting and 
 hopeless between two people who have once been man 
 and wife. There must be somewhere, on one side or 
 the other, the materials for a good understanding. 
 Then the question follows, Is it better for them that 
 they should fly asunder and follow their own inclina- 
 tions wherever they lead, or that they set themselves 
 to fulfil their vows, practise forbearance, seek points 
 of agreement, and make the best of each other? 
 There is no doubt which is the wiser course to preach 
 to democracy. The other seems to me dangerous." 
 
 She was profoundly serious now. "What you 
 have said sounds as if it should be true. Believe me, 
 it is not.** 
 
 The tone of her voice brought him from the general 
 to the particular. There seemed to be pain in her 
 words. He felt sorry that he had said what he had 
 said. Her own story, the drama of her own life, the 
 passion of her own soul, began to press upon him. 
 He wondered what she had suffered, what the differ- 
 ences were which had sundered her from Paton. For 
 the first time it came home to him that she had 
 definitely suffered. This realization pained him; it 
 shocked him. That the marriage had been what
 
 FLIGHTING 125 
 
 people call "unhappy" he knew; until now it had 
 never occurred to him that she had experienced pain. 
 It hurt him to think that she had. 
 
 "You forget," she said, in the same low voice of 
 deep feeling, "the age at which many people are 
 married; not marry, but, are married. A girl who 
 is quite ignorant of the world and who is married by 
 her mother before she has really looked at life, may 
 find with experience that the differences existing be- 
 tween her husband and herself are irreconcilable. 
 What happens, do you think, in the case where the 
 one goes on developing and maturing, and the other 
 remains stationary? Would you say that the differ- 
 ences of disposition and character and taste, which 
 must develop from such a condition of things, are 
 fairly to be described as reconcilable? I assure you 
 they are not." 
 
 "What you say," he said, after a pause, "sounds 
 dreadful. You make me think. I can't say any 
 more." 
 
 His principles remained unshaken. But how could 
 he prescribe for the human race with the pain of one 
 soul so close and near to his sympathy ? 
 
 They were both silent for a long time. 
 
 A faint sound came to their ears, high up and 
 distant in the sky. 
 
 Napier became instantly alert. "Crouch!" he 
 whispered, laying hands on his gun. She saw the 
 dark outline of his face in the long grass; it ex- 
 pressed excitement, pleasure, some wonderful con- 
 centration of purpose. She recognized the hunter.
 
 126 THE CAGE 
 
 "Look!" he whispered, without turning to her; 
 "here they come; do you see that jolly old mallard 
 leading the way? Listen to the noise." 
 
 The whiffle in the air grew more distinct. 
 
 Suddenly Napier got upon one knee, at the same 
 instant the gun rose to his shoulder. For a moment 
 Anne was conscious of alarm among the string of 
 birds in the air, then, quickly following each other, 
 the two barrels emptied themselves into the night. 
 
 Napier dropped his gun, rose to his feet, and dis- 
 appeared over the wall in the direction of the marshes. 
 In the distance a dog began to bark. 
 
 Anne sat up. The air was full of disturbing 
 melancholy cries. A flight of little birds, making a 
 strange creaking sound with their wings, passed 
 rapidly down the creek, flying low to the water. The 
 raucous note of a goose came from the other side. 
 A heron beat its way out of the reeds a little distance 
 up the river, and with dangling legs made for the 
 opposite bank, the tips of its wide wings striking the 
 water. Over the marshes numerous owls were wheel- 
 ing in a state of panic, like ghosts new to purgatory. 
 The wind seemed to make the grasses afraid. The 
 whole night was ruffled. The echoes of the gun 
 appeared to live in the distant woods. Death had 
 spoken. The peace of the earth was shattered. 
 Anne became aware of a colder coldness in the night. 
 
 She stood up, lifting the duffle coat from the bank, 
 which was wet and felt extraordinarily heavy. She 
 stood upon the wall looking in the direction taken 
 by Napier. The dykes intersecting the marshes were
 
 FLIGHTING 127 
 
 dimly discernible. She could see the owls that were 
 close to her. Presently she saw the dark figure of 
 Napier stooping and groping with his hands on the 
 ground. She watched him moving round in a 
 gradually increasing circle, now visible and now in- 
 visible, becoming at one moment a part of the dark- 
 ness, at the next a shadow moving through the 
 gloom. 
 
 She saw him make a sudden movement, pick some- 
 thing up, and then turn towards her. He came with 
 swift strides, now jumping narrow dykes, now wad- 
 ing through a broader one, stumbling over the rough 
 ground, his sea-boots making a dull thud as he got 
 upon the sward beside the wall. He brought back 
 with him three birds. 
 
 As they started back he asked her if she were cold, 
 and suggested that she should put his coat over her 
 ulster. She said that the walk would warm her, and 
 started off ahead of him at a good pace. They 
 hardly spoke at all till they reached the cottage. 
 
 "I will leave the birds at the door," he said. "They 
 may appease Mrs. Dobson for my interruption of 
 your evening." 
 
 She asked him to come in. He said that he must 
 take advantage of the tide. 
 
 They parted with a certain constraint of which both 
 were conscious.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 NAPIER'S RELIGION 
 
 NAPIER rowed back to Borhaven thinking of Anne. 
 He was still under the spell of his new thought that 
 she had suffered. The transition in his ideas from the 
 loose supposition of an unhappy marriage to the 
 definite conviction of a tragic marriage became a 
 revolution of his attitude towards Anne. 
 
 As he entered the harbour he saw standing on the 
 quay the old boatman, Tricker by name, who looked 
 after his ship when he was away, and did little jobs 
 for him. The headlight was burning on the Sand 
 Wasp. 
 
 As Napier approached, resting on his oars, the old 
 man said to him, "I gave a look to your stove about 
 half-an-hour ago. But I reckon you'll find it mighty 
 cold in the cabin to-night. There's a rare frost. Had 
 any luck with the gun ? " 
 
 Napier told him, gave him an order for the morn- 
 ing, and, pulling out to the ship, wished him good- 
 night. The old man tramped away, muttering to 
 himself. Napier's oars made a duet with his footsteps. 
 
 When he had eaten his supper and made up the 
 fire, he lighted a pipe and lay down at full length on 
 the lounge. 
 
 128
 
 NAPIER'S RELIGION 129 
 
 He remained perfectly quiet, never changing his 
 position, like a man in a reverie rather than one whose 
 mind was restless with the ferment of a new idea. 
 The smoke came slowly, at long intervals, from his 
 lips. When the pipe was finished he laid it down on 
 the floor at his side without moving his head or alter- 
 ing the direction of his gaze. He settled himself more 
 carefully on the broad of his back, placing his 
 hands, the ringers interlaced, behind his head. The 
 only sounds which entered the saloon were the lap- 
 ping of the water against the ship's side, the faint 
 creaking of the timbers, the moan of the wind over- 
 head, the murmur of the sea. There was a gentle 
 movement of the vessel which would have had a 
 lulling effect upon a man who was undisturbed in his 
 thoughts. 
 
 Napier's principles stood firm. Concessions on the 
 question of marriage meant parleying with the enemy. 
 He regarded this problem from the universal point of 
 view of humanity. He was a Stoic, at war with 
 Epicureans. The modern tendency to enervate the 
 race met with his disapproval. The hostility of 
 nature seemed to him purposive ; he recognized in the 
 harshness of terrestrial conditions a strengthening 
 quality, something which braced the fibres of the mind 
 and ennobled the soul by opposing it. Mankind 
 appeared to him as merchantmen crossing an ocean 
 with bills of lading; not as a party of pleasure 
 cruisers. There was a port of destination; compass 
 and chart were necessary; knowledge of the laws of 
 nature was essential ; seriousness was becoming to the
 
 I 3 o THE CAGE 
 
 environment. He was conscious of the grandeur of 
 the universe. 
 
 It must be explained how this man had got his 
 religion. 
 
 Most people's knowledge of life may be compared 
 to the holiday seeker's knowledge of the sea. At 
 Brighton one does not know the ocean. From the 
 pavement of a parade, or in the corner of a glass 
 shelter, or even on the end of a pier, where the band 
 plays and palmists tell fortunes, it is not possible to 
 make acquaintance with nature's unfathomable 
 masterpiece. The hurricane, the tempest, the sea- 
 snowstorm, the typhoon, the waterspout; the great 
 cavernous rocks, haunted by seabirds, and hiding in 
 their caves hideous and appalling monsters which 
 shake men's faith in God; the floating iceberg, the 
 reef, the shoal, the quicksand ; the huge creatures who 
 swim in the sightless depths, the foul and grisly 
 Things which crawl in the slime ; the swift and terrible 
 changes in the moods of this vast mass of moving 
 water, the different sounds which it utters, the differ- 
 ent colours with which it decks itself, the sublime 
 majesty of its wrath, the treacherous melancholy of 
 its peace ; these things are not to be apprehended from 
 the shore. 
 
 The ocean is not more terrible than life. The 
 hideous things which prey upon each other in the sea 
 have their counterparts on land. The mind of man 
 has its unfathomable depths. 
 
 Napier knew humanity as he knew the ocean. He 
 had visited many countries, his acquaintance lay
 
 NAPIER'S RELIGION 131 
 
 among men whose business it is to know men, he had 
 seen with his own eyes. The morality of treaty-ports 
 in China and Japan, of the tropics, of places like 
 Naples and Port Said, was known to him in a degree 
 which the hurried traveller does not reach. He had 
 penetrated behind the scenes of depravity; he was 
 familiar with the workings of those international 
 gangs whose commerce is a traffic in maidenhood; 
 he knew the toll which iniquity lays on childhood; he 
 had visited those dreadful hospitals which the world 
 shuns, and had seen the physical consequences of sin; 
 he had explored madhouses where alienists watch the 
 disintegration of the soul; he had talked with doctors 
 of all nations, lawyers of all nations, sailors of all 
 nations, priests of all nations ; the infamy of mankind 
 was more than a phrase to him, it was a fact; iniquity 
 ceased with him to be a term for men's actions, it 
 became a force; he had seen the corruption of men's 
 bodies, the mortification of their souls ; he knew there 
 was a devil-fish in the sea, he believed there was a 
 devil-man in the world. 
 
 People whose only acquaintance with evil is made 
 through the medium of polite literature or the columns 
 of respectable newspapers can account for the pre- 
 sence of this power from the action of evolution ; they 
 find it unnecessary to believe in a devil. An excuse- 
 seeking theology, assuming the role of God's Apolo- 
 gist, has made the idea of hell repellent to decent and 
 respectable persons who live on the surface. The 
 general attitude of civilized society towards sin is one 
 
 of tolerating disapproval. The phrase Eternal Hope, 
 K a
 
 i 3 2 THE CAGE 
 
 however, which consoles an English congregation, 
 would sound oddly in the chuckling bordels of 
 debauchery. Napier knew iniquity as an anatomist 
 knows the human body. He knew to what dread 
 abysses the mind of man can descend. He accepted 
 the teaching 
 
 "That in a boundless universe 
 Is boundless better, boundless worse." 
 
 At the base of his mind was the conviction that 
 evolution has two definite streams of tendency, good 
 and evil. He saw that the earth was inhabited by 
 beautiful creatures innocent and peaceful; and by 
 hideous creatures cruel and ferocious. The parasites, 
 the blood-suckers, the ghouls, and vampires, and 
 scavengers of nature seemed to him to have followed 
 a line of their own inclination, ending in horrid 
 shapes and ghastly appetites, like the octopus. He 
 believed that this tendency was eternal. In a bound- 
 less universe he saw boundless evil, boundless horror. 
 The duality of all things lay for him in those two 
 streams of tendency : the everlasting evolution of 
 good, the everlasting evolution of iniquity. 
 
 Few men, even among philosophers, courageously 
 confront the hideous and repulsive side of nature's 
 face. Napier had truly seen life steadily and seen it 
 whole. The majority of men to whom this praise is 
 given see but the little fragment of life called civiliza- 
 tion, and of that only the part which flatters their 
 imposing optimism. Evil, for Napier, was a definite 
 tendency working through evolution. It was the 
 enemy of God.
 
 NAPIER'S RELIGION 133 
 
 From what we have said it will be seen that Napier's 
 religion was born of a knowledge of evil. It was not 
 the most exalting form of religion. He had no ex- 
 perience of ecstasy. The element of love was, per- 
 haps, lacking. It might be said that he hated the 
 devil more than he adored God. But he was filled 
 with an immense reverence for the universe, he ac- 
 knowledged with every beat of his heart the necessity 
 for Christianity ; it was because he saw, with the same 
 intelligence that a sailor sees a cloud on the horizon, 
 the ominous nature of evil that his attitude was that 
 of the fighter rather than that of the devotee. 
 
 He was sufficiently an historian to know that the 
 progress of mankind had been interrupted, had not 
 been continuous. This is a fact which evolutionists 
 sometimes forget. 
 
 He was sufficiently a traveller to know that among 
 all the nations of the earth the number really civilized 
 may be counted on the fingers of one hand. This is 
 a fact which politicians ignore, or do not know. 
 
 It can easily be imagined that a man who regarded 
 civilization as a ship at sea, who saw that it was not 
 as something fixed and rooted in the earth, but as 
 something fragile and vulnerable exposed to crowding 
 dangers and beset by some deadly and sinister enmity, 
 would be watchful and apprehensive as regards the 
 horizon, careful and inexorable as regards his 
 instruments. 
 
 At the foundation of civilization he saw respect for 
 women. He hated with a great vehemence vice which 
 degrades women, flippancy which makes them jests,
 
 134 THE CAGE 
 
 dilettantism which makes them merely curious and 
 interesting. Christianity seemed to him divine 
 because alone of all religions it had ennobled women 
 and exalted their sphere. 
 
 Therefore the advance of woman was for him the 
 working of the leaven, the growth of the mustard seed. 
 Marriage was the woman's holy of holies, her sanc- 
 tuary, her altar. To drag her thence and exhibit her 
 in the market-place was more than profanation, it was 
 the first step to race-suicide, it was a return to barbar- 
 ism, a reversion to chaos, on the part of the Little 
 Flock. 
 
 To make marriage a state into which men and 
 women could enter and from which they could go out 
 at their will; to strip it of its sacred character; to 
 render it a commercial undertaking; to see in it 
 nothing but the whims and caprice of the individual ; 
 this was for him a denial of the discipline of life, a 
 confession that materialism had triumphed, a rejec- 
 tion of God. 
 
 But now his thoughts were disturbed by a particular 
 case. 
 
 His gaze was removed from humanity; it rested 
 upon one woman. This woman was in the dust at his 
 feet. She had suffered. Marriage had meant for her 
 torture and pain. This pain had become intolerable. 
 
 What could that pain have been to bow a creature 
 so strong and resolute ? 
 
 He began to recast his ideas about Paton, to build 
 up from the fragments of reminiscence some complete 
 idea of the man. Although few men had greater
 
 NAPIER'S RELIGION 135 
 
 control over thought and could exercise a more stead- 
 fast power of direction, Napier found himself on this 
 occasion wandering away from the personality of 
 Paton to memories of his childhood's companion. 
 The formless apparition of Paton melted into insub- 
 stantial mist; the picture of Anne grew more vivid, 
 and distinct, and insistent. 
 
 This little girl had grown up, had married, had 
 suffered. 
 
 A strange compassion for his old playmate became 
 active in his mind. 
 
 There is in the pity of strong men something pro- 
 tective and sheltering; it does not easily pass by on 
 the other side; it does not exhaust itself with sighs. 
 Action becomes imperative. 
 
 Cruelty to a child rouses the whole soul of such 
 men. To Napier Anne had become the child of his 
 boyhood. 
 
 He got up suddenly from the lounge and went on 
 deck. 
 
 The wind was blowing freshly, crying as it went. 
 The sky was invisible darkness. The moan of the 
 sea was, as it were, the background of the cry of the 
 wind. In the harbour the lanterns on vessels lifted 
 and fell; surrounding the harbour were the lights in 
 the windows of houses, which were motionless. The 
 solemn, measured sound of men walking up the street 
 reached the boat, like the march of a multitude. This 
 sound ceased as the church clock struck the hour, and 
 came again as the last stroke vibrated into silence. A 
 woman's shrill laughter broke suddenly from the
 
 I 3 6 THE CAGE 
 
 town, like the rent of a garment. A moment after- 
 wards the discordant singing of some drunken sailors 
 rose noisily into the night. The public-houses were 
 closing their doors. 
 
 The lights in the houses began to go out. Silence 
 settled upon the town. 
 
 Napier stood with his back leaning against the 
 mast, looking out to sea. The wind, rushing in from 
 the cold spaces of ocean to the warmer fields of the 
 earth, struck freshly on his face. He tasted the salt 
 of the sea on his lips, and in his nostrils received the 
 great scents of the ocean. From the bar, dimly dis- 
 cernible like a shapeless stretch of shadowed moon- 
 light, rose the grinding roar of the low-keeping 
 waves, an anger that was eternal, a variance that was 
 irrevocable. 
 
 Bitterness against Paton, compassion for Anne, 
 filled the mind of the man motionless against the 
 mast. 
 
 Nearly an hour passed, and these feelings had 
 deepened their intensity. There was one difference. 
 The bitterness became the shadow of the compassion. 
 
 He began to walk round the deck. His thoughts 
 were of Anne. Her image was clear to him ; her 
 presence was insistent. Unconsciously he stopped 
 and examined his lantern; his thoughts continued 
 their flow. He looked up at the sky ; he inspected his 
 ship; he listened to the wind. He was conscious of 
 the same obsession. 
 
 As he turned to the companion, suddenly and un- 
 accountably the words of Mrs. Dobson came into his
 
 NAPIER'S RELIGION 137 
 
 mind : " Idleness, you know, is rather dangerous. 
 Why don't you get some work to do, marry, and 
 settle down ? It would be good for you." 
 
 These words assumed a disconcerting significance 
 in his mind. They kept him wakeful in his bed. 
 When he fell asleep his dreams were of Anne; she 
 appeared to him as a child in a print dress, running 
 towards him on the sands, her eyes full of tears, her 
 arms outstretched, her face expressing terror; his 
 dream ended in a fight not with Paton, but with the 
 boy who had struck him in the streets of Portobello. 
 
 The morning was wild and grey. He studied the 
 sky carefully, consulted his weather-glass several 
 times, and appeared to be undecided. 
 
 At last his mind was made up. He went below, 
 wrote a letter to Anne saying that he was going South, 
 and excusing himself from calling to say good-bye. 
 He went ashore with this letter, bathed from the sands 
 beyond the Harbour Hotel, made some purchases in 
 the town, posted his letter, paid a few visits of fare- 
 well, returned to the quay, said good-bye to old 
 Tricker, who was surprised at his departure on such a 
 day, and then went aboard the Sand Wasp. 
 
 In a few minutes his anchor was up, and the ship 
 was moving to sea.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 A DOOR IS CLOSED 
 
 THE spring came, bringing with it, after a wild 
 winter, those kindly opportunities which are the joy 
 of a gardener. Anne was busy from morning till 
 night. She was not happy. 
 
 Her industry occupied her time but not her 
 thoughts. The appearance of bulbs above the soil 
 pleased her eyes, but did not soothe the pain in her 
 heart. One might have said, seeing her so busy in 
 this little garden, which was full of sunshine and 
 birds' singing and the scents of the earth, that her 
 satisfaction was complete, that no distraction could 
 lift the latch of the gate, that in such a sanctuary no 
 unrest could make its dwelling. 
 
 It did not appear in her face that she was unhappy. 
 The grey eyes with their dark lashes remained tender 
 and gentle; no sad hardening overshadowed the 
 delicacy of her golden skin; the young mouth was 
 entirely without bitterness. 
 
 A more emotional nature, perhaps, would have 
 shown the mind's unrest in its manner. Anne was 
 habitually quiet and subdued; she soared to no 
 heights, descended to no depths. Mrs. Dobson ob- 
 served nothing.
 
 A DOOR IS CLOSED 139 
 
 Her sorrow, indeed, was a hidden life. As the 
 purest saints are conscious of evil suggestions moving 
 in their minds, so Anne was conscious of her pain. 
 It was not herself, but could not have been without 
 her. It accompanied her thoughts as her shadow 
 accompanied her movements. She did not acknow- 
 ledge it to herself. She did not make any effort to 
 get rid of it. She knew that it was there as a traveller 
 whose mind is concentrated upon the goal of his 
 journey may know that rain is falling and the wind 
 blowing. She accepted it as something that came 
 from the outside. Fatalism is never of the brain ; it 
 is of the heart. Anne met life with her brain; she 
 was conscious of destiny in her heart. 
 
 This sorrow might be roughly expressed in a single 
 sentence. She missed Napier. It would be danger- 
 ous, perhaps untrue, to carry it further. 
 
 People who questioned her about Hugh detected 
 no change in her manner when she replied. In the 
 streets of Borhaven she often met poor people who 
 asked when he was coming back. She smiled when 
 she told them that she did not know. She was not 
 aware that Miss Potter searched her face when that 
 good lady inquired for the explanation of Napier's 
 sudden departure. Her only thought was that this 
 curiosity was a little impertinent. Old Mrs. M'Gavin, 
 the dour mother of the doctor, spoke about Hugh 
 as a noble boy, a great son for any mother to be proud 
 of; she said that his absence was a loss to all. Anne 
 felt pleased that people should praise him. 
 
 It was the activity of her life which kept her from
 
 i 4 o THE CAGE 
 
 the dangers of introspection. She had long resumed 
 her church-going, interrupted only for a few Sundays 
 by the interference of Mr. Aldrich ; she was conscienti- 
 ous in the work of district visiting ; she assisted in the 
 considerable secretarial work of two or three important 
 charities; in addition to these things, there was the 
 care of her grandmother, the work of the house, the 
 work of the garden, the engagements of hospitality, 
 and her reading. 
 
 The spring deepened to summer; summer moved 
 towards autumn; the separation from Hugh Napier 
 was as complete as the separation from Richard 
 Paton. 
 
 Her mind was enlarging. She discussed interesting 
 subjects with Ramsay M' Gavin. He lent her books 
 which opened a new world to her. Among these 
 books was Letourneau's Evolution of Marriage. 
 
 One afternoon Miss Potter came to Creek Cottage 
 on a matter of parish business. Anne was in the 
 garden with gauntlet gloves on her hands, a bunch of 
 bass fastened to a button of her jacket and hanging 
 down in front of her. They went into the drawing- 
 room, where Mrs. Dobson was lying on the sofa read- 
 ing a novel by Anatole France. While Miss Potter 
 was speaking, her sharp eyes caught sight of the word 
 "Marriage" on M'Gavin's book. She looked more 
 closely, and saw that this ominous word was pre- 
 ceded by the hateful term Evolution. She reached 
 forward and snatched the wicked thing from the table. 
 
 "You surely don't read books like this?" she de- 
 manded.
 
 A DOOR IS CLOSED 141 
 
 Mrs. Dobson looked across the room from her sofa. 
 "What book is that?" 
 
 Anne answered her grandmother, and turning 
 to Miss Potter, said that she was reading the work 
 with interest. Miss Potter, glancing through the 
 pages with impatience, as if she would have 
 liked to box their ears, exclaimed that books of 
 the kind did enormous harm. She replaced it 
 with displeasure, looked at Mrs. Dobson and said, 
 "I hope you don't approve of books that criticize 
 marriage." 
 
 "It doesn't criticize marriage," Anne said quietly; 
 "it explains it." 
 
 "Explanations are dangerous things," retorted Miss 
 Potter. "People think now-a-days that they can ex- 
 plain everything. And they can't even explain them- 
 selves, the ridiculous things ! " 
 
 Conversation became gradually a controversy. The 
 discussion was triangular. Miss Potter stood for un- 
 questioning obedience; Anne, in her quiet but resolute 
 manner, for investigation ; Mrs. Dobson for impartial 
 banter of both points of view. 
 
 Miss Potter spoke about the unanimity of the priest- 
 hood on this question. Mrs. Dobson said, "On all 
 other questions except marriage they are divorced." 
 Anne replied to Miss Potter that ecclesiastical opinion 
 ought to have no weight on a matter of sociology. 
 "In Scotland," she said, "we do not regard the 
 ministers of religion as Church people regard the 
 clergy in England. I can quite understand your posi- 
 tion, however. You are an Anglican, and see it from
 
 142 THE CAGE 
 
 the Anglican standpoint. You must remember that I 
 am a Scot." 
 
 "We are all members of the Catholic Church," an- 
 swered Miss Potter. "You are a Catholic. You 
 ought to take the Catholic standpoint." 
 
 The controversy ended amicably. 
 
 Miss Potter, however, did not forget this dispute. 
 Anne's position seemed to her perilous. She men- 
 tioned the matter one day to Mr. Aldrich. She spoke 
 about Anne's extraordinary statement that she was 
 not an Anglican. "A pretty sort of assertion for a 
 Church worker I " she exclaimed. 
 
 "And a communicant," said Mr. Aldrich, who had 
 listened attentively. 
 
 It happened at this time that Canon Case was away. 
 The senior curate was in charge. Perhaps if Canon 
 Case had been at home he might have consulted him, 
 and perhaps the gentle and amiable vicar would have 
 averted the disaster. As it was, Mr. Aldrich took the 
 matter into his own hands. 
 
 On the following day there was a meeting of the 
 District Visitors' Society. It was held a.t the vicarage, 
 which was the clergy house. Mr. Alon'oh asked Anne 
 to remain behind. When the door haa closed on the 
 last of the departing district visitors, he looked up 
 from his papers on the table and said to Anne, who 
 was standing by the mantelpiece 
 
 "Mrs. Paton, have you been baptized?" 
 
 He rose as he spoke, and came towards her. 
 
 There was something hostile in his expression and 
 in the tone of his voice. He was like a barrister rising
 
 A DOOR IS CLOSED 143 
 
 to cross-examine a witness. He assumed an air of 
 authority. The dark eyes were hard with antagon- 
 ism, the gaunt face was pitiless, like stone; the 
 severity of his mouth was a threat to guilt, an affront 
 to innocence. Anne resented his hostility; but she 
 flinched under his earnestness. 
 
 "No," she answered, moving unconsciously a pace 
 away from him. 
 
 "Which Church did you belong to in Scotland?" 
 
 "To neither." 
 
 "I don't understand." 
 
 "My father had no religion.** 
 
 "You have never received religious instruction?'* 
 
 "No, I suppose not." 
 
 "Then you do not know that Holy Baptism is essen- 
 tial to Church membership ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 "The Eucharist is only for members of the Church." 
 
 "You mean that I am not a member? " 
 
 "Precisely." 
 
 "And that I have no right to come to Communion ?" 
 
 "It is my duty to forbid you to come." 
 
 "I am excommunicated?" 
 
 "No; you are not a member of the Catholic 
 Church." 
 
 "I think I understand what you mean. You dis- 
 miss me ; is that it ? " 
 
 "God forbid." 
 
 " Then what do you mean ? " 
 
 He came nearer to her. His penetrating gaze was 
 fixed upon her eyes. He was reading her soul.
 
 144 THE CAGE 
 
 "I am calling your attention to the laws of Christ. 
 You must submit yourself for the rite of Holy Bap- 
 tism before you can come to the Eucharist." 
 
 Anne was struck dumb. 
 
 "If your religious life," he said, speaking slowly, 
 " has been a real and intimate necessity ; if it has been 
 something more than a convention and a formalism ; 
 if you are conscious in your heart and mind and soul 
 that Christ is essential to your salvation; if you 
 earnestly desire to live as God would have you live 
 that one day you may stand in His presence; if this 
 is so, you will come to the Church for Holy Baptism." 
 
 The effect of this invitation was to antagonize Anne, 
 and to throw her back on the position of her father. 
 
 It must be remembered that Mr. Aldrich deeply and 
 sincerely doubted the reality ef Anne's spiritual life. 
 Perhaps he was right. But the degrees of spirituality 
 are infinite. Between the two poles of the religious 
 life, the saint and the moral man, swings a world of 
 multiform goodness. Isaiah is not farther from 
 Arnold of Rugby than Thomas a Kempis or Francis 
 of Assisi from John Howard, Wesley, William 
 Booth and Andrew Carnegie. Nay, in one man there 
 is infinity. Saul of Tarsus was a righteous man, but 
 his distance from Paul the Apostle is immeasurable. 
 And among the company of God's struggling children 
 we must make room, perhaps, for such as Peter 
 Abelard. 
 
 Anne might be far from the standpoint of the priest, 
 and yet on the same road. All vehicles do not move 
 at the same pace; the brain is the vehicle of the soul.
 
 A DOOR IS CLOSED 145 
 
 The priest, too, forgot the Unexpected foretold of 
 the Judgment Day. However difficult for the orthodox 
 to understand, it is written that the blessing will go to 
 those who anticipate the curse, and the curse to those 
 who anticipate the blessing. How that staggers the 
 brain! "Security," says Thomas Adams, "is the 
 very suburbs of hell." 
 
 One thing else he forgot those terrible words which 
 apparently make no allowance for the indiscretion of 
 the proselytizer : " Whosoever shall offend one of 
 these little ones that believe in Me, it is better for him 
 that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and he 
 were cast into the sea." 
 
 One of the great dangers of an ecclesiasticism which 
 rests more upon tradition than it yields itself to the 
 spirit of Christ, lies in its historic blindness to the 
 terrible possibility that offence may come even from 
 the sanctified. Do these good people never start with 
 fear at the thought that perhaps they misrepresent 
 the Son of God ? What a frightful thing, to obtrude 
 ourselves between the World, and the Light of the 
 World; to be ourselves the shadow of those that 
 sit in darkness and who but for us would see the 
 Light 1 
 
 It is not always observed that the children thrust 
 from Christ's side by His disciples interrupted an 
 important discussion. It was this interruption of a 
 serious matter which made the disciples indignant. 
 When, at the Master's command, however, the chil- 
 dren were admitted, He blessed them. Mr. Aldrich 
 would have banged the door. 
 
 L
 
 146 THE CAGE 
 
 Anne fixed her gaze upon the eyes of the priest. ^1 
 shall never come," she said quietly. 
 
 "You deny Christ?" 
 
 "I reject the Church." 
 
 She moved towards the door. "One word," he 
 said, and she turned and looked at him. " Don't trifle 
 with your soul, Mrs. Paton I " 
 
 "How do I trifle with it?" 
 
 He stood upright with his head stooping forward 
 like a hawk. The brightness of his eyes heightened 
 the pallor of his face. As he spoke he lifted his right 
 hand, and with the forefinger pointed towards her, 
 began to beat the air. His voice was low, passionate, 
 inflexible. He said 
 
 "In this wicked world, this world of hates and 
 jealousies and sensualities innumerable, there is one 
 force fighting evil, one force standing for God, one 
 force making for holiness, the Church founded by the 
 Son of God. On the authority of the Son of God I 
 tell you that either you must be on the side of His 
 Church or against it. There is no middle course. If 
 you reject the Church, you reject God. Why do you 
 reject your Creator ? Is it out of a little pride, a little 
 self-will ? Weigh your present feelings against Eter- 
 nity. If it does not profit a man to gain the whole 
 world and lose his soul, how can it profit you to safe- 
 guard your pride at the cost of your immortality? 
 What reason can you give me, what reason can you 
 give yourself, for refusing to submit to the ordinance 
 of Christ Himself? Don't go till you have answered 
 that question."
 
 A DOOR IS CLOSED 147 
 
 If was impossible for her, even in the height of her 
 resentment, not to feel the spell of the priest's sin- 
 cerity. This vigilant and faithful son of the Church 
 was in earnest. His zeal was real. His passion was 
 pure. His devotion was absolute. 
 
 "I find that I need give myself no reason," she 
 answered, gently but firmly. "My whole nature 
 acquits me of your charge." 
 
 "Is that nature regenerate? " 
 
 "It is as God made it." 
 
 "Did He make it self-righteous?" 
 
 "No; self-respecting." 
 
 "Self-respect is sometimes another word for self- 
 satisfaction." 
 
 " I will bear the consequences." 
 
 " Here. But hereafter ? " 
 
 "I am not afraid." 
 
 " That is your danger. You do not realize that Holy 
 Baptism is the ordinance of God Himself?" 
 
 "I cannot feel that it is necessary." 
 
 "But do you realize that God ordained it?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "It is the immemorial custom of the Church, it is 
 enjoined in holy scripture." 
 
 "I do not feel that eternity hangs upon it." 
 
 His eyes flashed. "Ah, but what does it do? It 
 tests your character; it searches your soul! This 
 rejection shows me your soul. You are unregenerate. 
 You have not made the surrender. You have not been 
 born again. Listen to me : by this rejection of Holy 
 Baptism you deny the whole scheme of redemption. 
 
 L2
 
 i 4 8 THE CAGE 
 
 What does your rejection mean ? It means that you 
 can do without Christ. It means that you are self- 
 sufficient. It means that you are superior to God. 
 I warn you. Unless you bow your will, unless you 
 humble your reason, unless you meekly and obediently 
 accept the mercy and redemption of the Most High, 
 you cannot enter the kingdom of heaven. Question 
 your soul ; it will justify me. Look back on your past 
 life since you came here ; you have visited the poor, you 
 have befriended the helpless, you have comforted the 
 sorrowful in whose name ? your own, or in Christ's ? 
 Be very honest with yourself. If in your own name, 
 you have practised philanthropy. And if in Christ's 
 Name, why do you reject Him now? Believe me, 
 you are living in a false world. You do not know that 
 the kingdom of heaven is union with the will of God. 
 Self-will is the wilderness, the abyss, the hell of human 
 beings. It is by yielding our will, bowing our pride, 
 uprooting our vanity, and destroying every poisonous 
 vestige of self, that we enter the kingdom. Have you 
 bowed your pride and uprooted your vanity? Are 
 you conscious of any central touch between you and 
 your God ? Is it true that you have surrendered your 
 self, that your life is consecrated to God, that you have 
 no will but His ? Can you tell me that there has been 
 a moment in your life when you threw yourself into 
 the arms of the Infinite and became conscious of a 
 new birth, a new nature, a new life ? Religion, Mrs. 
 Paton, has no compromises. It is either a reality, 
 or it is a lie. With a lie we can deceive men, we can 
 deceive ourselves; but not God."
 
 A DOOR IS CLOSED 149 
 
 She turned away her gaze, and made a motion as 
 though she would go. "I could not discuss these 
 things with you, Mr. Aldrich, even if I wished to do 
 so; we use a different vocabulary. I have, what a 
 great many other people have, a distaste for the dis- 
 cussion of my inner life. I am sorry, but I cannot 
 satisfy your curiosity that is wrong, I should not 
 have said that; I cannot appease your anxiety for 
 my welfare, which I am quite sure is sincere. I 
 thank you for your interest. I put an end to the 
 discussion." 
 
 As she reached the door he came forward. "One 
 thing before you go," he said, close at her side. "You 
 cannot come to the altar till you have passed the 
 font; but do not forsake the Church. Come to public 
 worship; continue your social work; and pray for 
 guidance. The day may come when you will wish to 
 bow your will." 
 
 "I will think," she said, and left him. 
 
 She was walkirg through the High Street, going 
 over in her mind this strange interview with the 
 priest, when she came face to face with Major Lauden, 
 whose face broke into delighted smiles at sight of her. 
 The red-faced old man, with Trooper at his heels, 
 was returning dus-ty and hot from his afternoon's 
 walk. 
 
 "I say, I've got news for you," he exclaimed. 
 "I've just seen Henry Pleasant. But perhaps you 
 have heard it." 
 
 She shook her head. " What is it ? " 
 
 "He's back 1"
 
 150 THE CAGE 
 
 "Who is back?" 
 
 "As if you don't know!" He laughed. "Why, 
 ma'am, the romantic skipper of the Sand Wasp." 
 
 Anne felt her face light up. Her heart, which had 
 been numb and cold, began to beat quickly. The 
 world altered for her. 
 
 "I'm going down to see him now," continued the 
 cheerful major. "I'll get him to come and dine with 
 me. Any message? I'll tell him that I've seen you, 
 and that you're looking charming ! " 
 
 "Tell him that I'm glad he, is back."
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 ANOTHER IS OPENED 
 
 WHEN Anne arrived at the cottage and announced 
 to Mrs. Dobson that Napier had returned, the old 
 lady's eyes blinked, and she said abruptly, "Why?" 
 
 This question was an accusation, a warning, and a 
 disclosure. In certain situations a single word says 
 everything. To a dying man the "Whither?" of 
 Death is the whole universe articulate. 
 
 The two women looked at each other. 
 
 "He had better go away again," said tHe grand- 
 mother; "as soon as possible." 
 
 On the following morning the post brought Anne 
 a letter from her husband. The familiar writing on 
 the envelope, unfamiliar now for over two years, 
 revived the terrible past and made the dangerous 
 present a crisis. For a few moments she regarded her 
 own name on the envelope. That name was Paton. 
 
 The letter did not accuse her. It made no refer- 
 ence to the past, and uttered neither complaint not 
 apology. Richard Paton wrote to say that he had 
 returned from America, that he wanted to entertain 
 a few interesting people in the following week, and 
 that, as Mrs. Ainslie was in Scotland, he would be
 
 152 THE CAGE 
 
 glad if she could come up to London. The letter 
 concluded with a postscript, "I very much want to 
 have a talk." 
 
 Anne had said nothing to Mrs. Dobson about her 
 scene with the clergyman, but she took this letter to 
 the old lady's bedroom. "What do you advise me to 
 do ? " she asked, when the grandmother, in bed with 
 an invalid's breakfast-table before her, had read the 
 letter. 
 
 "Your duty," said Mrs. Dobson. 
 
 Anne sat down by the bedside, and the old lady 
 resumed her breakfast. 
 
 "I can't go back to that life," Anne said, with reso- 
 lution and composure. "If I obey this order, I 
 acknowledge his authority. I must deny it." 
 
 "The law enables a man to divorce the wife who 
 refuses to live with him." 
 
 Anne thought. "That means freedom for the 
 woman," she said, conscious of a hope. 
 
 "Would you like to go through the divorce 
 court ? " 
 
 "I should be the accuser." 
 
 "The world would be your detractor." 
 
 Anne looked towards the open window. She could 
 see the woods on the further shore sloping up to the 
 blue sky, which had little white clouds floating be- 
 tween its luminous turquoise and the earth's green. 
 The air was cool and sweet. The scents of the creepers 
 on the trellis, whose flowers swayed gently round the 
 square of the window, entered the little white room 
 like the breathing of a child. In the trees birds were
 
 ANOTHER IS OPENED 153 
 
 keeping up a perpetual chirping, which gave cheerful- 
 ness to nature's quiet and vitality to her peace. It 
 was one of those summer mornings when human 
 nature responds with gladness to the smile of its 
 mother. 
 
 She said, "I cannot go back." 
 
 Mrs. Dobson lifted her cup of hot milk and drank 
 slowly. 
 
 "Have you forgotten," Anne asked, "the horror of 
 that life ? Think what we went through ! You used 
 to say it was unendurable. You told me that I had 
 a right to rebel. It was not the insults I minded, 
 not the humiliation I resented; it was the degradation. 
 It was not my honour that suffered; it was my soul. 
 Duty, surely, ceases to be duty when it debases self- 
 respect. That life defiled me. You can't really mean 
 that I should go back. To what? to pollution, to 
 bitter shame, to infamy ! No. You have forgotten 
 Richard. It is too long since you saw him. Try 
 to remember him. I am sure you will not tell me to 
 go back." 
 
 "Very well, then ; do not go back." 
 
 Anne put a hand on her grandmother's arm. "It 
 wouldn't be possible, would it?" 
 
 "But send Hugh away." 
 
 Anne turned pale. "Why do you say that?' 1 
 
 "Because I am an old woman." 
 
 "It hurts me." 
 
 "My dear, listen to me. If Hugh stays in Bor- 
 haven, he will come here to see you every day. You 
 will go out for walks together. People will talk. To
 
 154 THE CAGE 
 
 be talked about is the worst thing that can happen 
 to a woman. It makes her rebellious. Besides, talk 
 of that kind has wings, and a homing instinct. It 
 flies to the dangerous quarter. That is where it is 
 aimed. The consequences might be your social ruin. 
 You do not wish to live with your husband; that is 
 your position; suppose he wants to get rid of you? 
 This letter that he has written may be a trap. I don't 
 say it is ; but it may be. He says he wants very much 
 to have a talk with you. Why? Remember he has 
 no moral sense ; tales may have reached him already ; 
 he may have a disgraceful proposal to make to you. 
 Whatever is to happen, your position must be un- 
 compromised. Send danger away, give risk notice 
 to quit." 
 
 Anne could not answer. Mrs. Dobson did not look 
 at her; she was buttering a finger of toast. 
 
 "The working-classes," said the old lady, "are not 
 only our masters; in some things they are our models. 
 In that rank of life a married woman does not walk 
 out with other men. Never I Borhaven would be a 
 maelstrom of scandal if the butcher walked out with 
 the grocer's wife, or if the plumber's wife walked out 
 with the ironmonger. They are very wise, those 
 people. It is all over with a country that grows 
 superior to public opinion. Public opinion is the 
 conscience of a nation. The working-class is a con- 
 science. Compare the working-class to the crew of 
 people your husband likes to surround himself with ! 
 No; it is not good for a married woman to have an 
 alter ego of the sex that complements her own. What
 
 ANOTHER IS OPENED r i55 
 
 working-people know by a rude instinct you can 
 realize through your intellect and your grandmother. 
 Don't let us say any more about the matter. Take 
 away my tray, like a good girl, and give me my 
 book." 
 
 Anne went down-stairs and entered the drawing- 
 room with Paton's letter in her hand. She sat down 
 at her bureau between the two windows. For some 
 moments she remained with her hands in her lap, her 
 gaze turned to the garden. She was not thinking 
 what she should write. 
 
 She rose presently and went into the hall. She 
 picked up her gloves, scissors, and basket from the 
 table, and passed into the garden. She walked slowly 
 on the grass, beside the borders, pausing every now 
 and then to cut a flower or tie up a plant with bass. 
 It was quite clear that her thoughts were absent from 
 her work. 
 
 Before her basket was filled she returned to the 
 house and entered the drawing-room. She put the 
 basket on the floor at her feet, drew off her gloves, and 
 sat down at the bureau. She did not wait to put the 
 flowers in water. 
 
 She wrote to Richard Paton. Her letter was a 
 declaration of independence. She announced her 
 determination to be free, refused to obey his sum- 
 mons, and requested that their communication might 
 cease. 
 
 She had not been thinking of him when she walked 
 in the garden ; perhaps it was not distaste for her 
 husband that dictated the vigour of this letter.
 
 i 5 6 THE CAGE 
 
 Mrs. Dobson, it will be remembered, had made 
 her conscious of a new hope. 
 
 If Paton divorced her, on the grounds of this 
 refusal to obey his commands, she would be free. 
 
 She was addressing the envelope, when she heard 
 the gate swing, followed by the sound of approaching 
 footsteps on the path. Her breathing became faster, 
 and a flush overspread her face. She finished her 
 writing. 
 
 Napier came into view. She rose and went to the 
 window. "Welcome," she said quietly, and put out 
 her hand. 
 
 His face lighted at sight of her. He looked older, 
 graver, sadder. There was a new tenderness in his 
 eyes. The strength of his countenance was softened 
 by a gentleness acquired since she had last seen him. 
 
 She passed through the window, and they crossed 
 the lawn to a seat under one of the trees. As they 
 went they talked of his return; he told her where he 
 had been, and inquired after Mrs. Dobson. 
 
 The society of this man was delightful to her. To 
 look at his face, to hear his voice, to watch him and 
 recognize little habits of manner wonderfully familiar, 
 to know that his long absence was ended, to think 
 that he was really back again, to feel the spirit of his 
 presence and the soul of his companionship close to 
 her, this was for Anne a forgetfulness of sorrow, a 
 sufficient satisfaction for the perplexities of her life. 
 
 From the seat under the tree, which stood on a 
 mound raising it above the level of the lawn, they 
 looked across the beautiful small garden through a
 
 ANOTHER IS OPENED 
 
 frame of green branches and green leaves to the 
 broad river, shining and sparkling in the sun, full 
 from shore to shore. The house was behind them and 
 on one side, hidden by the tree. Nothing was moving 
 but the river. The only sounds came from invisible 
 birds and bees moving slowly from flower to flower. 
 It was as if they were alone in the world. 
 
 She remembered that it was from this self-same 
 seat she had seen Hugh when he first came to the 
 cottage. 
 
 "I have been haunted by remorse ever since I left 
 you," he said, "and tortured by curiosity." 
 
 "Tell me why." 
 
 "Remorse, because I seemed to show you no 
 sympathy. I have recalled a hundred times all we 
 said to each other, when we talked about marriage. 
 I can remember not a single word on my part which 
 showed the smallest sympathy with your own experi- 
 ence, which I have grown to feel was a hard one. 
 You can't think how this has reproached me. Our 
 old friendship has risen up against me. We used 
 to share our troubles in those days. We didn't dog- 
 matize; we sympathized. It was better. To lay 
 down the law to you on an abstract question was 
 absurd. You don't know how I have blamed my- 
 self. That is one of the reasons I have come back. 
 To tell you I am sorry." 
 
 They did not look at each other, but sat side by side 
 with their eyes towards the river. 
 
 "I have never blamed you," she said. "I didn't 
 agree with you; 1 haven't come round to your point
 
 158 THE CAGE 
 
 of view; but I never felt that you did not sympathize 
 with me, or rather that you wouldn't sympathize with 
 me if you knew." 
 
 "That is the other reason of my return. Righteous 
 curiosity, I promise you. Anne, if I may, I want to 
 know. May I ? If I presume too much, tell me. 
 You mustn't lose your old trick of putting me right." 
 
 "I should like to tell you." She smiled, as she 
 added, "Perhaps it will lessen your enthusiasm for 
 Miss Potter. My case, I suppose, is only one of a 
 great many. The marriage question is certainly 
 more difficult than Miss Potter imagines.** 
 
 It was a relief to his anxiety that she could speak 
 with a smile. Perhaps after all she had not suffered 
 as his imagination, fed by compassion, had led him to 
 conjecture. 
 
 "I have come to feel," he said, "that it may be justi- 
 fiable for a woman to leave her husband." 
 
 " Did you really ever doubt that ? " 
 
 "I preferred to think that she should accept her 
 destiny and go through with it." 
 
 " Even when it was hopeless ? " 
 
 "That was what I thought." 
 
 "You have changed your opinion?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "What has made you do that ? " 
 
 "I have thought about you." 
 
 This avowal made her happy. It carried sympathy 
 forward on a wave of affection. It gave her a friend. 
 She felt that the sunlight and the warmth in the 
 garden entered and possessed her. At the same time
 
 ANOTHER IS OPENED '159 
 
 she was not unaware of a certain nervous diffidence, 
 and hurried to the telling of her story. 
 
 She found it a difficult narrative. The avowal he 
 had just made rendered it perhaps more difficult. 
 Besides, she was wholesome-minded; it was natural 
 for her to make light of her own troubles; certainly 
 she was averse from what we call making a martyr 
 of oneself. Another woman might surely have poured 
 into Mrs. Dobson's ears the disputation with the 
 senior curate, made a mountain out of that mole-hill ; 
 Anne had said nothing. She was not only self- 
 possessed, she was fastidious. 
 
 Napier realized that he was listening to an outline. 
 His knowledge of the world and his sympathy with 
 the beautiful girl at his side filled in the details. The 
 sketch in this way became the picture. Anne told half 
 the story to Napier, Napier told the other half to 
 himself. 
 
 His acquaintance with the laxity, licentiousness and 
 self-indulgence of English plutocracy was not great; 
 he had general notions of its intemperance and luxury ; 
 he was inclined to mass the sensualism of these people 
 in the comprehensive idea of vulgarity, which is some- 
 thing contemptible and disgusting, rather than in- 
 famous. Nevertheless, although he knew really 
 nothing of the corruption of this modern hedonism, he 
 quite comprehended from Anne's story that her situa- 
 tion had been insufferable. She was careful to say 
 nothing of her husband; it was not a man she 
 arraigned but an atmosphere she described, a mode of 
 existence she denounced. There was a certain dis-
 
 160 THE CAGE 
 
 dain, a righteous haughtiness of contempt, in her 
 description of the life she had been expected to live, 
 the class of persons she had been expected to like. 
 From the tone of her voice one might have thought 
 that the memory almost amused her. 
 
 "It was impossible," he said, at the end of the 
 narrative. 
 
 "Quite impossible." 
 
 "I wish your father had been alive to save you." 
 
 "My mother told me he desired the marriage." 
 
 "That puzzles me." 
 
 "It is probably untrue." 
 
 Her bitterness made him say, "I am so sorry for 
 you, Anne." 
 
 She recovered her placidity. "It is good of you to 
 be interested," she said, smiling. "My experience of 
 marriage is useful in thinking about the whole ques- 
 tion, because it is so commonplace. Let me see if I 
 can convert you. At the beginning we must say that 
 it was a difference in disposition, temperament and 
 taste which divided me from my husband and my 
 husband from me. There is his point of view. He 
 liked people and occupations impossible for me to 
 like. We separated without an explanation. None 
 was necessary. We both felt that the thing was 
 impossible. You agree that I was justified in leaving 
 him? You don't accuse me of breaking my vows? 
 But the problem is only just beginning. Am I 
 entitled to my freedom ? I don't mean to marry again, 
 but to keep my freedom unmolested. Suppose my 
 husband wrote to me after this long separation and
 
 ANOTHER IS OPENED 161 
 
 asked me shall we say ordered me? to come and 
 play hostess to his friends; ought I to obey, is it my 
 duty to be obedient ? " 
 
 He sat silent at her side, and for the first time she 
 turned and looked at him. "I suppose not," he said 
 slowly. "In your case I should say No." 
 
 She was surprised at the slowness with which he 
 made this concession. "I received such a letter this 
 morning," she said, turning away. 
 
 She was conscious that he started. The movement 
 was almost imperceptible. " You refuse to go ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I think you are right." 
 
 There was no tardiness in this statement; it was 
 emphatic. 
 
 She said with some energy, "I am certainly right. 
 There is nothing in the world that would make me 
 submit to humiliation. I reject the religion, the law, 
 the public opinion that says one human creature has 
 the right to degrade another. I stand clear of all 
 that. But even now the problem is only at a begin- 
 ning. I refuse to go. I defend my freedom. The 
 law, however, will have nothing to do with me. I 
 shelter and defend myself, outside the law. That is 
 the woman's fate. The law, if it wish, can seek me 
 out, drag me before the world, and punish me, for 
 what? my self-respect. Do you think that is quite 
 fair? Do you think that the law should not be 
 altered?" 
 
 "I don't understand.*' 
 
 M
 
 162 THE CAGE 
 
 "A husband can divorce his wife if she refuse to live 
 with him." 
 
 He turned and looked at her. "I had forgotten 
 that," he said. 
 
 " Have I converted you ? " she inquired, and met 
 his gaze for a moment. 
 
 " You have refused to go back ? " 
 
 "Yes. Quite definitely." 
 
 "Whatever the consequences?** 
 
 " Nothing could make me go back." 
 
 "If he wants to be free he would be glad of this 
 refusal?" 
 
 "I know." 
 
 "He might bring an action? It is almost certain 
 that he will." 
 
 "It would be better than molestation." 
 
 " I like to think of you free, but ** 
 
 "One would suffer a little, be a scandal to Miss 
 Potter for ever, but one would be free." 
 
 The door opened and Mrs. Dobson appeared, with 
 Minionette close behind ready to put up a sunshade. 
 The little old lady wore a mushroom hat and had 
 a white shawl of Indian silk over her shoulders. She 
 stood outside the porch, a book in her hands, blinking 
 at the sunshine. 
 
 Anne and Napier, who heard the opening of the 
 door, rose from their seat. 
 
 As they descended the mound he said to her, 
 "You have converted me I want you to be 
 free." 
 
 He had said everything.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 THE TWO LETTERS 
 
 ON the afternoon of this same day Hugh Napier 
 went into the Harbour Hotel. He entered the smok- 
 ing-room. Major Lauden, with the felt hat which 
 was too small for him cocked on one side of his head, 
 was sitting on an upright chair, asleep. The fat but 
 still athletic body showed none of the collapse of 
 slumber; one leg was crossed energetically, the knee 
 pointing upward; the shoulders were square; in the 
 expression of the squab hands, one of which grasped 
 the bowl of his pipe, there was action ; the face was not 
 without a certain alert dignity ; one felt that if he were 
 awakened he would spring to attention, clicking his 
 heels together, expecting an order. The mouth was 
 firmly closed. The eyelids were compressed. There 
 was a frown between the brows. Through the nostrils 
 came a raucous sound, almost a moan. 
 
 An empty tumbler stood on a table at his side; 
 like a death's head. 
 
 Napier sat down, with a newspaper in his hand. 
 Later, when the light faded, he dropped the paper at 
 his side, and settled further down in his chair, his eyes 
 turned towards the windows, his thoughts with Anne. 
 
 M 2 163
 
 164 THE CAGE 
 
 He was roused by an exclamation bursting from the 
 sleeping man. 
 
 He turned his head in that direction, and saw that 
 the old soldier was sitting forward excitedly, a hand 
 on each knee, staring at him through the twilight of 
 the room with open mouth and eyes of amazement. 
 
 With another exclamation, hoarsely uttered on 
 account of his sleep, the major suddenly sprang to 
 his feet and came down the room. "My dear fellow," 
 he said, clearing his throat, "you gave me a frightful 
 start. I woke up, saw you, and went back thirty years 
 in my life. You're the image the living image 
 of a man in my regiment. I could have sworn I was 
 back in the past." He laid a hand on Napier's 
 shoulder, and went on, "You've always puzzled me. 
 You've always half-suggested some one to me. Just 
 now, in the grey of the room, with the light from 
 the window on your face, sitting over here in a kind 
 of reverie, your profile was not a likeness, it was the 
 actual face of poor Arthur Gorham. You must be 
 some relation." 
 
 Napier shook his head. 
 
 "Oh, but, my dear fellow, you must be I u 
 
 Napier smiled. "No; I assure you." 
 
 "You know who I mean, don't you ? " 
 
 "I've never heard the name before." 
 
 "Not Arthur Gorham ? Poor Arthur Gorham ? By 
 George, how the world forgets ! A good thing, a 
 deuced good thing. But you were a boy at the time." 
 He checked for a moment, and then said, "Arthur 
 Gorham is brother to the present Lord Stamford, son
 
 THE TWO LETTERS 165 
 
 of the old marquis who shot Colonel Channing in 
 Brussels. You're the image of him. Not so much 
 now as you were a moment ago. What were you 
 doing, dreaming? Arthur wasn't a dreamer, but 
 there was something romantic about him. I assure 
 you, a moment ago you were the actual living image 
 of that man. It was the look in your face sadness, 
 reverie, a kind of languor. The first time I've seen 
 you in the mood. The likeness jumped to me." 
 
 The major could not get over this suddenly detected 
 likeness. When he was left alone he kept marching 
 up and down the room, in and out of the tables, 
 muttering to himself that it was the strangest thing 
 in the world. A small incident is a perturbation in the 
 life of a man with nothing to do but drink himself 
 to death. Lauden mentioned the matter to the bar- 
 maid, to the wife of the proprietor, to the chamber- 
 maid when he went up-stairs to search among his 
 old photographs for a possible portrait of Arthur Gor- 
 ham, to the ostler when he went into the yard with 
 a plate of bones for Trooper. He was back in the 
 past. The days of his soldiering returned to him. 
 This old man, who had broken his heart over the death 
 of his youngest son in the South African war, had 
 his eyes filled with moisture as he recalled the follies, 
 the wildness, the adventures, the high spirits and the 
 devilries of his youth. 
 
 In the midst of these reminiscences was the convic- 
 tion that some mystery united Arthur Gorham and 
 Hugh Napier. 
 
 The idea grew with him. The more he talked the
 
 166 THE CAGE 
 
 more he became convinced of it. He began to recall, 
 too, certain conversations in Borhaven concerning 
 Napier. Who was this romantic man, this lonely 
 sailor, who made no mention of father or mother, 
 brother or sister, who appeared to have no birthplace, 
 no home, no past? People had talked, Lauden had 
 talked with them; the mystery came back to him. 
 
 He began to make calculations. The age of Napier. 
 The time when the regiment was at Edinburgh. 
 
 "By George," he exclaimed suddenly, "I'll write 
 to Arthur. I will ! It may be nothing. It may be 
 the deuce of a romance. I'll write." 
 
 While Major Lauden was in this condition of excite- 
 ment, Anne was quietly tearing up the letter she had 
 written to her husband. 
 
 A new decision had been formed in her mind. 
 Napier's last words had inspired her with a fresh 
 impulse to freedom. She was one of those composed 
 women who are courageous, clear-sighted, and, when 
 the situation demands it, resolute. When she saw a 
 course before her there was something tenacious in 
 her determination to go forward. Circumstance might 
 have made her merely an obstinate woman, but for 
 heredity ; she was the daughter of Robert Ainslie. 
 
 It seemed to her that to clear her life of confusion, 
 to make her path, once and for all, straight before her 
 feet ; to disentangle herself from the bonds of the past, 
 and for ever to stand clear of their complications, it 
 was necessary that she should see her husband and 
 make her announcement face to face. She had grown 
 tired of half-lights, unsettlement, vagueness, a com-
 
 THE TWO LETTERS 167 
 
 promise never made, a freedom never ratified, the 
 tacitness of her independence. The distaste for a 
 personal conflict was overcome by the hope of its 
 issue. 
 
 In this way it came about that a letter from Anne 
 telling her husband that she would come to London 
 the day after the morrow, lay that evening in Bor- 
 haven Post Office with a letter from Major Lauden to 
 the father of Hugh Napier. 
 
 On the next day Anne told Napier of her intention. 
 He looked at her and said, " I think that you are right ; 
 I know that you are brave."
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 THE UNEXPECTED 
 
 THE fly taking Anne to the railway station on this 
 momentous journey had hardly got a quarter of a 
 mile out of Borhaven when she felt the horse pulled 
 up, and looking forward, perceived Napier at the side 
 of the road coming towards her. 
 
 This surprise pleased her. She Kad been feeling 
 lonely. He entered the dusty old carriage, with its 
 white holland coverings and its sheepskin mat, say- 
 ing, "I thought you wouldn't mind." 
 
 She answered, "This is very nice of you. I am 
 glad." 
 
 He sat on the opposite seat so that he might see 
 her. 
 
 At first they spoke indifferently of anything that 
 entered their heads. The pure air of the early morn- 
 ing made them cheerful, the scent of the gorse rose 
 like honey to their nostrils, the bright sunlight, 
 caught and reflected by the dew, gladdened their 
 senses. They were climbing to high country, with 
 the sea drawing farther behind them, and yet becom- 
 ing with every turn of the wheels more visible a 
 misty circle of iridescent water to which Napier more 
 than once pointed Anne's gaze. 
 
 "Even a collier looks well from here," he said. 
 
 1 68
 
 THE UNEXPECTED 169 
 
 " However, the difference of sails ! Look at those 
 Lowestoft drifters ! " He explained to her that these 
 Lowestoft smacks have their mizzens raked forward, 
 and that they set large reaching jibs when the wind 
 is light. 
 
 As they began to descend the hill on the other side 
 of this high ground, losing the sea which always 
 inspired him with enthusiasm, Napier turned his gaze 
 to Anne's face, sat forward on his seat, leaning 
 towards her, and began to speak of her journey. 
 
 The protector was strong in him. He had been 
 thinking all the previous day of this solitary woman, 
 little more than a girl, going to face a man whom 
 vice had made odious and marriage her tyrant. 
 
 He tried as delicately as he could to convey his 
 sympathy, to repress his admiration. 
 
 Finally he said, "I wish I could go for you." 
 
 "I might have written," she replied, acknowledging 
 this sympathy with her eyes. "It is better that I 
 should say what there is to say." She paused for a 
 moment, and added, "It is a long time since I saw 
 him. I feel as if I were going to see a stranger. But 
 I am not afraid." 
 
 "One day you will forget that he existed." 
 
 At the railway station he took her ticket, bought 
 magazines and newspapers for her at the bookstall, 
 and then walked at her side to and fro on the plat- 
 form, waiting for the London train. 
 
 "I shall be here when you come back," he said. 
 
 "Oh, no," she made answer. "It will be late. You 
 will have nothing to do all day."
 
 i70 THE CAGE 
 
 "I shall be waiting for you," he said, and their 
 eyes met. 
 
 When the train departed, he turned his back on the 
 station, and passing through the least frequented 
 streets in the town, came out on a road which led to 
 high country and woods. 
 
 Anne did not read the newspapers he had laid at 
 her side in the carriage. She found her thoughts 
 tending to run riot, and set herself to bring them into 
 order. She essayed to dominate these errant and 
 undisciplined children of the brain with the one and 
 central resolution to be firm. 
 
 But her thoughts would not be ruled. They ran 
 hither and thither in her brain, carrying little tapers 
 into dim corners, and flourishing these tiny brands 
 through long corridors which had many doors and 
 no windows. These tapers, these ideas, distracted 
 her at every moment of her musings. She found 
 herself looking at things covered with the dust of ages, 
 and contemplating vistas which led whither she could 
 not see. Her father seemed to be standing in the 
 shadow of one of those half-opened doors. Her littte 
 grandmother called to her from the end of the cor- 
 ridor. Behind her sounded the footsteps of her child- 
 hood. At every moment the thoughts ran on, staying 
 at no door, resting at no corner, but always finding 
 fresh darkness into which to plunge and brandish 
 their flames. 
 
 Anne closed her eyes, and endeavoured to still her 
 thoughts. She revolted against these innumerable
 
 THE UNEXPECTED 171 
 
 ideas. Her brain rebelled, as well as her central intel- 
 ligence. She tried to think of something else. 
 
 She thought of Napier. 
 
 When the train arrived in London she was cold 
 and numb with a nervous disquiet. She feared the 
 ordeal. She felt no energy for her task. She was 
 inspired by no iron resolution of will. The long 
 apprehension and anticipation of this great determin- 
 ing event had exhausted her strength. "I must go 
 through it," she said, with a sigh; and left the issue 
 to chance. 
 
 She was crossing the platform to the cab-rank 
 when, in the midst of the crowd, she felt her arm 
 touched lightly from behind, and heard at the same 
 time her name spoken by her husband. 
 
 She turned to him a face that was quite white. 
 
 Her first view of him was a blurred picture, a 
 glimpse of a familiar figure caught through frosted 
 glass. She only saw that he was tall, fresh-coloured, 
 and that he smiled. She was conscious in him of 
 awkwardness and a strange sense of protecting kind- 
 ness. As she looked away from his face she heard 
 him speaking. He said something about her long 
 journey; she heard the word motor-car; she walked 
 with him up the platform, struggling for control of her 
 nerves. 
 
 A footman opened the door of a motor-car, touch- 
 ing his cap as she set her foot upon the step. She 
 found herself sitting in a corner of a roomy, drab- 
 lined interior, and saw her husband stooping to place
 
 i 7 2 THE CAGE 
 
 a hassock for her feet. He said something in praise 
 of the car, asking her if she found it comfortable. 
 "We shall get some air directly she moves," he said, 
 and sat back. 
 
 He was dressed in a grey suit, with a black tie, a 
 soft felt hat, and linen gaiters on his boots. She was 
 conscious, as she half turned to answer his questions, 
 of an atmosphere about him which was new, which 
 was strange, which was baffling. The old sense of 
 great wealth was there, the sense which in some subtle 
 way made for power; prosperity showed in the least 
 detail of his simple dress; he was still the man of the 
 world, the man of great possessions, the true lord of 
 an age absorbed by industrialism. But there was 
 something superadded, some fresh emanation, and 
 this new something had taken the place of some old 
 quality which she missed in him. 
 
 Gradually it came to her, the truth of this change. 
 The missing quality was animalism. The new quality 
 was health. 
 
 A fresh vigour had come to him. His great body, 
 with its massive shoulders and its bull neck, was less 
 loaded with flesh. The line of his cheeks was cleaner 
 drawn. The sheen of his skin was no longer clouded 
 by heat. There was an almost crystal brightness in 
 his blue eyes. Even his voice witnessed to this 
 physical regeneration. It had lost its low, bullying, 
 and rather brutal note. There was something fresh 
 and spontaneous, almost boylike, in this new intona- 
 tion. 
 
 When the car was clear of the station, he spoke
 
 THE UNEXPECTED ^73 
 
 about her return that night. "It seems absurd," he 
 laughed, "to go back the very day you arrive. Why 
 didn't you bring Mrs. Dobson with you?" 
 
 Anne said that her grandmother was now too old 
 for long journeys. 
 
 " Does she like Norfolk ? " He turned and looked at 
 her. "I'm not sure that it suits you. You aren't 
 looking as well as I should like to see you. Are you 
 doing too much there, waiting on Mrs. Dobson, and 
 nursing her? " 
 
 "Oh, no; I am very well. The place suits me." 
 
 "The journey has probably fagged you. I hate 
 trains. You'd better let me take you back in the 
 car ! " 
 
 He laughed, and she smiled. 
 
 "How do you think I'm looking?" he demanded, 
 with a laugh. 
 
 She turned to him. His face was bright with 
 pleasant, self-conscious smiles. 
 
 "You look wonderfully well," she said in a low 
 voice, "wonderfully well." Her gaze moved quickly 
 to the window at his side of the car; as quickly it 
 turned to look straight ahead. 
 
 "I never felt better in my life." She heard him 
 laugh confidently and cheerfully. "I've discovered 
 the secret of health and happiness. What do you 
 think it is ? " 
 
 "I can't guess." 
 
 "Physical culture!" He laughed. "It's my 
 religion," he said, stretching out his legs the length 
 of the car. "Well, a good part of it. I believe a
 
 174 THE CAGE 
 
 healthy body is the foundation of everything. One 
 can't get the best out of life with a bad physical 
 apparatus. It's like the engine of a motor-car. 
 There's a rage for physical culture. It's working a 
 kind of revolution. Half the men of my acquaint- 
 ance are going in for it. Old Phizzy Scott has prac- 
 tically cured himself of gout; he's sixty-two this 
 December; you'd hardly know him for the same man. 
 And it's a kind of policeman, too. It stops a man 
 from playing fast and loose with his chances. I 
 believe there's been more barley-water than whisky 
 drunk at the clubs this year. Fellows are taking care 
 of themselves. It's a good thing. The other's purest 
 folly. No fun in it at all." 
 
 She began to realize that something for which she 
 had not prepared had definitely happened, was here 
 as an accomplished fact, near her, quite near and 
 insistent the unexpected, the surprise. She had 
 framed and strung all her ideas through these last 
 months of revolution on a fact that had passed, on a 
 truth that had become a falsehood. It was impossible 
 to organize on the instant a new set of thoughts, a 
 new school of ideas, to meet this contradiction of her 
 experience. She could only wait to see what burden 
 the thing itself would lay upon her will. Then she 
 would act. Then she would know what to say. For 
 the present her mind was in darkness and confusion. 
 The old troop of ideas had deserted her; of the old 
 thoughts not one remained. 
 
 When the car had threaded its way through the 
 City, and the light and air of the Embankment came
 
 THE UNEXPECTED 1?5 
 
 to them with the pleasant feeling of increased speed, 
 he spoke more cheerfully and more confidently of the 
 good things life held for those who keep their bodies 
 in fitness. He told her that he had sold his old yacht 
 in the Clyde, and was buying a steamer which was 
 big enough to go anywhere. He was too heavy for 
 hunting, he said; and England was scarcely worth 
 living in after the first month of pheasant shooting; 
 it would be a real pleasure to get away to the Mediter- 
 ranean in November; the sun kept people alive; there 
 was always amusement along that coast ; and the ship 
 was as comfortable as one's own house. 
 
 "But you believe in the simple life," he said, laugh- 
 ing. He turned and looked at her with amusement 
 and indulgence. "Don't you ? " 
 
 "We have been doing with one servant," she 
 replied, trying to smile. 
 
 He exclaimed at behaviour o extraordinary. "I 
 hope you haven't been spoiling your hands," he said. 
 The tone of his voice, the sudden note of intimacy, 
 froze her. She shuddered, and he noticed it. 
 "Some one is walking over your grave!" he said. 
 "You aren't cold, are you? Shall I pull up that 
 window ? " 
 
 "Oh no," she answered; "I'm no? cold." She 
 leaned a little forward and looked from the window 
 as though something had attracted her attention. 
 
 "London must seem new to you," he said. "Let's 
 see ; how long is it since you started on your pilgrim- 
 age of the simple life? It must be nearly two years." 
 
 "Yes, I suppose it is."
 
 THE CAGE 
 
 "That's a long time to be away from London. 
 Don't you want to shop ? " 
 
 "I might pay one or two calls on my way to the 
 station this afternoon." 
 
 "But you aren't seriously going back so soon ? " 
 
 "Oh yes." 
 
 Her mind realized the peril which had befallen her. 
 The future was definitely divided. No longer did she 
 stand on one straight road, with the familiar alter- 
 natives of turning back to what was repugnant, and 
 odious, and abominable, or of going forward to what 
 was beautiful and good. There were two paths, not 
 one road, and they stretched ahead of her. They 
 belonged to the future. She must choose between 
 duty and inclination. She must go forward on one 
 of these two roads. And on whichever way she 
 travelled, conscience, she felt sharply and perplexedly, 
 would upbraid her. It would be better to journey 
 without love; the other path must be haunted by the 
 ghost of duty. 
 
 When the car stopped before their house in Wilton 
 Crescent, Anne felt as she crossed the threshold like 
 a person entering a prison. The footmen who stared 
 at her, the butler who bowed to her, were like accom- 
 plices in her abduction. They seemed to be waiting 
 for a word from their master, watching her for resist- 
 ance. The closing of the door behind her struck a 
 chill of terror through her soul. She felt alone, 
 isolated, cut off from help, alone with tremendous 
 danger. 
 
 The house revived no memories as she passed
 
 THE UNEXPECTED 177 
 
 through the hall. The past came more vividly to her 
 mind when she heard her husband speaking to the 
 butler of "Mrs. Paton." She remembered the stair- 
 carpet. The view of the dining-room, seen through 
 a half-open door, became familiar. They told her that 
 her room was ready, and she ascended the stairs. She 
 was conscious of the young men watching her. She 
 heard her husband speaking to the butler as he walked 
 to his room at the end of the hall. 
 
 A new housemaid was standing beside her door on 
 the second floor. Anne acknowledged her greeting, 
 and passed into the room without speaking. It was 
 prepared for her. There was not only the can of hot 
 water, covered by a cozy, in the basin, but the bed 
 was made, the dressing-table was spread with its 
 necessaries, and everywhere there were flowers. It 
 was the sight of these flowers which filled her with her 
 first sense of despair. 
 
 When she came down-stairs Paton was standing in 
 the hall to receive her. His fresh-coloured face was 
 raised ; there was a smile of welcome on his lips ; as 
 she reached the last stair he put out his hand. "Come 
 along," he said, and led her into the room. 
 
 The big table had been taken away. They sat at a 
 round table in the centre of the room, which was 
 decorated with beautiful flowers and was crowded with 
 glass of the most exquisite workmanship much of it 
 wedding presents. There were flowers in the boxes 
 of the open windows, and flowers on the sideboard. 
 It was like lunching in a winter garden, open to fresh 
 air. 
 
 N
 
 i 7 8 THE CAGE 
 
 She spoke about the flowers, eager to find a topic. 
 She felt that the footman who brought her something 
 from the sideboard was looking at her. This con- 
 sciousness of the servants made her vexed with herself. 
 She took toast from a little rack in front of her, and 
 began to eat what had been set before her. An effort 
 of the will enabled her to appear more cheerful. She 
 spoke about the journey, the early start, the nine- 
 mile drive across open country, the tameness of the 
 pheasants, which lay in the road unfrightened by the 
 carriage, the scent of the gorse, the widening view of 
 the sea as the distance increased. Then she asked 
 him about America, and listened with a wonderful 
 simulation of interest to his broken, dull, and in- 
 coherent narrative. 
 
 It was impossible for her not to compare this man 
 with the other. The comparison was driven home to 
 her by the mere difference in their narrative power. 
 Napier could make a little village in Denmark vivid 
 and real to her ; could people its quay, could open its 
 cottage doors, could lift its church spire above the 
 pines, and make her hear the wheels of the wagons 
 turning on its stones. This man had brought back 
 from the vast and amazing world of America 
 nothing. He had looked at it, as a farmer looks at 
 fat-stock ; it was big, it was noisy, it was busy ; people 
 over there were markedly alive; the whole thing was 
 rather imposing. Whatever opinions America had 
 formed in his mind, he uttered them with a tolerant 
 and condescending amusement. He had seen a con- 
 tinent, and could deliver his impressions in a sentence.
 
 THE UNEXPECTED '179 
 
 After coffee had been served, he asked her if she 
 would come and sit in his room. "Not that I want to 
 smoke," he said, smiling; "but it's more comfortable 
 than the drawing-room. I've knocked off smoking 
 till the evening. I find I'm ever so much better 
 without it." 
 
 His room was new to her. She had visited it, per- 
 haps, half-a-dozen times in the past. She was grateful 
 for its shadows, its absence of bright light. The 
 dullness of the carpet and the darkness of the book- 
 lined walls created an atmosphere which helped to 
 compose her mind. As she advanced to the hearth, 
 she saw a photograph of herself on the mantelpiece. 
 
 He wheeled a low chair to her. "Is this comfort- 
 able ? " he asked. When she was seated, he walked 
 over to the table in the window, and, with his back 
 turned, said good-humou redly but nervously, "I've 
 got something to say to you, Anne, which is rather 
 difficult. I suppose you can guess it." He turned 
 and came towards her with a photograph in his hand. 
 "You've got every reason, I'm bound to confess, to 
 know what I ought to say, and what I want to say." 
 He stood with his back to the mantelpiece, smiling, 
 awkward, self-conscious, and yet in some occult 
 fashion pleased with himself. "I want to tell you 
 I'm sorry. I want to beg your pardon. Repentance 
 is always an awkward business. It's one of those 
 queer things in life which aren't easy to talk about. 
 But I want you to know that I'm sorry for past 
 blunders, and that I have made up my mind they 
 shall never be repeated. I hope you forgive me." 
 
 N2
 
 i8o THE CAGE 
 
 This was his offer. The last thing she could have 
 desired was the amendment of life he proffered with 
 such smiling and natural satisfaction. Her course 
 could only be happy if he were iniquitous. His evil 
 was her warrant. His sin was her freedom. 
 
 "I forgave all that long ago," she said. 
 
 "But the thing is," he answered, still smiling, "can 
 you forget it ? Look here, Anne," he added, speaking 
 with more serious energy, "I want to tell you some- 
 thing more. I'm not only seeking to renew the old 
 terms ; I want to begin again on new terms, on better 
 terms. I don't want to muddle our life. I waat to 
 make it as good as I can. It can be very good. 
 We've got everything in the world to make us happy. 
 It's only ourselves who can prevent this happiness. 
 You have every right to doubt me, every reason to 
 distrust my reform. I was a brute. When I look 
 back, I hate myself. But I want you to hear my 
 story. Don't judge my seriousness in the matter till 
 you've heard the tale. There's a woman in it ! " He 
 laughed. "But you're not the kind to be jealous, and 
 she's not the kind to make other women jealous." He 
 put the photograph that he had been holding into her 
 hand. 
 
 It was a matronly face, remarkable for a singular 
 sweetness of expression. A photograph which 
 misses all the qualities of colour can only represent 
 a face with truth to those who have knowledge of it; 
 to the stranger it can offer nothing but vague sugges- 
 tion. This picture in Anne's hand suggested to her 
 a kind and benignant personality, a gentle and refined
 
 THE UNEXPECTED 181 
 
 spirit, a woman whose society would be restful and 
 calming. "It is a sweet face," she said. 
 
 "I think it's the greatest Madonna in the world," 
 he said. "I wish you could see her. But some day 
 you will. Do you know, Anne, it's one of my big 
 hopes to bring you two to know each other. That 
 woman has saved my life. Through her we can begin 
 again." 
 
 Anne looked into the face in the photograph. Her 
 heart was beating with nervous haste. She was con- 
 scious of dry ness in her throat. She felt the blood 
 mounting to her cheeks and forehead. 
 
 What had this woman done, this smiling, sweet- 
 eyed, commonplace matron? The gentle eyes, the 
 benign lips, the cheeks shadowed by a smile, sug- 
 gested some secret, some hidden motive, deep-lying 
 and absorbing, like the less spiritual smile of the 
 Mona Lisa. What had she done? What was her 
 power? What ruin had she worked with those kind 
 eyes ? What tragedy had she brought about with 
 those smiling lips ? 
 
 Through her driven and frightened thoughts she 
 heard the voice of her husband, heard the complaisant 
 voice proceeding with evident pleasure, like a school- 
 boy sure of his recitation. He had met this Mrs. 
 Davidson on the steamer going out. (Whom had he 
 met? Oh, this woman with the smiling lips. She 
 must listen. The story was important.) She was 
 American. She lived in Boston. (This woman with 
 the gentle eyes; this woman who had wrought such 
 havoc.) He had spoken to her on the second day
 
 182 THE CAGE 
 
 out. After that they had become inseparables. People 
 must have thought them engaged ! (His laughter 
 burst upon her brain.) But their conversation had 
 been about serious things. She made serious things 
 interesting to him. He only played one evening of 
 bridge the whole voyage ! She made him think. 
 When she had gone to her cabin, he used to walk up 
 and down the deserted deck, smoking cigars, and 
 thinking things out; used to look up at the stars some- 
 times ! used to look across the great black circle of 
 heaving water and wonder what the deuce it all 
 meant ! the world, life, men and women, the whole 
 mystery ! (Why did he laugh at these things ? Why 
 did he patronize the universe ? He was the same man, 
 after all.) 
 
 She gave him back the photograph, and raised her 
 eyes to his face. He leaned the picture against her 
 own photograph on the mantelpiece. 
 
 "Now I must tell you," he said, beginning to smile 
 again, "that Mrs. Davidson belongs to rather a queer 
 sect. She's a Christian Scientist ! I never once 
 agreed with her ideas : I think now they're utterly 
 preposterous; and nothing in the world will ever 
 persuade me that the thing has got any sense in it. 
 So you needn't fea;- that I'm going to join the Salva- 
 tion Army, or do away with doctors ! But there's 
 this about Mrs. Davidson, and about all the women 
 I met at her house, they've got some extraordinary 
 gift of quietness and rest. I don't know how to 
 describe it. It's something quite apart from what 
 they say and what they think. But it's something
 
 THE UNEXPECTED 183 
 
 which you can't help feeling. They make one feel 
 restful. Rather a strange quality for me to praise ! 
 I know. I'm amazed at the change myself. But 
 there it is. Whatever I may think about it, the thing 
 is fact. I'm what you may call converted. The 
 miracle has taken place. I'm born again ! " 
 
 He laughed in his satisfied fashion, standing 
 straight and tall, with his legs apart, his back to the 
 mantelpiece, his hands beating good-temperedly 
 against his thighs. It was impossible not to feel this 
 man's immense delight in his own physical regenera- 
 tion, a delight which was composed of vanity and 
 self-esteem. He knew that he looked well, and vigor- 
 ous, and active ; he knew that the freshness of his face 
 and the clearness of his eyes manifested most enviable 
 and exceedingly pleasant health. Many people had 
 told him how well he looked. He could not doubt 
 that Anne admired his splendid appearance. 
 
 He talked for a long time of the effect made upon 
 him by the niceness and charm of the American ladies 
 he had met at Mrs. Davidson's, and the change which 
 had come over his views and the alteration in his 
 habits from these conversations. 
 
 "Mrs. Davidson put me on the track of physical 
 culture," he said, smiling. "She saw that it was 
 hopeless to attempt making me a Christian Scientist, 
 and recommended me to try physical means of getting 
 fit. I started in America. I worked hard on the trip 
 back. And now I find everybody in London at the 
 same game. It's perfectly wonderful what one can 
 do with oneself in this way. I've lost all superfluous
 
 184 THE CAGE 
 
 fat; my muscles are hard, my flesh firm, and my lungs 
 are like a three-year-old's." He laughed good- 
 heartedly. "Isn't it a strange thing, this new kind 
 of religion, which is going to alter the face of the 
 world? Repentance has got a new garment. The 
 penitent doesn't go to the priest to confess; he goes 
 to Sandow to get fit. Instead of Bibles in the parlour 
 windows, we shall have Developers on the bedroom 
 doors I " 
 
 He saw Anne's glance directed to the clock, and 
 pulled out his watch. "You want to be off?" he 
 asked, without any reproach in his voice. "I hope I 
 haven't bored you by my autobiography? I fear I 
 have been rather egotistical, but the case seemed to 
 require it. Shall I order the car ? " 
 
 "Are you coming to the station?" 
 
 "If I may. But you want to shop ? " 
 
 "It isn't necessary. No; really it is not necessary. 
 I think if the car came in half-an-hour that would give 
 me plenty of time for the train." 
 
 "I wish you were stopping," he said, ringing the 
 bell. 
 
 When the servant had answered the summons and 
 retired, Anne began her reply. She did not raise her 
 eyes to her husband, who still stood with his back to 
 the mantelpiece, facing her; but she sat looking over 
 the round of her muff where it reposed on her lap, 
 her head a little declined, her hands motionless in the 
 muff. "I think you have good reason to be proud of 
 yourself," she said slowly. "It is a great thing you 
 have done. I can hardly believe you are the same
 
 THE UNEXPECTED 185 
 
 man. Indeed, so great is the change, I cannot really 
 get my thoughts into order. You have taken me by 
 surprise. You must let me tell you some other day 
 all I think about this matter. For the present, I want 
 to speak, without hurting your feelings, about some- 
 thing else. I want to speak to you about my feelings 
 towards grandmamma. You can imagine what it 
 was to me, when I found myself alone and rather 
 deserted, to discover an understanding and a faithful 
 companion in that little lady. She has laid me under 
 a great obligation. Indeed, before my marriage she 
 was my most intimate companion, for during my 
 childhood I was with her a great deal oftener than I 
 was with my mother. After my marriage, she became 
 my comfort. Well, she is old now; she is far too 
 fragile to make journeys; she wishes to end her days 
 in our cottage. My place, I feel, is at the side of this 
 old and faithful friend. I cannot desert her. I hope 
 I have not pained you by what I have said. I hope 
 you understand my feelings." 
 
 She raised her eyes to his face. "Of course I am 
 sorry that you do not come to me at once," he replied. 
 "I don't conceal from you the well, the feeling of 
 expectation with which I have been looking forward 
 to this meeting. Ever since I took myself in hand, I 
 have had you for the goal. A school-boy going home 
 for the holidays could not be more excited than I have 
 been about meeting you. And a school-boy, returning 
 to find his home shuttered and deserted, could hardly 
 be more depressed than I am by this disappoint- 
 ment."
 
 i86 THE CAGE 
 
 "I am sorry," she answered in a low voice, feeling 
 cold and desolate. 
 
 "I had hoped," he said, "that you would be glad of 
 the change I have made; more glad than an expres- 
 sion of congratulation ; so glad, in fact, that you 
 would forget and forgive all the past, and begin our 
 life again with real pleasure and delight." 
 
 She found herself charged with a crime which hurl; 
 her, the crime of discouraging reformation and de- 
 pressing a pure ardour. Her position pained her in 
 a dreadful manner. She could not embrace with joy 
 this penitent husband without spiritual infidelity. 
 The unsanctioned and unuttered affection of her heart 
 was a pure and holy love to which she could not bring 
 herself to play the courtesan. The thing called Duty 
 might have moved her if the new love had not been 
 so pure and sacred. So pure and sacred was this love 
 that she would have degraded her soul by accepting 
 the embrace of Duty. And yet, to stand loyal to the 
 highest feelings of her soul meant to endanger this 
 man's difficult battle with the forces of evil. She 
 became conscious of responsibility. 
 
 "You are a fair and just man," she said quietly. 
 "Consider my position from my point of view. We 
 are husband and wife only in name; our lives have 
 been as separate and distant as those of strangers. 
 It is not easy to pick up fallen threads. We cannot 
 go back at a moment's notice to old feelings and 
 revive old intimacies. There has got to be some 
 bridge-building first." 
 
 Before she realized what had happened, he was
 
 THE UNEXPECTED 187 
 
 kneeling at her side. His face came suddenly so near 
 to her that she turned white, and could not repress 
 the natural instinct to lean back from him. The 
 pressure of his hands upon her arms rilled her with 
 terror. 
 
 "Let us begin building that bridge now," he said 
 in a soft voice. "My dearest love, you are all the 
 world to me. It will be easy for us to throw that 
 bridge over the years of our misunderstanding. I 
 know what you feel. It is perfectly rational and fair. 
 You think my reformation may not continue. You 
 fear I may relapse. You are quite justified. But I 
 promise, with your help, that will never happen. 
 Never, Anne; I swear it. You may trust me now. 
 I am a changed man. My whole character is altered. 
 I don't profess to be religious; but I've discovered 
 the convenience and the satisfaction of being on the 
 right road. With you for my companion I shall never 
 want to get on the wrong road again. You don't 
 know what you mean to me. When I was trying to 
 get fit, when I was trying to break bad habits, it was 
 in order to show myself to you. I had spoken of you 
 to Mrs. Davidson. She made me feel how badly I 
 had done my duty to you; how splendidly you had 
 suffered my faults and failings. She compared you 
 with the women who play even good husbands false, 
 and showed me that I had wronged an angel. This 
 idea turned and turned in my mind. You became 
 a constant thought to me. I was always building up 
 old memories about you, seeing you again, painting 
 your picture, remembering the tone of your voice,
 
 1 88 THE CAGE 
 
 recalling your quiet manner and the gentle look in 
 your eyes. I promise you, Anne, I should have failed 
 a dozen times but for this thought of you the thought 
 of wanting to ' show off ' before the woman I had been 
 such a precious fool to neglect. And when I saw you 
 this morning, the feeling of wanting to show off was 
 redoubled. You looked so fine, and good, and noble. 
 And now, here in our house, you look so beautiful, 
 and the old spell of your personality is so complete 
 over me, that I don't want to ' show off ' any longer. 
 I want to make you love me. I want to possess you." 
 
 The pressure of the strong hands on her arms in- 
 creased, but she was too dazed to notice how the hands 
 trembled and how the eyes straining towards her were 
 moist with tears. 
 
 "If I thought that I could not revive your love," he 
 said earnestly and vigorously, "I would destroy my- 
 self. You are everything that life holds for me. 
 Nothing is worth a grain of sand to me without you. 
 I had looked forward to this meeting with joy, but the 
 reality of you exceeds my dreams. You are beautiful 
 beyond words. I cannot say what your enchantment 
 is to me. All I know is that I love you now as I never 
 loved you before. And my love is so great that I am 
 positive I can build that bridge. You have only got 
 to let me try, you have only got to tell me to begin, 
 and I will throw such a bridge over our separation 
 that you will run to greet me with open arms." He 
 bent his head and kissed the hand that had been 
 unconsciously raised to hold him back, and which 
 now lay cold as death on her muff. "I won't say any
 
 THE UNEXPECTED 189 
 
 more now," he said, getting up. "But I had to say 
 what I have said. I hope I haven't made the first step 
 too boldly. I see and know what you mean. My 
 behaviour in the past has half killed your love for me. 
 I must prove myself worthy before it revives. Yes, 
 I know, I understand. I foolishly thought that it 
 would revive at once; I didn't realize that deep 
 natures feel these things more than others. I'm rather 
 glad you are like this. In spite of my disappointment, 
 I can be glad. It would have been too easy if I had 
 won everything at once. It will make me a stronger 
 man to wait and win you. I will set myself to that 
 end. You are the purest and best perfectly beautiful 
 woman I have ever known. It is right that it should 
 take a man to win you." 
 
 He drove with her to the station, and on that 
 journey they entered into their pact. He was to write 
 to her and wait till she summoned him. She was to 
 think over this new matter, and write to him when her 
 conclusion was reached. In the meantime she was to 
 devote herself to Mrs. Dobson. 
 
 As they walked up the platform they passed a grey- 
 haired and handsome man standing at the open door 
 of a carriage, with newspapers under his arm and an 
 unlighted cigar between his lips. He wore a billy- 
 cock hat and a heavy grey ulster, with a white muffler 
 round his throat. Paton noticed him, and saw how 
 he stared admiringly at Anne. "We have just passed 
 Lord Arthur Gorham," he said; "one of the bright 
 stars of English aristocracy ; he began his youth by a 
 forgery which landed him in penal servitude; then he
 
 igo THE CAGE 
 
 got mixed up in a card scandal ; then his wife divorced 
 him; and now he's living with a couple of religious 
 aunts, and going in for spiritualism ! I don't suppose 
 you ever met him or heard his story. It makes me 
 grateful, when I think of a man like that. I might 
 so easily have been the same." 
 
 He saw her comfortably placed in the train, and 
 because it was turning cold sent the footman back to 
 the car for a fur rug. Then he bent over her and 
 said 
 
 "I shall look out for your letters. Be as kind to me 
 as you can. And remember, it will all come right." 
 
 She gave him her hand. 
 
 " You hope it will all come right ? " he asked in a 
 low voice. 
 
 "Yes," she replied. "I hope it will all come right." 
 
 He smiled and bent nearer to her. "God bless you, 
 Anne," he whisperedj and left her.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 A FALLING TIDE 
 
 OF all cheats and disappointments none" is so heart- 
 breaking as the mirage. The desert is terrible, the 
 phantasm of succour makes it hell. Anne felt that 
 she had been mocked. If there were tears in her 
 heart, there was laughter in her ears. Destiny had 
 laid a trap for her, she had fallen into it ; the universe 
 laughed at her blunder. 
 
 She had seen in the sky the towers, the roofs, and 
 the hanging gardens of freedom; within that city 
 was the promise of love; the desert where she 
 journeyed lost its melancholy at sight of this pro- 
 spect; she pressed forward; she was close to the 
 gates; the city suddenly dissolved and vanished. 
 Nothing was left but the desert and night. As the 
 train moved through the twilight, leaving suburbs 
 and blackened fields behind, emerging more and 
 more into flat country where alders leaned across 
 narrow brooks and sunset settled over distant woods 
 reflecting itself in pools of water and the windows 
 of her railway carriage, Anne faced without despair 
 but without acquiescence the discipline of necessity, 
 thp ruling of fate, which meant for her the sacrifice 
 of friendship, the death of love. 
 
 191
 
 192 THE CAGE 
 
 She did not think of the return to Paton. She 
 thought of the separation from Napier. It was not 
 the desert which frightened her, but the mirage 
 which wounded her. 
 
 She was conscious of resentment. It must not be 
 supposed that the altercation with Mr. Aldrich had 
 left no impression on her mind. That violent dis- 
 turbance of her spiritual life had been no good pre- 
 paration for a moral crisis. She was thrown upon 
 herself. To a mind rendered mutinous by authority 
 resignation is not easy. Anne had found herself 
 unable to accept the religion which the priest laid 
 down for her; now, in the turmoil of her emotions, 
 she was inclined to conduct this crisis in her destiny 
 without reference to any religion at all. A slow 
 indignation, a gradual disgust worked in her wounded 
 mind. Afterwards came despair. 
 
 It had long been dark when the train arrived at the 
 station. Napier came quickly towards her out of the 
 shadows of waiting people. She saw by the flicker- 
 ing gas-lamps that something had occurred to distress 
 him. At first, she thought it was the sight of the 
 fur rug which she was dragging from the carriage; 
 it told of a thoughtfulness which would be disagree- 
 able to his feelings. But he took the rug from her 
 without appearing to notice it. He told her his bad 
 news in a sentence. The cab-driver had just stopped 
 him as he entered the station, saying that a visitor 
 to the hotel at Borhaven was arriving by this train, 
 and that the proprietor hoped Mrs. Paton would allow
 
 A FALLING TIDE r ig3 
 
 him to share the cab a common civility in that 
 neighbourhood. "We shall not be able to talk," he 
 concluded. 
 
 They passed through the booking-office into the 
 yard. The cab was standing waiting for them at 
 the door. It was an old-fashioned brougham with a 
 luggage-basket on the roof. The cabman repeated 
 to Anne the tale she had already heard from Napier. 
 She entered the brougham, Napier followed, and the 
 door was closed. 
 
 "Well?" he said, and turned to her. 
 
 "There has been a change," she answered, in a 
 steady voice. "I found the unexpected. He has 
 altered. He has reformed." 
 
 Napier said nothing. 
 
 "The surprise has disorganized my ideas," she 
 said presently. "It is difficult to think." 
 
 "Do you mean," he asked slowly, "that you are 
 going back ? " 
 
 "He wishes it." 
 
 The cabman opened the door. A porter lifted a 
 couple of bags on to the roof of the cab. A man in 
 a dark ulster, with a white muffler round his throat, 
 came to the door of the carriage. "I fear I am an 
 intruder," he said politely; "I hope you will forgive 
 me." 
 
 Napier caught a glimpse in the darkness of grey 
 hair, and made to get off the seat beside Anne; but 
 the newcomer would not permit this courtesy. He 
 took the narrow seat, with his back to the horse, and
 
 194 THE CAGE 
 
 assured Napier that he was perfectly comfortable. 
 He hoped that the delay in bringing his luggage had 
 not vexed them. 
 
 The cab creaked and jolted out of the yard and was 
 soon on the main road leading away from the town 
 towards the sea and Borhaven. The narrow interior 
 was almost totally dark. The body of the stranger 
 blocked out what little light struggled from the 
 lamps towards the glass pane behind the driver. The 
 windows were lowered, and the fur rug was spread 
 over the knees of the travellers. They spoke about the 
 coldness of these autumn evenings for a few moments 
 and then relapsed into silence. The stranger leaned 
 forward in his seat, looking out of the window. 
 Napier and Anne sat far back in the shadows of the 
 carriage. 
 
 The stranger presently leaned back in his seat, 
 folded his arms, and appeared to settle down to sleep. 
 Napier turned his head to Anne, and in a low voice 
 said, "Do you believe in a sudden reformation?" 
 
 Anne was conscious of a slight movement on the 
 stranger's part. "I have no experience," she an- 
 swered, in a voice equally low. 
 
 "To risk the future on such a change is dangerous." 
 
 "One is entitled to ask for time." 
 
 "Which means uncertainty." 
 
 She did not answer. 
 
 The cab rumbled on. The stranger once more 
 leaned forward and looked out of the window. 
 Napier returned to his thoughts. Anne watched the 
 play of half-lights on the profile of the stranger's face.
 
 A FALLING TIDE 195 
 
 Presently they came to a hill, and the stranger said 
 he would walk. He opened the door, and stepped 
 out of the moving cab. For one moment, as he 
 passed the carriage-lamp they both saw his hand- 
 some face the thin, proud, sorrowful face with its 
 iron-grey moustache, and its whitening hair above 
 the ears. He walked forward with a long and easy 
 stride; the smell of a cigarette came back to them as 
 he passed in front of the horse. 
 
 "Anne, you must be careful of your life," Napier 
 said quickly. "I can't bear to think of your happi- 
 ness hanging on the hazard of an experiment. The 
 risk is terrible. There are reformations which are 
 merely interludes. Men go back. It is a truth that 
 the last state is worse than the first. Suppose this 
 change should be momentary. Think of yourself in 
 such a case ! What a life for you, what a horror ! 
 Never to be certain, always to be expecting the 
 return. And yet " He stopped speaking. 
 
 "Yes, that is the problem," she said. "All the 
 arguments are on one side; but " 
 
 "All the wisdom, all the common sense, all the 
 practical sound reasons on one side," he said slowly; 
 "and on the other, conscience." 
 
 "Reason on the side of happiness, conscience on 
 the side of pain." 
 
 He covered his face with his hands. 
 
 This action of grief saved her. A mothering com- 
 passion for his sorrow took possession of her heart. 
 It left no room for self-pity. She was conscious of 
 one desire, to comfort him. 
 
 02
 
 196 THE CAGE 
 
 At the top of the hill the stranger re-entered the 
 cab. He spoke about the fine air and the wide view. 
 The walk seemed to have braced his energies; he 
 spoke with spirit, and appeared to be well pleased 
 with himself. Napier did not answer, and Anne 
 found herself entering into conversation with this 
 unknown man. They talked of other countries, and 
 of the various scenery of the world. "But of all the 
 cities I have visited," said the stranger, as they were 
 nearing Borhaven, "I think that I most admire Edin- 
 burgh. I expect you know it. Don't you agree that 
 there is some charm about that city which others 
 miss, even the oldest and those situated in southern 
 climates ? " 
 
 "I am fond of Edinburgh," Anne replied; "it is 
 my birthplace, and I go back to it frequently. Yes, 
 it is charming and beautiful." 
 
 Napier remembered suddenly that there was a way 
 across the fields to Creek Cottage. He spoke of it 
 hastily to Anne, asked her if she were willing to 
 walk, and at the next minute was leaning out of the 
 window to stop the cabman. 
 
 "You do not live in Borhaven then?" inquired 
 the stranger. 
 
 "A little way out." 
 
 The cab stopped and Napier opened the door. 
 
 "This is your rug, I think," said the stranger. 
 
 "Oh, we will send for it to-morrow," answered 
 Napier. 
 
 "Pray make use of it," said Anne, as the door 
 closed.
 
 A FALLING TIDE 197 
 
 The cab moved on, with the unknown man in its 
 dark interior; and Napier and Anne crossed the 
 road, opened a gate, and found their way to the field 
 path. 
 
 There was scarcely a star to be seen, and the wind 
 blowing lightly from the east was sharply cold. 
 Very little light hung above the earth. The path in 
 front of them was only a blur. 
 
 Anne told the narrative of her visit. She was 
 kind to Paton's reformation. The night air refreshed 
 her; she spoke courageously of her duty. She was 
 not bitter, and made reference to the future without 
 any note of despair. The sacrifice was made. She 
 thought only of Napier. Her tale lasted till they 
 were close to the cottage, the light of whose windows 
 could be seen through the surrounding trees. 
 
 Napier did not once interrupt her. Every sentence 
 was a hand pushing him away from her. As he 
 walked at her side he was conscious of banishment 
 and isolation. 
 
 "What would you think if I tried to alter your 
 mind ? " he asked. 
 
 "You would not do that." 
 
 "No." 
 
 "My friend helps me, not hinders me." 
 
 "Your friend must forsake you. Oh, Anne!" 
 he turned and laid a hand lightly upon her arm, 
 stopping in the midst of the dark fields "I must 
 leave you. It is necessary that I should go away." 
 
 His pain melted her. She turned towards him. 
 There were tears in her eyes. They stood facing 1
 
 198 THE CAGE 
 
 each other in the dark fields under a drifting grey 
 scud of night clouds with the cold wind passing 
 between them. "It is difficult," she said, "to say 
 good-bye; but there is nothing good which cannot 
 be obeyed." 
 
 "In going back," He said quickly, "you are obey- 
 ing only what is questionably good." 
 
 "I am thinking now of parting with my friend, 
 who is good." 
 
 "Tell me one thing; you are not afraid of the 
 future ? " 
 
 "No, I am not afraid." 
 
 " Will you send for me if I can help you ? * 
 
 "There will be no need. I am sure of myself." 
 
 "You know that I would do anything?" 
 
 "I shall have always sweet thoughts of you." 
 
 They walked on in silence. 
 
 At the gate of the cottage she turned and looked 
 at him. All the memory of her childhood rose in 
 her heart and became tender in her eyes. 
 
 "It is no use saying that it isn't hard to wish you 
 good-bye. I wish it was not necessary." 
 
 "What shall I say to you ? " 
 
 She was conscious of a greater nearness on his 
 part. His face seemed to come close to hers. She 
 could feel his breathing on her cheek, which was cold 
 from the night air. 
 
 "Say good-bye to me," she answered, and put out 
 her hand. 
 
 He saw in her face an expression which reminded 
 him ever after of Chopin's Etude which describes
 
 A FALLING TIDE 1199 
 
 the desertion of George Sand. He found his mind 
 repeating the words 
 
 "Beauty that must die; 
 And Joy whose hand is ever at his lips 
 Bidding adieu." 
 
 He was terribly shaken by this parting. 
 
 " I have just enough courage left to say that wore! ; 
 ho more." 
 
 In another moment she was standing alone in the 
 darkness and the wind beside the open gate. 
 
 The parting was over. Now that it was accom- 
 plished the place in her heart held by sorrow and 
 resignation was violently usurped by bitterness and 
 rebellion. She stood alone and motionless in front 
 of the cottage, the sighing of the wind in the trees 
 and the distant murmur of the sea making one moan 
 of affliction and bereavement in her soul, the dark- 
 ness of night covering her with the solitude of the 
 tomb, the retreating footsteps of her lover sounding 
 a knell in her spirit. She had given up her life, she 
 had sacrificed her happiness. For a scruple of 
 honour, for the sake of a convention, for some in- 
 tangible and inexpressible idea, she had thrown 
 away material good and solid peace. No angels 
 came and ministered to her. She was exalted by no 
 martyr's feeling of spiritual satisfaction. She was 
 accused by her heart, she was mocked by her con- 
 science. The retreating footsteps of her lover died 
 away. She had sent him from her. For the sub- 
 stance she had given the shadow. Alone in the 
 darkness she realized loneliness.
 
 200 THE CAGE 
 
 It is no hyperbole to liken this intense feeling of 
 isolation which possessed and overwhelmed her to the 
 agony of widowhood. Love of the most sacred and 
 noble character had married her to Napier. She was 
 his wife in every respect which makes marriage a 
 divine companionship. His going widowed her. 
 She saw this husband of her heart, this spouse of her 
 spirit, struck down by the assassin Duty. She her- 
 self had given the dagger. He was dead. Never 
 again would her eyes behold him, her hands touch 
 him, her ears listen to his voice. The grave had 
 opened and closed above him. He was dead. He 
 was beyond recall. Her life must for ever be empty 
 of him. She would look, and he would not be there; 
 call, and he would not come; speak, and he would 
 not answer. Does death destroy so effectually as 
 farewell ? 
 
 As she stood there, realizing her widowhood, there 
 came from the house the sound of a moving bolt and 
 the turning of a key. She put her hand to the rail 
 of the gate. The door opened; a flood of light 
 streamed into the darkness; and she saw her grand- 
 mother standing there with a lighted candle in her 
 hand. 
 
 Napier walked on tfirough the dark night. He was 
 conscious of some unreasoning injustice in human life. 
 An ancient bitterness was born again in his heart. Fate, 
 which had denied him the love of father and mother, 
 denied him now the love of a wife. It was one more 
 blow from destiny, the most grievous, the most cruel
 
 A FALLING TIDE 201 
 
 and unjust. From his earliest years he had been 
 conscious of the part played by injustice in the 
 affairs of men. The privations of his childhood had 
 made him acquainted with the sufferings endured by 
 little children in the slums of great cities. His youth 
 had brought home to him the pain of that law which 
 visits the sins of the fathers upon the children. His 
 manhood had made him see that civilization can be 
 cruel to the weak, tyrannous to the just, and merci- 
 less to the innocent. He now learned that in the 
 intricacies and complexities of human existence the 
 purest love may become a sin. 
 
 Where, now, were his principles? Had he thrown 
 them away from him, had he exorcised conscience, 
 had he broken free from the restraints of moral 
 guidance ? That would have been more than a 
 revolution of personality; it would have been an 
 apostasy of soul. 
 
 Napier's principles existed. For the rest of 
 humanity. He did not question the rule of con- 
 science. He thought he had found an exception. 
 
 And he accepted his destiny. It was quite clear to 
 him that he must go from Anne for ever. He could 
 no longer remain at her side. He could no longer 
 hope for her love. He never questioned this neces- 
 sity. It was as clear to him as the sun in a cloud- 
 less sky. The man still had unclouded notions of 
 honour. But the spirit in which he accepted the 
 defeat of his hopes and the destruction of his affec- 
 tion was not heroic; it was rebellious. What it 
 would grow to be was the problem of his life.
 
 202 THE CAGE 
 
 "To-morrow I will sail away," he said to himself. 
 And he added, "The more it blows, the better I shall 
 be pleased." He felt the hostility of nature. 
 
 When he reached the quay, an old boatman, who 
 was standing with a group of pipe-smoking fisher- 
 men under the lee of a shed, came forward to meet 
 him. 
 
 This was Tricker, who looked after his ship in his 
 absence. 
 
 "The major's been asking for you," he said. "He 
 told me to tell you that he'd like you to go up to 
 breakfast to-morrow morning, or if it wasn't too late 
 to look in at the hotel to-night." 
 
 Napier was feeling the sense of the sea. He saw 
 the anchored boats, whose headlights moved gently 
 in the darkness swinging slowly round to the river, 
 their sterns to the sea. 
 
 "Tide's running out," he said. 
 
 "Just turned," said Tricker. "I put a new wick in 
 your lamp, the old one wouldn't turn easy." 
 
 Napier walked to the edge of the quay. At the 
 bottom of the wooden steps his dinghey swung and 
 bumped at the end of its rope, the water flopping 
 over the stairs. 
 
 He gave the boatman some money. 
 
 "What, you aren't going away to-night?" de- 
 manded the old man. 
 
 "I think so. It's a nice breeze." 
 
 "Why, I thought you were here for another spell." 
 
 "I want to go South for a few weeks." 
 
 *' Shall I lend you a hand?"
 
 A FALLING TIDE 203 
 
 "No, thanks; I can manage." 
 He bade the man good-bye, and began to go down 
 the steps. "What shall I tell the major, then?" 
 asked Tricker, stooping down with bent knees, his 
 face leaned over the steps. 
 
 "Tell him, I couldn't resist a nice breeze and a 
 falling tide." 
 
 A few minutes after, Napier was unlacing his sail- 
 cover, and the port and starboard lights were shin- 
 ing in the rigging. The fishermen on the quay 
 spoke about him as they listened to the clicking of 
 his winch. That noise filled the quiet of the dark 
 night. The work of the lonely man was the only 
 sound in the river, except the noise of wind and tide. 
 
 Just as the Sand Wasp began to glide away under 
 her jib, and Napier, clear of the harbour, was pre- 
 paring to hoist his mainsail, the door of the hotel 
 opened and two men smoking cigars strolled into the 
 garden. One of them was a little unsteady on his 
 legs; he was laughing. From the sea came to them 
 the musical sound of a hoisting gaff, the rattle of 
 patent sheaves and the creaking of pulleys. 
 
 "Some fellow putting to sea," said Lauden. "We 
 shall see his lights in a moment." 
 
 They stood smoking in the dark garden with their 
 backs to the hotel, Lauden swaying on his feet and 
 breathing heavily. 
 
 Then a white light glowed in the distant darkness, 
 a black shadow drifted into the general greyness, and 
 a red lamp shone close to the water. 
 
 "There it goes," said Lauden, with a laugh; "out
 
 204 THE CAGE 
 
 to sea on a falling tide ! One of our fishermen : 
 one of the sons of the North Sea. We shall have 
 soles for breakfast, Arthur ! " 
 
 The other looked towards the harbour. His eyes 
 seemed to consult the lights. 
 
 After a moment he said, "Has he come back, I 
 wonder ? " 
 
 "He'll come up here when he does," replied Lau- 
 den; "but I don't expect we shall see him till to- 
 morrow. The lady is a great attraction. And 
 neither of them cares a biscuit for conventions. They 
 keep rum hours." 
 
 The other turned towards the hotel. "How extra- 
 ordinary," he exclaimed, as they walked away, "how 
 extraordinary ! What a fatality in things ! I drove 
 out from the station with my own son." 
 
 Neither of the two men was inclined for bed. 
 They sat under the verandah of the hotel, smoking 
 in deck-chairs with their faces to the sea. Arthur 
 Gorham wore his ulster, Lauden was in his shabby 
 thin suit. 
 
 The major crossed his legs and began to smoke. 
 The other sat watching the red lamp at sea. 
 
 "Good Lord, Arthur," exclaimed Lauden, after a 
 pause, "what a mystery the whole thing is! Not 
 merely this affair of yours, but life. Who would 
 have thought five-and-twenty years ago, when we 
 were inspecting stables together and playing polo 
 and backing wrong 'uns, that we should one day be 
 silting, as grey-haired old buffers, under the verandah 
 of a little inn, talking about your son I Where are
 
 A FALLING TIDE 205 
 
 all the others of that time? The regiment is still in 
 existence; the same kit is being worn by youngsters; 
 the same plate makes its appearance on guest-nights; 
 the same silly parlour-tricks are being played in the 
 ante-room. Some boy from Sandhurst is now an- 
 swering the sentry's challenge with ' Visiting 
 Rounds,' and the scabbard of his sword is scraping 
 the gravel of the barrack square. While we sit here 
 he is telling the sentry to give over his orders, and 
 under the stars, wrapped in his cloak and with his 
 carbine at the shoulder, the sentry is answering, ' To 
 take charge of this post,' et cetera! The horses are 
 asleep in their stalls ; the men are snoring overhead ; 
 the canteen is closed; a baby is crying in the married 
 quarters; a couple of troopers are steadying them- 
 selves to enter the barracks gate and pass the sergeant 
 of the guard. It is all as it was five-and-twenty years 
 ago. The regiment which was us, has become other 
 people. Its motto, its colours, its uniform, its tradi- 
 tions belong to men we know nothing about. One 
 generation has passed. It has fallen out. We should 
 be challenged at the barrack gate." 
 
 "I haven't got the same affection for the regiment 
 as you have," answered Gorham slowly. "I suppose 
 I left too young. You had got your troop before I 
 joined. You wore the Egyptian medal before I could 
 boast a moustache. But the older one grows, the 
 more one is inclined to look back; and this meeting 
 with you makes me look back to the old days with 
 an interest which I quite thought I had lost long 
 ago. I remember men I had forgotten; duties I
 
 206 THE CAGE 
 
 had ceased to think about; as you were speaking 
 just now, I got the smell of the stables in my nostrils 
 and the odour of saddle-paste and white-of-egg on 
 Saturday mornings I " 
 
 There are few forms of reminiscence more intimate 
 and engaging than the recollections of old soldiers. 
 The common life, the common taste which brought 
 them into the army, and the common duties and 
 friendships of regimental existence, render this 
 reminiscence a lasting and even an increasing 
 pleasure. The life of a soldier, too, tends to check 
 development of individuality, so that while two men 
 who were at school and college together may meet in 
 after years as complete strangers, transformed by 
 their professions into different individuals, two men 
 who have soldiered together always meet on the old 
 ground of their ancient camaraderie with a perfect 
 and complete understanding between them. 
 
 To Major Lauden, who had once ridden in gold 
 lace, scattering a fortune to the winds and entangling 
 himself in the coils of innumerable romances, and 
 who was now condemned to spend his few shillings 
 in the comparative solitude of a fishing village, this 
 meeting with an old comrade in arms was an event 
 of the most delightful character. He magnified the 
 soldiering of Arthur Gorham, and would not let his 
 reason tell him that this old comrade, this companion 
 of his roystering life, had soldiered with him for 
 only a matter of four or five years. He persuaded 
 himself that his own long service had been accom- 
 panied step by step, and from its beginning to its
 
 A FALLING TIDE 207 
 
 end, by his present companion. He spoke of men 
 in the regiment Gorham had never known, and would 
 not listen when Lord Arthur protested his ignorance. 
 He recalled adventures in Egypt and India, before 
 Lord Arthur had joined, and associated him with 
 events which had happened long after he had left. 
 And all through his rattling gossip and his hoarse 
 laughter was the sense of tears a sadness for days 
 that were dead, a mourning for friends who were 
 departed, a grief for glory that had vanished. Some- 
 times, too, in this chronicle of the past, flashed 
 something of the old soldier's present his hatred of 
 priestcraft, his indignation with what he regarded as 
 superstition, his challenging devotion to a wild 
 scheme of anarchy which he called Socialism. At 
 one moment he was laughing at some spree on a 
 guest-night; at the next he was shaking his fist at 
 priest and society. 
 
 They sat talking until it was late, and when they 
 rose to go indoors, the red light at sea had dwindled 
 out of vision. 
 
 Arthur Gorham looked down to the harbour as 
 they moved towards the door. "Which is his boat, 
 Lauden ? " 
 
 "That one, I think. Follow the line of this post; 
 the light five inches or so, on the right of it. I 
 expect he's in bed by now. Got back too late to get 
 my message." 
 
 In the morning, looking from his bedroom window, 
 Lauden saw that Napier's ship was not in the har- 
 bour. With the lather on his face he opened the
 
 208 THE CAGE 
 
 door and called to a servant. "Go and find where 
 Mr. Napier has gone," he said, "and bring me back 
 word. Ask Tricker or somebody on the quay." 
 
 When he heard that Napier had departed the poor 
 major was filled with the most angry grief. He 
 pulled on his trousers, and with dangling braces 
 and the jacket of his pyjamas gaping open, shuffled 
 down the corridor of the hotel in faded slippers, to 
 break the news to Gorham. 
 
 He found Lord Arthur still in bed, reading a book. 
 The hot-water can stood in the bath covered by a 
 couple of towels. A tray with tea rested on a little 
 table at the bedside. 
 
 Lauden broke the news. 
 
 Gorham closed his book. "And yesterday I sat 
 in the same carriage with him for an hourl Why 
 has he gone away ? " 
 
 Lauden told all there was to tell, and suggested 
 that after breakfast they should walk over to Creek 
 Cottage and see Anne Paton. They arrived there 
 just before eleven o'clock, Trooper entering the 
 garden, and refusing to go out when the major com- 
 manded him to do so with a smiling face. 
 
 Lauden exclaimed at Anne's appearance directly 
 she entered the drawing-room, before he had made 
 the usual apology for Trooper, and before he had 
 presented Lord Arthur. "Why, Mrs. Paton, a day 
 in London has played old Harry with you I " he 
 said. 
 
 She rallied her spirits, but the red-faced major, 
 with an old-fashioned gallantry, insisted on express'
 
 A FALLING TIDE 209 
 
 ing his anxiety for her health all through the inter- 
 view. 
 
 She showed no emotion when she learned that 
 Napier had departed. "I knew he was going," she 
 said. The major inquired if she knew the wanderer's 
 port of destination. She shook her head. "I don't 
 think he quite knows himself," she answered. 
 
 "That means no letter-writing," laughed the major. 
 "What an excellent plan for avoiding one's 
 creditors ! " 
 
 "You don't know," inquired Lord Arthur, "if Mr. 
 Napier is returning to Borhaven?" 
 
 "No," she answered. 
 
 Just before they rose to go Lord Arthur said to 
 Anne, "We were talking of Edinburgh last night in 
 the cab ; and I discover that you are the daughter of 
 a man I knew there and very much respected." 
 
 Her eyes brightened a little. "Oh, you knew my 
 father ? " she asked, with affectionate pride. 
 
 "Yes, I knew him. He was kind enough to do 
 me a considerable service." 
 
 "I am glad," she said simply. 
 
 "Ah I " cried the major, "the mention of your 
 father's name has restored your appearance to its 
 normal and most charming good health. I don't like 
 to see you looking run-down." 
 
 Some idea remained in Anne's mind that she had 
 heard the name of Lord Arthur Gorham, but she 
 could not remember when and where. The effect 
 produced upon her by his likeness to Napier was 
 too paramount for any other consideration. She felt
 
 210 THE CAGE 
 
 convinced that she had spoken with her lover's 
 father. 
 
 The two men walked back to Borhaven, discussing 
 the disaster which had overtaken their plans. To 
 Lord Arthur the disappointment was keen and dis- 
 heartening. He had tried many times in recent years 
 to discover the whereabouts of his son. Ever since 
 he yielded himself to the dangerous occupation of 
 spiritualism he had felt an irresistible desire to meet 
 his son and square accounts. Messages from the 
 dead mother had come to him from astute mediums; 
 he even believed that he had heard her voice. He 
 walked about the world believing that he was accom- 
 panied by invisible spirits. To obtain his son's for- 
 giveness and to tell him of the dead mother now in 
 spiritland, was a sentimental passion with the irre- 
 sponsible and still selfish man. 
 
 "I will wait till to-morrow," he said, "and then, if 
 we have got no news of him, I will return to London. 
 You can telegraph to me if he returns. I will leave 
 you a letter to give to him in case he should come 
 when I am away." 
 
 The morrow brought no news of Napier, and Lord 
 Arthur placed a sealed envelope in the hands of 
 Lauden addressed to Napier, and marked on the out- 
 side : "To be returned to Lord Arthur Gorham in 
 the event of Major Lauden's death." Lauden took 
 it, and placed it carefully in an ancient letter-case, 
 which balanced on the right side of his coat the bulge 
 made by his handkerchief on the left. "It isn't a 
 cheerful thing to carry about," he said; "every time
 
 A FALLING TIDE *n 
 
 I see it I shall ask myself why I am not r dead; but, 
 Arthur, it shall never leave me, and one day Napier 
 shall read it." 
 
 Lord Arthur returned to London. All the pressing 
 of Lauden, who borrowed five pounds from him, 
 could not persuade him to remain another day. He 
 was attending a seance that evening at which he 
 hoped to hear the voice of Napier's mother. 
 
 While his cab carried him out of Borhaven, Anne 
 and her grandmother were reaching something like 
 a conclusion to the difficulty of Anne's situation. 
 Ever since the old lady greeted the poor girl on her 
 return from London, she had been filled with appre- 
 hension. Ever since she heard the story and knew 
 that Napier had departed, she had set her brain to 
 discover some solution of the problem. And now 
 it was reached. 
 
 "You must encourage Richard to continue in this 
 improvement," she said; "you must let him be quite 
 sure that you are glad of the change in him ; and 
 you must hold forth to him the prospect of a return 
 to the old relations. But you have a right to claim 
 time. His reformation must not depend on any 
 sentimental affection. To win you, it must be self- 
 reverent and strong. Ask for a year. In that year 
 your mind will accustom itself to its duty. What 
 seems now repugnant will become bearable. A year 
 will effect much." 
 
 So Anne, who had no other feeling in her heart 
 except an overwhelming sense of bereavement, wrote 
 to Richard Paton in this strain. 
 
 P 2
 
 212 THE CAGE 
 
 "Ah, my dear," said the old lady, embracing Her, 
 "if my life was only spared to its selfish and useless 
 old age to help you, it was a thing well done. Be- 
 lieve me, no happiness, no rest, could ever have come 
 to you. The future may look hard to you now, but 
 one day you will be glad you walked to meet it along 
 a straight road."
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 ON THE GROUND OF HONOUR 
 
 ANNE thought that her conflict was decided. 
 
 Her sense of honour had determined the decision. 
 
 For the opinion of the world she cared nothing, 
 for the commands of clericalism she had no attention. 
 Conscience may be said to have influenced her in some 
 subconscious way difficult to define, but the real power 
 was that mysterious mental force which controls con- 
 duct and gives elevation to character, a sense of 
 honour. There is a subtle difference between con- 
 science and a sense of honour. Conscience is some- 
 thing from without, or if within, imposed from with- 
 out ; it is not ourself ; it whispers, it warns, it accuses ; 
 in the presence of conscience one is in the presence of 
 an angel ; conscience is superior to us ; we listen, we 
 bow, we submit; to reject it is impious, to destroy it 
 is ruin ; conscience is religion ; it is God. 
 
 A sense of honour is the personality itself. It con- 
 trols conduct because it is conduct, it elevates character 
 because it is character. We might twist a phrase of 
 Goethe's and say that the behaviour of a man of 
 honour is a mirror in which he sees his own reflection. 
 
 A high sense of honour does not warn against vice, 
 
 213
 
 ai4 THE CAGE 
 
 it makes vice impossible; it does not reform, it is 
 reformation itself. A man of honour does not keep 
 himself from stealing; he could not steal. He does 
 not struggle with himself to conquer temptations ; he 
 has no temptations. It is not more impossible for 
 him to commit murder, deceive a neighbour, destroy 
 a reputation, brutalize a child, or forge a name, than 
 it is to alter the beating of his heart, the vibrations 
 of his brain, or the colour of his blood. The sense of 
 honour is the man himself. It is a term which de- 
 scribes a character. 
 
 It is better perhaps to have a conscience than the 
 sense of honour. Conscience is progress ; it is never 
 satisfied; it is aware of eternity. A sense of honour 
 is content with itself; it is a noble synonym for self- 
 satisfaction, self-sufficiency. Between conscience and 
 the sense of honour there is the same difference which 
 divides morality from religion. The Pharisee in the 
 temple represents Honour; the poor man who durst 
 not even raise his eyes, Conscience. 
 
 Anne rejected Napier because her sense of honour 
 was strong. If it had been weaker she might have 
 kept him. 
 
 The misguided earnestness of an honest priest had 
 thrown her back upon this sense of honour. The 
 religious instinct which was forming gradually in her 
 mind, which was giving breath to her conscience and 
 significance to her virtue, suddenly ceased to manifest 
 in her character. She felt herself expelled. At the 
 moment when she was growing accustomed to the 
 region of faith, she was thrust back into the region of
 
 ON THE GROUND OF HONOUR 215 
 
 intellect; doubts which have no meaning for faith, 
 difficulties which have no perplexity for worship, 
 scepticism which has no existence for love, presented 
 themselves with new vigour to her mind. Repel a 
 soul, and the brain sets itself to provide consolation. 
 Anne was driven from the altar; her reason, seeking 
 to heal the wound, asked how she could ever have 
 gone thither. There is no physician for wounded 
 pride like the reason. It would not be true to say 
 that she expunged religion from her heart; but she 
 rejected the means through which she had reached 
 definitely into the Infinite. 
 
 If she was conscious of any loss, any bereavement 
 of sacramental religion, at any rate she felt her sense 
 of honour sufficient for conduct. She met the crisis 
 of her life with honour, and she triumphed. Religion 
 could claim nothing of the victory. 
 
 But temptation, the supreme mimic, the arch im- 
 postor, the prince of plagiarists, sometimes appears 
 even in the likeness of honour. That is the danger. 
 
 Against his conscience, Herod sacrificed the prophet 
 of God; but he kept his word to a courtesan. 
 
 There are such things as debts of honour and 
 honourable lies. A man of honour, to save the reputa- 
 tion of a woman, will tell a lie on his oath. He will 
 call God to witness his chivalry, his honour and his 
 lie. He is not ashamed ; he is exalted. Perhaps it is 
 lack of imagination which makes a man summon the 
 eternal God to witness the cunning whereby he de- 
 ceives the world concerning the true character of a 
 disreputable woman. There are men of honour, aspir-
 
 216 THE CAGE 
 
 ing to nothing high and descending to nothing base, 
 who have a decalogue in which Satan himself would 
 suggest no improvements. You could trust your 
 purse to a man of honour, but not the upbringing of 
 your child. Religion has principles; honour has 
 scruples. 
 
 Temptation came to Anne in the guise of honour. 
 
 A week had passed since her parting with Napier. 
 There was sadness in her heart, perhaps bitterness, 
 but no question. 
 
 She submitted to necessity; not to submit was 
 impossible to her sense of honour. 
 
 It was inconceivable to her that she should ever 
 call Napier to her side. 
 
 That was her victory. 
 
 But, to return to her husband? The injunction of 
 honour was here not so distinct. Religion, perhaps, 
 would have been more definite. Christianity, it is 
 said, meets tragedy with tragedy. 
 
 Anne was at this point in her crisis irrevocable 
 rejection of Napier and distasteful submission to 
 duty when the temptation came. The tempter was 
 Napier himself. 
 
 He did not come to her, that would have been in 
 some way to break faith, but he wrote to her, which 
 was a compromise consistent with honour. 
 
 This was the letter 
 
 "I have thought so much of your position since I 
 last saw you. There is nothing else left for me to 
 think about. The result of my thinking has brought 
 me to one definite idea. If I suggest it to you k is
 
 ON THE GROUND OF HONOUR 217 
 
 not for a selfish purpose; it is because I am anxious 
 for your peace of mind. You will believe this be- 
 cause you trust me. 
 
 "The idea is this: Can it ever be the duty of a 
 wife to return to the husband whom she has ceased to 
 love, the husband who has destroyed in her by his 
 own action and his own conduct the possibility of 
 love? At one time I should not have hesitated to 
 say that it was her duty to return ; but now I am 
 inclined to think that it can never be right, in any cir- 
 cumstances or for any cause, to sacrifice the highest 
 instincts and the purest feelings. It seems to me that 
 the wife has a right to say that such a submission is 
 not an obedience but a profanation. Marriage without 
 love is a horrible outrage to a good woman. I can 
 conceive of scarcely anything more revolting. It is 
 so dreadful that the thought has begun to haunt 
 me. 
 
 "My friendship for you makes me write. It is a 
 true proverb that says absence strengthened friend- 
 ship, where the last recollections were kindly. My 
 friendship is so strengthened that it drives me to 
 write. Can you imagine what it is for me to think 
 of the possibility that you may make this sacrifice 
 only to find you have destroyed self-respect, and 
 obey duty only to find that it has led you into hell ? 
 
 "At least pause and think well before you take this 
 step. Do not act till you are convinced that the situa- 
 tion would be bearable. 
 
 "On the ground of religion, I can't help thinking 
 that a wife would be right to disown a union that
 
 2i8 THE CAGE 
 
 violated her noblest feelings. I am not thinking of 
 modern religious opinion, but of the original spirit. 
 The current idea of virtue is not exalted. Becky 
 Sharp said it was easy to be virtuous on ten thousand 
 a year; Christ said it was impossible. Religion at 
 its dawn was not a conformity, but a rebellion. The 
 whole spirit was a denial of the world's standards, a 
 perception that the highest must be sought at whatever 
 cost. The sacredest family ties were not to count. 
 
 "I only say this that you may not think I have 
 shifted my ground entirely. My opinions have 
 changed, but my principles are fixed. 
 
 "The question whether a wife can ever be called 
 upon to return to a union likely to destroy her peace 
 of mind, to embitter her nature and deject her rever- 
 ence had never before occurred to me. Now that it 
 has, I have answered it. Will you answer it, defin- 
 itely, before you act ? " 
 
 This was the letter; this was the temptation. 
 
 It had been written as honestly as the clergyman's 
 ruling had been delivered. Mr. Aldrich was zealous 
 for God; Napier was zealous for honour. 
 
 With what restraint Napier had written the reader 
 may guess; Anne knew. He was not writing a letter 
 of advice to a sister, he was appealing with the force 
 of a righteous jealousy, and out of the depths of a 
 pure love, to the woman he adored. But honour held 
 the pen. 
 
 Anne knew by the knowledge that he loved her how 
 great was the restraint of this letter, which swept her 
 off her feet. And it was his knowledge that she loved
 
 ON THE GROUND OF HONOUR 219 
 
 him which made every word in the letter a temptation 
 almost impossible of resistance. 
 
 Could she say to the man who knew that she loved 
 him, "I am going back to be the wife of a man I do 
 not love " ? 
 
 Napier had appealed to her on the ground of 
 honour. 
 
 She had faced before the terrible sacrifice of this 
 return, but now for the first time the tragedy of it 
 was presented to her in the form of the question, 
 What will he think of me? 
 
 It may be easy for a noble nature to accept a hard 
 destiny, but it is difficult for a pure woman to abase 
 herself before the eyes of a man whose respect is the 
 breath of her being. 
 
 Rebellion appeared in the form of an angel. Her 
 virtue exceeded the virtue of the Scribes and Pharisees. 
 She repeated the sentence. "Becky Sharp said it was 
 easy to be virtuous on ten thousand a year; Christ 
 said it was impossible." The world's estimate of 
 virtue was respectability; those who would bid her 
 return to duty did not perceive the altitudes of virtue. 
 The height of heights was above the world. 
 
 This idea justified the line of selfishness. It made 
 What-I-want-to-do What-I-ought-to-do. 
 
 Anne saw that to refuse a renewal of the hateful union 
 opened the gate to a consummation of the happy union. 
 
 On ighteous grounds, the highest possible 
 grounds, she could say to her husband, "It is impos- 
 sible. You offer me horror, self-abasement, infamy. 
 To accept would be dishonour. I should sink into
 
 220 THE CAGE 
 
 the abyss of shame. My soul would perish. I should 
 be guilty to myself. My sin would be a sin against 
 light. I know that I cannot divorce my chastity from 
 my feelings. You have destroyed love. Our union is 
 unthinkable." 
 
 And if to this he made answer, "You would be 
 free; very well, I must be free too" he would be on 
 ground that the law justified. 
 
 She saw once more the opening door of freedom. 
 
 To such a letter, in her present feelings, only one 
 reply was possible. She did not, however, write her 
 answer that day. She allowed the idea to lodge in 
 her mind. She wanted to exhaust it. Her answer, 
 she perceived clearly, would decide her destiny. 
 
 Her communing was interrupted. 
 
 On the following morning, when she entered Mrs. 
 Dobson's bedroom, she found her grandmother com- 
 plaining of a sleepless night and looking wasted 
 and feverish. Anxiety for this most dear and faithful 
 friend at once banished from Anne's mind her 
 thoughts of self-preservation. On the noble face of 
 the little old lady, like the falling dullness of twilight, 
 lay the shadow of death. 
 
 The great Silencer hushed the voice of Anne's sor- 
 row and rebuked the consequence with which she had 
 invested her passions. Death enters, and the world 
 recedes. The shadow of his dread invisibility, the 
 haunting sense of his impalpable presence, the help- 
 less knowledge of his relentless purpose, the thought, 
 growing with every vibration of the brain, that his 
 departure would leave all that was beautiful and inno-
 
 ON THE GROUND OF HONOUR 221 
 
 cent and kind in her life a memory, wrung from 
 Anne's heart the bitterness of her pain. 
 
 A divine sorrow took possession of her. 
 
 When Death preaches from the text, "What shall 
 it profit a man," compromise bows its head and 
 equivocation is silent. Who can weave garlands with 
 the hands full of dust and ashes? 
 
 As self receded and tenderness for the dying took 
 its place, Anne became conscious of a restful tran- 
 quillity. She gave herself to comfort her friend. She 
 lost the sharpness of her pain. 
 
 Mrs. Dobson resisted at first the idea that Ramsay 
 M'Gavin should come to see her. "I shall keep my 
 bed; I shall drink no medicine," she said emphatic- 
 ally; and she added, "What is the medicine for 
 denouement? " But later in the day, by gentle reason- 
 ing and quiet entreaty, Anne succeeded in turning 
 the old lady's mind. "Do as you like," said Mrs. 
 Dobson; "but no fuss." Ramsay M'Gavin arrived 
 in the afternoon. 
 
 Anne saw him in the drawing-room before they went 
 up-stairs. He listened with his usual solemnity. His 
 gravity for death was the same as his gravity for 
 measles. Anne warned him against saying anything 
 to disturb the invalid. "She is of a great age," he 
 said, apparently without feeling; "but her vitality is 
 unusual. I do not anticipate a sudden termination. 
 Let us go up-stairs." 
 
 As they entered the little white bedroom, Mrs. Dob- 
 son turned her dark eyes towards him. He walked 
 slowly forward, close-buttoned and solemn, and said,
 
 222 THE CAGE 
 
 with an assumption of cheerfulness, "Weil, Mrs. 
 Dobson, and so you're keeping your bed, are you? 
 Not quite yourself, perhaps. A bad night, I under- 
 stand." He drew a chair to the bedside and sat down. 
 "Allow me just to feel your pulse for a minute. The 
 usual formality." 
 
 "The point of departure," she rejoined. 
 
 M'Gavin pursed his lips. "It's an old-fashioned 
 beginning," he said, "but founded on reason." 
 
 She put out her hand. 
 
 "Ah, nothing very serious," he said easily. "A 
 little care in your diet, rest, and perhaps something to 
 ensure you a night's sleep. You've no pain in your 
 heart, I take it ? the breathing easy ? Yes ; nothing 
 to worry us. You'll have to take things easy for a 
 few days." He began to look about him, first at the 
 open window, then at the height of the ceiling, after- 
 wards at the flowers which Anne had brought that 
 morning fresh into the room. "Plenty of sunshine 
 and air," he said; "a nice cheerful room; not too 
 much open window at night ; and perhaps the flowers 
 might be taken outside in the evening. It's a very 
 nice room to be ill in, Mrs. Dobson. You won't feel 
 the fatigue of lying in bed." 
 
 While they were speaking there was a knock at the 
 door, which opened a little way, followed by the 
 appearance of Minionette's rather startled face. "If 
 you please, ma'am," she said to Anne, "Canon Case, 
 In the drawing-room. But he said you weren't to 
 come down if you were busy. He didn't know Mrs. 
 Dobson was ill."
 
 ON THE GROUND OF HONOUR 223 
 
 Anne hesitated. 
 
 "Go down to him," said Mrs. Dobson. "The 
 clergyman and the doctor," she muttered to herself; 
 "most appropriate." 
 
 When the door had closed upon Anne, Mrs. Dobson 
 turned to the doctor and said, in her solemn, slow 
 voice, "Ramsay, tell me the truth." 
 
 "The truth?" 
 
 " How long, Ramsay ? " 
 
 He made light of the question. He took a cheerful 
 view of her situation. There was no crisis. 
 
 She interrupted him. "Is it a matter of weeks or of 
 days? Don't tell me a lie." 
 
 He assured her that the question was unreasonable. 
 He endeavoured to persuade her that no doctor who 
 respected his profession would pretend that he had 
 knowledge enough to answer it. 
 
 "I am dying," she said. "7 know it, if you 
 don't. I want you to tell me how long I shall be 
 about it. Dr. Ainslie would have told me. You tell 
 me." 
 
 He told her the truth. He anticipated no collapse. 
 He thought it might be a matter of months. No one, 
 he assured her, could say exactly how long. It was 
 the end, certainly ; but old age itself may be regarded 
 as the end, and old people who take care of themselves 
 live a long time. 
 
 "Instead of sending me a sleeping draught," said 
 Mrs. Dobson, "send me your mother." 
 
 "She will be happy, I am sure, to come and sit with 
 you.**
 
 224 THE CAGE 
 
 In the meantime Anne was in the drawing-room 
 with Canon Case. She found the tall, thin, bearded 
 and spectacled man standing in the centre of the room, 
 his hat and umbrella in his hand, unwilling to keep 
 her or to interrupt her duties. They did not sit 
 down, but stood talking of Mrs. Dobson's illness in 
 low voices. He was sympathetic in a gracious and 
 tranquillizing manner which made an appeal to 
 her. 
 
 She scarcely knew him. As we have said, he took 
 little part in the social life of his parish. He was the 
 scholar priest, the student, the theologian, a repre- 
 sentative of the intellect of Anglicanism, a defender 
 of the faith. Without straining the proverb that the 
 pen is mightier than the sword, it may be said that 
 Canon Case, as defender of the faith, was entitled to 
 at least some of the glory ascribed to the royal holders 
 of that title. 
 
 There were two sides to his character. He crossed 
 swords with men of science; he worked in the Sunday 
 School. He contributed to the Higher Criticism; he 
 was the author of manuals of devotion. His journal- 
 ism was theological ; his literature was religious. His 
 eminence as a Churchman did not exceed the beauty 
 of his Christianity. 
 
 The personality of this man had the indefinable 
 quality of charm. Without shining qualities or bril- 
 liance of demeanour, he made a profound impression. 
 He was quiet, restful, gentle, but with distinction. 
 His character compelled deference. He never de- 
 scended, but he was never aloof. There is an aris-
 
 ON THE GROUND OF HONOUR 225 
 
 tocracy of the spiritual life. Character has a dignity 
 which makes rank a parvenu. Men may be cowed 
 by arrogance; it is saintliness which makes them 
 reverent. 
 
 The grace of God in human character is the union 
 of strength with sweetness, dignity with humility, 
 power with tenderness, authority with sympathy, 
 majesty with humanity. Scholarship and saintliness 
 are two books, but they may be read by one soul. 
 The vicar of Borhaven would have been of the com- 
 pany, whether he defined with Athanasius, discussed 
 with Jewel, or supped with St. Francis. 
 
 He was the antithesis of Robert Ainslie; in this 
 world it is difficult to think that the two men could 
 have ever agreed ; they might have been opposed 
 to each other; there might have existed a profound 
 antagonism between them ; and yet, on some celestial 
 mount, we can imagine that they would meet, look 
 back upon the cities of the world, and understand 
 each other. 
 
 Canon Case understood Mr. Aldrich. 
 
 In his intellectual conflicts with men of science there 
 was a fine courtesy, a noble conciliation, a spiritual 
 suavity which refined his opponents and kept con- 
 troversy out of the prize-ring. 
 
 This temper of his mind, which ga~ve tone to his 
 writings, was apparent in the expression of his face 
 and sounded in the modulation and sympathy of his 
 voice. While he was speaking to her, Anne became 
 aware of the man. His countenance was his passport ; 
 his voice was his autobiography. She had seen him
 
 226 THE CAGE 
 
 before, and had admired the dignity of his presence; 
 she had heard him preach and her heart had felt the 
 charm of his utterance ; but now his eyes were neither 
 on a congregation nor on a manuscript, but were on 
 her; his voice was addressed not to the world, but to 
 her alone; the difference of the effect can hardly be 
 expressed. 
 
 Anne was conscious of a pervasive influence. 
 
 When he heard how ill Mrs. Dobson appeared to 
 be, he expressed his sympathy with Anne in a low 
 voice and in words which made her feel that he com- 
 pletely understood her pain. He did not say too 
 much, he did not say too little; in the tone of his 
 voice he said everything. 
 
 "I had, of course, no idea at all," he said finally, 
 "that your grandmother was ill. You must not let me 
 keep you from her. But pray remember that if I can be 
 of any help to you, or to her, I shall come most readily 
 when you send for me." He paused for a moment, 
 regarding her thoughtfully through his thin spec- 
 tacles. "I came," he said presently, speaking very 
 slowly and with sincere feeling, "to offer you my 
 help in another matter. I have been greatly dis- 
 tressed. I fear damage may have been done, uninten- 
 tionally, of course, yes, with the best intentions in the 
 world, but, unhappily, done. You understand what 
 I mean? I returned yesterday; this morning I was 
 told the story. I have told you how it has distressed 
 me. We will not discuss it now. Another day, if you 
 will let me. But let me say this to you now : Do not
 
 ON THE GROUND OF HONOUR 227 
 
 let your feelings regarding the disciple affect your 
 attitude to the Master. Our mistakes are not His 
 mistakes. And, if I may ask you to do so, I should 
 like you to think kindly even of the disciple. ' To 
 understand all is to forgive all.' Some of Christ's 
 ministers have in them the blood of the crusaders; 
 they can only serve their Lord with the spear; they 
 accomplish great work, but their zeal makes them too 
 eager to discover enemies. Cervantes made his hero, 
 in h'is eagerness for honour, mistake the obscure and 
 the sinful for the royal and the virtuous; that was a 
 God-like mistake. The knights of religion, unfortun- 
 ately, are not always so divinely Christian ; in their 
 enthusiasm for righteousness they sometimes mistake 
 the seeker for the rejecter, the friend for the enemy. 
 What can we say ? Only this : It is magnanimous to 
 forgive them." 
 
 He paused for a moment, and then put out his 
 hand. 
 
 "I will interrupt you no longer," he said, holding 
 her hand. "Do not close your mind; do not suffer 
 your heart to become hardened don't do that, will 
 you ? " 
 
 He regarded her with tenderness and solicitude. 
 "No," she answered, "I will not do that." 
 
 "And when you are less anxious," he said, releas- 
 ing her hand, "let me come and see you again." 
 
 "You are very kind to me," she said gently. 
 
 "Your grandmother, too; you will not forget to 
 
 ask her if she would like me to come ? " 
 Qa
 
 228 THE CAGE 
 
 Anne went to the door with him. Under the porch 
 he gave her his hand once more, and said to her 
 affectionately, "God bless you, my child." 
 
 She stood and watched him depart. At the gate he 
 turned. 
 
 They looked at each other.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 IN EARNEST 
 
 MRS. DOBSON lay in her bed, and instead of the 
 doctor, the doctor's mother sat by her side. Mrs. 
 Dobson listened; Mrs. M'Gavin, with occasional slow 
 pauses for the intaking of air which appeared to inflate 
 her entire person, droned. But her droning produced 
 no slumbrous effect. Sometimes Mrs. Dobson would 
 take up her Bible, and write a few words on the fly- 
 leaf. 
 
 Anne, in the drawing-room or the garden, would 
 wonder what it was they talked about. Her little 
 grandmother, crouched up in the bed with vigorous 
 eyes and compressed lips, appeared to grow something 
 more restful after each visit. A composure of spirit 
 seemed to brood over the natural sharpness of her 
 disposition. She was less fretful. If Minionette 
 dropped a brush in blacking the grate or put the 
 water-jug back in the basin with a jolt, Mrs. Dobson 
 did not now make a sound of annoyance with her 
 tongue against the roof of her mouth. If Anne 
 entered the room on tiptoe, believing her grandmother 
 to be asleep, Mrs. Dobson did not now rap out 
 impatiently, "Don't walk like a cat! " She was not 
 
 gentle, but she was not irritable. 
 
 229
 
 THE CAGE 
 
 Anne wondered what the old ladies talked about. 
 
 Mrs. M' Gavin was a dour woman with a settled 
 expression of weary anxiety. She wore a black 
 bonnet, a black mantle, black cotton gloves, elastic- 
 sided boots, which wheezed when she walked, for she 
 was a heavy woman, and a black skirt. She sat on 
 the chair beside Mrs. Dobson's bed with the imper- 
 turbability and the eternal immobility of a wax figure. 
 She might have been an exhibit from the galleries of 
 Madame Tussaud, either a German royalty of the last 
 century or a baby farmer whose weapon had been 
 poison. There was something dough-like in the 
 texture of her full face, which was overspread with 
 fine wrinkles, and pouched and puffed and bagged 
 like a quilt; the tired eyes had the vacuity of glass; 
 the pursed lips were a frozen sorrow; the hanging 
 cheeks were flaccid with fatalism; the nose was 
 nothing. 
 
 The intellectual difference between Mrs. Dobson, 
 dying, and Mrs. M 'Gavin, living, was not greater 
 than the physical dissimilarity of eagle and duck, hare 
 and tortoise, tiger and hippopotamus. Anne and 
 Napier had sometimes laughed together, as they 
 walked back from the doctor's house, at the funereal 
 gloom and the discouraging monosyllables of this old 
 Scots body. Side by side with a sack of flour, there 
 would have been little to choose between the two in 
 shape, nothing in animation. 
 
 Puzzled how to account for this dumb old woman's 
 influence over Mrs. Dobson, Anne once said to her 
 at the door^ as she was about to depart, "What
 
 IN EARNEST 231 
 
 do you say to tny grandmother to make her so 
 happy ? " 
 
 Mrs. M'Gavin considered the question with a blank 
 face. Then, "We just chat," came the slow answer. 
 After a pause, as if considering whether she had said 
 too much and had better retract or explain, the dame 
 lifted her skirt with a gradual movement of the hands, 
 repeated her farewell by a tired look of the eyes, and 
 moved slowly away, the boots wheezing a mournful 
 accompaniment. 
 
 Ten days had passed ; for Mrs. Dobson, ten days of 
 dying; for Anne, ten days of acquaintance with the 
 presence of death. An answer had been sent to 
 Napier's letter, but not the answer. Anne had written 
 merely to explain the calamity of her present situation, 
 which made it impossible to think about her future. 
 To this Napier had replied with sympathy. The 
 matter rested on the ground of honour. Death pro- 
 vided the entr'acte. 
 
 Mrs. Dobson had refused to see Canon Case. 
 "What is Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba?" she had 
 exclaimed vexatiously. On the following day she 
 added to this refusal the following sentence, "There 
 is only one man I should like to come and see me. 
 He can't come, however. I am going to him instead." 
 
 Anne looked up from her needlework. "Who is 
 that, grannie ? " 
 
 "Your father." 
 
 Anne reflected. Her father's strength jumped to 
 her mind. With terrible suddenness occurred the 
 idea that her grandmother was afraid to die.
 
 232 THE CAGE 
 
 Fear of death ! 
 
 How dreadful a thing, if her grandmother lay there 
 hour after hour, from dawn to noon, from noon to 
 twilight, from twilight to darkness, wondering, shrink- 
 ing, fearing, trembling in her soul I An affectionate 
 mother, standing on the dockside and watching the 
 last nervous glances of her young emigrant, with the 
 noise of the sailors' preparations in her ear and the 
 wind of the cold sea in her face, experiences some- 
 thing of the dumb despair which seized upon Anne 
 with the occurrence of this idea. To the poor mother 
 on the dockside how forbidding looks the great ship, 
 how callous the sailors, how hostile the sea, how 
 long and dangerous the voyage, how shadowy, un- 
 real, and hazardous that unknown land to which her 
 child is going, beyond the reach of mothering affec- 
 tion, the consolation of home, the protection of the 
 family. Fear of all fears; will she ever see him 
 again ? 
 
 If that journey across a human sea can awaken 
 anxiety, how much more shall this other? What 
 loneliness matches this departure? What journey is 
 less explored ? What territory more unknown ? 
 
 There are many things which make men nervous; 
 a surgical operation, bankruptcy, a lonely road on a 
 dark night. The great essayist has not altogether 
 succeeded in making the Dark Road a place without 
 fears. 
 
 It is a matter of imagination whether men respect 
 death. A boor will smile at the Venus of Milo; "the 
 nerves of Shelley quivered at the idea of loveliness."
 
 IN EARNEST 233 
 
 Men have died with a jest; a fool has been known 
 to dismiss God with an epigram. 
 
 In one of the books concerning Pasteur which 
 M* Gavin had lent to Anne, these words of that great 
 chemist and heroic man had made an impression on 
 her mind 
 
 "What is beyond?" the human mind, actuated 
 by an invincible force, will never cease to ask itself : 
 What is beyond ? ... It is of no use to answer : 
 Beyond is limitless space, limitless time, or limitless 
 grandeur; no one understands those words. He 
 who proclaims the existence of the Infinite and 
 none can avoid it accumulates in that affirmation 
 more of the supernatural than is to be found in all 
 the miracles of all the religions; for the notion of 
 the Infinite presents that double character that it 
 forces itself upon us and yet is incomprehensible. 
 When this notion seizes upon our understanding, 
 we can but kneel. 
 
 I see everywhere the inevitable expression of the 
 Infinite in the world; through it the supernatural is 
 at the bottom of every heart. The idea of God is a 
 form of the idea of the Infinite. 
 
 As long as the mystery of the Infinite weighs on 
 human thought, temples will be erected for the wor- 
 ship of the Infinite, whether God is called Brahma, 
 Allah, Jehovah, or Jesus : and on the pavement 
 of those temples, men will be seen kneeling 
 prostrated, annihilated in the thought of the 
 Infinite,
 
 234 THE CAGE 
 
 The memory of these words, the substance of this 
 idea, returned to Anne's mind. Her powers of 
 imagination were not unusual, she was too controlled 
 by terrestrial common-sense to feel that quick and 
 breathing conviction of limitless space, limitless time, 
 limitless grandeur, which saturates the lofty and aspir- 
 ing soul ; but she did feel now, with the thought that 
 her grandmother was afraid, the naturalness, no, the 
 inevitability of fear of death. How can any tfne not 
 fear to contemplate the exchange of the Known for 
 the Unknown? For a moment she, too, was afraid. 
 The Infinite ! her soul was appalled. That little old 
 woman in the bed, and the Mystery of Mysteries, the 
 Riddle of Riddles Infinity ! 
 
 She resumed her needlework with unsteady fingers, 
 and said, "Will you tell me, grannie dear, why you 
 would like to see him?" 
 
 "Because," came the answer, "he would know what 
 to say to me." 
 
 "But you aren't distressed, grannie?" 
 
 "No; but dumb." 
 
 " Tell me what you mean ? " 
 
 "I am inarticulate." 
 
 " How would my father have helped you, I wonder ? 
 I wish I knew ! " 
 
 Mrs. Dobson closed her eyes and was silent. She 
 lay quite still, quite motionless. When Anne raised 
 her eyes from her work she was startled, shocked, all 
 but terrified; it was as if death had suddenly sealed 
 the lips, closed the eyes, folded the hands. 
 
 While she was still gazing the lips moved. "Do
 
 IN EARNEST 235 
 
 you know," said Mrs. Dobson, without opening her 
 eyes, "what Ramsay's mother says to me when she 
 sits by my side ? Do you know what we talk about ? " 
 
 "No, grannie." 
 
 "About your father." She paused. Anne heard 
 the faint ticking of the clock, the sounds from the 
 world outside, the heavy, regular breathing of her 
 grandmother. Still speaking, with her eyes closed, 
 the old lady resumed. "The night-bell is still ringing 
 for Dr. Ainslie 1 " she said, sorrowfully; and after an- 
 other pause, added, "I feel the need of him, because 
 I know him better. He was greater than I suspected. 
 He would have known what to say to hie. That old 
 woman M' Gavin, who saw him three or four times, 
 knows more of your father than you or I do, who knew 
 him always. She doesn't know all. Her son knows 
 nothing. She is a sponge; Ramsay a looking-glass. 
 She sits on that chair, a sponge ; my questions squeeze 
 out drop by drop what she absorbed. Sometimes she 
 flows on. That is when I am happy." 
 
 There was another pause, this time of greater 
 length. The voice had died away, wearily. The 
 sound of her breathing became heavier. Anne 
 thought that she was falling asleep. 
 
 The uneasy silence in the room was suddenly 
 broken. 
 
 " It is your life which troubles me." 
 
 "Oh, grannie dear, you mustn't think of me." 
 
 "You will be alone." 
 
 Anne let the needlework rest in her lap, and 
 regarded the inscrutable face of the dying woman.
 
 236 THE CAGE 
 
 "You must go back to your husband." 
 
 The fear came to Anne that her grandmother would 
 exact a promise. 
 
 "To live by yourself is impossible. Besides, there 
 is duty. You will one day be like me, an old woman 
 lying on her bed, waiting for the end of the world. 
 The end of life ought to be accomplishment. To 
 finish and not to have completed is failure; failure is 
 remorse. Look to the end. You are drifting now; 
 you must have a goal. Let it be duty." 
 
 " I wish, grannie, that you would not distress your- 
 self with my troubles. Don't be anxious for me. I 
 am making up my mind; I have a year to decide; 
 and it is sure " 
 
 "Decide now." 
 
 Anne said nothing. 
 
 Presently Mrs. Dobson opened her eyes wearily. 
 She turned slowly upon her side, and regarded her 
 granddaughter. It was disturbing to have those 
 glowing eyes fixed upon one. The face was the face 
 of death; the eyes were a soul looking on earthly 
 things for the last time. There was no affectionate 
 smile of social agreeableness. The scrutiny of the eyes 
 pierced to the inmost recesses; nothing was hidden. 
 
 "Let us talk together. The day of gossip has 
 passed. The night of silence is approaching. Let 
 us talk seriously for the last time." 
 
 Anne could say nothing. The gaze of her grand- 
 mother was like a spell inhibiting action. In a pas- 
 sive numbness of the senses she prepared herself to 
 listen. *
 
 IN EARNEST 237 
 
 "What do you think life is for? what is its object? " 
 asked the grandmother. "That decision is your idea 
 of God. Do you see the truth of that ? Tell me what 
 you think life is for, and I will tell you the name of 
 your God. Is that presumptuous of me? Think be- 
 fore you answer. No, it is not presumptuous. For 
 there are only two names to choose from. It is the 
 old division. God and Mammon. Between these 
 two, these two alone, everybody must make choice. 
 Either they think life is for duty, or for pleasure; 
 for self-sacrifice, or for self-assertion ; either they think 
 it is a responsibility or a sinecure. Which do you 
 think it is? If you feel yourself accountable, you 
 believe in God. If you acknowledge no liability, you 
 believe in Mammon. Now, in your heart of hearts, 
 your soul of souls, which is it? " 
 
 "You know which it is, grannie." 
 
 "Then, what is your duty?" 
 
 "That is the riddle of my life." 
 
 "My dear, in the physical world the intellect can 
 answer some riddles ; in the moral world the conscience 
 can answer all. Have you presented the riddle of your 
 life to your conscience ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And the answer?" 
 
 "I do not know it." 
 
 "Have you listened only to conscience? One ear 
 to inclination and the other to conscience is Babel. 
 Both ears to conscience is guidance." 
 
 Anne was silent. 
 
 " Do you know why I am anxious about you ? I am
 
 2 3 8 THE CAGE 
 
 conscious of responsibility. Do yoti know why I 
 want you to decide definitely for duty? Because I 
 know that I shall soon stand in the presence of your 
 father." 
 
 Anne wavered for a moment. Her heart was beat- 
 ing unhappily. Her spirit was distressed. Her 
 reason was afraid. 
 
 The eyes of death were fixed upon her inexorably. 
 The hour of vacillation was past; compromise had 
 stolen away. 
 
 Those words "I shall soon stand in the presence of 
 your father," brought conflict to the decisive moment. 
 Now or never she must justify her reason. 
 
 She slipped upon a knee at the bedside, and with 
 her face, beautiful, young, and full of earnestness, 
 close to the almost fleshless face of the dying woman, 
 uttered humanity's protest against the gospel of 
 resignation. 
 
 "But, grannie," she cried gently and reproachfully, 
 "are you quite sure that my father would wish this 
 hard thing? Are you quite sure that he will not 
 reproach you for urging me into what is so shameful, 
 horrible, and destructive to me ? He was not ruled by 
 what the world thought. He did not respect many 
 ordinances. Was it not against just such a tyranny 
 as this that he would have fought ? If I had gone to 
 him and said, ' Father, I cannot do this thing,' would 
 he have sheltered me, or would he have driven me 
 away with the command to obey the law ? " 
 
 Mrs. Dobson was troubled. The spirit world had 
 become very real. She was so near that shore that
 
 IN EARNEST 239 
 
 she contemplated with utmost realism her meeting with 
 those who had arrived before. In no mystic ecstasy 
 she dreamed of the communion of saints. By name 
 she thought of those she would encounter; in human 
 speech she anticipated their greetings and their ques- 
 tions. No spirit of that little community of friends 
 drawing near to receive the traveller from earth was so 
 real, so tremendous, so overshadowing as the ghost 
 of the great doctor. 
 
 She had to consider whether the advice she gave to 
 his daughter was one with the truth of things. 
 
 Presently she said, "Your father sought to alter 
 many laws; he did not command people to break any 
 one of them. Marriage is sacred. The Church does 
 right to contend for the sanctity of marriage. It is the 
 basis of social goodness." 
 
 "Yes, the sanctity of marriage which is sanctified." 
 
 "My dear, you married of your own will." 
 
 "But, grannie, how young I was I I didn't under- 
 stand." 
 
 "Fulfil your vows." 
 
 " If they have become false ? ** 
 
 "They were made to God." 
 
 Anne sighed, and said nothing. She felt it im- 
 possible to convince her grandmother of her true 
 position. How could she speak of her love for Napier, 
 which made this marriage impossible? 
 
 It was long since she had reflected on her problem. 
 Now it returned with fresh energy. The obscure but 
 undoubted labour of subconscious mentation had 
 Strengthened her antagonism. To call the man she
 
 240 THE CAGE 
 
 loved might be impossible; but to obey the man she 
 had ceased to love was impossible. 
 
 "Your father," said Mrs. Dobson slowly and 
 solemnly, "reverenced good women. And he thought 
 that motherhood was the highest state in humanity. 
 He thought that no woman could perfectly fulfil her 
 being who was not a mother. I heard him once say 
 in Darnaway Street, ' Adam fell for want of a mother.' 
 When I am gone you must keep my Bible. I have 
 written some of your father's sayings about women 
 on the fly-leaf. He used to talk about mothers to Mrs. 
 M'Gavin. Mrs. M'Gavin was the mother of seven 
 sons; early in life she was left a widow; not one of 
 those sons have gone to ruin. She mended for them, 
 cooked for them, worked for them. She brought them 
 up to be virtuous men. Two of them are successful 
 farmers in Canada. One has a shop in Calcutta. 
 Another is trading in Queensland. One is regimental- 
 sergeant-major in a dragoon regiment. Another is an 
 engineer officer in a line of steamers. The youngest 
 is doctor of Borhaven. Useful men. Not one black 
 sheep in the flock. A woman's work. Think of this 
 one old woman's work spreading all over the empire, 
 her principles reaching out like missionaries to the 
 ends of the earth, her soul merging itself among the 
 nations. Motherhood I I have thought much of that 
 since I came to be here. 
 
 "Your father said to Mrs. M'Gavin, 'Englishmen 
 think that a little porridge accounts for the Scot's 
 success; they forget the hand that stirs it.' In all 
 virtue and strength he saw the influence of good
 
 IN EARNEST 241 
 
 women. In all vice and wickedness the influence of 
 bad women. He certainly saw nothing more sacred 
 than family life." The old lady lifted her Bible from 
 the bed, and began to read her notes of Dr. Ainslie's 
 sayings 
 
 "The ancient anchorage of humanity is the home. 
 
 "Only one church for a woman, her home. Only 
 one church for a man, his work. To the man, the 
 home is more than a church ; it is his heaven or his 
 hell. 
 
 "Monks and mules are not the handiwork of 
 God. A good mother is the incarnation of His 
 Providence. 
 
 "There are some comparisons, like God and 
 Mammon, which seem as though they must have 
 been coined in Bedlam. Another is, Nursery and 
 Ballroom. 
 
 "A crozier leaves me cold, the worn broom of a 
 peasant woman wakens my reverence. 
 
 " It is the women who make a nation ; the State 
 is the marriage state ; maternity is the politics of the 
 world. 
 
 "Show me the unhappy wife and I will show 
 you the woman who does not love children. 
 
 " Marriage is either the Nursery or the Precipice." 
 Mrs. Dobson looked up from her reading. She 
 
 R
 
 242 THE CAGE 
 
 closed her book, and let it lie under her hands; Her 
 eyes fixed their gaze upon Anne. "These few say- 
 ings tell me your father's mind," she said, with con- 
 viction. "He would have been the last man to tamper 
 with marriage. His indignation was roused by 
 married women who made light of the married state. 
 What is coming to the world? Women of this 
 generation live as if the millions of years of effort 
 which represent the past had no object but their enjoy- 
 ment ! You will hear them say that they detest 
 children. They speak about their figures. They 
 cannot put up with the bother and interruption of a 
 nursery. Child-bearing is regarded as something 
 ugly and coarse. The bearing of immortals is a bar- 
 barism. Card-room and race-course are serious 
 matters; the rearing of heroes a bore. What do these 
 women think? That evolution was for them, that it 
 stops with them, does not move forward through them, 
 that they have no responsibility towards the future? 
 If there is a God, what will He say to them ? Think 
 of the past how laborious, how Titanic, how magnifi- 
 cent; think of these women's lives, how petty, how 
 sordid how vulgar ! " 
 
 She ceased speaking abruptly. There was some 
 colour in her face, and her breath was quicker. 
 
 "Grannie, dear," said Anne, placing her hand 
 gently upon the old lady's arm, "it isn't right for you 
 to exhaust yourself like this. Rest a little. I will 
 bring your hot milk, and after you have slept we will 
 talk again." 
 
 "What does it matter if I exhaust myself? My
 
 IN EARNEST 243 
 
 dear, I am at a stage when nothing has significance 
 except immortality. That is why I am in earnest at 
 last. At the door of eternity one is thoughtful. 
 Listen. I want you to go back to your husband; I 
 want you to have a woman's home; I want you to 
 become a mother. If you do not do this, your life 
 will be a hazard. I foresee a great risk for you. At 
 your age women are tempted. Romance blinds the 
 eyes. You are in the midst of youth. You cannot 
 imagine your old age. But you will be forty, with 
 slower pulses; fifty, with pulses slower still; sixty, 
 and grey hairs. Prepare for that time. Don't lay up 
 for yourself remorse. Do your duty. The universe 
 cannot possibly exist for a woman's drame passionelle. 
 It must be bigger than that. Fill your life with duty, 
 your old age with peace. Let me," she concluded 
 very earnestly, "tell your father that you are coming 
 to him on the road of duty." 
 
 "Oh, grannie dear, you must let me think. I could 
 not give you a promise, and break it. Remember, 
 I have a year to decide. All that you have said will 
 operate in my mind. And you know, I am sure you 
 know, that I shall do nothing wrong. Let us not talk 
 of this any more. But don't be distressed about me." 
 
 The matter ended there. 
 
 Anne was as zealous for duty as her grandmother; 
 but she asked herself the question, Which duty?
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 THE PROMISE 
 
 A FEW days after this conversation, Mrs. M'Gavin 
 was laid up with a chill. Mrs. Dobson missed her. 
 
 One day she said to Anne, "If Canon Case comes 
 to see you, you may bring him up here." 
 
 She had been very silent of late; if the old irrita- 
 bility had not returned, the new restfulness had been 
 gradually leaving her. It was distressing for Anne to 
 mark the disquiet of this old lady, who seemed to repel 
 conversation and withdraw herself from Anne's ten- 
 derness and solicitude under a cloud of silence. She 
 wrote to the vicar. 
 
 Canon Case came in the afternoon. 
 
 While he was sitting with Mrs. Dobson, Ramsay 
 M'Gavin paid his visit. Anne and he sat in the draw- 
 ing-room waiting for the clergyman to come down. 
 
 It happened that just then the newspapers were 
 full of a divorce case in Scotland, a case in which the 
 parties were well-known people in Edinburgh. Anne 
 had met them and entertained them in her husband's 
 house; Ramsay M'Gavin knew them by name. 
 
 It was one of those cases which reveal not so much 
 
 the debauchery of society as its vulgarity, not so much 
 
 244
 
 THE PROMISE 245 
 
 its iniquity as its flippancy. The minds of the women 
 were laid bare by their letters. In these documents 
 they frankly acknowledged themselves as "rotters," 
 analyzed their characters and with a sickly fatalism 
 criticized existence, mixed up with assignations refer- 
 ences to their children, concluded love-letters which 
 began with ridiculous nicknames by "God bless 
 you," contemplated suicide, described their lives as 
 "a hell," and declared that existence was insufferable 
 without money. 
 
 This was one of those cases which we have said 
 appear every now and then in the newspapers to dis- 
 concert society by a revelation of its own doings; a 
 looking-glass brought in at the wrong moment. 
 
 Ramsay M'Gavin mentioned the matter, as a philo- 
 sopher. "People who habitually over-eat and over- 
 drink," he said, "who have no occupation, and who 
 are striving to live with people richer than themselves, 
 are very sure to entangle themselves in vice of this 
 nature. The only thing for society to do is surely to 
 dissolve their marriages. It is pedantry to keep them 
 bound by unions which discredit marriage and lead, 
 in their cases, to degradation. In Scotland we are a 
 great deal more sensible and just in this matter than 
 the people of England. The English law is inde- 
 fensible. Here a woman cannot divorce a husband 
 unless he has added to the sin of immorality the 
 crime of a blow. In Scotland, on the other hand, a 
 woman is equal with her husband before the law. She 
 need not wait for the husband to divorce her; she 
 herself may accuse him, and even on the grounds that
 
 246 THE CAGE 
 
 it is impossible for her honour and self-respect to live 
 with him she may obtain release, and with the release 
 freedom to marry again." 
 
 Anne began to listen with an excitement of 
 interest. 
 
 "Is it not only just," proceeded M'Gavin, "that a 
 woman should enjoy this equality? If a man has so 
 behaved that his wife cannot respect him any longer, 
 ought she not to possess the power of releasing herself 
 and obtaining freedom ? Marriage is a human con- 
 tract. It is the agreement of two people to live 
 together on certain terms. If any of those terms are 
 violated by the woman or by the man, either of the 
 parties should be free to revoke the contract. I cannot 
 imagine what virtue religious people see in forcing 
 a man or woman who cannot agree to live together. 
 But that is my ignorance. I have been too busy to 
 study the religious mind. A man like Mr. Aldrich is 
 for me a fanatic; Canon Case I find incoherent; as 
 for Miss Potter, she is a person whose reason has 
 atrophied, if it ever existed." 
 
 "I had no idea," said Anne, "of this difference 
 between the Scotch and the English law." 
 
 It may be imagined what enlightenment meant to 
 her. A few years ago had she but known it she 
 might have severed the odious tie binding her to 
 Paton, and with her grandmother's concurrence. She 
 might have been the accuser. Without shame, with- 
 out dishonour, she might have stood before the world 
 and said, "I cannot live with this satyr." Even now 
 she could do so, but only with cruelty.
 
 THE PROMISE 247 
 
 M* Gavin explained the matter further. While he 
 talked Anne's thoughts took their own way. 
 
 At first she was raced away into the bitter-sweet 
 country of might-have-been. If she had only known 
 her legal position a few years ago, the struggle 
 would now have long been over, all the distress a 
 distant memory, love of the happiest description her 
 present lot. What a Paradise might have been hers I 
 Instead, what a Gehenna ! 
 
 She felt that destiny was mocking her. As she 
 journeyed to the country of might-have-been, she 
 came face to face with the barred door of too-late. 
 Sadness gave way in her heart to despair, yearning to 
 rebellion. 
 
 Life had played a jest upon her. 
 
 M' Gavin talked for a considerable time. His ex- 
 planations of the Scottish law were lucid; he could 
 not help feeling that he would have made a very 
 good lawyer; the sound of his own voice gave him 
 pleasure; and Anne certainly appeared to be listen- 
 ing. He talked on. 
 
 Presently, arriving at the end of a period which 
 seemed to be the natural peroration of his discourse, 
 the learned doctor glanced at the clock, confirmed 
 Anne's timepiece by his own watch, and expressed 
 some anxiety as to the length of Canon Case's 
 visit. 
 
 Anne asked whether she should go up-stairs and 
 interrupt. 
 
 "Long conversations, especially if they are of a 
 trying nature, would certainly fatigue Mrs. Dobson,"
 
 248 THE CAGE 
 
 replied the doctor; "but, perhaps, we -will give the 
 clergyman another ten minutes." 
 
 The ten minutes passed. M'Gavin was still unwill- 
 ing to interfere with the Church. 
 
 But while he was considering whether he could 
 wait any longer, Minionette appeared, asking Anne 
 what should be done about Mrs. Dobson's hot milk, 
 long overdue. 
 
 This decided the matter. 
 
 "You might certainly interrupt trie conversation," 
 said M'Gavin, "not only on the ground of possible 
 fatigue to Mrs. Dobson, but on the ground of nourish- 
 ment. The milk of the cow is as important as the 
 other kind of milk." 
 
 So Anne went up-stairs. 
 
 She opened the door very quietly. 
 
 Mrs. Dobson was leaning forward to Canon Case, 
 holding one of his hands affectionately between her 
 own ; there were tears in her eyes and a gentle smile 
 upon her lips. The clergyman, bending towards her, 
 had his face close to hers, and was speaking as Anne 
 entered in a low voice full of tenderness and consola- 
 tion. 
 
 He looked up at Anne without changing his posi- 
 tion; Mrs. Dobson did not remove her gaze from 
 his face. "You have come to turn me away," he said. 
 Then, to Mrs. Dobson, "I will come and see you 
 to-morrow." 
 
 The old lady lifted his hand to her lips. 
 
 M'Gavin took the clergyman's place at the bedside, 
 but the clergyman Hid not offer to fill his in the draw-
 
 THE PROMISE 249 
 
 ing-room. He explained to Anne that his long visit 
 had already made him late for an appointment of 
 some importance. "You and I must talk another 
 day," he said to her. 
 
 When Anne was alone with Mrs. Dobson, the old 
 lady said nothing about her conversation with Canon 
 Case. But for the first time since her illness she was 
 gentle and considerate; a new tenderness began to 
 appear in her manner. 
 
 The visits of Canon Case were repeated day by day. 
 On each occasion Mrs. Dobson kept him till the last 
 moment. His conversations with Anne were little 
 more than greetings and farewells. Nevertheless, 
 such is the force of personality, even these brief 
 touches of her soul with his were not without their 
 effect for Anne. In some subtle way her mind was 
 conscious of a new influence. 
 
 One afternoon, as she sat with Mrs. Dobson after 
 the vicar's departure, the dying woman said to her 
 very gently, "It would be wrong of me, my dear, to 
 make my deathbed a lever for extorting from you a 
 promise which it might embitter you to keep and 
 reproach you to break. I will not do that. At one 
 time I thought it was my duty to make you promise 
 me to go back to your husband. I no longer think 
 that. But I am going to ask you to promise me some- 
 thing; and I want you to keep that promise before 
 I go. It is a difficult thing, but not so difficult as 
 going back to your husband. I want you to tell 
 Canon Case everything." 
 
 The proposal shocked Anne. The emphasis on the
 
 250 THE CAGE 
 
 last word made her feel how sacred was her secret. 
 Everything. Mrs. Dobson made that word eloquent. 
 It would not be sufficient to confess the distastefulness 
 of duty; she must also confess the temptation of 
 inclination. 
 
 What ! to lay bare her heart of hearts, to consult 
 a clergyman concerning her soul of souls, even as one 
 consults a doctor about the body; to sit on a chair 
 and make conversation of one's secret affections, with 
 the eyes of some one upon her to unveil the sacred 
 places of her hidden life ! Impossible ! Unthinkable I 
 
 She was conscious of a great revulsion. 
 
 The world's ideas were not hers. That haunting 
 sentence in Napier's letter recurred to her mind : 
 "Becky Sharp said it was easy to be virtuous on ten 
 thousand a year; Christ said it was impossible.'* 
 An antagonism to the ideas of the world had grown 
 in her mind. She felt that an infinitely greater world 
 lay beyond them. To be virtuous was not to con- 
 form. The highest virtue was rebellion. 
 
 She would not discuss her sacred affections; she 
 would not confess to a priest. No; this promise must 
 not be made. Her grandmother had no right to 
 demand it. Cost what it might, she must guard the 
 sanctity of her soul. Conscience was her authority; 
 she would acknowledge no other. 
 
 To one lying at the door of death utter confession 
 of the inner life seems no difficult and no unnatural 
 act. But for the living, conscious of no nearness to 
 the spirit world, but rather of an infinite distance 
 from so tremendous an hypothesis; for the living who
 
 THE PROMISE 251 
 
 are young and responsive to earth's incantation, who 
 are still in the maze of social life and under the 
 influence of human history, to consult with religious 
 authority on the dearest and most intimate things of 
 the heart is not only to shock their own personal ideas, 
 but to act in the very teeth of apparent nature. 
 
 On the ground of self-respect Anne resisted the 
 appeal and repulsed the invitation. 
 
 Her grandmother did not argue. "To please me," 
 she said, and took the granddaughter's hand. 
 
 It was hard to refuse, it hurt her to refuse, but 
 Anne resisted. 
 
 "It is the last thing I ask of you," said the old lady, 
 stroking the warm hand, soft and pleasant in her 
 fleshless embrace. 
 
 "Grannie dear, I cannot confess myself to a priest." 
 
 "I do not ask you to do so," answered the grand- 
 mother. "I only ask you to consult a good man. Is 
 that hard? You need not kneel to him. Ask his 
 advice." 
 
 "The idea is repugnant to me." 
 
 "Just tell him your difficulty, and ask his advice." 
 
 " But why, grannie dear ? My conscience will guide 
 me." 
 
 "A second opinion." 
 
 "If there were need/' 
 
 "My dear, there is need. To trust to our own 
 opinions is dangerous. You say, ' It is my own life; 
 only I myself can decide!' How unwise, how short- 
 sighted ! Your own life ! Are you sure of that ? 
 Dear child, it is not possible to cut out our individual
 
 252 THE CAGE 
 
 life from the mass, and say, ' This is mine.' There 
 is only one life. We belong to it. We have done 
 nothing to create our own life. It is something 
 common to the universe. We handle it, but do not 
 possess it. Your experience affects you, but does not 
 belong to you; it belongs to life. And life is so 
 hazardous that experience has taught the human race 
 to make rules for the better obedience of its laws. 
 There are lawyers of life. You would consult your 
 man of business about taking a lease of a property; 
 is it safe to consult no one about the course of your 
 destiny ? " 
 
 Again and again Anne resisted. 
 
 "The man I ask you to consult," said Mrs. Dobson, 
 slowly and with great earnestness, "is one who in a 
 few words dispelled my unrest and brought peace 
 to my soul. I thought your father could have helped 
 me; I half believed that Mrs. M'Gavin, by talking 
 of your father, was helping me. It was darkness. 
 But this man has now brought light into my darkness. 
 The universe is intelligible. I understand. I am not 
 afraid to go. Dear child, dear to me from your in- 
 fancy, and now dearer still because I understand and 
 because 1 must leave you, there is only one explana- 
 tion of all human difficulty, only one light for all 
 darkness don't refuse it, don't turn your back upon 
 it, don't say you are self-sufficient." 
 
 "I know what you mean, grannie." 
 
 " Do you ? Are you quite sure ? " . 
 
 "You mean religion." 
 
 "I mean Christ."
 
 THE PROMISE 253 
 
 Anne made no answer. This synonym rather 
 offended her reason than touched her heart. 
 
 While she kept silence, of a sudden she became 
 aware that her grandmother was crying. She looked 
 up quickly. The dark eyes, once so vivid and ener- 
 getic, were rilled with tears; the fine head, once so 
 erect and proud, was bowed in grief; the firm mouth, 
 once so grim in its masterfulness, was soft and weak 
 with sobbings. 
 
 Quickly Anne slipped upon her knees at the bed- 
 side, laid a sheltering arm about the little grand- 
 mother, brought her face close to the dying woman's 
 so close that the breathings of grief beat against 
 her cheeks and, in a voice of the most tender consola- 
 tion, promised to do all that she desired. 
 
 Weakness had conquered her. 
 
 The grandmother made no answer to this surrender, 
 but continued to weep softly with her face bowed from 
 observation.
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 THE SAND WASP PUTS TO SEA 
 
 THE Sand Wasp lay at Galmpton in Devonshire. 
 The shipbuilder was making some repairs. Napier 
 was fitting out for a cruise abroad. 
 
 It chanced that towards the end of these prepara- 
 tions he picked up a newspaper in the inn and saw 
 the report of the divorce case which Ramsay M* Gavin 
 had discussed with Anne. He recognized the names 
 of the parties and, remembering that they were friends 
 of the Patons, read the account. 
 
 At first he was merely disgusted by the empty and 
 vulgar lives revealed in this drama of the modern 
 world. The women filled him with scorn. He 
 thought of Hamlet's words to Ophelia, "God hath 
 given you one face, and you make yourselves an- 
 other : you jig, you amble, and you lisp, and nick- 
 name God's creatures, and make your wantonness 
 your ignorance." He reflected upon the sufferings 
 and destitution of humanity : the despair of prisoners 
 and captives : the hunger and cold of young 
 children : the tragedies of hospital and penitentiary : 
 the bitterness of broken lives : the miseries of un- 
 employment : the thousand ills of body, soul, and 
 
 spirit ; and he asked himself what could be the doom 
 
 254
 
 THE SAND WASP PUTS TO SEA 255 
 
 of these people who, in the midst of so much sorrow 
 and pain, lived satyr-lives in the lap of self-indul- 
 gence. Again he was reminded of Shakespeare; as 
 he considered what possible retribution could await 
 these criminals the words addressed by the Ghost to 
 Hamlet occurred to his mind 
 
 "But that I am forbid 
 To tell the secrets of my prison-house, 
 I could a tale unfold whose lightest word 
 Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood, 
 Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres." 
 
 Yes; there was penalty ahead. In all the religions 
 of the world a hell is implied. It may be the habit of 
 a particular age to slur the word and to draw a 
 curtain over the idea; nevertheless, punishment in 
 the spiritual sphere is an essential of religion, and 
 punishment with horror. 
 
 He believed, as we have seen, in two streams of 
 tendency, two impulses of evolution. From the same 
 material, struggle for existence had produced Francis 
 of Assisi and Robespierre, the dove and the vulture, 
 the gazelle and the tiger, the goldfish and the octo- 
 pus, the butterfly and the bug, the silver birch and 
 the upas, honeysuckle and the wild-garlic, daisy and 
 cactus. In nature there were forms beautiful and 
 horrible, sounds sweet and discordant, odours de- 
 licious and disgusting. Everywhere this bipartite 
 evolution, this duality of good and evil ; yes, among 
 animals, birds, insects, fishes, flowers and trees this 
 visible and tangible effect of two forces working by
 
 256 THE CAGE 
 
 the law of evolution, the one towards goodness and 
 beauty, the other towards iniquity and horror. 
 
 If the one persisted after death, why not the other ? 
 If evil refused the good now, why should it desire it 
 hereafter ? 
 
 The Church, to his mind, had lost power over the 
 multitude by insisting that God had made the beauti- 
 ful things of the earth, and leaving unanswered the 
 riddle of the tiger. The tiger warned. It belonged 
 to the universe. The whole earth swarms with a 
 multitude of monstrous horrors, whose appetites 
 create their forms, and whose forms are iniquity in 
 the concrete ; but theologians shut their eyes to them, 
 as though they feared God's goodness. 
 
 These teachers and guides of men, safe in the fold 
 of an ancient civilization and ignorant of the world, 
 most ignorant of evil, did not apprehend that a few 
 hours' sailing from England brought a man into the 
 heart of barbarism. They did not know that pro- 
 gress was something local and particular to two or 
 three nations. They did not know that even kind- 
 ness to animals was the immense achievement of only 
 one race. Progress, for them, was equally spread 
 over the globe's surface. They spoke of the Spains 
 as they would speak of France, and the millions of 
 black skins they ignored altogether. If they per- 
 ceived how sacred and fragile a charge was this 
 responsibility of civilization, and how perilous was 
 the situation of religion, would they not bestir them- 
 selves to warn men against the dreadful retribution 
 of iniquity and rouse England to the realization of
 
 THE SAND WASP PUTS TO SEA 257 
 
 her calling ? Would not the soul-destroying idleness 
 and luxury of the profligate classes become impossible 
 under the strength of a righteous public opinion, 
 conscious that evil was a force in evolution with its 
 own line and a parasitical strangling hatred of good? 
 Would not political parties ally themselves to fit and 
 prepare democracy for its high but hazardous destiny ? 
 But the age was drugged by indolence. The Church 
 regarded evil as a problem in philosophy; not as an 
 enemy of the human race. 
 
 As he read the record of this sordid case in the 
 newspaper, his disgust changed to anger, and as he 
 dropped the paper from his hand anger gave way to 
 clamorous thoughts of Anne. 
 
 If she went back to her husband, it must be with 
 this kind of persons that she would mix her life. 
 
 Was it right to let her go? 
 
 He did not think that this Babylonian rout could 
 degrade the woman he loved or tarnish the brightness 
 of her soul. But he knew that her life must become 
 hateful to her. What ! to be surrounded by these 
 flies of the hot-house; to feel the breath of Jezebel 
 on the cheek, to turn a smiling face to Lais, to give 
 the hand to Messalina, to converse with every masqued 
 drab of the drawing-room ; always to breathe an 
 atmosphere without purpose or seriousness; to have 
 one's ears ringing with the laughter of rake-hell 
 and deceiver; to sit in the light and watch the 
 intrigues, the cheatings, the impurities of a debased 
 humanity; to be without occupation, but over- 
 whelmed with engagements; to seek nature on the
 
 258 THE CAGE 
 
 race-course, humanity in the restaurant, and interest 
 at the card-table; to go to the theatre, not for the 
 eternal things of Shakespeare, but for the last 
 lubricity from France; to go to the opera, not to 
 listen, but to be seen; to go to the Mediterranean, 
 not for the mountains, but for the casino; to live 
 one's life in parade and on show; to be banished 
 from quiet and expelled from peace; never to be 
 doing anything, but always to be tired; never to 
 help a soul, but always to be full of self-pity and 
 complaint; to be in the world and of the world, but 
 never to strike one blow, speak one word, or do one 
 action for the world's progress what ! was this the 
 life into which the woman that he loved was going 
 with her eyes open; no not going, but going back, 
 returning, with full knowledge of all its godless 
 horror and disgust? 
 
 Imagine how such a life would strike a man of the 
 open air ! 
 
 Sick of the Church, which seemed to him but the 
 shadow of its ancient strength, Napier found religion 
 on his side a religion of his soul which cried out 
 that this return was wicked and iniquitous. The 
 wife of a madman was not called to take up her life 
 in Bedlam. Let Paton come out from his world, let 
 him present himself at the door of his wife, and say, 
 "Take me in," then might it be her duty to open and 
 receive. But to go back to him, to that soulless life 
 of godless animalism ; no, on no ground ! Morality 
 held her back, religion stood in her way; it was 
 surrender to the devil.
 
 THE SAND WASP PUTS TO SEA 259 
 
 The more this thought worked in his brain, the 
 more he felt driven towards Anne. His letter re- 
 mained without an answer. If it had said all he felt, 
 that answer would have come at once. No letter 
 could express what he had in his mind. It was 
 unwise to have written. He must go to her, see her 
 face to face, speak to her from his very soul. 
 
 But this must mean a declaration of his love. 
 
 He checked at that. He was a man of honour. 
 The thought of speaking out his heart while 
 she remained, be it only in name, the wife of 
 another man, offended all the scruples of his fine 
 nature. 
 
 And yet, if she were in danger ! Was it a crime 
 to say words which might save her soul? He 
 examined his love for her; it absolved him. 
 
 The thought grew in his mind, My love can save 
 her. 
 
 When he was quieter, a gentle compassion for this 
 lonely woman overcame every other consideration. 
 With deepest pain he thought of her handling in 
 solitude this crisis in her life. She was but a child. 
 He could imagine the dreadful vacillation of her 
 soul, assaulted on all sides by the contradictory voices 
 of religion, duty, conscience, inclination, respecta- 
 bility, public opinion, honour. A child in the desert ! 
 What a battle for a woman to fight alone ! And 
 death so close to her ! He imagined to himself this 
 baffled and frustrated soul ministering to the dying 
 grandmother and in secret wrestling with the toils 
 of destiny. How he pitied her, how he loved her, 
 
 S3
 
 260 THE CAGE 
 
 how he longed to be near that he might comfort and 
 sustain her ! 
 
 Then there was the thought that at the death of 
 Mrs. Dobson she would be quite alone. Worse, her 
 husband on one side, her mother on the other, 
 drawing her back to that hell. 
 
 "I will go to her," he decided. 
 
 It seemed to him no sin to speak his love. His 
 love could save her. 
 
 When this resolution was reached he lost no time 
 in giving it effect. He was a man of action. With 
 the wind against him and a wild sea, he hauled up 
 his anchor, set his sail, and started close-hauled with 
 relief and gladness in his heart, on this desperate 
 quest. 
 
 From shore the single-handed Sand Wasp, driving 
 out to sea and half-buried under the heave of waves, 
 with her sail diminishing in that wide waste of water 
 as she made a long leg for Portland Bill with St. 
 Alban's Race to be passed in the night, presented on 
 that grey day an idea of solitude and depression 
 which might have made the neediest mendicant hug 
 his rags with gratitude for the firm earth. 
 
 But Napier, lying on the deck, with his back 
 against the weather rail, his feet purchased against 
 the binnacle, his hand holding the tiller by a rope, 
 his eyes watching the sail, had a look of happiness in 
 his face and was singing in the teeth of the wind.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 THE UNCONQUERABLE HOPE 
 
 Two or three days after Anne's surrender to her 
 grandmother Canon Case came down-stairs from 
 Mrs. Dobson's bedroom earlier than usual. 
 
 Anne came from the drawing-room to receive him 
 in the hall. She stood in the doorway, very pale and 
 with a set look in her eyes. "Will you come in for 
 a few minutes ? " she invited, in a voice that was 
 composed but not happy. 
 
 They entered the drawing-room ; the door closed ; 
 they were alone together. 
 
 How would this meeting end ? When the door 
 opened again, what decision would have been reached ? 
 When they separated, what resolution would have 
 been formed? Destiny, perhaps, had his ear at the 
 keyhole. 
 
 In Anne's mind was the determination to abide by 
 her agreement with Richard Paton, a year to decide. 
 This was her just right, and she would hold to it. 
 The priest might influence her to reach the decision 
 of surrender, but it would be only her own will, and 
 at the end of the year. She would permit no coercion. 
 
 The natural distress of which she was conscious in 
 
 discussing the secrets of her heart was aggravated by 
 
 261
 
 262 THE CAGE 
 
 the difficulty which she felt would present itself if the 
 clergyman attempted to coerce her will by appeals 
 to her conscience. Hard enough was it to keep her 
 promise to Mrs. Dobson, but how much harder would 
 it be to offer opposition to any kind, affectionate and 
 religious force exerted by this good man. Hard, but 
 inevitable. Even if Mrs. Dobson, with her last 
 breath, implored Anne to surrender, she knew that she 
 would have strength to refuse. She would refuse 
 now if the priest put pressure on her; her life could 
 not be taken out of her discretion and made the experi- 
 ment of other people ; but it would be distasteful, diffi- 
 cult to withstand the appeal of this good man, whose 
 very presence was a spiritual rebuke to self-will and 
 aggression. She dreaded the interview. She feared 
 a scene. 
 
 When they were seated she raised her eyes to the 
 clergyman's face but found it distressing to meet his 
 gaze. She looked down. 
 
 She began in a low voice by asking if he was will- 
 ing to listen to the narration of a difficulty which had 
 occurred in her life. 
 
 "Most willing," he answered, observing the distress 
 of her manner. 
 
 "My grandmother, perhaps, has spoken to you?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "She wished me to consult you. To tell you the 
 truth, I should not of myself make the suggestion. 
 It is very kind of you to be willing to listen ; but, it 
 is very difficult for me to speak. It is against all the 
 instincts of my being."
 
 THE UNCONQUERABLE HOPE 263 
 
 She had regained her composure, and looking up 
 met the priest's eyes. 
 
 "You are not referring to the action of Mr. 
 Aldrich ? " 
 
 "No; to my marriage." 
 
 A change of expression appeared in the priest's face. 
 "Do I understand that your grandmother has put 
 pressure on you to speak to me ? " 
 
 "Yes; the pressure of affection." 
 
 He leaned a little forward in his chair and said, 
 "You must not speak against your will. Pray put 
 your mind at rest. Don't let this matter distress you. 
 I will speak to your grandmother to-morrow; I will 
 explain to her; and she will give you back your 
 promise. I understand how difficult it is for you 
 to speak on such a matter; you will understand 
 how impossible it is for me to listen against your 
 will." 
 
 Anne hesitated. They regarded each other. 
 
 In that look, no word between them, was under- 
 standing. "If you will let me," she said, with a 
 sudden yielding of her will, "I should like to tell 
 you." 
 
 She had thought of herself as dragged away from 
 the sanctuary of independence, forced to stand before 
 the tribunal of authority. She had felt herself to 
 be the victim of an intolerable inquisition. Her inner 
 life was to be laid bare. Not her own conscience, but 
 the conscience of another was to probe the hidden 
 places of her being probe, examine, question. 
 Against her will, she herself was to draw away the
 
 264 THE CAGE 
 
 veil that a stranger might behold the inner recesses, 
 the holy of holies, the secret reservation of her soul. 
 This had been her thought; from this ordeal she had 
 recoiled. But some mysterious emanation, like a 
 diffused grace had issued from the personality of the 
 priest and turned the current of her thoughts. In this 
 atmosphere her feelings suffered a deep change. She 
 saw the man with other eyes. He was not a judge; 
 he was not even a friend ; she could not say what she 
 felt him to be; but this inexpressible influence was 
 something high and noble, something lofty and pure, 
 something which breathed the wisdom of the angels 
 with the charity of the human heart ; it was a presence 
 in which she felt strangely and restfully at peace; 
 a gaze before which she needed not to veil her eyes; 
 a voice to which she was inclined to listen with the 
 hunger of a soul unsatisfied. It seemed to her that 
 this disclosure which she had dreaded was to become 
 an easeful unburdening. 
 
 But when, with the sudden impulse of preposses- 
 sion she expressed willingness to speak, immediately 
 she lost the first victorious sense of satisfaction which 
 comes with such surrenders, and experienced an almost 
 paralyzing distress. What was the cause? She had 
 spoken from the spiritual region of thought; that in- 
 articulate sphere where wordless inspiration carries the 
 soul forward in a rush of expressionless feeling. 
 Thought is one world ; speech is another. One needs 
 no words for a wave of repentance ; " I will arise and 
 go to my father " is not a statement but a feeling, 
 an impulse; "and will say unto him" the difficulty
 
 THE UNCONQUERABLE HOPE 265 
 
 begins; but when one approaches and beholds the 
 father, what dumb agony of alarm and helplessness 
 takes hold of the soul ! what can be said ? where 
 shall we begin ? what words will suffice ? how shall 
 we speak? 
 
 Anne wished to tell t but could not. 
 
 Her thoughts were clear to her, but how to express 
 them ! That which she wished to tell was untellable. 
 
 How different our thoughts of God from our words 
 concerning Him ! What a tragedy to be summoned 
 from the region of thought, where we are so ineffably 
 at our ease, and to be made to stammer for utterance 
 in the region of speech I Is it not like a saint sub- 
 jected to cross-examination on his faith in a police 
 court ? 
 
 This is Balzac's "two hemispheres of Art," Concep- 
 tion and Execution. But even while we speak of 
 eternity we must wind up the clock. Anne, with her 
 soul eager to utter itself, was tongue-tied. 
 
 Canon Case saw her distress. He realized its 
 cause. 
 
 "Let us see for a moment," he said gently, 
 "whether, after all, there is any need for you to discuss 
 your private thoughts, which is always so difficult. 
 Perhaps if I tell you my views about marriage in 
 general it will be enough ; one can sometimes get help 
 in a personal difficulty from a quite impersonal dis- 
 cussion of the subject that is troubling us. Would 
 you like me to tell you how I regard marriage? We 
 could speak about it together." 
 
 His sympathy increased her affection. His in-
 
 266 THE CAGE 
 
 curiousness heightened her respect. "You are so kind 
 to me," she said, "that it ought to be quite easy for 
 me to tell you everything." 
 
 "No, that is impossible; the heart can only say 
 everything to God. Your difficulty is just this, that 
 you cannot say everything; you could tell me this and 
 this, but not all. It is because you cannot say all, 
 that to say a part is so difficult; it would not satisfy 
 you." 
 
 "And yet I wish to tell you all.' 1 
 
 "Because you are suffering." 
 
 He regarded her with his grave eyes, and added, 
 "No confidence between friend and friend, no confes- 
 sion of penitent to priest, no revealment by child to 
 mother ever emptied the heart of its sorrow, its 
 remorse, or its suffering; there is always an unutter- 
 able, an entirely inexpressible survival of self, which 
 cannot be surrendered. We may wish to yield it, 
 but when we make the effort we are dumb. It can- 
 not be given. If we could give it, we could explain 
 the difference of one personality from another; for it 
 is our very soul. Our conscience is more real to us 
 than our lungs or our brain, but no anatomist can lay 
 hand upon it. Something there is in man which is 
 neither for human eye nor human ear. It belongs 
 to God." 
 
 With only a brief pause, he continued, speaking 
 slowly and intimately. "I tell you this that you 
 may know my attitude towards anything in the nature 
 of confession or confidence. To the penitent I can 
 offer the assurance of God's tenderness and loving
 
 THE UNCONQUERABLE HOPE 267 
 
 compassion, but the penitent must himself know if his 
 penitence is sincere. I cannot tell that. And also I 
 tell you this, because I want you to understand how 
 assuredly I know that nothing I can say, no advice 
 I can give you, no sympathy and tenderness I can 
 offer you, will have any ultimate power over your 
 pain or your unrest. Therefore, with the confidence 
 of our common humanity we can talk frankly to each 
 other. We meet on the same ground of human limi- 
 tation. No misunderstanding should be possible, and 
 no disappointment." 
 
 She felt her distress draw away from her. The 
 duologue assumed the naturalness of soliloquy. With 
 this man, who understood so perfectly, she was alone 
 with her soul. 
 
 "Tell me," she said, in her gentle voice which never 
 lost the tone of courage and in its most feminine soft- 
 ness had the character of strength; "tell me if you 
 think it can ever be right for a wife to leave her 
 husband ? " 
 
 He considered for a moment, regarding her with 
 thoughtful eyes, and answered, "If you had asked 
 me whether it can ever be right for a husband to leave 
 his wife, I should say, No." 
 
 This answer gave pause to her thoughts. 
 
 "I have known," he continued, "particularly among 
 humble people, wonderful instances of devotion on the 
 husband's part, devotion of an heroic nature. I have 
 known a man cling to the wife who had lost him his 
 place in the world, ruined his prospects, wrecked his 
 home, and caused dreadful suffering to his children;
 
 268 THE CAGE 
 
 and his reward was a deathbed plea for forgiveness* 
 in a prison." 
 
 "Noble," she said slowly; "but, for the children's 
 sake, was it right?" 
 
 "Only God can answer that." He continued after 
 a moment, speaking thoughtfully, "But for the wife 
 to leave the husband, that is another question. I can 
 conceive of circumstances very terrible circumstances 
 when it might be justifiable." 
 
 "But if ever he called her back, it would be her 
 duty to return?" 
 
 "You mean if he had repented?' 3 
 
 "Altered his habits." 
 
 "There is a vast difference. You are right." 
 He paused, and added with quiet emphasis, "But it 
 would be her duty, a hard one, to go back and help 
 him." 
 
 "Yes; I see that. The problem, however, is deeper. 
 It is much deeper. If, in the period of their separa- 
 tion, she had ceased altogether to feel even affection- 
 ately disposed towards him; if love had become quite 
 dead, was non-existent in her heart, the love which 
 makes union possible; would she be justified, do you 
 think, in saying that she could not go back ? " 
 
 "That goes deep indeed," he replied. To a celibate 
 Anne's objection would appeal with greater force than 
 to the average married person with the Stevensonian 
 idea that any man can be happily married to any 
 nine women out of ten. The refined and pure-minded 
 priest felt the full force of this beautiful girl's argu- 
 ment ; he realized the wholesome goodness of her mind
 
 THE UNCONQUERABLE HOPE 269 
 
 by the quiet courage with which she had expressed it. 
 "It would be a hard duty," he said slowly, "but still 
 a duty especially if his safety depended in any way 
 upon her compliance." 
 
 "It might be treading underfoot," she said, "every- 
 thing high and refined in the woman's nature." 
 
 "Except charity.** 
 
 "And suppose " She paused. 
 
 "Yes?" he inquired gently. 
 
 Now she felt again the distress of her soul. ' You 
 would pluck out the heart of my mystery I* How 
 noble a reproof I How could she make plain her 
 position, how could she fulfil the promise to tell 
 'everything,' without unveiling the most sacred, the 
 most occulted secret of her heart, nay, the very soul 
 itself ? 
 
 "I don't think I can say any more," she said, very 
 pale and distressed. 
 
 "Is there a greater difficulty? Can there possibly 
 be a harder condition ? " 
 
 "Oh, yes." And then, with hasting words she told 
 him. "The wife, in the long years of separation, 
 might learn to feel the highest regard and the purest 
 affection for a man nearer to her by character and 
 disposition." 
 
 "That,** he Said, "seems to me to drive her back 
 to the husband." 
 
 The words were gently uttered ; they were full of the 
 kindest sympathy; but they had the inexorable con- 
 viction of a religious principle. They were not 
 counsel; they were command.
 
 a;o THE CAGE 
 
 "But, have you thought," she said, speaking very 
 slowly, with pauses half nervous and half earnest 
 between the words, "that to go back to the husband 
 means for the woman to abase herself in the eyes of 
 the man she respects ? " 
 
 "Would a good man think that the fulfilment of a 
 vow, the saving of a soul, could possibly abase a 
 woman ? " 
 
 "I think he must shudder." 
 
 "His love would be a guilty love." 
 
 " Oh, is that kind ? " She raised her head. A light 
 came into her eyes. "If he had never spoken; if he 
 had kept always an honourable silence; if his love 
 
 remained the highest form of purest sympathy 
 
 How does love of this kind come? Is it really a 
 wicked thing, can it really be called wrong ? " 
 
 "Love of that kind would strengthen the woman to 
 do her duty. If it does not strengthen her, it has 
 crossed from the sphere of a noble affection into the 
 region of a guilty love." 
 
 " Even if Oh, Canon Case I " she said sud- 
 denly, rising from her chair and walking away from 
 him, " do you not see that his love might be the shield 
 of the woman's honour? He would know that she 
 loved him. In his eyes it would be a horrible crime 
 on her part if, loving him, she returned to a loveless 
 marriage. Could he keep silence ? Could he see her 
 go to this self-degradation, this horror of horrors ? " 
 She turned, and came back to him. She stood at his 
 side. "Canon Case," she said, in a low voice, "don't 
 tell me to go back." She drew forward a low stool
 
 THE UNCONQUERABLE HOPE 271 
 
 and sat at the side of his chair, resting her hand upon 
 the arm. "I tell you everything in saying that. My 
 heart cries out for a man I love; fate has made that 
 perfect happiness impossible; but, if I stand secure 
 there, may I not also stand resolute against the baser 
 surrender? Need I humiliate myself in the eyes of 
 my friend? Tell me what you think. See the posi- 
 tion, consider the horror, and tell me whether it can 
 be right, with a great and silent love in my heart, that 
 I should go to the dishonour of a loveless marriage ? " 
 
 " Need I answer that question ? " he asked gently, 
 and placed his hand upon her shoulder. 
 
 "I am fighting for my self-respect, for everything 
 that makes life endurable." 
 
 " I cannot answer your question." 
 
 " I think there is no answer." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Where shall I find it?" 
 
 "Where do you look for guidance?" 
 
 "To my conscience." 
 
 "And is that silent?" 
 
 She considered. "Yes, I think it is silent." 
 
 "Silent now?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "But silent for ever? Look forward. What keeps 
 you from the fulfilment of your desire ? what is it that 
 keeps this great temptation at arm's length? The 
 knowledge that your conscience, silent now, would for 
 ever upbraid you if you took that step. And if con- 
 science would upbraid you for that gratification of 
 what seems so right and natural and even noble to
 
 272 THE CAGE 
 
 your inclination, will it, do you think, be silent if you 
 refuse to help a drowning man ? Look forward. The 
 long years ahead of you every minute of them 
 haunted by remorse, weighted by the reproach that 
 you let a soul perish; can you go forward to such a 
 certain destiny ? " 
 
 "There would be remorse, too, if I went back to 
 duty. My conscience, whichever way I take, will up- 
 braid me. I do not know what to do. My will is 
 tortured. Conscience says to me, ' On this road I will 
 persecute you, and on that road I will trouble you.' 
 I cannot escape; there is no straight road before me; 
 no goal that is clear to my eyes." 
 
 The hand pressed affectionately on her shoulder. 
 "There are two roads before you," he said, "but only 
 one conscience. On either road, on either road, it 
 depends upon the spirit in which you make your 
 journey whether conscience upbraids or confirms you. 
 Let us suppose that you take the road of self-indulg- 
 ence; if you set out with scruples in your mind, with 
 the whisperings of all your purest aspirations still 
 breathing in your soul, bitterly will conscience accom- 
 pany you; but if you set out in a spirit of defiance, 
 if you harden your heart, show an indifferent face to 
 immortality, and reject the thought of God, conscience 
 will find it difficult to make you hear; it will not 
 trouble you. On the other road, the road of duty, 
 if you go with no principles of conduct, with a grudg- 
 ing submission to a hard destiny, conscience will be 
 there to mock you ; but if, on the other hand, you take 
 that path with a will surrendered to God's love, a
 
 THE UNCONQUERABLE HOPE 273 
 
 heart set only upon fulfilment of His purposes, a 
 charity bent and concentrated upon saving another's 
 soul, conscience, I assure you, will comfort and con- 
 firm every step of the way and will bring you into 
 peace." 
 
 "I see what you mean." 
 
 "We are at the Cross now," he said quietly, 
 reverently, earnestly. "Every sorrow brings us 
 there, and every difficulty. The significance of all 
 life is there. Christianity, one has said, is a religion 
 which meets tragedy with tragedy. When the accus- 
 ing world points to terrible calamities in nature, the 
 Church answers by pointing to Calvary. There, 
 and there alone, is explanation. Nothing else in the 
 history of mankind is comparable with that sublime 
 and sufficing answer. You must look there for the 
 solution of your problem." 
 
 Her head was bowed and her face hidden from 
 him. His hand still rested on her shoulder with 
 paternal affection. 
 
 While he was speaking, and while she was listen- 
 ing to every word, her thoughts were yet pursuing 
 their own way. It was now, she felt, that her reason 
 was really besieged. Religion ! This good and 
 loving man had gradually drawn her away from the 
 real problem of her being into a region where reason 
 is abandoned and the soul yields itself to the impulse 
 of emotion. 
 
 She was in that condition, or at that stage of 
 development, when mortality imagines that ratiocina- 
 tion is a higher function of the mind than faith.
 
 274 THE CAGE 
 
 This is the condition which renders men suspicious 
 of religion, making them feel that its divine expand- 
 ings into the universe and its sublime trust in the 
 Infinite are insidious enemies of the intellect. 
 Reason, which weighs and measures in the sidereal 
 vast, seems something grander than faith, which 
 merely illumines the soul. 
 
 The heritage of her father was still strong in Anne. 
 She was far-seeing, cautious, clear-headed; one of 
 those people to whom the reason is an admirable and 
 sufficing guide for the business of life. She experi- 
 enced a distinct unwillingness to accompany the 
 priest into the religious sphere, whither he had so 
 suddenly preceded her. 
 
 Perhaps unconscious of this antagonism, and taking 
 her silence for that pause which the troubled soul 
 makes at the threshold of religion, he continued to 
 press home the necessity in all human difficulties for 
 a reference to the Cross. 
 
 He spoke about life's inevitable sorrow. "Pros- 
 perity is the Blessing of the Old Testament; Ad- 
 versity is the Blessing of the New; which carrieth 
 the greater Benediction, and the Clearer Revelation 
 of God's Favour ... the Pencil of the Holy Ghost 
 hath laboured more in describing the Afflictions of 
 Job, than the Felicities of Solomon." Religion is 
 the Worship of Sorrow. But Christianity makes 
 sorrow "obedient, approachable, humble, amiable, 
 gentle and patient inasmuch as it comes down from 
 the love of God. . . . False sorrow is bitter, im- 
 patient, hard, full of rancour and fruitless grief and
 
 THE UNCONQUERABLE HOPE 275 
 
 penal despair." The Worship of Sorrow is sorrow 
 transfigured. 
 
 He drew her into the field of politics and showed 
 her democracy filled with unrest and dissatisfaction, 
 vainly endeavouring to inscribe the word Happiness 
 in a book of statutes. 
 
 "It is not our curse," he said, "but our blessing that 
 nothing transitory and terrestrial can appease our 
 insatiable desire for happiness. This certitude of 
 human experience is a warranty of faith. Because 
 we are immortal nothing mortal can content us; 
 because we are heirs of eternal life nothing human 
 can satisfy us. We are not tenants of the earth, but 
 heirs of eternity. The brain is obliged to postu- 
 late infinity; the heart to assume Fatherhood. If 
 we contemplate our griefs with this thought of 
 eternity in our hearts, if we are assured that human 
 life is but a day in the experience of our immortality, 
 that onward and upward, for ever and for ever, we 
 shall move and mount to profounder understanding 
 and greater love, then, light will appear our heaviest 
 burden, our sharpest pain will become endurable, we 
 shall feel ourselves rational creatures in a rational 
 universe. 
 
 "But it is hard to attain this faith. I do hot 
 minimise the difficulty. For most of us it is only in 
 momentary uprushes of feeling that the vision is 
 clear. But, a step is taken if our hearts consent to 
 this that, given the truth of eternity, given the 
 truth of our immortal destiny, all sorrow, suffering, 
 
 grief, pain and affliction would become endurable. 
 T*
 
 276 THE CAGE 
 
 Let me ask you that question. Have you felt in your 
 heart that eternity, if true, answers all difficulties ? n 
 
 She was silent for a moment, drawn suddenly from 
 the flow of her own thoughts to a definite and 
 personal point in his argument. How should she 
 answer? With her head still bowed she replied, but 
 not willingly, that eternity, if true, answered all 
 questions. 
 
 "Are you quite sure of that?" he asked gently. 
 
 "Yes," she said, with decision; "I am quite sure." 
 
 It came to her with a great illumination that im- 
 mortality, the thing of which people talked and 
 wrote, the word which could be written down with 
 pen and ink, if a fact of the universe, did satisfy all 
 cravings, did silence all disquiet. For a moment she 
 experienced that infinite pleasure which exalts and 
 intoxicates the spirit apprehending the fact of eternity 
 in all the beauty of its consolation and in all the 
 plenitude of its revelation. 
 
 "Then, I can tell you how you may be sure that it 
 is a truth." He bent a little nearer to her, and in a 
 lower voice said, with a fatherly persuasion which 
 touched her heart, "Faith becomes a principle of 
 action only by submission of the will. That is the 
 supreme revelation of Christ as regards the religious 
 life. Subdual of the passions, control of the will, is 
 morality; a yielding of the will is religion. If you 
 think that to yield the will is weakness, I beg you to 
 contemplate to Whom you are asked to make this 
 submission. It is to God. Can there be weakness 
 for humanity in yielding itself to the will of Omni-
 
 THE UNCONQUERABLE HOPE 277 
 
 potence? Once more we are at the Cross. It is 
 there that you are asked to lay down your will. At 
 the feet of Love. Why must you lay it down ? that 
 you may make room for the growth of your own 
 soul. None of your ideals can give room for that 
 expansion. You must look to the Highest. You 
 must desire not to be anything that you yourself can 
 imagine, but you must hunger and thirst to approach 
 the unapproachable perfection of Christ. And, do 
 believe me, when that submission is made, when your 
 will is laid down, when your soul believes with all its 
 energies of love and thankfulness that Christ did not 
 deceive men, did not teach a lie, and did not die for 
 an hypothesis, you will know as the most certain fact 
 in your life that immortality is the truth including all 
 truths, the verity of God Himself, even the Father." 
 
 Without waiting for her to reply he proceeded, 
 gently and quietly, to show her how the Idea of 
 Christ had worked in human history, sweetening the 
 relations of life, purifying conduct, solacing pain, 
 and dignifying the state. He pressed upon her with- 
 out emphasis and without the desire to convert her, 
 but with a gradual and increasing force of conviction, 
 the thought of how Christ's Idea, surrounded by all 
 the forces of lustful selfishness and malignant evil, 
 had grown in the world with miraculous persistence, 
 grown and spread in spite of antagonism from with- 
 out the Church and madness within, until it had 
 shaped the soul of Europe. 
 
 As he spoke to her of more and more sacred things 
 there mingled with the tenderness and kindness of his
 
 278 THE CAGE 
 
 voice a divine solicitude which was irresistible in its 
 earnestness and sympathy. The attraction of his 
 personality breathed a new power. She was con- 
 scious that his amiable sweetness drew nearer to her. 
 She began to listen, with affection in her heart. 
 
 He spoke of how this divine Christ had dignified 
 the state of woman, and had placed in her hands 
 incomparable powers for good. 
 
 "Because He knew the goodness of woman He 
 exalted her; because He knew her weakness He 
 guarded her. That guard was Marriage. He Who 
 alone of all teachers and revealers of God's will made 
 woman the equal of man, bound her with a stringency 
 to the marriage law such as no other attempted. Do 
 not forget that His object was love" 
 
 For a moment he paused that she might receive 
 into her mind the force of that reminder, which for 
 him was the basis of loyalty to the Master, and then 
 he resumed, "The Church does not obey her Lord 
 in this matter of marriage with a doubting and 
 puzzled obedience, but with a glowing love for His 
 divine instruction. She sees that woman's safety lies in 
 devotion to His law. Outside marriage, it is a chaos. 
 And when the world says to the Church, ' But see how 
 hardly this law of marriage presses here, and there, in 
 this case, and in that,' she does not reply, ' They must 
 suffer for the good of the greater number,' but, 
 armed with the invitation, ' Come unto Me, all ye that 
 aoe weary and heavy laden,' she calls the unhappy 
 ones to her side and shows them where they may 
 obtain rest; she does not exclude them from the
 
 THE UNCONQUERABLE HOPE 279 
 
 discipline of life or from the consolation of Christ. 
 My child, God is speaking to you in this grief. I 
 do not say that He sent you this sorrow; I do not 
 say that He married you to this man; but being 
 married your marriage belongs to Him, and being in 
 sorrow your sorrow belongs to Him also. Take your 
 grief to Him, and listen to His voice. It was for 
 you, sorely tempted and greatly stricken, that divine 
 Love became incarnate. If for you that great love 
 was given, will you not listen when He speaks ? 
 
 " He says to you, Take up your cross. 
 
 "But, wait. 
 
 "He tells you in what spirit you should take it, 
 ' And follow Me.' Follow the Highest, not with 
 distress and unwillingness, but with devotion and 
 love, willing to suffer because He suffered, patient in 
 suffering because He was patient, helping others 
 because He gave His life for men looking to 
 Him, and to Him alone, your Master and your 
 Saviour. 
 
 "On that road of self-denial, which leads to eternal 
 love, you will find peace. On that road, and no 
 other." 
 
 He leaned forward again, and, very close to her 
 ear, said encouragingly and with great tenderness, 
 "If love for your husband is dead in your heart, it 
 is only human love. Let God create in its place that 
 divine charity which beareth all things, believeth all 
 things, hopeth all things, endureth all things. Go 
 to your husband with this divine charity in your 
 heart, consecrate yourself to lift him from reformation
 
 2 8o THE CAGE 
 
 of habits to the sphere of the religious life, endeavour 
 by sweet influence to turn his thoughts to God, to 
 make his life of service to mankind; draw him by 
 sympathy, kindness, and example from selfishness 
 and uselessness to unselfishness and service; and, 
 if you appear to fail in this, even if he goes back to 
 the old offences, ask the idea of Christ, which will all 
 this time have been growing in your heart, whether 
 you should still follow with pleading and forgiveness, 
 or whether you should turn back. Make your appeal 
 not to your conscience, but always to your Christ. 
 Let Him decide; by Him and Him alone be guided, 
 I think you will follow. I think you will find that in 
 the care of your husband lies the vocation of your soul. 
 Can any destiny be happier for you than to save a soul 
 for Christ, your Saviour ? If in this spirit you go to 
 your husband, charity will sweeten your communion 
 with him, sympathy for his struggles will grow into 
 kindness, and time will show you God's will. Be- 
 cause Love has done so much for you, do this for 
 Love. 
 
 "Think of these things, not as my counsel and 
 advice, but as the teaching, clear and very emphatic, 
 of Christ the Light of the World. Do not for one 
 moment put yourself on the side of those people who 
 would treat marriage as a human institution without 
 divine significance, and who would substitute passion 
 and caprice for charity and devotion, liberty and 
 licence for discipline and forbearance. They are 
 against Christ, however pure their motives, however 
 htimane their object. Do not side with the enemies
 
 THE UNCONQUERABLE HOPE 281 
 
 of your Saviour. Be among those good women 
 whose exalted virtue and gracious purity uplifts the 
 race. Teach by your life the lesson that chanty 
 makes all things possible. Let others, weaker than 
 yourself and tempted to do evil, learn from you that 
 marriage is a part of this life's discipline, and that 
 without forgiveness and forbearance the union of 
 any man and any woman is impossible. Teach them 
 by your married life that Christianity is the religion 
 of reconciliation. Make your home an influence for 
 Christ. Above all things, I pray you, do not put 
 yourself even in thought and for one moment on the 
 side of those who ' from the name of Saviour can 
 condescend to the bare term of Prophet.' Call Christ 
 your Saviour; accustom yourself to the thought that 
 He has saved you ; realize that through Him we call 
 the Universe, home, and the Infinite, Father. Sub- 
 mit your will to Him, and with gratitude in your 
 heart for His salvation most personal and precious to 
 you yourself, love Him, love Him with all your soul, 
 and lift up your cross and follow Him." 
 
 His voice had never once passed from the quiet of 
 intimacy into the passion of proselytism, but in these 
 last sentences it became vibrant with intensity of 
 feeling. 
 
 The hand laid upon her shoulder was removed. 
 It rested for a moment lightly on her head. "God 
 bless you ; help you ; comfort you ; guide you ; and 
 give you peace." 
 
 The words were uttered close to her ear, with the 
 moving emphasis of profound sympathy and sincere
 
 282 THE CAGE 
 
 earnestness. It was this blessing which turned the 
 scale of her decision. 
 
 She lifted her face and, looking at him with 
 gratitude in her eyes, "I can thank you," she said, 
 "for listening to me and speaking to me; but how 
 can I thank you for giving me a vocation ? " 
 
 She went with him into the garden and remained 
 there when he had left. 
 
 At the moment of his departure the Sand Wasp 
 dropped anchor in Borhaven harbour. 
 
 Anne could not immediately go back to her duties. 
 
 There are pauses in the soul's experience, when 
 even the face of nature in her fairest mood is, as it 
 were, a disturbance, an interruption, an intrusion. 
 We would close our eyes, abandon our thoughts, and 
 be still. So great is our vision that we would not 
 see; so overwhelming our light that we would be in 
 the dark. To think is to be called back from the 
 ecstasy. To examine the blessing is to lose the joy. 
 Solitude of the body is not enough, we must have 
 solitude of the soul. 
 
 The problem of Anne's life had solved itself. The 
 solution was the example of Christ. 
 
 If she had contemplated, as she stood in the 
 garden, the return to her husband, even in its noblest 
 view of service and devotion ; or if she had contem- 
 plated the banishment from her heart of love for 
 Napier, even in its noblest view of self-sacrifice, she 
 would have lost the deep sense of joy which pervaded 
 her soul like a glory. 
 
 That joy consisted of spiritual emotion. The
 
 THE UNCONQUERABLE HOPE 283 
 
 'sensation of God's love, the conviction of immor- 
 tality. It had nothing to do with the earth. 
 
 She was lifted above all problems and distress. 
 The answer to every question of the human heart 
 breathed in her spirit. The details of mortal exist- 
 ence vanished in the satisfaction of love and the 
 comprehension of eternity. 
 
 She had been pointed to the Highest, and from the 
 Highest she could not withdraw her gaze. 
 
 She was conscious of a Saviour. 
 
 The sceptic is learning slowly the truth of Swift's 
 epigram that you cannot "argue men out of convic- 
 tions which they have never been argued into." The 
 phenomenon of conversion puzzles the rationalist, 
 until he perceives that the region of faith has laws, 
 like the region of intellect. Those laws we can 
 observe in their effects regeneration and the birth 
 of sweetness but the causes are hidden in the love 
 of God. We cannot explain conversion; but we 
 see its fruits in the lives of the saints. 
 
 Anne herself could not have analyzed her spiritual 
 feelings, or said, "At such a moment while he was 
 speaking to me I became conscious of a change in 
 my nature." Not only this; she would have denied 
 that this change occurred suddenly in the midst of 
 listening to the priest. It was to her as if it had 
 always been working in her soul. Always she had 
 been on the brink of this surrender which brought 
 unspeakable pleasure to her heart, unutterable peace 
 to her mind. At her Communions, in her prayers, 
 during her reading, while she worked in the garden,
 
 284 THE CAGE 
 
 walked by the river-side, visited the poor, listened to 
 the sermons of a preacher, the arguments of Ramsay 
 M' Gavin, the blustering atheism of Major Lauden 
 even then she had been conscious, yes, again and 
 again, of impulses towards the sheltering Personality 
 of Christ and surrender to His will inarticulate and 
 transitory impulses, but movements of the soul, 
 falterings and gropings towards the light. 
 
 This peace which had come to her, if she had 
 examined it, would not have seemed to her in the 
 nature of a palingenesis ; rather as an end to vacilla- 
 tion. She had ceased to be undecided. Her soul 
 had made its choice. She was conscious of Vision, 
 not of revision. Canon Case had helped her to make 
 up her mind. 
 
 Later in her life she was to look back with truer 
 vision and call that change of mind by a nobler 
 name. 
 
 But now it was enough for her to dwell in this 
 pause of her soul, to feel the joy which closed about 
 her like the air, the blessing which rose in her heart 
 like a fragrance, the peace which breathed upon her 
 like a communion with eternity. 
 
 No thought disturbed this tranquillity of pure 
 emotion. 
 
 She was conscious of serenity. 
 
 In the repose of a still and quiet conscience the 
 comprehension came to her that she had been led to 
 the Summit, and standing there, as it were, in the 
 light of a new dawn, she felt the unconquerable hope 
 of humanity grow in her soul to be a knowledge one
 
 THE UNCONQUERABLE HOPE 285 
 
 with existence. Immortality I it was like an angel's 
 kiss upon her brow. The barriers of time and space 
 fell asunder ; the noise of the earth died down ; gates 
 were at last open before her, and through those gates, 
 which had opened so soundlessly, she gazed into 
 the wide silence of infinity with calm and compre- 
 hending eyes, conscious of the everlasting and the 
 Divine.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 BACK TO EARTH 
 
 SHE was roused from her reverie by a sound 
 approaching from the direction of the river. With 
 the haze of this reverie still hanging like a cloud 
 between her soul and her senses, she realized that 
 Napier was coming towards her. He was like a figure 
 in a dream. 
 
 For a moment the dream sensation lasted. She was 
 undisturbed. She inhabited a region of silence and 
 serenity. The figure approaching her, seen through 
 the miasm of her own abstraction, appeared with 
 perfect congruousness a spirit like herself, with 
 whom she would presently commune quite naturally 
 in the language of her own ineffable peace. 
 
 This spiritual delusion lasted for a moment. 
 
 The figure approaching emerged from the haze, 
 and wore the likeness of a man. She recognized him 
 for the fact that he was, the man who loved her. 
 
 Of a sudden she was back on the earth, a woman 
 tortured by the extreme of self-consciousness, fettered 
 by all the little social humanities of time and place, 
 surrounded by all the irrefragable necessities of use 
 and want, and feeling this terrestrial and human 
 
 position with a terrible sharpness of apprehension 
 
 286
 
 BACK TO EARTH 287 
 
 caused by the immense contrast of her profound and 
 quite solitary spiritual experience. 
 
 What could she say to him ? 
 
 Her lips knew only the language of earthly com- 
 merce. She could no more translate into that language 
 the fresh sensations which had bathed her soul in light 
 and understanding than she could explain to herself 
 what had happened in the hidden recesses of her 
 being. She was on earth, with a changed heart, but 
 with only a fading memory of the revolution itself. 
 She felt herself indefensible. She had no explanation. 
 From the spiritual sphere she had been brought 
 suddenly into the rational. The instruments of the 
 rational sphere could not serve her need. She was 
 inarticulate. 
 
 Stranger still, she felt guilty. 
 
 Yes, it came to her that she had deserted this man 
 who cared for her so much. She had allowed herself 
 to be carried away on a wave of feeling into the world 
 of emotion, an unreal and visionary world, a world 
 which could only be glimpsed by those who aban- 
 doned reason and surrendered conscious control. 
 Where was that world now? Invisible to her eyes, 
 distant from her heart ! It had melted like a dream. 
 She was standing on solid ground, with the wind in 
 her face, the liftings and fallings of branch and bough 
 visible to her eyes, the noise of the river in her ear, 
 the atmosphere of the old earth conscious and real to 
 her senses. How wild a notion that she had ever 
 inhabited any other world, that she had stood upon 
 spiritual heights, that she had seen the light that 
 never was, on sea or land I
 
 288 THE CAGE 
 
 In the midst of her distress he came to her, and she 
 greeted him. 
 
 "I have come to you," he said, "for the answer to 
 my letter." 
 
 "I am going back," she answered, with the weak- 
 ness forced upon her by this violent change in her 
 emotions. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "You must say nothing that will make it difficult," 
 she pleaded. 
 
 "I will make it impossible." 
 
 The strength and conviction in his voice roused her 
 moral being to oppose him. She became conscious 
 of support, and was unafraid. In a moment, timor- 
 ousness dropped from her. 
 
 "Anne," he said softly, "you must not go back." 
 
 She felt suddenly cold. The appeal in his voice 
 roused her compassion, as the command had roused 
 her opposition. "Don't let us speak of this," she said 
 gently. " Let us leave it as it is, quite unalterable and 
 predestined." 
 
 "I can alter it; I can make you a new destiny," he 
 replied. "I have only to speak, and I make it impos- 
 sible for you to go back." 
 
 "You must not speak." 
 
 "But you are going to torment, self-destruction, 
 and remorse 1 Not speak? I can't look on unmoved. 
 I can't stand still and see you perish. Anne, do you 
 realize what you are doing ? " 
 
 "Yes," she answered firmly. She felt strong and 
 composed. "I realize all, and I am not afraid. 
 Listen; you must not speak of this again. Your
 
 BACK TO EARTH 289 
 
 friendship," she said steadily, but with great affection, 
 "is quite the most precious thing to me on earth. 
 Don't rob me of it, Hugh. You mustn't do that. I 
 can't tell you how I want to have you for my friend." 
 
 He looked up quickly, with a certain fierceness 
 clouding his eyes. "But you don't realize I You 
 don't. Why, you are speaking in utter ignorance. 
 My friendship I You think you can keep that, and 
 go to your husband ? Consider, for pity's sake. You 
 don't think that I shall come to your house, sit at 
 your table, drive in your carriage, go with you here 
 and there, and be to you in your husband's presence 
 what I have been to you here? You don't think that, 
 do you ? " 
 
 "Why not? "she asked. 
 
 Her firmness, which was almost a challenge to his 
 character, daunted him for a moment, but he said, 
 with some energy, "It is impossible. No; if I must 
 hold my peace, at least you must know that to go back 
 is to turn me out of your life for ever." 
 
 "I shall feel that," she answered; "you know how I 
 shall feel it. But I shall dree my weird, nevertheless." 
 
 He was moved by the pain in her voice ; he was too 
 well acquainted with her character to be astonished 
 at the courage and resolution in her words. 
 
 "You know what I would say to you?" he asked. 
 "Knowing that, knowing what is in my heart and 
 what is in your heart, you are going back to " 
 
 She interrupted him. 
 
 "I do not hear you, Hugh. Don't speak like that. 
 Let it all go. I will tell you why I am going 
 back, as well as I can, and then let us begin on
 
 290 THE CAGE 
 
 another plane. It is not impossible. I know it is not 
 impossible." She walked forward, and they stood to- 
 gether by the gate in the wall, their faces to the river. 
 
 The light of day began to fade. 
 
 "I am converted to your old point of view, and to 
 something higher," she said quietly. "I can see as 
 clearly as you once saw how right it is that I should 
 go back to my duty. When you first spoke to me you 
 were unbiassed and quite honest with yourself. You 
 saw the world as a place where some people are trying 
 to preserve the essentials of righteousness and where 
 others are tampering with those essentials; you 
 realized the danger of experimenting with the base 
 of civilization. I see now, very clearly, that every 
 good woman who is loyal to civilization is of service 
 to humanity, and that every woman who is in the 
 least disloyal, whatever her motives, is an enemy of 
 the human race. The complex of life has become 
 simple for me. Out of the trackless forest of various 
 opinions and personal inclinations, I have come into 
 the wide clearing made by history and experience, 
 where one sees simply right and wrong. All great 
 and eternal revelations have this character of sim- 
 plicity. Philosophers call God by names which crush 
 the brain and leave the soul unsatisfied; Christ, in a 
 peasant's robe, called him Father, and with simplicity 
 advanced evolution by a bound immeasurable. Is it 
 not wiser to see that simplicity is the highest? Is 
 it not better to confess that complex is an unsuitable 
 word? I think it is. I am sure it is. Right and 
 wrong is the old division of conduct, and if in some 
 particular of our lives human experience does not tell
 
 BACK TO EARTH 291 
 
 us which is right and which is wrong, and if even our 
 conscience seems to be perplexed, we can solve the 
 difficulty by presenting it to the highest Character we 
 know, to our Ideal of humanity. You know this, 
 Hugh. In your heart of hearts, you have known it 
 always. I do not say you knew it before I did, for 
 everybody in the world knows that it is true. But 
 while I was hiding myself from this knowledge and 
 making myself a standard for the world's conduct, 
 you knew it, and you told me you knew it. Go back 
 to that knowledge. Let us both stand where all good 
 people stand in the broad clearing made by human 
 experience; we know what is right, don't let us deceive 
 ourselves and seek to make the world's wrong our 
 right. I am happy, I am secure, because I know now 
 what it is right for me to do. I have simplified exist- 
 ence." 
 
 "My conscience is emphatic," he answered, without 
 looking at her. "It is a crime for you to go back. It 
 is moral suicide." 
 
 He said, before she could reply, "Anne, I love you 
 with all the force and power of my being. You have 
 divined that long ago. If you go back to the life 
 from which you once fled with horror, knowing that 
 I love you, you tear by the roots out of my heart the 
 purest and noblest emotions I shall ever know. But " 
 he paused for a moment, and then continued slowly 
 and earnestly "if you go back to that man from 
 whom you once turned, knowing in your heart of 
 hearts that you love me, I say you commit a crime 
 against your own soul. Yes; you keep the laws of 
 men, but you deny the laws of God."
 
 292 THE CAGE 
 
 She was neither frightened nor ashamed by this 
 sudden and quiet onslaught, so direct and pitiless. 
 She was aware of a wonderful calm in her brain, an 
 inexpressible composure of spirit. She waited for him 
 to resume, astonished at herself. 
 
 "Dare you say to your own soul," he asked, with 
 the same quiet, measured, almost detached earnest- 
 ness, "that the Creator of the universe married you 
 to that man, and that your insistent affinity with me 
 is a machination of iniquity? Was it the Almighty, 
 or was it your mother, who married you to that man 
 whom you find it impossible to respect? Is your 
 marriage one of those unions where any but a blas- 
 phemer dare say that he sees the hand of God ? Those 
 whom God hath joined, let no man put asunder. I 
 abide by that commandment. Very well. Did God 
 ordain your marriage ? " 
 
 "It is among the accomplished things of my life," 
 she answered. 
 
 "The law can set you free." 
 
 "My conscience is above the law." 
 
 "Do you mean that your conscience absolves you 
 from all sense of guiltiness in returning to a union 
 without affection, without even self-respect ? " 
 
 "It is a union not without self-respect; but self- 
 respect is something I can afford to do without. I am 
 conscious of something higher." 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 "I cannot tell you." 
 
 "Do you mean you cannot tell me, or you will not 
 tell me?" 
 
 "I cannot tell you."
 
 BACK TO EARTH 293 
 
 "You are on perilous ground if you are surrender- 
 ing yourself to a caprice of the emotions." 
 
 "It is something deeper than that." 
 
 "But I cannot imagine even a religious principle of 
 the highest kind which should absolve you from the 
 unthinkable violation of going to your husband with 
 love in your heart for another man." 
 
 "Hugh ! why do you say that to me? " 
 
 "Because I would save you from remorse." 
 
 "You have said a terrible thing." 
 
 "And very brutally. But I see your danger. You 
 do not." 
 
 "I wish you had never said those words." 
 
 "I pray that they will cling to your soul, and save 
 you." 
 
 "Hugh," she said after a moment, "you have given 
 me strength to do what I never thought I could do 
 honestly. You have strengthened me to deny my 
 love for you." 
 
 He turned and looked at her. "What do you 
 mean ? " he asked. "I know you love me." 
 
 "If I love you," she replied very quietly, "it is with 
 a love pure and true, which does not throw a shadow 
 on my path. This is the truth, the truth of my soul. 
 With what love I have for you in my heart I can go to 
 my duty. Yes, unashamed. Do you understand that ? 
 And do you understand that any other love I would 
 empty from my heart wifh haste and with shame ? " 
 
 "No," he said quickly, and with a new intensity in 
 his voice; "you are a woman, and I am a man; say 
 what you will, the step you dare to contemplate is a 
 crime."
 
 THE CAGE 
 
 "Oh, you don't see," she cried, almost with pity for 
 him, "that a soul may have visions which are wider 
 than human life. You and I have talked about im- 
 mortality. Without that, life has neither why nor 
 wherefore; renunciation has no reason; all virtue and 
 goodness are irrational ; there is no reason whatever, 
 none, none, none, why people should struggle to- 
 wards their dim and shadowy vision of perfection. 
 But if immortality is true, and you, I know, think it 
 is true, then, what difficulty exists for the soul con- 
 fronted by a hard duty ? what considerations of the 
 world and society can deter the spirit from its course ? 
 Don't you feel that, Hugh ? Do you never have that 
 vision which makes it possible to say, which makes 
 it so foolish and childish not to say, What shall it 
 profit a man if he gain the whole world ? If immor- 
 tality is true, nothing on earth can either pain or 
 frighten us. And it is true, because only by im- 
 mortality does the place of Christianity in human 
 history become intelligible." 
 
 He was silent for a moment. Then he spoke, 
 bitterly. 
 
 "Are you thinking I must ask you this of saving 
 your soul ? " In the darkness that was falling about 
 them thicker and thicker he turned and looked at her. 
 
 "No," she answered quite gently and without re- 
 proach; "I have surrendered all thought of myself." 
 She paused, and added finely, "Don't you see, Hugh, 
 that is why I am so strong and secure ? " 
 
 He suddenly stretched out a hand and placed it 
 upon her arm. "I want you," he cried hoarsely. 
 "Anne, don't forsake me."
 
 BACK TO EARTH 295 
 
 The touch upon her arm, the tragedy of his voice, 
 the nearness of his breathing, shook her and filled her 
 heart with anguish. She herself was amazed that with 
 her woman's heart so shaken and so stirred, her soul 
 preserved its unclouded serenity. 
 
 "I have such pity for you," she said, meeting his 
 gaze with fearless sympathy. " But I must not listen 
 to you." 
 
 "You must listen, you must ! " he cried suddenly, 
 and drew nearer to her. "I love you, body and soul. 
 I, and no other, love you as you deserve to be loved. 
 In all this big world I am alone but for you. I have 
 tried to live without you. I can't. I have gone 
 away, and I have returned. There is something in 
 my heart which will not let me rest without you. I 
 must be always within reach of you. If I cannot 
 possess you, at least I must be near enough to hear 
 your voice, to look in your eyes which are so strong 
 and true oh, God, how I love you, Anne ! your 
 eyes are my security and my honour and my passion ; 
 in them only I have visions of immortality and God. 
 I cannot bear that you should go away. Let me always 
 be able to see you. I am so alone in the world; your 
 love is everything to me. Never, never go away 
 from me; never, never give yourself to another; be 
 true to all the sweetest and noblest motions of your 
 soul, don't be afraid to go where they urge you; I 
 believe it is right for you to obey those impulses, 
 which are so pure and so powerful ; but even if to 
 obey them is a sin, obey them, for God will forgive 
 you my need is so great." 
 
 She was filled with compassion for him ; her eyes
 
 296 THE CAGE 
 
 were tender with divinest and most human pity; but 
 her soul was yet more perfectly secure than before. 
 Passion, beating against a spirit utterly surrendered, 
 breaks into foam and becomes not grand but pitiful. 
 She had compassion for the man; she pitied the 
 weakness which swept him away. 
 
 "I cannot hear you," she said. "It would be quite 
 easy for me to persuade myself that I should listen, 
 and that I should endeavour to comfort you. But the 
 place where I stand makes it impossible for me to 
 lie, even to you. It is not right that I should listen. 
 By urging me to listen, you do wrong. But I will 
 say this to you, because it is the very truth of my soul 
 and because I desire with all my heart that you should 
 be where I am now out of the reach of all pain and 
 distress. Hugh, I can think of you as my friend 
 for ever. Does that put your love to the test ? I can 
 think of you as being often my companion, of sharing 
 much of my confidence, of helping me to help others, 
 of being my pleasantest and kindest friend, almost 
 the chief influence in my life. And without pain, 
 rather with pleasure, should I see my friend married 
 to a woman who would dwarf my little vanities by an 
 immense superiority. Such is my feeling towards 
 you. The purest friendship. That I offer to you 
 now. It is for you to keep or reject it; that is to 
 say, it is for you to give me your friendship, your 
 kindness and your help, or to say good-bye to me now 
 for the last time on earth." 
 
 His face darkened as he listened. For one moment 
 it was as if he despised her. Then he exclaimed 
 suddenly
 
 BACK TO EARTH 297 
 
 "You say you are out of the reach of all pain and 
 all distress. I do not wish that state for myself. I 
 am human, and I will not strangle my nature. What 
 you have proposed to me is impossible. It is because 
 you deny your human nature that you can think for 
 an instant that it is possible. Descend from your 
 brain to your heart, and see how impossible it is." 
 
 "With God," she said, interrupting him, "all things 
 are possible." 
 
 "You mean you are no longer human?" 
 
 She considered, and then replied steadily, "I am 
 above passion. " 
 
 "Yes, above the natural passions of the human 
 race. You stultify your being. You deny the gar- 
 ment with which God has clothed you. Oh, Anne, 
 don't let some impulse, some emotion of religion 
 blind you to the truth of your nature." 
 
 "You would have me let some impulse of poor 
 transitory passion blind me to the truth of eternity ? " 
 
 "But you will be human as long as you live on this 
 earth. You can't be rid of your nature. If you do 
 this thing, in the long years ahead of you, the years 
 of monotony and ice-cold retrospection, you will 
 bewail with a terrible bitterness that you let religious 
 emotion make a lie of your love and your humanity." 
 
 "The older I live the nearer I shall be to eternity." 
 She looked towards him in the darkness, watched his 
 shadowed eyes, and asked wonderingly, "Can you 
 conceive of no one living above the plane of passion ?" 
 
 The question threw him into the mud of inferiority. 
 
 She spoke quite tenderly, but with a certain pride. 
 She seemed to stand above him, while he gazed up at
 
 298 THE CAGE 
 
 her from a place of license, weakness and carnality. 
 To cry out that she was cold and passionless would 
 have been to charge the stars with a lack of scarlet 
 shades and restaurant music. To arraign her as a 
 woman dehumanized would have been to glorify "the 
 painted disasters of the street." He recognized her 
 at that moment as a woman infinitely tender and 
 infinitely lovable, but pure with a chastity which 
 rebuked the headlong passion of his heart. In that 
 recognition of her divine nature was his salvation. 
 She made him ashamed of his feelings. She revealed 
 to him a higher love than he had dreamed of. He 
 was exalted by the purity of her spirit. 
 
 If Napier had been a decadent of cities, if he had 
 lived by a philosophy which endeavours to strike a 
 philandering balance between the aesthetic vices of 
 the Greeks and the brutal passions of the negro, he 
 would easily have turned the shaft of her reproach 
 with the shield of a degenerate tolerance. But he 
 was a man of the open air. He was eminently whole- 
 some. The cleansing winds of nature's truth blew 
 through his mind, which never went to sleep with a 
 shut window. His body was braced and manful; 
 his vision was clear and unobscured; he knew right 
 from wrong as he knew black from white, cleanness 
 from uncleanness. He was civilized human nature at 
 its highest, a clean mind in a clean body. Such a 
 man never mistakes chastity for the dull hebetude of 
 an anaemic insensibility. 
 
 While she was speaking a light rose in his soul, 
 and by that light he not only recognized the moral 
 grandeur of her nature, but he caught a glimpse of
 
 BACK TO EARTH 299 
 
 some Hivine existence high above the mist of animal 
 passion and far beyond the disturbance and unrest of 
 physical expression. There was, he felt, some infinite 
 and celestial satisfaction for the yearnings of the 
 human heart, the joys of which exceeded the capa- 
 cities of the body as the snow of the mountain crest 
 excelled the trodden slush of the pavement. 
 
 In the darkness of the garden, encompassed by the 
 deepening hush of nature, and with the low and 
 beautiful sound of her voice stealing like music 
 through his soul, he lost the sense of inferiority which 
 had first humbled him at her reproach in a steady, 
 quiet, but most determined aspiration to stand where 
 she stood, to breathe the air of her own pure heaven. 
 A father who hides his animalism from his daughter 
 is sometimes visited by an intense yearning to be as 
 guiltless, as innocent, as white in purity as his child. 
 
 But with this aspiration, the groundswell of his 
 soul sounded its melancholy and persistent bitterness. 
 He was lonely. His passion for this dear and noble 
 woman was not base, was not unworthy; it was a 
 craving for sympathy, it was a natural impulse to- 
 wards friendship, it was the cry of a lonely heart for 
 companionship and love. The bird seeks his mate, 
 as he sought the surrender of this woman. 
 
 The thought of taking her to his breast, of placing 
 his arms about her, of bending down his face and 
 resting his lips upon hers, was a longing inexpress- 
 ible, unanalyzable, but perfectly holy and just. He 
 was shaken through all his body as the whisper 
 sounded in his soul, "Take her in your arms, even if 
 it be in farewell; do not go to your grave without
 
 3 oo THE CAGE 
 
 having kisse'd her lips and realized the beauty of her 
 love." To touch her ! to be close to her breathing 
 loveliness ! for one moment, to gather her into the 
 hunger of his embrace ! The temptation was terrible 
 because of his loneliness. 
 
 He set his teeth, fought the sob in his throat, and 
 waited for her to speak again. 
 
 "Be my friend," she said, "for ever. There is one 
 explanation for everything in life. Only one. The 
 tragedies of the world lie in our denial of that explana- 
 tion. Once bow before the Figure which answers 
 every cry of the heart, and the impossible becomes 
 possible, renunciation becomes fulfilment. Hugh, I 
 will not talk to you now about my change of mind. 
 That will be one of the conversations between us in 
 the clearer and the kinder future. But do see this, 
 that one must accept the Ideal of humanity, if we 
 accept Him at all, in everything. There can be no 
 compromise and no duality. The world would insist 
 upon the division of sacred and secular politics 
 would keep its sphere out of His instruction, social 
 life would keep its appetites out of His rebuke, art 
 would keep its little sphere entirely to its little self. 
 Hence is all confusion. But He must be for every- 
 thing human. The universe exists in Him; can we 
 shut Him out from anything on earth? What is 
 'sacred,' and what is 'secular'? life itself belongs 
 to Him. Think when our one soul understands! 
 Oh, yes, the universe is too vast and glorious to you 
 and me, for a mistake." 
 
 She turned and put out her hand. 
 
 "Let it not be good-bye between us," she said
 
 BACK TO EARTH 301 
 
 very tenderly. "I have dreams of our friendship, 
 ambitions for our faithful love. I think that we 
 might do something, you and I, to further all that is 
 good and noble and enduring. Will you not help 
 me, Hugh ? It is a fine thing to work for humanity." 
 
 He raised her hand half-way to his lips, and then 
 gently relinquished it and stood upright. 
 
 "It is not good-bye," he said; "but God knows 
 how many bitter days must pass before we greet 
 again." 
 
 "I am satisfied. You will come back to me." 
 
 "When I come back I shall be a different man. 
 Shall I be man at all? Or, a beaten dog? But I 
 shall come back. Will you recognize me, I wonder !" 
 
 "You will be stronger, greater. You must be. 
 Because only the leading of the Highest can bring 
 you back." 
 
 "If I can come back, strong and great, and still a 
 man," he said, lifting his head, "I will give you my 
 life to do what you will with it." 
 
 "It will not then be yours to give," she answered 
 gently. "Wait, and you will see. But come back." 
 
 He said to her as he passed through the gate, 
 looking back towards her, "I recognize how fine you 
 must be to go so bravely to duty so terrible. That 
 conquers me." 
 
 The darkness prevented them from seeing each 
 other.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 A SECOND MARRIAGE 
 
 WHEN Anne turned from Napier she was met by 
 her little servant with news that expelled her peace. 
 Mrs. Dobson was much worse. 
 
 With anxiety she left the garden and the silence of 
 her soul, and hurried to her grandmother's side. 
 
 Directly she entered the room, the dying lady turned 
 to her a gaze of wistful inquiry, and smiling with the 
 sweet affection of extreme weakness, watched and 
 waited for her to speak. 
 
 Anne knelt at her bedside. "Grannie dear, you are 
 not feeling well ? Tell me what it is. You have been 
 left too long alone. Let me make your pillow comfort- 
 able, and then I will light the candles and read to you. 
 Dear little grannie, I am angry with myself for leav- 
 ing you alone." 
 
 There was still the same wistful inquiry in the 
 fading eyes. "Tell me, dear," asked the dying 
 woman in a low voice, speaking with difficulty, "are 
 you happy now ? " 
 
 Anne answered the question with her lips and with 
 her eyes. 
 
 Afterwards she said, still holding the little lady in 
 
 her embrace, " I am so happy, grannie dear. I owe it 
 
 302
 
 A SECOND MARRIAGE 303 
 
 all to you. How can I thank 1 you? You have helped 
 me to find the answer to more than my difficulty. You 
 have helped me to find the answer to all difficulties 
 and all questions. From my earliest years it has 
 always been you who have helped me. And now 
 you have given rest to my soul and made the 
 way straighter before me. Grannie dear, I love you 
 so." 
 
 The face of the old lady shone with love. She lifted 
 one of her feeble hands and slowly placed it on Anne's 
 head, pressing gently the blessing she could not utter. 
 
 For a moment they were silent. 
 
 "Now you must feel better and happier," Anne 
 said, taking the hand as it descended and bending her 
 lips to it. "I will light the candles, and we will sit 
 and talk, or I will read to you." 
 
 As she rose, the old lady said, "This is my Nunc 
 Dimittis. I am happy. I want to go now. Think 
 what I shall have to tell your father ! " 
 
 When the candles were lighted she inquired if the 
 gardener was still on the premises. "I should like 
 him to take a telegram. I want your mother to come. 
 It had better be to-morrow. Will you ask Richard, 
 too? You shall decide that. But your mother must 
 come." 
 
 Anne wrote the telegram. At eight o'clock an 
 answer was delivered. It announced the hour of 
 arrival at the station. It was signed "Richard." 
 
 Mrs. Dobson's last night on earth passed almost 
 without sleep. Anne, who sat at her side, would have 
 read to her, but the old lady preferred silence. "I am
 
 304 THE CAGE 
 
 not unhappy," she said. "Sleep is not necessary now. 
 But you must rest. I want you to sleep." 
 
 The faith which had come to Anne found expression 
 that night in constant service to this friend of her life. 
 Every little act seemed now to have a new signifi- 
 cance. There was a consecration in her devotion. 
 She did not wish to sleep. No thought of the en- 
 counter with Richard Paton crossed her mind. 
 Devotion to this soul hovering on the borderland was 
 a sufficient occupation. 
 
 As the small hours approached she began to dread. 
 The room struck coldly. The candlelight became 
 pallid. Once or twice her grandmother sighed and 
 slipped down in the bed. 
 
 Anne lighted the spirit-kettle and poured milk into 
 the saucepan. 
 
 "Do not trouble about me," said Mrs. Dobson; "I 
 shall live till to-morrow." 
 
 The dawn came grey and chilling, with a high wind 
 which blew up great cumbrous clouds from the east. 
 
 At seven o'clock Anne drew the curtains and put 
 out the candles. 
 
 "Another day," said Mrs. Dobson. "Is the sun 
 shining?" 
 
 "Not yet, grannie dear." 
 
 "The form is hidden, but the presence is visible." 
 
 "It will soon be bright." 
 
 "I believe in a God Whom I shall see. He has 
 given form to all things, even to light. For our sakes 
 He will give form to Himself. We shall awake with 
 His likeness and be satisfied."
 
 A SECOND MARRIAGE 305 
 
 Anne came to the bed, bent over her grandmother, 
 and kissed her. "Grannie dear, we are nearer now to 
 each other than we have ever been." 
 
 "There must be a blessing; the Love was so great." 
 For a moment the fading eyes brightened. "I am not 
 doubting ; I am not afraid ; but the words come back, 
 ' So much to do, so little done ; ' I wish I had been 
 less selfish." 
 
 "But for you, grannie dear, I, for one, should be in 
 the darkness and on the edge of the precipice." 
 
 "We must believe in forgiveness," 
 
 Very gently Anne led the poor, failing mind away 
 from thoughts of wasted hours and lost opportunities 
 to the contemplation of infinite love. 
 
 While she was speaking a cloud parted in the east, 
 and for a moment the room was bright with sunshine. 
 
 The grandmother turned to her and said, "You 
 make me happy; because I know you understand." 
 
 Early in the afternoon Mrs. Ainslie arrived with 
 Richard Paton. 
 
 The wind was blowing hard, the sky was threaten- 
 ing, the troubled river gave a sense of coldness and 
 melancholy to the grey landscape. 
 
 Anne met them at the gate. 
 
 She was calm and self-possessed, but with a new 
 serenity of spirit. 
 
 There was no need for her to think how she should 
 greet her husband or to rehearse what she should say 
 to him. It sufficed that she went to him. She was 
 impelled by a noble conviction of duty, she was upheld 
 by an invisible power.
 
 306 THE CAGE 
 
 So serene was her soul at this difficult moment of 
 her life that the shadow thrown for a moment by her 
 mother across the road of duty did not chill her or 
 deject her courage. 
 
 Mrs. Ainslie might have made a weaker nature 
 repent and take fresh counsel with herself. 
 
 This one woman, approaching the cottage, was the 
 life to which Anne was going back. She represented 
 London ; she was Plutocracy ; she was Vanity Fair ; 
 she was Existence the existence of the voluptuous 
 self-indulgent mob of wealth. 
 
 Let us for a moment look at her, that we may under- 
 stand Anne's destiny. 
 
 This widow, who was approaching sixty, was as 
 much in love with life as a girl of sixteen. By life 
 she understood public appearances, shop windows, 
 high living, constant excitement, and parade with the 
 paraders. She was one of those contemporary women 
 who justify the boast that now-a-days no one is old. 
 It was not only the Beauty Doctor who kept her 
 young; her delight in the world preserved her 
 animation. She was not old. In the same way, she 
 was not good. She did not deny the laws of God; 
 she snubbed them. 
 
 She said her prayers every night, with her hair on 
 the dressing-table, her face and hands anointed with 
 complexion-cream. She had done nothing to help 
 man, woman, child, or dumb animal ; she had thought 
 nothing noble, been conscious of no generous emotion, 
 felt no compassion for suffering or pain, encouraged 
 no one fighting against sin, ignorance, or disease;
 
 A SECOND MARRIAGE 307 
 
 worse still, she had experienced not a moment's 
 misgiving of conscience, not a second's dread of 
 God; but she said her prayers. She never missed 
 saying her prayers, even if the card-table had kept 
 her up till two or three in the morning ; in the same 
 manner, she never missed brushing her teeth the 
 last thing at night. Her prayers were a part of her 
 toilet. 
 
 A nature like this is severely orthodox in religion, 
 politics, and conduct. It would alter nothing, for fear 
 of discomfort. Mrs. Ainslie was satisfied with the 
 world ; she was satisfied with its imperfections, which 
 flattered her. Her orthodoxy was consistent. She 
 went to church ; and she would not walk through the 
 Park with a shabby person. She rendered to God the 
 things that were God's, and to Caesar the things that 
 were Cassar's. She expressed indignation at the re- 
 velations of the divorce court, and she was grateful for 
 these scandals, which confirmed her delusion that she 
 was virtuous ; she said that newspapers which exposed 
 these things performed a national service; she meant 
 that they canonized indifference. Her idea of the 
 wedding-garment was the last fashion from Paris. 
 
 Mrs. Ainslie, in a word, was a criminal. 
 
 Her religious conformity was a frightful blasphemy. 
 Her indifference to the sufferings of humanity was a 
 sin. Her profitless and self-indulgent existence in a 
 world crowded with clamorous pity was a crime. 
 
 She not only attempted to hoodwink the Almighty, 
 she misrepresented Him. Her servants, seeing her 
 go to church, said that they wanted nothing to do 
 x 2
 
 3 o8 THE CAGE 
 
 with religion. The poor, watching her enter, felt 
 themselves beneath the notice of God. Young girls, 
 beginning their life in London, imagined, from her 
 presence at the altar, that religion was a form. 
 
 She was virtuous, respectable, cheerful, and in- 
 capable of cruelty, meanness, or revenge. But she 
 was an enemy of the human race. 
 
 Perhaps she was too happy, too contented, too 
 cheerful. 
 
 " Quand le riche rit, le diable rit avec lui ; 
 Quand le riche pleure, le diable pleure aussi." 
 
 Mrs. Ainslie had no misgiving. She never wept. 
 
 What was the impression made by the challeng- 
 ing effrontery of this old woman of fashion on the 
 soul of Anne fresh from the pure ablution of new- 
 birth ? 
 
 The daughter regarded the mother, and pitied her. 
 There was no fear in her heart, and no judgment. 
 She thought how strange it was that this mother 
 should be the daughter of the sweet grandmother. 
 She hoped that time and God's mercy would change 
 the harsh tone of her character. She considered that 
 once the mother must have been different, for she had 
 been the wife of her father. It came home to her how 
 the mere vulgarity of the world can debase a mind 
 and ruin a soul. 
 
 Mrs. Ainslie had been put out a little by the walk 
 across a rough field, with a great, scornful wind 
 derisive at her back. The plumes of her immense hat 
 were disarranged ; the hat itself, and with the hat the 
 hair, had suffered a severe tilt. Her rustling gar-
 
 A SECOND MARRIAGE 309 
 
 mentis, too, wore a blown-about appearance, discon- 
 certing to an elderly and orthodox lady of fashion. 
 
 She exclaimed at the cottage, before she inquired 
 for her mother. 
 
 When she learned that the end was close at hand 
 she became very solemn, but blamed Anne because 
 she had not telegraphed before. " I must go to her at 
 once," she said; "my place is at her side." 
 
 Anne, as soon as she had seen her grandmother 
 through this difficult greeting, returned to Richard 
 Paton, who was standing in the drawing-room, wait- 
 ing for her. 
 
 He was kind and understanding. He expressed 
 sympathy with her in the sorrow that was so close and 
 near. Anne was touched by his goodness. 
 
 When they were seated he admired her drawing- 
 room, smiled at the smallness of the little house, but 
 acknowledged its charm. "One sees your taste in the 
 room and your character in the place. It is very quiet 
 and restful. It is nature in a kind mood." 
 
 He avoided saying anything that was intimate to 
 their relations. 
 
 Presently he said to her, "I had a surprise in 
 Borhaven. We stopped at the hotel to leave our 
 luggage, and as I got out of our cab a fly drew up 
 behind us, and out of it got Lord Arthur Gorham. I 
 had seen him on the station at Liverpool Street, and 
 I remembered that when I saw you off do you recall 
 it? he was travelling by the same train as you. But 
 that is not my surprise. As I entered the hotel, out 
 came a little, shabby old fellow, something soldier-
 
 310 THE CAGE 
 
 like about him, and who do you think? Hugh 
 Napier ! " 
 
 "He has been here,** she said. 
 
 "I remembered afterwards about Ramsay M'Gavin. 
 But it was a tremendous surprise for me, and for him, 
 too. He started as if he had seen a ghost. He 
 looks ever so much older, and harried, as if some- 
 thing had gone wrong with him. I hope to heaven he 
 is not mixing himself up with that fellow Gorham. 
 If you see him, warn him. The man is really bad. 
 He'll wear the stamp of the prison to his dying day. 
 Those people never change. There's a kink in the 
 natures which cannot be straightened. When I came 
 out from the hotel he was walking up the cliff with his 
 arm through Napier's." 
 
 Anne bore all this with composure. But she was 
 conscious of a great compassion for Hugh Napier. 
 His continued presence in Borhaven, however, did 
 not disturb her. She felt that she could see him and 
 confirm her decision. 
 
 After some moments Mrs. Ainslie was heard de- 
 scending the stairs; Anne went to the door to greet 
 her. There was a set and rigid look in the mother's 
 face, an expression almost of awe. "She would like 
 you both to go up," she said in a strained voice, and 
 went to the window, turning her back upon them, 
 standing there with her handkerchief to her mouth. 
 
 As they went up the stairs, Richard Paton said to 
 Anne, " I hope I shall be able to say what I ought to 
 say, and do what I ought to do; but I am inexperi- 
 enced in these sorrowful things. Don't think badly
 
 A SECOND MARRIAGE 311 
 
 of me if I blunder. It won't be lack of feeling, but 
 lack of experience." 
 
 "You have nothing to fear," she said encourag- 
 ingly, and at the door she gave him her hand. 
 
 The grandmother was lying with her eyes closed. 
 She was perfectly motionless. It was difficult to see 
 that she breathed. 
 
 Paton was struck dumb by the terribly wasted and 
 shrunken appearance of this old lady, who had been 
 once so vivacious, lively, and ironical. Anne had 
 grown accustomed to the gradual dwindling of vitality, 
 and did not realize the change. 
 
 "Anne? Is that you?" The eyes did not open. 
 
 "Yes, grannie dear." 
 
 -"And Richard?" 
 
 "Yes; he has come to see you." 
 
 The dying woman opened her eyes. "Richard?" 
 she inquired. "I cannot see clearly. Come nearer to 
 me. Both of you. Richard, I hope you are well and 
 happy. Let me take your hand. Anne, where is 
 yours ? Have I got them both ? There, they are 
 joined; joined again. Richard, be very good to her. 
 I am going to her father. You must love each other. 
 Life is but a shadow. It passes away. Try to do 
 something, both of you, to make the world more 
 worthy of God's love. Will you try ? I will tell Dr. 
 Ainslie. There; I won't keep you. What is that 
 noise? Richard, are you crying? Don't cry for me. 
 Why should you cry ? It is only a sleep, dear 
 Richard. We shall meet again. It will be well for 
 us. I am neither afraid nor unwilling. Now that I
 
 312 THE CAGE 
 
 know my darling is safe I am glad to go. Take care 
 of her. Be very good to her. Love and cherish her 
 all your life long." 
 
 Anne was kneeling at the bedside, and Paton, 
 mastering his emotions, knelt at her side. 
 
 "Mrs. Dobson," he said gently, "I want you to 
 know that I am sorry for the past sorry with all my 
 heart." 
 
 " God hears you say that." 
 
 "And I promise you that I will shield and love and 
 honour my wife, if she will come back to me, till the 
 end of my life." , 
 
 "I have come back," Anne said, and took his hand 
 and held it. 
 
 There was no sound in the room but the breathing 
 of the dying lady, which began to be laboured. 
 
 Presently they heard her say in a whisper, which 
 died away in a sigh 
 
 " Nothing in my hand I bring, 
 Simply to Thy Cross I cling." 
 
 On that sigh her soul passed into the Light. 
 
 THE END
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FAd 
 
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