The Patrician.......................................................................................................................................................1

John Galsworthy......................................................................................................................................1

Light, entering the vast rooma room so high that its carved ceiling refused itself to exact

scrutinytravelled, with the wistful, cold curiosity of the dawn, over a fantastic storehouse of Time. Light,

unaccompanied by the prejudice of human eyes, made strange revelation of incongruities, as though

For in this dining hallone of the finest in Englandthe Caradoc family had for centuries assembled the

trophies and records of their existence. Round about this dining hall they had built and pulled down and

restored, until the rest of Monkland Court presented some aspect of homogeneity. Here alone they had left

virgin the work of the old quasimonastic builders, and within it unconsciously deposited their souls. For

there were here, meeting the eyes of light, all those rather touching evidences of man's desire to persist for

ever, those shells of his former bodies, the fetishes and queer proofs of his faiths, together with the

The annalist might here have found all his needed confirmations; the analyst from this material formed the

due equation of high birth; the philosopher traced the course of aristocracy, from its primeval rise in crude

strength or subtlety, through centuries of power, to picturesque decadence, and the beginnings of its last

stand. Even the artist might here, perchance, have seized on the dry ineffable pervading spirit, as one visiting

>From the legendary sword of that Welsh chieftain who by an act of high, rewarded treachery had passed

into the favour of the conquering William, and received, with the widow of a Norman, many lands in

Devonshire, to the Cup purchased for Geoffrey Caradoc; present Earl of Valleys, by subscription of his

Devonshire tenants on the occasion of his marriage with the Lady Gertrude Semmeringno insignia were

absent, save the family portraits in the gallery of Valleys House in London. There was even an ancient

duplicate of that yellow tattered scroll royally, reconfirming lands and title to John, the most distinguished of

all the Caradocs, who had unfortunately neglected to be born in wedlock, by one of those humorous

omissions to be found in the genealogies of most old families. Yes, it was there, almost cynically hung in a

corner; for this incident, though no doubt a burning question in the fifteenth century, was now but staple for

an ironical little tale, in view of the fact that descendants of John's 'own' brother Edmund were undoubtedly to

Light, glancing from the suits of armour to the tiger skins beneath them, brought from India but a year ago by

Bertie Caradoc, the younger son, seemed recording, how those, who had once been foremost by virtue of that

simple law of Nature which crowns the adventuring and strong, now being almost washed aside out of the

main stream of national life, were compelled to devise adventure, lest they should lose belief in their own

The unsparing light of that first halfhour of summer morning recorded many other changes, wandering from

austere tapestries to the velvety carpets, and dragging from the contrast sure proof of a common sense which

denied to the present Earl and Countess the asceticisms of the past. And then it seemed to lose interest in this

critical journey, as though longing to clothe all in witchery. For the sun had risen, and through the Eastern

windows came pouring its level and mysterious joy. And with it, passing in at an open lattice, came a wild

bee to settle among the flowers on the table athwart the Eastern end, used when there was only a small party

in the house. The hours fled on silent, till the sun was high, and the first visitors camethree maids, rosy, not

silent, bringing brushes. They passed, and were followed by two footmenscouts of the breakfast brigade,

who stood for a moment professionally doing nothing, then soberly commenced to set the table. Then came a

little girl of six, to see if there were anything excitinglittle Ann Shropton, child of Sir William Shropton by

his marriage with Lady Agatha, and eldest daughter of the house, the only one of the four young Caradocs as

yet wedded. She came on tiptoe, thinking to surprise whatever was there. She had a broad little face, and wide

frank hazel eyes over a little nose that came out straight and sudden. Encircled by a loose belt placed far

below the waist of her holland frock, as if to symbolize freedom, she seemed to think everything in life good

"Here's a bumble bee, William. Do you think I could tame it in my little glass bog?"

"I don't like London. I like here, and I like Cotton, and I like home pretty well, and I love

The door banged faintly, and in the great room rose the busy silence of those minutes which precede repasts.

Suddenly the four men by the breakfast fable stood back. Lord Valleys had come in.

He approached slowly, reading a blue paper, with his level grey eyes divided by a little uncharacteristic

frown. He had a tanned yet ruddy, decisively shaped face, with crisp hair and moustache beginning to go

irongreythe face of a man who knows his own mind and is contented with that knowledge. His figure too,

wellbraced and upright, with the back of the head carried like a soldier's, confirmed the impression, not so

much of selfsufficiency, as of the sufficiency of his habits of life and thought. And there was apparent about

all his movements that peculiar unconsciousness of his surroundings which comes to those who live a great

deal in the public eye, have the material machinery of existence placed exactly to their hands, and never need

to consider what others think of them. Taking his seat, and still perusing the paper, he at once began to eat

what was put before him; then noticing that his eldest daughter had come in and was sitting down beside him,

"Yes. This confounded business of the balloons." But the rather anxious dark eyes of Agatha's delicate

narrow face were taking in the details of a tray for keeping dishes warm on a sideboard, and she was thinking:

"I believe that would be better than the ones I've got, after all. If William would only say whether he really

likes these large trays better than single hotwater dishes!" She contrived how ever to ask in her gentle

voicefor all her words and movements were gentle, even a little timid, till anything appeared to threaten

But her father did not answer; he was greeting a newcomer, a tall, finelooking young man, with dark hair

and a fair moustache, between whom and himself there was no relationship, yet a certain negative

resemblance. Claud Fresnay, Viscount Harbinger, was indeed also a little of what is called the 'Norman'

typehaving a certain firm regularity of feature, and a slight aquilinity of nose high up on the bridgebut

that which in the elder man seemed to indicate only an unconscious acceptance of self as a standard, in the

younger man gave an impression at once more assertive and more uneasy, as though he were a little afraid of

Behind him had come in a tall woman, of full figure and fine presence, with hair still brownLady Valleys

herself. Though her eldest son was thirty, she was, herself, still little more than fifty. From her voice, manner,

and whole personality, one might suspect that she had been an acknowledged beauty; but there was now more

than a suspicion of maturity about her almost jovial face, with its full greyblue eyes; and coarsened

complexion. Good comrade, and essentially 'woman of the world,' was written on every line of her, and in

every tone of her voice. She was indeed a figure suggestive of open air and generous living, endowed with

abundant energy, and not devoid of humour. It was she who answered Agatha's remark.

"By the way, Brabrook's going to speak on it. Did you ever hear him, Lady Agatha? 'Mr. Speaker, Sir, I

"If I let Ann go as far as the gate, she'll only make it a stepping stone to something else tomorrow." Taking

no interest in public affairs, her inherited craving for command had resorted for expression to a meticulous

ordering of household matters. It was indeed a cult with her, a passionas though she felt herself a sort of

"Tell Miltoun to keepan eye on that Mr. Courtier. I heard him speak one dayhe's rather good."

"Well, I think so; I'm uneasyafter all, Mother has some influence with Miltoun."

Lord Valleys shrugged his shoulders, and slightly squeezing his wife's arm, went out.

Though himself vaguely uneasy on that very subject, he was a man who did not go to meet disturbance. He

had the nerves which seem to be no nerves at allespecially found in those of his class who have much to do

with horses. He temperamentally regarded the evil of the day as quite sufficient to it. Moreover, his eldest son

Emerging into the outer hall, he lingered a moment, remembering that he had not seen his younger and

"Lady Barbara down yet?" Hearing that she was not, he slipped into the motor coat held for him by Simmons,

and stepped out under the white portico, decorated by the Caradoc hawks in stone.

The voice of little Ann reached him, clear and high above the smothered whirring of the car.

Lord Valleys grimaced beneath his crisp moustachethe word grandpapa always fell queerly on the ears of

one who was but fiftysix, and by no means felt itand jerking his gloved hand towards Ann, he said:

Lord Valleys, motoring, somewhat pathetically illustrated the invasion of institutions by their destroyer,

Science. A supporter of the turf, and not long since Master of Foxhounds, most of whose soul (outside

politics) was in horses, he had been, as it were, compelled by common sense, not only to tolerate, but to take

up and even press forward the cause of their supplanters. His instinct of self preservation was secretly at

work, hurrying him to his own destruction; forcing him to persuade himself that science and her successive

victories over brute nature could be wooed into the service of a prestige which rested on a crystallized and

stationary base. All this keeping pace with the times, this immersion in the results of modern discoveries, this

speedingup of existence so that it was all surface and little rootthe increasing volatility, cosmopolitanism,

and even commercialism of his life, on which he rather prided himself as a man of the worldwas, with a

secrecy too deep for his perception, cutting at the aloofness logically demanded of one in his position.

Stubborn, and not spiritually subtle, though by no means dull in practical matters, he was resolutely letting

the waters bear him on, holding the tiller firmly, without perceiving that he was in the vortex of a whirlpool.

Indeed, his common sense continually impelled him, against the sort of reactionaryism of which his son

Miltoun had so much, to that easier reactionaryism, which, living on its spiritual capital, makes what material

He drove the car himself, shrewd and selfcontained, sitting easily, with his cap well drawn over those steady

eyes; and though this unexpected meeting of the Cabinet in the Whitsuntide recess was not only a nuisance,

but gave food for anxiety, he was fully able to enjoy the swift smooth movement through the summer air,

which met him with such friendly sweetness under the great trees of the long avenue. Beside him, little Ann

was silent, with her legs stuck out rather wide apart. Motoring was a new excitement, for at home it was

forbidden; and a meditative rapture shone in her wide eyes above her sudden little nose. Only once she spoke,

when close to the lodge the car slowed down, and they passed the lodgekeeper's little daughter.

There was no answer, but the look on Susie's small pale face was so humble and adoring that Lord Valleys,

not a very observant man, noticed it with a sort of satisfaction. "Yes," he thought, somewhat irrelevantly, "the

At Ravensham House on the borders of Richmond Park, suburban seat of the Casterley family, ever since it

became usual to have a residence within easy driving distance of Westminsterin a large conservatory

adjoining the hall, Lady Casterley stood in front of some Japanese lilies. She was a slender, short old woman,

with an ivorycoloured face, a thin nose, and keen eyes halfveiled by delicate wrinkled lids. Very still, in

her grey dress, and with grey hair, she gave the impression of a little figure carved out of fine, worn steel. Her

"Geoffrey is motoring up tomorrow. He'll look in on you on the way if he can. This new war scare has taken

him up. I shan't be in Town myself till Miltoun's election is over. The fact is, I daren't leave him down here

alone. He sees his 'Anonyma' every day. That Mr. Courtier, who wrote the book against Warrather cool for

a man who's been a soldier of fortune, don't you think?is staying at the inn, working for the Radical. He

knows her, tooand, one can only hope, for Miltoun's sake, too wellan attractive person, with red

moustaches, rather nice and mad. Bertie has just come down; I must get him to have a talk with Miltoun, and

see if he cant find out how the land lies. One can trust Bertiehe's really very astute. I must say, that she's

quite a sweetlooking woman; but absolutely nothing's known of her here except that she divorced her

husband. How does one find out about people? Miltoun's being so extraordinarily straitlaced makes it all the

more awkward. The earnestness of this rising generation is most remarkable. I don't remember taking such a

Lady Casterley lowered the coronetted sheet of paper. The ghost of a grimace haunted her faceshe had not

"I'm sure Geoffrey and I feel years younger than either Miltoun or Agatha, though we did produce them. One

doesn't feel it with Bertie or Babs, luckily. The war scare is having an excellent effect on Miltoun's

candidature. Claud Harbinger is with us, too, working for Miltoun; but, as a matter of fact, I think he's after

Babs. It's rather melancholy, when you think that Babs isn't quite twenty still, one can't expect anything

else, I suppose, with her looks; and Claud is rather a fine specimen. They talk of him a lot now; he's quite

Lady Casterley again lowered the letter, and stood listening. A prolonged, muffled sound as of distant

cheering and groans had penetrated the great conservatory, vibrating among the pale petals of the lilies and

setting free their scent in short waves of perfume. She passed into the hall; where, stood an old man with

"A posse of Socialists, my lady, on their way to Putney to hold a demonstration; the people are hooting them.

Above the velvetdark, flattoughed cedar trees, which rose like pagodas of ebony on either side of the drive,

the sky hung lowering in one great purple cloud, endowed with sinister life by a single white beam striking

up into it from the horizon. Beneath this canopy of cloud a small phalanx of dusty, dishevelledlooking men

and women were drawn up in the road, guarding, and encouraging with cheers, a tall, blackcoated orator.

Before and behind this phalanx, a little mob of men and boys kept up an accompaniment of groans and

Lady Casterley and her 'majordomo' stood six paces inside the scrolled iron gates, and watched. The slight,

steelcoloured figure with steelcoloured hair, was more arresting in its immobility than all the vociferations

and gestures of the mob. Her eyes alone moved under their halfdrooped lids; her right hand clutched tightly

the handle of her stick. The speaker's voice rose in shrill protest against the exploitation of 'the people'; it

sank in ironical comment on Christianity; it demanded passionately to be free from the continuous burden of

'this insensate militarist taxation'; it threatened that the people would take things info their own hands.

Under the stone porch she paused. The purple cloud had broken; a blind fury of rain was deluging the

"It will do them good to have their ardour damped a little. You will get wet, Cliftonhurry! I expect Lord

Valleys to dinner. Have a room got ready for him to dress. He's motoring from Monkland."

In a very high, whitepannelled room, with but little furniture, Lord Valleys greeted his motherinlaw

"These war scares," he said, "are getting a bore. Can't quite make out what the feeling of the country is about

"It has none. When war comes, the feeling will be all right. It always is. Give me your arm. Are you

When Lord Valleys spoke of war, he spoke as one who, since he arrived at years of discretion, had lived

within the circle of those who direct the destinies of States. It was for himas for the lilies in the great glass

houseimpossible to see with the eyes, or feel with the feelings of a flower of the garden outside. Soaked in

the best prejudices and manners of his class, he lived a life no more shut off from the general than was to be

expected. Indeed, in some sort, as a man of facts and common sense, he was fairly in touch with the opinion

of the average citizen. He was quite genuine when he said that he believed he knew what the people wanted

better than those who prated on the subject; and no doubt he was right, for temperamentally he was nearer to

them than their own leaders, though he would not perhaps have liked to be told so. His manoftheworld,

political shrewdness had been superimposed by life on a nature whose prime strength was its practicality and

lack of imagination. It was his business to be efficient, but not strenuous, or desirous of pushing ideas to their

logical conclusions; to be neither narrow nor puritanical, so long as the shell of 'good form' was preserved

intact; to be a liberal landlord up to the point of not seriously damaging his interests; to be welldisposed

towards the arts until those arts revealed that which he had not before perceived; it was his business to have

light hands, steady eyes, iron nerves, and those excellent manners that have no mannerisms. It was his nature

to be easygoing as a husband; indulgent as a father; careful and straightforward as a politician; and as a

man, addicted to pleasure, to work, and to fresh air. He admired, and was fond of his wife, and had never

regretted his marriage. He had never perhaps regretted anything, unless it were that he had not yet won the

Derby, or quite succeeded in getting his special strain of blueticked pointers to breed absolutely true to type.

There was indeed in the personality of that little old lady the tremendous force of accumulated decisionthe

inherited assurance of one whose prestige had never been questioned; who, from long immunity, and a

certain clearcut matteroffactness, bred by the habit of command, had indeed lost the power of perceiving

that her prestige ever could be questioned. Her knowledge of her own mind was no ordinary piece of

learning, had not, in fact, been learned at all, but sprang fullfledged from an active dominating

temperament. Fortified by the necessity, common to her class, of knowing thoroughly the more patent side of

public affairs; armoured by the tradition of a culture demanded by leadership; inspired by ideas, but always

the same ideas; owning no master, but in servitude to her own custom of leading, she had a mind, formidable

as the twoedged swords wielded by her ancestors the FitzHarolds, at Agincourt or Poitiers a mind which

had ever instinctively rejected that inner knowledge of herself or of the selves of others; produced by those

foolish practices of introspection, contemplation, and understanding, so deleterious to authority. If Lord

Valleys was the body of the aristocratic machine, Lady Casterley was the steel spring inside it. All her life

studiously unaffected and simple in attire; of plain and frugal habit; an early riser; working at something or

other from morning till night, and as little wornout at seventyeight as most women of fifty, she had only

one weak spotand that was her strengthblindness as to the nature and size of her place in the scheme of

Wonderfully well she went with the room in which they were dining, whose grey walls, surmounted by a

deep frieze painted somewhat in the style of Fragonard, contained many nymphs and roses now rather dim;

with the furniture, too, which had a look of having survived into times not its own. On the tables were no

flowers, save five lilies in an old silver chalice; and on the wall over the great sideboard a portrait of the late

"That's the trouble. He suffers from swollen principlesonly wish he could keep them out of his speeches."

"Let him be; and get him away from that woman as soon as his election's over. What is her real name?"

"Ah!" said Lady Casterley; "exactly! You're letting the thing drift. I shall go down myself. I suppose Gertrude

Lord Valleys smiled. In this smile was the whole of his polite and easygoing philosophy. "I am no meddler,"

"He is a firebrand," she said. "I read that book of his against War most inflammatory. Aimed at Grantand

Rosenstern, chiefly. I've just seen, one of the results, outside my own gates. A mob of anti War agitators."

"I wish to goodness we could see the last of these scares, they only make both countries look foolish,"

Lady Casterley raised her glass, full of a bloody red wine. "The war would save us," she said.

"We should get the lead again as a nation, and Democracy would be put back fifty years."

Lord Valleys made three little heaps of salt, and paused to count them; then, with a slight uplifting of his

eyebrows, which seemed to doubt what he was going to say, he murmured: "I should have said that we were

Twenty minutes later, he was turning through the scrolled iron gates into the road for London. It was falling

dark; and in the tremulous sky clouds were piled up, and drifted here and there with a sort of endless lack of

purpose. No direction seemed to have been decreed unto their wings. They had met together in the firmament

like a flock of giant magpies crossing and recrossing each others' flight. The smell of rain was in the air. The

car raised no dust, but bored swiftly on, searching out the road with its lamps. On Putney Bridge its march

was stayed by a string of waggons. Lord Valleys looked to right and left. The river reflected the thousand

lights of buildings piled along her sides, lamps of the embankments, lanterns of moored barges. The sinuous

pallid body of this great Creature, for ever gliding down to the sea, roused in his mind no symbolic image. He

had had to do with her, years back, at the Board of Trade, and knew her for what she was, extremely dirty,

and getting abominably thin just where he would have liked her plump. Yet, as he lighted a cigar, there came

"I hope to God," he thought, "nothing'il come of these scares!" The car glided on into the long road,

swarming with traffic, towards the fashionable heart of London. Outside stationers' shops, however, the

And before each poster could be seen a little eddy in the stream of the passersbyformed by persons

glancing at the news, and disengaging themselves, to press on again. The Earl of Valleys caught himself

wondering what they thought of it! What was passing behind those pale rounds of flesh turned towards the

Did they think at all, these men and women in the street? What was their attitude towards this vaguely

threatened cataclysm? Face after face, stolid and apathetic, expressed nothing, no active desire, certainly no

enthusiasm, hardly any dread. Poor devils! The thing, after all, was no more within their control than it was

within the power of ants to stop the ruination of their antheap by some passing boy! It was no doubt quite

true, that the people had never had much voice in the making of war. And the words of a Radical weekly,

which as an impartial man he always forced himself to read, recurred to him. "Ignorant of the facts,

hypnotized by the words 'Country' and 'Patriotism'; in the grip of mobinstinct and inborn prejudice against

the foreigner; helpless by reason of his patience, stoicism, good faith, and confidence in those above him;

helpless by reason of his snobbery, mutual distrust, carelessness for the morrow, and lack of public spiritin

the face of War how impotent and to be pitied is the man in the street!" That paper, though clever, always

It was doubtful whether he would get to Ascot this year. And his mind flew for a moment to his promising

twoyearold Casetta; then dashed almost violently, as though in shame, to the Admiralty and the doubt

whether they were fully alive to possibilities. He himself occupied a softer spot of Government, one of those

almost nominal offices necessary to qualify into the Cabinet certain tried minds, for whom no more strenuous

post can for the moment be found. From the Admiralty again his thoughts leaped to his motherinlaw.

Wonderful old woman! What a statesman she would have made! Too reactionary! Deuce of a straight line she

had taken about Mrs. Lees Noel! And with a connoisseur's twinge of pleasure he recollected that lady's face

and figure seen that morning as he passed her cottage. Mysterious or not, the woman was certainly attractive!

Very graceful head with its dark hair waved back from the middle over either templevery charming figure,

no lumber of any sort! Bouquet about her! Some story or other, no doubtno affair of his! Always sorry for

A regiment of Territorials returning from a march stayed the progress of his car. He leaned forward watching

them with much the same contained, shrewd, critical look he would have bent on a pack of hounds. All the

mistiness and speculation in his mind was gone now. Good stamp of man, would give a capital account of

themselves! Their faces, flushed by a day in the open, were masked with passivity, or, with a halfaggressive,

halfjocular selfconsciousness; they were clearly not troubled by abstract doubts, or any visions of the

Someone raised a cheer 'for the Terriers!' Lord Valleys saw round him a little sea of hats, rising and falling,

and heard a sound, rather shrill and tentative, swell into hoarse, high clamour, and suddenly die out. "Seem

keen enough!" he thought. "Very little does it! Plenty of fighting spirit in the country." And again a thrill of

Then, as the last soldier passed, his car slowly forged its way through the straggling crowd, pressing on

behind the regimentmen of all ages, youths, a few women, young girls, who turned their eyes on him with

a negligent stare as if their lives were too remote to permit them to take interest in this passing man at ease.

At Monkland, that same hour, in the little whitewashed 'withdrawing room' of a thatched, whitewashed

cottage, two men sat talking, one on either side of the hearth; and in a low chair between them a dark eyed

woman leaned back, watching, the tips of her delicate thin fingers pressed together, or held out transparent

towards the fire. A log, dropping now and then, turned up its glowing underside; and the firelight and the

lamplight seemed so to have soaked into the white walls that a wan warmth exuded. Silvery dun moths,

fluttering in from the dark garden, kept vibrating, like spun shillings, over a jadegreen bowl of crimson

roses; and there was a scent, as ever in that old thatched cottage, of woodsmoke, flowers, and sweetbriar.

The man on the left was perhaps forty, rather above middle height, vigorous, active, straight, with blue eyes

and a sanguine face that glowed on small provocation. His hair was very bright, almost red, and his fiery

moustaches which descended to the level of his chin, like Don Quixote's seemed bristling and charging.

The man on the right was nearer thirty, evidently tall, wiry, and very thin. He sat rather crumpled, in his low

armchair, with hands clasped round a knee; and a little crucified smile haunted the lips of his lean face,

which, with its parchmenty, tanned, shaven cheeks, and deepset, very living eyes, had a certain beauty.

These two men, so extravagantly unlike, looked at each other like neighbouring dogs, who, having long

decided that they are better apart, suddenly find that they have met at some spot where they cannot possibly

have a fight. And the woman watched; the owner, as it were, of one, but who, from sheer love of dogs, had

"So, Mr. Courtier," said the younger man, whose dry, ironic voice, like his smile, seemed defending the

fervid spirit in his eyes; "all you say only amounts, you see, to a defence of the socalled Liberal spirit; and,

forgive my candour, that spirit, being an importation from the realms of philosophy and art, withers the

The man with the red moustaches laughed; the sound was queerat once so genial and so sardonic.

"Well put!" he said: "And far be it from me to gainsay. But since compromise is the very essence of politics,

highpriests of caste and authority, like you, Lord Miltoun, are every bit as much out of it as any Liberal

"Agree or not, your position towards public affairs is very like the Church's attitude towards marriage and

divorce; as remote from the realities of life as the attitude of the believer in Free Love, and not more likely to

catch on. The death of your point of view lies in itselfit's too driedup and far from things ever to

understand them. If you don't understand you can never rule. You might just as well keep your hands in your

"Well; perhaps I do pay you too high a compliment. After all, you are a patrician."

The darkeyed woman stirred; her hands gave a sort of flutter, as though in deprecation of acerbity.

"We're tiring Mrs. Noel. Goodnight, Audrey, It's high time I was off." Against the darkness of the open

"What I meant, Lord Miltoun, was that your class is the driest and most practical in the Stateit's odd if it

doesn't save you from a poet's dreams. Goodnight!" He passed out on to the lawn, and vanished.

The young man sat unmoving; the glow of the fire had caught his face, so that a spirit seemed clinging round

"Look at my dear toad! It comes here every evening!" On a flagstone of the verandah, in the centre of the

stream of lamplight, sat a little golden toad. As Miltoun came to look, it waddled to one side, and vanished.

"How peaceful your garden is!" he said; then taking her hand, he very gently raised it to his lips, and

Truly peace brooded over that garden. The Night seemed listening all lights out, all hearts at rest. It

watched, with a little white star for every tree, and roof, and slumbering tired flower, as a mother watches her

sleeping child, leaning above him and counting with her love every hair of his head, and all his tiny tremors.

Argument seemed child's babble indeed under the smile of Night. And the face of the woman, left alone at

her window, was a little like the face of this warm, sweet night. It was sensitive, harmonious; and its harmony

was not, as in some faces, coldbut seemed to tremble and glow and flutter, as though it were a spirit which

In her garden,all velvety grey, with black shadows beneath the yew trees, the white flowers alone seemed

to be awake, and to look at her wistfully. The trees stood dark and still. Not even the night birds stirred.

Alone, the little stream down in the bottom raised its voice, privileged when day voices were hushed.

It was not in Audrey Noel to deny herself to any spirit that was abroad; to repel was an art she did not

practise. But this night, though the Spirit of Peace hovered so near, she did not seem to know it. Her hands

trembled, her cheeks were burning; her breast heaved, and sighs fluttered from her lips, just parted.

Eustace Cardoc, Viscount Miltoun, had lived a very lonely life, since he first began to understand the

peculiarities of existence. With the exception of Clifton, his grandmother's 'majordomo,' he made, as a small

child, no intimate friend. His nurses, governesses, tutors, by their own confession did not understand him,

finding that he took himself with unnecessary seriousness; a little afraid, too, of one whom they discovered to

be capable of pushing things to the point of enduring pain in silence. Much of that early time was passed at

Ravensham, for he had always been Lady Casterley's favourite grandchild. She recognized in him the

purposeful austerity which had somehow been omitted from the composition of her daughter. But only to

Clifton, then a man of fifty with a great gravity and long black whiskers, did Eustace relieve his soul. "I tell

you this, Clifton," he would say, sitting on the sideboard, or the arm of the big chair in Clifton's room, or

And Clifton, with his head a little on one side, and a sort of wise concern at his 'friend's' confidences, which

were sometimes of an embarrassing description, would answer now and then: "Of course, my lord," but more

There was in this friendship something fine and suitable, neither of these 'friends' taking or suffering liberties,

and both being interested in pigeons, which they would stand watching with a remarkable attention.

In course of time, following the tradition of his family, Eustace went to Harrow. He was there five

yearsalways one of those boys a little out at wrists and ankles, who may be seen slouching, solitary, along

the pavement to their own haunts, rather dusty, and with one shoulder slightly raised above the other, from

the habit of carrying something beneath one arm. Saved from being thought a 'smug,' by his title, his lack of

any conspicuous scholastic ability, his obvious independence of what was thought of him, and a sarcastic

tongue, which no one was eager to encounter, he remained the ugly duckling who refused to paddle properly

in the green ponds of Public School tradition. He played games so badly that in sheer selfdefence his

fellows permitted him to play without them. Of 'fives' they made an exception, for in this he attained much

proficiency, owing to a certain windmilllike quality of limb. He was noted too for daring chemical

experiments, of which he usually had one or two brewing, surreptitiously at first, and afterwards by special

permission of his housemaster, on the principle that if a room must smell, it had better smell openly. He

His Latin was so poor, and his Greek verse so vile, that all had been surprised when towards the finish of his

career he showed a very considerable power of writing and speaking his own language. He left school

without a pang. But when in the train he saw the old Hill and the old spire on the top of it fading away from

him, a lump rose in his throat, he swallowed violently two or three times, and, thrusting himself far back into

At Oxford, he was happier, but still comparatively lonely; remaining, so long as custom permitted, in

lodgings outside his College, and clinging thereafter to remote, panelled rooms high up, overlooking the

gardens and a portion of the city wall. It was at Oxford that he first developed that passion for selfdiscipline

which afterwards distinguished him. He took up rowing; and, though thoroughly unsuited by nature to this

pastime, secured himself a place in his College 'torpid.' At the end of a race he was usually supported from

his stretcher in a state of extreme extenuation, due to having pulled the last quarter of the course entirely with

his spirit. The same craving for selfdiscipline guided him in the choice of Schools; he went out in 'Greats,'

for which, owing to his indifferent mastery of Greek and Latin, he was the least fitted. With enormous labour

he took a very good degree. He carried off besides, the highest distinctions of the University for English

Essays. The ordinary circles of College life knew nothing of him. Not once in the whole course of his

University career, was he the better for wine. He, did not hunt; he never talked of women, and none talked of

women in his presence. But now and then he was visited by those gusts which come to the ascetic, when all

life seemed suddenly caught up and devoured by a flame burning night and day, and going out mercifully, he

knew not why, like a blown candle. However unsocial in the proper sense of the word, he by no means lacked

company in these Oxford days. He knew many, both dons and undergraduates. His long stride, and

determined absence of direction, had severely tried all those who could stomach so slow a pastime as walking

for the sake of talking. The country knew himthough he never knew the countryfrom Abingdon to

Bablock Hythe. His name stood high, too, at the Union, where he made his mark during his first term in a

debate on a 'Censorship of Literature' which he advocated with gloom, pertinacity, and a certain youthful

brilliance that might well have carried the day, had not an Irishman got up and pointed out the danger

hanging over the Old Testament. To that he had retorted: "Better, sir, it should run a risk than have no risk to

He stayed up four years, and went down with a sense of bewilderment and loss. The matured verdict of

Oxford on this child of hers, was "Eustace Miltoun! Ah! Queer bird! Will make his mark!"

He had about this time an interview with his father which confirmed the impression each had formed of the

other. It took place in the library at Monkland Court, on a late November afternoon.

The light of eight candles in thin silver candlesticks, four on either side of the carved stone hearth, illumined

that room. Their gentle radiance penetrated but a little way into the great dark space lined with books,

panelled and floored with black oak, where the acrid fragrance of leather and dried roseleaves seemed to

drench the, very soul with the aroma of the past. Above the huge fireplace, with light falling on one side of

his shaven face, hung a portrait painter unknownof that Cardinal Caradoc who suffered for his faith in

the sixteenth century. Ascetic, crucified, with a little smile clinging to the lips and deepset eyes, he presided,

Each of those two felt as though he were in the presence of someone else's very near relation. They had, in

"Well, my dear fellow, what are you going to do now? I think we can make certain of this seat down here, if

Through the thin fume of his cigar Lord Valleys watched that long figure sunk deep in the chair opposite.

"Why not?" he said. "You can't begin too soon; unless you think you ought to go round the world."

"There's nothing in politics you can't pick up as you go along," he said. "How old are you?"

"You look older." A faint line, as of contemplation, rose between his eyes. Was it fancy that a little smile was

"I've got a foolish theory," came from those lips, "that one must know the conditions first. I want to give at

Lord Valleys raised his eyebrows. "Waste of time," he said. "You'd know more at the end of it, if you went

For fully a minute Lord Valleys made no answer; he felt almost ruffled. Waiting till the sensation had passed,

Miltoun's apprenticeship to the profession of politics was served in a slum settlement; on his father's estates;

in Chambers at the Temple; in expeditions to Germany, America, and the British Colonies; in work at

elections; and in two forlorn hopes to capture a constituency which could be trusted not to change its

principles. He read much, slowly, but with conscientious tenacity, poetry, history, and works on philosophy,

Fiction, and especially foreign fiction, he did not care for. With the utmost desire to be wide and impartial, he

sucked in what ministered to the wants of his nature, rejecting unconsciously all that by its unsuitability

endangered the flame of his private spirit. What he read, in fact, served only to strengthen those profounder

convictions which arose from his temperament. With a contempt of the vulgar gewgaws of wealth and rank

he combined a humble but intense and growing conviction of his capacity for leadership, of a spiritual

superiority to those whom he desired to benefit. There was no trace, indeed, of the common Pharisee in

Miltoun, he was simple and direct; but his eyes, his gestures, the whole man, proclaimed the presence of

some secret spring of certainty, some fundamental well into which no disturbing glimmers penetrated. He

was not devoid of wit, but he was devoid of that kind of wit which turns its eyes inward, and sees something

of the fun that lies in being what you are. Miltoun saw the world and all the things thereof shaped like

spireseven when they were circles. He seemed to have no sense that the Universe was equally

compounded of those two symbols, whose point of reconciliation had not yet been discovered.

He had reached the age of thirty without ever having been in love, leading a life of almost savage purity, with

one solitary breakdown. Women were afraid of him. And he was perhaps a little afraid of woman. She was in

theory too lovely and desirablethe halfmoon. in a summer sky; in practice too cloying, or too harsh. He

had an affection for Barbara, his younger sister; but to his mother, his grandmother, or his elder sister Agatha,

he had never felt close. It was indeed amusing to see Lady Valleys with her firstborn. Her fine figure, the

blown roses of her face, her greyblue eyes which had a slight tendency to roll, as though amusement just

touched with naughtiness bubbled behind them; were reduced to a queer, satirical decorum in Miltoun's

presence. Thoughts and sayings verging on the risky were characteristic of her robust physique, of her soul

which could afford to express almost ail that occurred to it. Miltoun had never, not even as a child, given her

his confidence. She bore him no resentment, being of that large, generous build in body and mind,

rarelynever in her classassociated with the capacity for feeling aggrieved or lowered in any estimation,

even its own. He was, and always had been, an odd boy, and there was an end of it! Nothing had perhaps so

disconcerted Lady Valleys as his want of behaviour in regard to women. She felt it abnormal, just as she

recognized the essential if duly veiled normality of her husband and younger son. It was this feeling which

made her realize almost more vividly than she had time for, in the whirl of politics and fashion, the danger of

Pure chance had been responsible for the inception of that friendship. Going one December afternoon to the

farmhouse of a tenant, just killed by a fall from his horse, Miltoun had found the widow in a state of

bewildered grief, thinly cloaked in the manner of one who had almost lost the power to express her feelings,

and quite lost it in presence of 'the gentry.' Having assured the poor soul that she need have no fear about her

tenancy, he was just leaving, when he met, in the stoneflagged entrance, a lady in a fur cap and jacket,

carrying in her arms a little crying boy, bleeding from a cut on the forehead. Taking him from her and placing

him on a table in the parlour, Miltoun looked at this lady, and saw that she was extremely grave, and soft, and

Together therefore they washed and bound up the cut. Having finished, she looked at Miltoun, and seemed to

He, therefore, told the mother and was rewarded by a little smile from the grave lady.

>From that meeting he took away the knowledge of her name, Audrey Lees Noel, and the remembrance of a

face, whose beauty, under a cap of squirrel's fur, pursued him. Some days later passing by the village green,

he saw her entering a garden gate. On this occasion he had asked her whether she would like her cottage

rethatched; an inspection of the roof had followed; he had stayed talking a long time. Accustomed to

womenover the best of whom, for all their grace and lack of affectation, highcaste life had wrapped the

manner which seems to take all things for grantedthere was a peculiar charm for Miltoun in this soft,

darkeyed lady who evidently lived quite out of the world, and had so poignant, and shy, a flavour. Thus

from a chance seed had blossomed swiftly one of those rare friendships between lonely people, which can in

One day she asked him: "You know about me, I suppose?" Miltoun made a motion of his head, signifying

"Oh! nono. Sinned against, I am sure. A nice woman, so far as I have seen; though I'm afraid not one of

With this, Miltoun, in whom chivalry had already been awakened, was content. When she asked if he knew

her story, he would not for the world have had her rake up what was painful. Whatever that story, she could

not have been to blame. She had begun already to be shaped by his own spirit; had become not a human

On the third evening after his passage of arms with Courtier, he was again at her little white cottage

sheltering within its high garden walls. Smothered in roses, and with a blackbrown thatch overhanging the

oldfashioned leaded panes of the upper windows, it had an air of hiding from the world. Behind, as though

on guard, two pine trees spread their dark boughs over the outhouses, and in any southwest wind could be

heard speaking gravely about the weather. Tall lilac bushes flanked the garden, and a huge limetree in the

adjoining field sighed and rustled, or on still days let forth the drowsy hum of countless small dusky bees

He found her altering a dress, sitting over it in her peculiar delicate fashionas if all objects whatsoever,

He had come from a long day's electioneering, had been heckled at two meetings, and was still sore from the

experience. To watch her, to be soothed, and ministered to by her had never been so restful; and stretched out

Over the hill a Pierrot moon was slowly moving up in a sky the colour of grey irises. And in a sort of trance

Across the moor a sea of shallow mist was rolling; and the trees in the valley, like browsing cattle, stood

kneedeep in whiteness, with all the air above them wan from an innumerable rain as of moondust, falling

into that white sea. Then the moon passed behind the lime tree, so that a great lighted Chinese lantern

Suddenly, jarring and shivering the music, came a sound of hooting. It swelled, died away, and swelled again.

"That has spoiled my vision," he said. "Mrs. Noel, I have something I want to say." But looking down at her,

sitting so still, with her hands resting on the keys, he was silent in sheer adoration.

When the immortal Don set out to ring all the bells of merriment, he was followed by one clown. Charles

Courtier on the other hand had always been accompanied by thousands, who really could not understand the

conduct of this man with no commercial sense. But though he puzzled his contemporaries, they did not

exactly laugh at him, because it was reported that he had really killed some men, and loved some women.

They found such a combination irresistible, when coupled with an appearance both vigorous and gallant. The

son of an Oxfordshire clergyman, and mounted on a lost cause, he had been riding through the world ever

since he was eighteen, without once getting out of the saddle. The secret of this endurance lay perhaps in his

unconsciousness that he was in the saddle at all. It was as much his natural seat as office stools to other

mortals. He made no capital out of errantry, his temperament being far too like his red gold hair, which

people compared to flames, consuming all before them. His vices were patent; too incurable an optimism; an

admiration for beauty such as must sometimes have caused him to forget which woman he was most in love

with; too thin a skin; too hot a heart; hatred of humbug, and habitual neglect of his own interest. Unmarried,

and with many friends, and many enemies, he kept his body like a swordblade, and his soul always at white

That one who admitted to having taken part in five wars should be mixing in a byelection in the cause of

Peace, was not so inconsistent as might be supposed; for he had always fought on the losing side, and there

seemed to him at the moment no side so losing as that of Peace. No great politician, he was not an orator, nor

even a glib talker; yet a quiet mordancy of tongue, and the whitehot look in his eyes, never failed to make

There was, however, hardly a corner of England where orations on behalf of Peace had a poorer chance than

the Bucklandbury division. To say that Courtier had made himself unpopular with its matterof fact,

independent, stolid, yet quicktempered population, would be inadequate. He had outraged their beliefs, and

roused the most profound suspicions. They could not, for the life of them, make out what he was at. Though

by his adventures and his book, "Peacea lost Cause," he was, in London, a conspicuous figure, they had

naturally never heard of him; and his adventure to these parts seemed to them an almost ludicrous example of

pure idea poking its nose into plain factsthe idea that nations ought to, and could live in peace being so

At Monkland, which was all Court estate, there were naturally but few supporters of Miltoun's opponent, Mr.

Humphrey Chilcox, and the reception accorded to the champion of Peace soon passed from curiosity to

derision, from derision to menace, till Courtier's attitude became so defiant, and his sentences so heated that

he was only saved from a rough handling by the influential interposition of the vicar.

Yet when he began to address them he had felt irresistibly attracted. They looked such capital, independent

fellows. Waiting for his turn to speak, he had marked them down as men after his own heart. For though

Courtier knew that against an unpopular idea there must always be a majority, he never thought so ill of any

Surely these fine, independent fellows were not to be hoodwinked by the jingoes! It had been one more

disillusion. He had not taken it lying down; neither had his audience. They dispersed without forgiving; they

The village Inn, a little white building whose small windows were overgrown with creepers, had a single

guest's bedroom on the upper floor, and a little sittingroom where Courtier took his meals. The rest of the

house was but stonefloored bar with a long wooden bench against the back wall, whence nightly a stream of

talk would issue, all harsh a's, and sudden soft u's; whence too a figure, a little unsteady, would now and

again emerge, to a chorus of 'Gude naights,' stand still under the ashtrees to light his pipe, then move slowly

But on that evening, when the trees, like cattle, stood kneedeep in the moondust, those who came out from

the barroom did not go away; they hung about in the shadows, and were joined by other figures creeping

furtively through the bright moonlight, from behind the Inn. Presently more figures moved up from the lanes

and the churchyard path, till thirty or more were huddled there, and their stealthy murmur of talk distilled a

rare savour of illicit joy. Unholy hilarity, indeed, seemed lurking in the deep treeshadow, before the wan

Inn, whence from a single lighted window came forth the half chanting sound of a man's voice reading out

"He'm apractisin' his spaches." "Smoke the cunnin' old vox out!" "Red pepper's the proper stuff." "See men

Then, as a face showed at the lighted window, a burst of harsh laughter broke the hush.

He at the window was seen struggling violently to wrench away a bar. The laughter swelled to hooting. The

prisoner forced his way through, dropped to the ground, rose, staggered, and fell.

Out of the sounds of scuffling and scattering came the whisper: "His lordship!" And the shade under the

ashtrees became deserted, save by the tall dark figure of a man, and a woman's white shape.

Bertie Caradoc, leaving the smokingroom at Monkland Court that same evening,on his way to bed, went

to the Georgian corridor, where his pet barometer was hanging. To look at the glass had become the nightly

habit of one who gave all the time he could spare from his profession to hunting in the winter and to racing in

The Hon. Hubert Caradoc, an apprentice to the calling of diplomacy, more completely than any living

Caradoc embodied the characteristic strength and weaknesses of that family. He was of fair height, and wiry

build. His weathered face, under sleek, dark hair, had regular, rather small features, and wore an expression

of alert resolution, masked by impassivity. Over his inquiring, hazelgrey eyes the lids were almost

religiously kept half drawn. He had been born reticent, and great, indeed, was the emotion under which he

suffered when the whole of his eyes were visible. His nose was finely chiselled, and had little flesh. His lips,

covered by a small, dark moustache, scarcely opened to emit his speeches, which were uttered in a voice

singularly muffled, yet unexpectedly quick. The whole personality was that of a man practical, spirited,

guarded, resourceful, with great power of selfcontrol, who looked at life as if she were a horse under him, to

whom he must give way just so far as was necessary to keep mastery of her. A man to whom ideas were of no

value, except when wedded to immediate action; essentially neat; demanding to be 'done well,' but capable of

stoicism if necessary; urbane, yet always in readiness to thrust; able only to condone the failings and to

compassionate the kinds of distress which his own experience had taught him to understand. Such was

Having noted that the glass was steady, he was about to seek the stairway, when he saw at the farther end of

the entrancehall three figures advancing arminarm. Habitually both curious and wary, he waited till they

came within the radius of a lamp; then, seeing them to be those of Miltoun and a footman, supporting

Seating the stranger in this chair, Bertie rolled up the trouser, and passed his fingers round the knee. There

was a sort, of loving kindness in that movement, as of a hand which had in its time felt the joints and sinews

"H'm!"he said; "can you stand a bit of a jerk? Catch hold of him behind, Eustace. Sit down on the floor,

Charles, and hold the legs of the chair. Now then!" And taking up the foot, he pulled. There was a click, a

little noise of teeth ground together; and Bertie said: "Good manshan't have to have the vet. to you, this

Having conducted their lame guest to a room in the Georgian corridor hastily converted to a bedroom, the

"Well, old man," said Bertie, as they sought their rooms; "that's put paid to his namewon't do you any

The report that Courtier was harboured beneath their roof went the round of the family before breakfast,

through the agency of one whose practice it was to know all things, and to see that others partook of that

knowledge, Little Ann, paying her customary morning visit to her mother's room, took her stand with face

"Uncle Eustace brought a man last night with a wounded leg, and Uncle Bertie pulled it out straight. William

says that Charles says he only made a noise like this"there was a faint sound of small chumping teeth:

"And he's the man that's staying at the Inn, and the stairs were too narrow to carry him up, William says; and

if his knee was put out he won't be able to walk without a stick for a long time. Can I go to Father?"

But little Ann was gone; and her voice could be heard in the dressingroom climbing up towards Sir William,

who from the sound of his replies, was manifestly shaving. When Agatha, who never could resist a legitimate

opportunity of approaching her husband, looked in, he was alone, and rather thoughtfula tall man with a

solid, steady face and cautious eyes, not in truth remarkable except to his own wife.

"That fellow Courtier's caught by the leg," he said. "Don't know what your Mother will say to an enemy in

Agatha sighed: "Well, I suppose we shall have to be nice to him. I'll tell Mother."

Seated in the embrasure of the window behind the lookingglass, where Lady Valleys was still occupied, she

"He fell out of the window because of the red pepper. Miss Wallace says he is a hostagewhat does hostage

When six years ago that word had first fallen on Lady Valleys' ears, she had thought: "Oh! dear! Am I really

Granny? "It had been a shock, had seemed the end of so much; but the matteroffact heroism of women, so

much quicker to accept the inevitable than men, had soon come to her aid, and now, unlike her husband, she

did not care a bit. For all that she answered nothing, partly because it was not necessary to speak in order to

sustain a conversation with little Ann, and partly because she was deep in thought.

The man was injured! Hospitality, of courseespecially since their own tenants had committed the outrage!

Still, to welcome a man who had gone out of his way to come down here and stump the country against her

own son, was rather a tall order. It might have been worse, no doubt. If; for instance, he had been some

'impossible' Nonconformist Radical! This Mr. Courtier was a free lancerather a wellknown man, an

interesting creature. She must see that he felt 'at home' and comfortable. If he were pumped judiciously, no

doubt one could find out about this woman. Moreover, the acceptance of their 'salt' would silence him

politically if she knew anything of that type of man, who always had something in him of the Arab's creed.

Her mind, that of a capable administrator, took in all the practical significance of this incident, which,

although untoward, was not without its comic side to one disposed to find zest and humour in everything that

Little Ann thrust up her face, so that its sudden little nose penetrated Lady Valleys' soft curving lips....

When early that same afternoon Courtier, leaning on a stick, passed from his room out on to the terrace, he

was confronted by three sunlit peacocks marching slowly across a lawn towards a statue of Diana. With

incredible dignity those birds moved, as if never in their lives had they been hurried. They seemed indeed to

know that when they got there, there would be nothing for them to do but to come back again. Beyond them,

through the tall trees, over some wooded foothills of the moorland and a promised land of pinkish fields,

pasture, and orchards, the prospect stretched to the far sea. Heat clothed this view with a kind of opalescence,

a fairy garment, transmuting all values, so that the four square walls and tall chimneys of the potteryworks a

few miles down the valley seemed to Courtier like a vision of some old fortified Italian town. His sensations,

finding himself in this galley, were peculiar. For his feeling towards Miltoun, whom he had twice met at Mrs.

Noel's, was, in spite of disagreements, by no means unfriendly; while his feeling towards Miltoun's family

was not yet in existence. Having lived from hand to mouth, and in many countries, since he left Westminster

School, he had now practically no class feelings. An attitude of hostility to aristocracy because it was

His sensations habitually shaped themselves in accordance with those two permanent requirements of his

nature, liking for adventure, and hatred of tyranny. The labourer who beat his wife, the shopman who sweated

his 'hands,' the parson who consigned his parishioners to hell, the peer who rode roughshodall were

equally odious to him. He thought of people as individuals, and it was, as it were, by accident that he had

conceived the class generalization which he had fired back at Miltoun from Mrs. Noel's window. Sanguine,

accustomed to queer environments, and always catching at the moment as it flew, he had not to fight with the

timidities and irritations of a nervous temperament. His cheery courtesy was only disturbed when he became

conscious of some sentiment which appeared to him mean or cowardly. On such occasions, not perhaps

infrequent, his face looked as if his heart were physically fuming, and since his shell of stoicism was never

quite melted by this heat, a very peculiar expression was the result, a sort of calm, sardonic, desperate, jolly

His chief feeling, then, at the outrage which had laid him captive in the enemy's camp, was one of vague

amusement, and curiosity. People round about spoke fairly well of this Caradoc family. There did not seem to

be any lack of kindly feeling between them and their tenants; there was said to be no griping destitution, nor

any particular ill housing on their estate. And if the inhabitants were not encouraged to improve themselves,

they were at all events maintained at a certain level, by steady and not ungenerous supervision. When a roof

required thatching it was thatched; when a man became too old to work, he was not suffered to lapse into the

Workhouse. In bad years for wool, or beasts, or crops, the farmers received a graduated remission of rent.

The potteryworks were run on a liberal if autocratic basis. It was true that though Lord Valleys was said to

be a staunch supporter of a 'back to the land' policy, no disposition was shown to encourage people to settle

on these particular lands, no doubt from a feeling that such settlers would not do them so much justice as

their present owner. Indeed so firmly did this conviction seemingly obtain, that Lord Valleys' agent was not

But, since in this life one notices only what interests him, all this gossip, half complimentary, half not, had

fallen but lightly on the ears of the champion of Peace during his campaign, for he was, as has, been said, but

While he stood there enjoying the view, he heard a small high voice, and became conscious of a little girl in a

very shady hat so far back on her brown hair that it did not shade her; and of a small hand put out in front. He

"Thank you, I am welland you?" perceiving the while that a pair of wide frank eyes were examining his

Then, instead of the little girl, Courtier saw a tall and rather florid woman regarding him with a sort of

quizzical dignity. She wore a stiffish fawncoloured dress that seemed to be cut a little too tight round her

substantial hips, for it quite neglected to embrace her knees. She had on no hat, no gloves, no ornaments,

except the rings on her fingers, and a little jewelled watch in a leather bracelet on her wrist. There was,

indeed, about her whole figure an air of almost professional escape from finery.

"It really was disgraceful! However it's brought us the pleasure of making your acquaintance. I've read your

To Courtier it seemed that on this lady's face had come a look which seemed to say: Yes, very clever and

amusing, quite enjoyable! But the ideas What? You know very well they won't doin fact they mustn't

But into Lady Valleys' answer, "I don't agree with it a bit, you know!" there had crept a touch of asperity, as

though she knew that he had smiled inside. "What we want preached in these days are the warlike

"Believe me, Lady Valleys, the warlike virtues are best left to men of more virgin imagination."

He received a quick look, and the words: "Anyway, I'm sure you don't care a rap for politics. You know Mrs.

But as she spoke Courtier saw a young girl coming along the terrace. She had evidently been riding, for she

wore high boots and a skirt which had enabled her to sit astride. Her eyes were blue, and her hairthe colour

of beechleaves in autumn with the sun shining throughwas coiled up tight under a small soft hat. She was

tall, and moved towards them like one endowed with great length from the hip joint to the knee. Joy of life,

"Ah, Babs! My daughter BarbaraMr. Courtier," he put out his hand, received within it some gauntleted

"Miltoun's gone up to Town, Mother; I was going to motor in to Bucklandbury with a message he gave me;

"You had better take Ann, or she'll make our lives a burden; and perhaps Mr. Courtier would like an airing. Is

Never since the age of seven had he been able to look on feminine beauty without a sense of warmth and faint

excitement; and seeing now perhaps the most beautiful girl he had ever beheld, he desired to be with her

wherever she might be going. There was too something very fascinating in the way she smiled, as if she had a

After short but vigorous search little Ann was foundin the car, instinct having told her of a forward

movement in which it was her duty to take part. And soon they had started, Ann between them in that

>From the Monkland estate, flowered, lawned, and timbered, to the open moor, was like passing to another

world; for no sooner was the last lodge of the Western drive left behind, than there came into sudden view the

most pagan bit of landscape in all England. In this wild parliamenthouse, clouds, rocks, sun, and winds met

and consulted. The 'old' men, too, had left their spirits among the great stones, which lay couched like lions

on the hilltops, under the white clouds, and their brethren, the hunting buzzard hawks. Here the very rocks

were restless, changing form, and sense, and colour from day to day, as though worshipping the unexpected,

and refusing themselves to law. The winds too in their passage revolted against their courses, and came

tearing down wherever there were combes or crannies, so that men in their shelters might still learn the power

The wonders of this prospect were entirely lost on little Ann, and somewhat so on Courtier, deeply engaged

in reconciling those two alien principles, courtesy, and the love of looking at a pretty face. He was wondering

too what this girl of twenty, who had the self possession of a woman of forty, might be thinking. It was little

Courtier looked in the direction of her small finger. There was the wreck of a little house, which stood close

to a stone man who had obviously possessed that hill before there were men of flesh. Over one corner of the

"He was a silly man to build it, wasn't he, Ann? That's why they call it Ashman's Folly."

Under this girl's calm quizzical glance, Courtier endeavoured to find an answer to that question.

He heard a little laugh, and became acutely conscious of Ann's dispassionate examining eyes.

"You know now, Mr. Courtier, what Ann thinks of you. You think a good deal of Uncle Eustace, don't you,

"Yes," said Ann, and fixed her eyes before her. But Courtier gazed sidewaysover her hatless head.

His exhilaration was increasing every moment. This girl reminded him of a twoyearold filly he had once

seen, stepping out of Ascot paddock for her first race, with the sun glistening on her satin chestnut skin, her

neck held high, her eyes all fireas sure to win, as that grass was green. It was difficult to believe her

Miltoun's sister. It was difficult to believe any of those four young Caradocs related. The grave ascetic

Miltoun, wrapped in the garment of his spirit; mild, domestic, straitlaced Agatha; Bertie, muffled, shrewd,

But the car had left the moor, and, down a steep hill, was passing the small villas and little grey workmen's

"Ann and I have to go on to Miltoun's headquarters. Shall I drop you at the enemy's, Mr. Courtier? Stop,

And before Courtier could assent, they had pulled up at a house on which was inscribed with extraordinary

Hobbling into the Committeeroom of Mr. Humphrey Chilcox, which smelled of paint, Courtier took with

In that room three men were assembled round a table; the eldest of whom, endowed with little grey eyes, a

stubbly beard, and that mysterious something only found in those who have been mayors, rose at once and

"Mr. Courtier, I believe," he said bluffly. "Glad to see you, sir. Most distressed to hear of this outrage.

Though in a way, it's done us good. Yes, really. Grossly against fair play. Shouldn't be surprised if it turned a

A thin, refined man, with wiry hair, also came up, holding a newspaper in his hand.

"One of our side must have seen the whole thing, jumped on his bicycle and brought in the account before

they went to press. They make no imputation on the ladysimply state the facts. Quite enough," he added

"We couldn't help it, Mr. Courtier; I really don't know what we can do. I don't like it a bit."

"Can't have," struck in the third Committeeman; "we hadn't seen it ourselves until an hour ago."

"I should never have permitted it," said the man with the refined face; "I blame the editor greatly."

"Come to that" said the littleeyed man, "it's a plain piece of news. If it makes a stir, that's not our fault.

The paper imputes nothing, it states. Position of the lady happens to do the rest. Can't help it, and moreover,

sir, speaking for self, don't want to. We'll have no loose morals in public life down here, please God!" There

was real feeling in his words; then, catching sight of Courtier's face, he added: "Do you know this lady?"

"Ever since she was a child. Anyone who speaks evil of her, has to reckon with me."

"Believe me, Mr. Courtier, I entirely sympathize. We had nothing to do with the paragraph. It's one of those

incidents where one benefits against one's will. Most unfortunate that she came out on to the green with Lord

"I don't know, I don't know," said the littleeyed man stubbornly; "if Lord Miltoun will spend his evenings

"This closes my connection with the campaign," he said: "What's the address of this paper?" And without

waiting for an answer, he took up the journal and hobbled from the room. He stood a minute outside finding

By the side of little Ann, Barbara sat leaning back amongst the cushions of the car. In spite of being already

launched into high caste life which brings with it an early knowledge of the world, she had still some of the

eagerness in her face which makes children lovable. Yet she looked negligently enough at the citizens of

Bucklandbury, being already a little conscious of the strange mixture of sentiment peculiar to her countrymen

in presence of herselfthat curious expression on their faces resulting from the continual attempt to look

down their noses while slanting their eyes upwards. Yes, she was already alive to that mysterious glance

which had built the national house and insured it afterwardsfoe to cynicism, pessimism, and anything

French or Russian; parent of all the national virtues, and all the national vices; of idealism and muddle

headedness, of independence and servility; fosterer of conduct, murderer of speculation; looking up, and

looking down, but never straight at anything; most high, most deep, most queer; and ever bubblingup from

Surrounded by that glance, waiting for Courtier, Barbara, not less British than her neighbours, was secretly

slanting her own eyes up and down over the absent figure of her new acquaintance. She too wanted

something she could look up to, and at the same time see damned first. And in this knighterrant it seemed to

He was a creature from another world. She had met many men, but not as yet one quite of this sort. It was

rather nice to be with a clever man, who had none the less done so many outdoor things, been through so

many bodily adventures. The mere writers, or even the 'Bohemians,' whom she occasionally met, were after

all only 'chaplains to the Court,' necessary to keep aristocracy in touch with the latest developments of

literature and art. But this Mr. Courtier was a man of action; he could not be looked on with the amused,

admiring toleration suited to men remarkable only for ideas, and the way they put them into paint or ink. He

had used, and could use, the sword, even in the cause of Peace. He could love, had loved, or so they said: If

Barbara had been a girl of twenty in another class, she would probably never have heard of this, and if she

had heard, it might very well have dismayed or shocked her. But she had heard, and without shock, because

It was with quite a little pang of concern that she saw him hobbling down the street towards her; and when he

was once more seated, she told the chauffeur: "To the station, Frith. Quick, please!" and began:

At this, almost the first time she had ever yet encountered a distinct rebuff, Barbara quivered, as though she

had been touched lightly with a whip. Her lips closed firmly, her eyes began to dance. "Very well, my dear,"

she thought. But presently stealing a look at him, she became aware of such a queer expression on his face,

"Yes, Lady Barbara, something is very wrongthat miserable mean thing, the human tongue."

Barbara had an intuitive knowledge of how to handle things, a kind of moral sangfroid, drawn in from the

faces she had watched, the talk she had heard, from her youth up. She trusted those intuitions, and letting her

"Anything to do with Mrs. N?" Seeing "Yes" in his eyes, she added quickly: "And M?")

The little grey figure of Lady Casterley, coming out of the station doorway, showed but slight sign of her

"Well, Frith!Mr. Courtier, is it? I know your book, and I don't approve of you; you're a dangerous

manHow do you do? I must have those two bags. The cart can bring the rest.... Randle, get up in front, and

don't get dusty. Ann!" But Ann was already beside the chauffeur, having long planned this improvement.

"H'm! So you've hurt your leg, sir? Keep still! We can sit three.... Now, my dear, I can kiss you! You've

Lady Casterley's kiss, once received, was never forgotten; neither perhaps was Barbara's. Yet they were

different. For, in the case of Lady Casterley, the old eyes, bright and investigating, could be seen deciding the

exact spot for the lips to touch; then the face with its firm chin was darted forward; the lips paused a second,

as though to make quite certain, then suddenly dug hard and dry into the middle of the cheek, quavered for

the fraction of a second as if trying to remember to be soft, and were relaxed like the elastic of a catapult.

And in the case of Barbara, first a sort of light came into her eyes, then her chin tilted a little, then her lips

pouted a little, her body quivered, as if it were getting a size larger, her hair breathed, there was a small sweet

Thus kissing her grandmother, Barbara resumed her seat, and looked at Courtier. 'Sitting three' as they were,

The wind had risen, blowing from the West, and sunshine was flying on it. The call of the cuckoosa little

sharpenedfollowed the swift travelling car. And that essential sweetness of the moor, born of the heather

With her thin nostrils distended to this scent, Lady Casterley bore a distinct resemblance to a small, fine

"You smell nice down here," she said. "Now, Mr. Courtier, before I forgetwho is this Mrs. Lees Noel that I

At that question, Barbara could not help sliding her eyes round. How would he stand up to Granny? It was the

Ever so slightly Barbara let her arm press against Courtiers. It was so delicious to hear Granny getting no

"Well, this is all very mysterious. I shall find out for myself. You know her, my dear. You must take me to

Lady Casterley let her little clawlike hand descend on her grand daughter's thigh.

"Don't talk nonsense, and don't stretch like that!" she said; "you're too large already...."

At dinner that night they were all in possession of the news. Sir William had been informed by the local agent

at Staverton, where Lord Harbinger's speech had suffered from some rude interruptions. The Hon. Geoffrey

Winlow; having sent his wife on, had flown over in his biplane from Winkleigh, and brought a copy of 'the

rag' with him. The one member of the small houseparty who had not heard the report before dinner was

Little, of course, was said. But after the ladies had withdrawn, Harbinger, with that plainspoken spontaneity

which was so unexpected, perhaps a little intentionally so, in connection with his almost classically formed

face, uttered words to the effect that, if they did not fundamentally kick that rumour, it was all up with

Miltoun. Really this was serious! And the beggars knew it, and they were going to work it. And Miltoun had

In all the conversation of this young man there was that peculiar brand of voice, which seems ever rebutting

an accusation of being seriousa brand of voice and manner warranted against anything save ridicule; and in

the face of ridicule apt to disappear. The words, just a little satirically spoken: "What is, my dear young

Looking for the complement and counterpart of Lady Casterley, one would perhaps have singled out her

brother. All her abrupt decision was negated in his profound, ironical urbanity. His voice and look and

manner were like his velvet coat, which had here and there a whitish sheen, as if it had been touched by

moonlight. His hair too had that sheen. His very delicate features were framed in a white beard and

moustache of Elizabethan shape. His eyes, hazel and still clear, looked out very straight, with a certain dry

kindliness. His face, though unweathered and unseamed, and much too fine and thin in texture, had a curious

affinity to the faces of old sailors or fishermen who have lived a simple, practical life in the light of an

overmastering tradition. It was the face of a man with a very set creed, and inclined to be satiric towards

innovations, examined by him and rejected full fifty years ago. One felt that a brain not devoid either of

subtlety or aesthetic quality had long given up all attempts to interfere with conduct; that all shrewdness of

speculation had given place to shrewdness of practical judgment based on very definite experience. Owing to

lack of advertising power, natural to one so conscious of his dignity as to have lost all care for it, and to his

devotion to a certain lady, only closed by death, his life had been lived, as it were, in shadow. Still, he

possessed a peculiar influence in Society, because it was known to be impossible to get him to look at things

in a complicated way. He was regarded rather as a last resort, however. "Bad as that? Well, there's old

And in the heart of that irreverent young man, Harbinger, there stirred a sort of misgiving. Had he expressed

himself too freely? Had he said anything too thick? He had forgotten the old boy! Stirring Bertie up with his

Thus called on, Bertie, opening his lips a very little way, and fixing his halfclosed eyes on his greatuncle,

explained. There was a lady at the cottagea nice womanMr. Courtier knew herold Miltoun went there

sometimesrather late the other eveningthese devils were making the most of itsuggestinglose him

In his opinion, old Miltoun, though as steady as Time, had been a flat to let the woman come out with him on

to the Green, showing clearly where he had been, when he ran to Courtier's rescue. You couldn't play about

with women who had no form that anyone knew anything of, however promising they might look.

Then, out of a silence Winlow asked: What was to be done? Should Miltoun be wired for? A thing like this

spread like wildfire! Sir Williama man not accustomed to underrate difficultieswas afraid it was going

to be troublesome. Harbinger expressed the opinion that the editor ought to be kicked. Did anybody know

what Courtier had done when he heard of it. Where was hedining in his room? Bertie suggested that if

Miltoun was at Valleys House, it mightn't be too late to wire to him. The thing ought to be stemmed at once!

And in all this concern about the situation there kept cropping out quaint little outbursts of desire to disregard

the whole thing as infernal insolence, and metaphorically to punch the beggars' heads, natural to young men

Turning a little abruptly towards that dry suave voice, and recovering the selfpossession which seldom

In the lesser withdrawing room, used when there was so small a party, Mrs. Winlow had gone to the piano

and was playing to herself, for Lady Casterley, Lady Valleys, and her two daughters had drawn together as

It was curious testimony to Miltoun's character that, no more here than in the dininghall, was there any

doubt of the integrity of his relations with Mrs. Noel. But whereas, there the matter was confined to its

electioneering aspect, here that aspect was already perceived to be only the fringe of its importance. Those

feminine minds, going with intuitive swiftness to the core of anything which affected their own males, had

already grasped the fact that the rumour would, as it were, chain a man of Miltoun's temper to this woman.

But they were walking on such a thin crust of facts, and there was so deep a quagmire of supposition beneath,

that talk was almost painfully difficult. Never before perhaps had each of these four women realized so

clearly how much Miltounthat rather strange and unknown grandson, son, and brothercounted in the

scheme of existence. Their suppressed agitation was manifested in very different ways. Lady Casterley,

upright in her chair, showed it only by an added decision of speech, a continual restless movement of one

hand, a thin line between her usually smooth brows. Lady Valleys wore a puzzled look, as if a little surprised

that she felt serious. Agatha looked frankly anxious. She was in her quiet way a woman of much character,

endowed with that natural piety, which accepts without questioning the established order in life and religion.

The world to her being home and family, she had a real, if gently expressed, horror of all that she

instinctively felt to be subversive of this ideal. People judged her a little quiet, dull, and narrow; they

compared her to a hen for ever clucking round her chicks. The streak of heroism that lay in her nature was not

perhaps of patent order. Her feeling about her brother's situation however was sincere and not to be changed

or comforted. She saw him in danger of being damaged in the only sense in which she could conceive of a

manas a husband and a father. It was this that went to her heart, though her piety proclaimed to her also the

peril of his soul; for she shared the High Church view of the indissolubility of marriage.

As to Barbara, she stood by the hearth, leaning her white shoulders against the carved marble, her hands

behind her, looking down. Now and then her lips curled, her level brows twitched, a faint sigh came from her;

then a little smile would break out, and be instantly suppressed. She alone was silentYouth criticizing Life;

her judgment voiced itself only in the untroubled rise and fall of her young bosom, the impatience of her

brows, the downward look of her blue eyes, full of a lazy, inextinguishable light:

"If only he weren't such a queer boy! He's quite capable of marrying her from sheer perversity."

"You haven't seen her, my dear. A most unfortunately attractive creaturequite a charming face."

"Well, the vicar says she did the divorcing. But he's very charitable; it may be as Agatha hopes."

"You shall come with me, Granny dear, and ask her yourself; you will do it so nicely."

"We shall see," she said. Something struggled with the autocratic criticism in her eyes. No more than the rest

of the world could she help indulging Barbara. As one who believed in the divinity of her order, she liked this

splendid child. She even admiredthough admiration was not what she excelled inthat warm joy in life,

as of some great nymph, parting the waves with bare limbs, tossing from her the foam of breakers. She felt

that in this granddaughter, rather than in the good Agatha, the patrician spirit was housed. There were points

to Agatha, earnestness and high principle; but something morally narrow and overAnglican slightly

offended the practical, thisworldly temper of Lady Casteriey. It was a weakness, and she disliked weakness.

Barbara would never be squeamish over moral questions or matters such as were not really, essential to

aristocracy. She might, indeed, err too much the other way from sheer high spirits. As the impudent child had

said: "If people had no pasts, they would have no futures." And Lady Casterley could not bear people without

futures. She was ambitious; not with the low ambition of one who had risen from nothing, but with the high

Barbara came from the hearth, and bending down beside Lady Casterley's chair, seemed to envelop her

Lady Casterley's face peered out doubtfully from that warmth, wearing a look of disapproving pleasure.

But the sound of Mrs. Winlow's music had ceasedthe men had come in. And the faces of the four women

hardened, as if they had slipped on masks; for though this was almost or quite a family party, the Winlows

being second cousins, still the subject was one which each of these four in their very different ways felt to be

beyond general discussion. Talk, now, began glancing from the war scareWinlow had it very specially that

this would be over in a weekto Brabrook's speech, in progress at that very moment, of which Harbinger

provided an imitation. It sped to Winlow's flightto Andrew Grant's articles in the 'Parthenon'to the

caricature of Harbinger in the 'Cackler', inscribed 'The New Tory. Lord Hrbngr brings Social Reform

beneath the notice of his friends,' which depicted him introducing a naked baby to a number of coroneted old

ladies. Thence to a dancer. Thence to the Bill for Universal Assurance. Then back to the war scare; to the last

book of a great French writer; and once more to Winlow's flight. It was all straightforward and outspoken,

each seeming to say exactly what came into the head. For all that, there was a curious avoidance of the

spiritual significances of these things; or was it perhaps that such significances were not seen?

Lord Dennis, at the far end of the room, studying a portfolio of engravings, felt a touch on his cheek; and

There had always been good comradeship between these two, since the days when Barbara, a goldenhaired

child, astride of a grey pony, had been his morning companion in the Row all through the season. His riding

days were past; he had now no outdoor pursuit save fishing, which he followed with the ironic persistence of

a selfcontained, highspirited nature, which refuses to admit that the mysterious finger of old age is laid

across it. But though she was no longer his companion, he still had a habit of expecting her confidences; and

It was one of those nights, dark yet gleaming, when there seems a flying malice in the heavens; when the

stars, from under and above the black clouds, are like eyes frowning and flashing down at men with purposed

malevolence. The great sighing trees even had caught this spirit, save one, a dark, spirelike cypress, planted

three hundred and fifty years before, whose tall form incarnated the very spirit of tradition, and neither

swayed nor soughed like the others. >From her, too closefibred, too resisting, to admit the breath of Nature,

only a dry rustle came. Still almost exotic, in spite of her centuries of sojourn, and now brought to life by the

eyes of night, she seemed almost terrifying, in her narrow, spearlike austerity, as though something had

"We can't do anything in our lives, it seems to me," she said, "but play at taking risks!"

"Look at Mr. Courtier!" muttered Barbara. "His life's so much more risky altogether than any of our men folk

"Oh! I dare say not very much; but it's all neck or nothing. But what does anything matter to Harbinger, for

instance? If his Social Reform comes to nothing, he'll still be Harbinger, with fifty thousand a year."

"It's all play really; and he knows ityou can tell that from his voice. He can't help its not mattering, of

Barbara's answer was another shrug; and, for all their statuesque beauty, the movement of her shoulders was

"In reason, of courselike poor Eusty!" She stopped. Harbinger himself was standing there close by, with an

air as nearly approaching reverence as was ever to be seen on him. In truth, the way in which he was looking

They moved away together; and Lord Dennis, gazing after that magnificent young couple, stroked his beard

Miltoun's sudden journey to London had been undertaken in pursuance of a resolve slowly forming from the

moment he met Mrs. Noel in the stone flagged passage of Burracombe Farm. If she would have him and

It has been said that except for one lapse his life had been austere, but this is not to assert that he had no

capacity for passion. The contrary was the case. That flame which had been so jealously guarded smouldered

deep within hima smothered fire with but little air to feed on. The moment his spirit was touched by the

spirit of this woman, it had flared up. She was the incarnation of all that he desired. Her hair, her eyes, her

form; the tiny tuck or dimple at the corner of her mouth just where a child places its finger; her way of

moving, a sort of unconscious swaying or yielding to the air; the tone in her voice, which seemed to come not

so much from happiness of her own as from an innate wish to make others happy; and that natural, if not

robust, intelligence, which belongs to the very sympathetic, and is rarely found in women of great ambitions

or enthusiasmsall these things had twined themselves round his heart. He not only dreamed of her, and

wanted her; he believed in her. She filled his thoughts as one who could never do wrong; as one who, though

a wife would remain a mistress, and though a mistress, would always be the companion of his spirit.

It has been said that no one spoke or gossiped about women in Miltoun's presence, and the tale of her divorce

was present to his mind simply in the form of a conviction that she was an injured woman. After his

interview with the vicar, he had only once again alluded to it, and that in answer to the speech of a lady

staying at the Court: "Oh! yes, I remember her case perfectly. She was the poor woman who" "Did not,

I am certain, Lady Bonington." The tone of his voice had made someone laugh uneasily; the subject was

All divorce was against his convictions, but in a blurred way he admitted that there were cases where release

was unavoidable. He was not a man to ask for confidences, or expect them to be given him. He himself had

never confided his spiritual struggles to any living creature; and the unspiritual struggle had little interest for

Miltoun. He was ready at any moment to stake his life on the perfection of the idol he had set up within his

soul, as simply and straightforwardly as he would have placed his body in front of her to shield her from

The same fanaticism, which looked on his passion as a flower by itself, entirely apart from its suitability to

the social garden, was also the driving force which sent him up to London to declare his intention to his father

before he spoke to Mrs. Noel. The thing should be done simply, and in right order. For he had the kind of

moral courage found in those who live retired within the shell of their own aspirations. Yet it was not perhaps

so much active moral courage as indifference to what others thought or did, coming from his inbred

That peculiar smile of the old Tudor Cardinalwhich had in it invincible selfreliance, and a sort of spiritual

sneerplayed over his face when he speculated on his father's reception of the coming news; and very soon

he ceased to think of it at all, burying himself in the work he had brought with him for the journey. For he

had in high degree the faculty, so essential to public life, of switching off his whole attention from one

This large dwelling with its pillared portico, seemed to wear an air of faint surprise that, at the height of the

season, it was not more inhabited. Three servants relieved Miltoun of his little luggage; and having washed,

and learned that his father would be dining in, he went for a walk, taking his way towards his rooms in the

Temple. His long figure, somewhat carelessly garbed, attracted the usual attention, of which he was as usual

unaware. Strolling along, he meditated deeply on a London, an England, different from this flatulent

hurlyburly, this 'omniuin gatherum', this great discordant symphony of sharps and flats. A London, an

England, kempt and self respecting; swept and garnished of slums, and plutocrats, advertisement, and

jerrybuilding, of sensationalism, vulgarity, vice, and unemployment. An England where each man should

know his place, and never change it, but serve in it loyally in his own caste. Where every man, from

nobleman to labourer, should be an oligarch by faith, and a gentleman by practice. An England so

steelbright and efficient that the very sight should suffice to impose peace. An England whose soul should

be stoical and fine with the stoicism and fineness of each soul amongst her many million souls; where the

town should have its creed and the country its creed, and there should be contentment and no complaining in

And as he walked down the Strand, a little ragged boy cheeped out between his legs:

Miltoun paid no heed to that saying; yet, with it, the wind that blows where man lives, the careless,

wonderful, unordered wind, had dispersed his austere and formal vision. Great was that windthe myriad

aspiration of men and women, the praying of the uncounted multitude to the goddess of Sensationof

Chance, and Change. A flowing from heart to heart, from lip to lip, as in Spring the wistful air wanders

through a wood, imparting to every bush and tree the secrets of fresh life, the passionate resolve to grow, and

becomeno matter what! A sighing, as eternal as the old murmuring of the sea, as little to be hushed, as

Miltoun held on through the traffic, not looking overmuch at the present forms of the thousands he passed,

but seeing with the eyes of faith the forms he desired to see. Near St. Paul's he stopped in front of an old

bookshop. His grave, pallid, not unhandsome face, was wellknown to William Rimall, its small proprietor,

who at once brought out his latest acquisitiona Mores 'Utopia.' That particular edition (he assured Miltoun)

was quite unprocurablehe had never sold but one other copy, which had been literally, crumbling away.

This copy was in even better condition. It could hardly last another twenty yearsa genuine book, a bargain.

Miltoun opened the tome, and a small booklouse who had been sleeping on the word 'Tranibore,' began to

"It's not to read, my lord," the little man warned him: "Hardly safe to turn the pages. As I was sayingI've

"Shrewd old dreamer," muttered Miltoun; "the Socialists haven't got beyond him, even now."

The little man's eyes blinked, as though apologizing for the views of Thomas More.

"Well," he said, "I suppose he was one of them. I forget if your lordship's very strong on politics?"

"I want to see an England, Rimall, something like the England of Mores dream. But my machinery will be

"I don't think," he said, "that book's quite strong enough for you, my lord, with your taste for reading. Now

I've a most curious old volume hereon Chinese temples. It's rarebut not too old. You can peruse it

thoroughly. It's what I call a book to browse on just suit your palate. Funny principle they built those things

on," he added, opening the volume at an engraving, "in layers. We don't build like that in England."

Miltoun looked up sharply; the little man's face wore no signs of understanding.

"Unfortunately we don't, Rimall," he said; "we ought to, and we shall. I'll take this book."

"Exactly, my lord," he said; "I thought it'd be your fancy. The price to you will be twentyseven and six."

Miltoun, pocketing the bargain, walked out. He made his way into the Temple, left the book at his Chambers,

and passed on down to the bank of Mother Thames. The Sun was loving her passionately that afternoon; he

had kissed her into warmth and light and colour. And all the buildings along her banks, as far as the towers at

Westminster, seemed to be smiling. It was a great sight for the eyes of a lover. And another vision came

haunting Miltoun, of a softeyed woman with a low voice, bending amongst her flowers. Nothing would be

Lord Valleys greeted his son at dinner with good fellowship and a faint surprise.

"Day off, my dear fellow? Or have you come up to hear Brabrook pitch into us? He's rather late this

And he eyed Miltoun with that clear grey stare of his, so cool, level, and curious. Now, what sort of bird is

this? it seemed saying. Certainly not the partridge I should have expected from its breeding!

Miltoun's answer: "I came up to tell you some thing, sir," riveted his father's stare for a second longer than

It would not be true to say that Lord Valleys was afraid of his son. Fear was not one of his emotions, but he

certainly regarded him with a respectful curiosity that bordered on uneasiness. The oligarchic temper of

Miltoun's mind and political convictions almost shocked one who knew both by temperament and experience

how to wait in front. This instruction he had frequently had occasion to give his jockeys when he believed his

horses could best get home first in that way. And it was an instruction he now longed to give his son. He

himself had 'waited in front' for over fifty years, and he knew it to be the finest way of insuring that he would

never be compelled to alter this desirable policyfor something in Lord Valleys' character made him fear

that, in real emergency, he would exert himself to the point of the gravest discomfort sooner than be left to

wait behind. A fellow like young Harbinger, of course, he understoodversatile, 'full of beans,' as he

expressed it to himself in his more confidential moments, who had imbibed the new wine (very intoxicating it

was) of desire for social reform. He would have to be given his head a littlebut there would be no difficulty

with him, he would never 'run out'light handy build of horse that only required steadying at the corners. He

would want to hear himself talk, and be let feel that he was doing something. All very well, and quite

intelligible. But with Miltoun (and Lord Valleys felt this to be no, mere parental fancy) it was a very different

business. His son had a way of forcing things to their conclusions which was dangerous, and reminded him of

his motherinlaw. He was a baby in public affairs, of course, as yet; but as soon as he once got going, the

intensity of his convictions, together with his position, and real giftnot of the gab, like Harbinger'sbut of

restrained, biting oratory, was sure to bring him to the front with a bound in the present state of parties. And

what were those convictions? Lord Valleys had tried to understand them, but up to the present he had failed.

And this did not surprise him exactly, since, as he often said, political convictions were not, as they appeared

on the surface, the outcome of reason, but merely symptoms of temperament. And he could not comprehend,

because he could not sympathize with, any attitude towards public affairs that was not essentially level,

attached to the plain, commonsense factors of the case as they appeared to himself. Not that he could fairly

be called a temporizer, for deep down in him there was undoubtedly a vein of obstinate, fundamental loyalty

to the traditions of a caste which prized high spirit beyond all things. Still he did feel that Miltoun was

altogether too much the 'pukka' aristocratno better than a Socialist, with his confounded way of seeing

things all cut and dried; his ideas of forcing reforms down people's throats and holding them there with the

iron hand! With his way too of acting on his principles! Why! He even admitted that he acted on his

principles! This thought always struck a very discordant note in Lord Valleys' breast. It was almost indecent;

worseridiculous! The fact was, the dear fellow had unfortunately a deeper habit of thought than was wanted

in politics dangerousvery! Experience might do something for him! And out of his own long experience

the Earl of Valleys tried hard to recollect any politician whom the practice of politics had left where he was

when he started. He could not think of one. But this gave him little comfort; and, above a piece of late

The phrase had been ominous; he could not recollect Miltoun's ever having told him anything. For though a

really kind and indulgent father, he hadlike so many men occupied with public and other livesa little

acquired towards his offspring the look and manner: Is this mine? Of his four children, Barbara alone he

claimed with conviction. He admired her; and, being a man who savoured life, he was unable to love much

except where he admired. But, the last person in the world to hustle any man or force a confidence, he waited

Miltoun seemed in no hurry. He described Courtier's adventure, which tickled Lord Valleys a good deal.

"Ordeal by red pepper! Shouldn't have thought them equal to that," he said. "So you've got him at Monkland

"I rather resent his being on our sideI don't think he does us any good. You've seen that cartoon, I suppose;

And thus, spasmodically, the conversation ran till the last servant had left the room.

Lord Valleys received the shot with exactly the same expression as that with which he was accustomed to

watch his horses beaten. Then he raised his wineglass to his lips; and set it down again untouched. This was

Lord Valleys, almost as good a judge of a man and a situation as of a horse or a pointer dog, leaned back in

"My dear fellow, it's good of you to have told me this; though, to be quite frank, it's a piece of news I would

A dusky flush burned slowly up in Miltoun's cheeks. He had underrated his father; the man had coolness and

"What is your objection, sir?" And suddenly he noticed that a wafer in Lord Valleys' hand was quivering.

This brought into his eyes no look of compunction, but such a smouldering gaze as the old Tudor Churchman

might have bent on an adversary who showed a sign of weakness. Lord Valleys, too, noticed the quivering of

Nursing one knee, Miltoun faced that appeal without the faintest movement. His eyes continued to burn into

his father's face. A tremor passed over Lord Valleys' heart. What intensity of feeling there was in the fellow,

He reached out and took up the cigarbox; held it absently towards his son, and drew it quickly back.

And lighting a cigar, he smoked gravely, looking straight before him, a furrow between his brows. He spoke

"I understand for one thing," he said coldly; "that there is a matter of a divorce. I thought you took the

"You don't, I think, understand the kind of feeling I have for Mrs. Noel. It does not come into your scheme of

things. It is the only feeling, however, with which I should care to marry, and I am not likely to feel it for

Lord Valleys felt once more that uncanny sense of insecurity. Was this true? And suddenly he felt Yes, it is

true! The face before him was the face of one who would burn in his own fire sooner than depart from his

standards. And a sudden sense of the utter seriousness of this dilemma dumbed him.

Lady Casterley was that inconvenient thingan early riser. No woman in the kingdom was a better judge of

a dew carpet. Nature had in her time displayed before her thousands of those pretty fabrics, where all the stars

of the past night, dropped to the dark earth, were waiting to glide up to heaven again on the rays of the sun.

At Ravensham she walked regularly in her gardens between halfpast seven and eight, and when she paid a

visit, was careful to subordinate whatever might be the local custom to this habit.

When therefore her maid Randle came to Barbara's maid at seven o'clock, and said: "My old lady wants Lady

Babs to get up," there was no particular pain in the breast of Barbara's maid, who was doing up her corsets.

She merely answered "I'll see to it. Lady Babs won't be too pleased!" And ten minutes later she entered that

whitewalled room which smelled of pinksa temple of drowsy sweetness, where the summer light was

Barbara was sleeping with her cheek on her hand, and her tawny hair, gathered back, streaming over the

pillow. Her lips were parted; and the maid thought: "I'd like to have hair and a mouth like that!" She could

not help smiling to herself with pleasure; Lady Babs looked so prettyprettier asleep even than awake! And

at sight of that beautiful creature, sleeping and smiling in her sleep, the earthy, hothouse fumes steeping the

mind of one perpetually serving in an atmosphere unsuited to her natural growth, dispersed. Beauty, with its

queer touching power of freeing the spirit from all barriers and thoughts of self, sweetened the maid's eyes,

and kept her standing, holding her breath. For Barbara asleep was a symbol of that Golden Age in which she

"I could see everything spread out below me, as close as I see you; I was hovering like a buzzard hawk. I felt

that I could come down exactly where I wanted. It was fascinating. I had perfect power, Stacey."

And throwing her neck back, she closed her eyes again. The sunlight streamed in on her between the

The queerest impulse to put out a hand and stroke that full white throat shot through the maid's mind.

"These flying machines are stupid," murmured Barbara; "the pleasure's in one's bodywings!"

Barbara sprang out of bed. Close by the statue of Diana Lady Casterley was standing, gazing down at some

flowers, a tiny, grey figure. Barbara sighed. With her, in her dream, had been another buzzard hawk, and she

was filled with a sort of surprise, and queer pleasure that ran down her in little shivers while she bathed and

In her haste she took no hat; and still busy with the fastening of her linen frock, hurried down the stairs and

Georgian corridor, towards the garden. At the end of it she almost ran into the arms of Courtier.

Awakening early this morning, he had begun first thinking of Audrey Noel, threatened by scandal; then of his

yesterday's companion, that glorious young creature, whose image had so gripped and taken possession of

him. In the pleasure of this memory he had steeped himself. She was youth itself! That perfect thing, a young

Barbara's answer was equally symbolic: "A buzzard hawk! Do you know, I dreamed we were flying, Mr.

Lady Casterley, in the company of little Ann, who had perceived that it was novel to be in the garden at this

hour, had been scrutinizing some newly founded colonies of a flower with which she was not familiar. On

"Nemesia?" repeated Lady Casterley. "What has Nemesis to do with flowers? I have no patience with

gardeners, and these idiotic names. Where is your hat? I like that duck's egg colour in your frock. There's a

button undone." And reaching up her little spidery hand, wonderfully steady considering its age, she buttoned

"You look very blooming, my dear," she said. "How far is it to this woman's cottage? We'll go there now."

"You tell me she's so nice," she said. "No nice unencumbered woman lies in bed after halfpast seven. Which

Little Ann, tightening her lips, walked to the next colony of Nemesia, and bent over the colonists with

concentration, showing clearly that she had found something more interesting than had yet been encountered.

All the way down the drive she discoursed on woodcraft, glancing sharply at the trees. Forestryshe

saidlike building, and all other pursuits which required, faith and patient industry, was a lost art in this

secondhand age. She had made Barbara's grandfather practise it, so that at Catton (her country place) and

even at Ravensham, the trees were worth looking at. Here, at Monkland, they were monstrously neglected. To

have the finest Italian cypress in the country, for example, and not take more care of it, was a downright

Barbara listened, smiling lazily. Granny was so amusing in her energy and precision, and her turns of speech,

so deliberately homespun, as if shethan whom none could better use a stiff and polished phrase, or the

refinements of the French languagewere determined to take what liberties she liked. To the girl, haunted

still by the feeling that she could fly, almost drunk on the sweetness of the air that summer morning, it

seemed funny that anyone should be like that. Then for a second she saw her grandmother's face in repose,

off guard, grim with anxious purpose, as if questioning its hold on life; and in one of those flashes of intuition

which come to womeneven when young and conquering like Barbarashe felt suddenly sorry, as though

she had caught sight of the pale spectre never yet seen by her. "Poor old dear," she thought; "what a pity to be

But they had entered the footpath crossing three long meadows which climbed up towards Mrs. Noel's. It was

so goldensweet here amongst the million tiny saffron cups frosted with lingering dewshine; there was such

flying glory in the limes and ashtrees; so delicate a scent from the late whins and mayflower; and, on every

In the far corner of the first field a chestnut mare was standing, with ears pricked at some distant sound whose

charm she alone perceived. On viewing the intruders, she laid those ears back, and a little vicious star

gleamed out at the corner of her eye. They passed her and entered the second field. Half way across, Barbara

It was indeed an enormous bull, who had been standing behind a clump of bushes. He was moving slowly

towards them, still distant about two hundred yards; a great red beast, with the huge development of neck and

"I am not going to turn back," said Lady Casterley. "The bull ought not to be here. Whose fault is it? I shall

speak to someone. Stand still and look at him. We must prevent his coming nearer."

"It doesn't stop him," said Lady Casterley. "We must take no notice. Give me your arm, my dear; my legs feel

"I have not been used to bulls lately," said Lady Casterley. The bull came nearer.

"Granny," said Barbara, "you must go quietly on to the stile. When you're over I'll come too."

"Certainly not," said Lady Casterley, "we will go together. Take no notice of him; I have great faith in that."

"Granny darling, you must do as I say, please; I remember this bull, he is one of ours."

"I shall not go," she said. "My legs feel quite strong now. We can run, if necessary."

"I'm not going to leave you," muttered Lady Casterley. "If he turns vicious I shall talk to him. He won't touch

The bull was now distant some eighty yards, and they were still quite a hundred from the stile.

"Granny," said Barbara, "if you don't go on as I tell you, I shall just leave you, and go and meet him! You

Lady Casterley's answer was to grip her granddaughter round the waist; the nervous force of that thin arm

"You will do nothing of the sort," she said. "I refuse to have anything more to do with this bull; I shall simply

"Take no notice," said Lady Casterley, who was walking faster than she had ever walked before.

"I think so," gasped Lady Casterley; and suddenly she found herself halflifted from the ground, and, as it

She felt herself caught and pinioned by two arms that seemed set on the wrong way. Instinct, and a general

And suddenly she felt herself being propelled by that softness forward towards the stile.

"Granny," Barbara's voice came, calm and breathless, "don't! You only excite him! Are we near the stile?"

"Look out, then!" There was a sort of warm flurry round her, a rush, a heave, a scramble; she was beyond the

stile. The bull and Barbara, a yard or two apart, were just the other side. Lady Casterley raised her

handkerchief and fluttered it. The bull looked up; Barbara, all legs and arms, came slipping down beside her.

Having received a hot, rather quivering kiss, she walked on, holding somewhat firmly to Barbara's arm.

"Don't you think," said Barbara, "that we had better go back, at oncethe other way?"

Lady Casterley passed her handkerchief over her lips, to remove their quivering.

This having been accomplished, they proceeded in the direction of Mrs. Noel's cottage.

"I shall put my foot down. It's out of the question for a man of Miltoun's prospects. I look forward to seeing

him Prime Minister some day." Hearing Barbara's voice murmuring above her, she paused: "What's that you

"I said: What is the use of our being what we are, if we can't love whom we like?"

"You are pleased to be sarcastic," said Lady Casterley. "Listen to me! It's the greatest nonsense to suppose

that people in our caste are free to do as they please. The sooner you realize that, the better, Babs. I am

talking to you seriously. The preservation of our position as a class depends on our observing certain

decencies. What do you imagine would happen to the Royal Family if they were allowed to marry as they

liked? All this marrying with Gaiety girls, and American money, and people with pasts, and writers, and so

forth, is most damaging. There's far too much of it, and it ought to be stopped. It may be tolerated for a few

cranks, or silly young men, and these new women, but for Eustace "Lady Casterley paused again, and her

fingers pinched Barbara's arm, "or for youthere's only one sort of marriage possible. As for Eustace, I shall

Absorbed in the intensity of her purpose, she did not observe a peculiar little smile playing round Barbara's

But noticing that Barbara's lips had closed tightly, she gave her arm a hardif unintentionalpinch, and

Lady Casterley's rather malicious diagnosis of Audrey Noel was correct. The unencumbered woman was up

and in her garden when Barbara and her grandmother appeared at the Wicket gate; but being near the

limetree at the far end she did not hear the rapid colloquy which passed between them.

Lady Casterley could not possibly have provided herself with a better introduction than Barbara, whom Mrs.

Noel never met without the sheer pleasure felt by a sympathetic woman when she sees embodied in someone

She came forward with her head a little on one side, a trick of hers not at all affected, and stood waiting.

"We've just had an encounter with a bull. This is my grandmother, Lady Casterley."

The little old lady's demeanour, confronted with this very pretty face and figure was a thought less autocratic

and abrupt than usual. Her shrewd eyes saw at once that she had no common adventuress to deal with. She

was woman of the world enough, too, to know that 'birth' was not what it had been in her young days, that

even money was rather rococo, and that good looks, manners, and a knowledge of literature, art, and music

(and this woman looked like one of that sort), were often considered socially more valuable. She was

"How do you do?" she said. "I have heard of you. May we sit down for a minute in your garden? The bull

But even in speaking, she was uneasily conscious that Mrs. Noel's clear eyes were seeing very well what she

had come for. The look in them indeed was almost cynical; and in spite of her sympathetic murmurs, she did

not somehow seem to believe in the bull. This was disconcerting. Why had Barbara condescended to mention

"Babs," she said, "go to the Inn and order me a 'fly.' I shall drive back, I feel very shaky," and, as Mrs. Noel

Barbara having departed with a quizzical look, Lady Casterley patted the rustic seat, and said:

Mrs. Noel obeyed. And at once Lady Casterley perceived that "she had a most difficult task before her. She

had not expected a woman with whom one could take no liberties. Those clear dark eyes, and that soft,

perfectly graceful mannerto a person so 'sympathetic' one should be able to say anything, andone

couldn't! It was awkward. And suddenly she noticed that Mrs. Noel was sitting perfectly upright, as

uprightmore upright, than she was herself. A bad, signa very bad sign! Taking out her handkerchief, she

Mrs. Noel's face quivered back, as a flower might when it was going to be plucked; and again Lady Casterley

put her handkerchief to her lips. This time she rubbed them hard. There was nothing to come off; to do so,

Mrs. Noel did not answer, but looked straight at her visitor; to whom it seemed suddenly that this was another

person. What was it about that face, staring at her! In a weird way it reminded her of a child that one had

hurtwith those great eyes and that soft hair, and the mouth thin, in a line, all of a sudden. And as if it had

But Mrs. Noel made neither sign nor motion; and the feeling of irritation which so rapidly attacks the old

"His name," she said, "is being coupled with yours in a way that's doing him a great deal of harm. You don't

"I don't know what they're not saying since the evening your friend Mr. Courtier hurt his knee. Miltoun has

"Good heavens!" she said; "every common person is interested in a woman whose position is anomalous.

Living alone as you do, and not a widow, you're fair game for everybody, especially in the country."

Mrs. Noel's sidelong glance, very clear and cynical, seemed to say: "Even for you."

"I am not entitled to ask your story," Lady Casterley went on, "but if you make mysteries you must expect the

worst interpretation put on them. My grandson is a man of the highest principle; he does not see things with

the eyes of the world, and that should have made you doubly careful not to compromise him, especially at a

Mrs. Noel smiled. This smile startled Lady Casterley; it seemed, by concealing everything, to reveal depths

of strength and subtlety. Would the woman never show her hand? And she said abruptly:

That word, which of all others seemed the right one, was spoken so that Lady Casterley did not know in the

least what it meant. Though occasionally employing irony, she detested it in others. No woman should be

allowed to use it as a weapon! But in these days, when they were so foolish as to want votes, one never knew

what women would be at. This particular woman, however, did not look like one of that sort. She was

femininevery femininethe sort of creature that spoiled men by being too nice to them. And though she

had come determined to find out all about everything and put an end to it, she saw Barbara reentering the

"I am ready to walk home now," she said. And getting up from the rustic seat, she made Mrs. Noel a satirical

Barbara gave her arm, and over her shoulder threw a swift smile at Mrs. Noel, who did not answer it, but

"I detest this habit," she said, "amongst you young people, of taking nothing seriously. Not even bulls," she

Lady Casterley saw that she had closed her eyes and opened her lips. And she thought:

"She's a very beautiful girl. I had no idea she was so beautiful but too big!" And she added aloud:

They spoke no more till they had entered the avenue; then Lady Casterley said sharply:

"No, darling," murmured Barbara; "you shan't have itI'll take him off your hands."

"What does your mother mean," stammered Lady Casterley, "letting you grow up like this! You're as bad as

"If you try that," said Lady Casterley grimly, "you'll soon come to grief. Goodmorning, sir; you ought to be

"Surely it is not for me to be where you are not!" And he added gloomily: "The war scare's dead!"

"Ah!" said Lady Casterley: "your occupation's gone then. You'll go back to London now, I suppose." Looking

suddenly at Barbara she saw that the girl's eyes were halfclosed, and that she was smiling; it seemed to Lady

Thanks to Lady Valleys, a patroness of birds, no owl was ever shot on the Monkland Court estate, and those

softflying spirits of the dusk hooted and hunted, to the great benefit of all except the creeping voles. By

every farm, cottage, and field, they passed invisible, quartering the dark air. Their voyages of discovery

stretched up on to the moor as far as the wild stone man, whose origin their wisdom perhaps knew. Round

Audrey Noel's cottage they were as thick as thieves, for they had just there two habitations in a long, old,

hollygrown wall, and almost seemed to be guarding the mistress of that thatched dwellingso numerous

were their fluttering rushes, so tenderly prolonged their soft sentinel callings. Now that the weather was really

warm, so that joy of life was in the voles, they found those succulent creatures of an extraordinarily pleasant

flavour, and on them each pair was bringing up a family of exceptionally fine little owls, very solemn, with

big heads, bright large eyes, and wings as yet only able to fly downwards. There was scarcely any hour from

noon of the day (for some of them had horns) to the small sweet hours when no one heard them, that they

forgot to salute the very large, quiet, wingless owl whom they could espy moving about by day above their

mouseruns, or preening her white and sometimes blue and sometimes grey feathers morning and evening in

a large square hole high up in the front wall. And they could not understand at all why no swift depredating

On the evening of the day when she received that early morning call, as soon as dusk had fallen, wrapped in a

long thin cloak, with black lace over her dark hair, Audrey Noel herself fluttered out into the lanes, as if to

join the grave winged hunters of the invisible night. Those far, continual sounds, not stilled in the country till

long after the sun dies, had but just ceased from haunting the air, where the late Mayscent clung as close as

fragrance clings to a woman's robe. There was just the barking of a dog, the boom of migrating chafers, the

song of the stream, and of the owls, to proclaim the beating in the heart of this sweet Night. Nor was there

any light by which Night's face could be seen; it was hidden, anonymous; so that when a lamp in a cottage

threw a blink over the opposite bank, it was as if some wandering painter had wrought a picture of stones and

leaves on the black air, framed it in purple, and left it hanging. Yet, if it could only have been come at, the

Night was as full of emotion as this woman who wandered, shrinking away against the banks if anyone

passed, stopping to cool her hot face with the dew on the ferns, walking swiftly to console her warm heart.

Anonymous Night seeking for a symbol could have found none better than this errant figure, to express its

hidden longings, the fluttering, unseen rushes of its dark wings, and all its secret passion of revolt against its

At Monkland Court, save for little Ann, the morning passed but dumbly, everyone feeling that something

must be done, and no one knowing what. At lunch, the only allusion to the situation had been Harbinger's

But all had felt from the tone in which he spoke these words, how serious was the position in the eyes of that

What with the collapse of the war scare, and this canard about Mrs. Noel, there was indeed cause for alarm.

Lady Valleys opened it with a slight grimace, which deepened as she read. Her handsome, florid face wore an

expression of sadness seldom seen there. There was, in fact, more than a touch of dignity in her reception of

"Eustace declares his intention of marrying this Mrs. Noel"so ran her husband's letter"I know,

unfortunately, of no way in which I can prevent him. If you can discover legitimate means of dissuasion, it

It was the very devil! For, if Miltoun had already made up his mind to marry her, without knowledge of the

malicious rumour, what would not be his determination now? And the woman of the world rose up in Lady

Valleys. This marriage must not come off. It was contrary to almost every instinct of one who was practical

not only by character, but by habit of life and training. Her warm and fullblooded nature had a sneaking

sympathy with love and pleasure, and had she not been practical, she might have found this side of her a

serious drawback to the main tenor of a life so much in view of the public eye. Her consciousness of this

danger in her own case made her extremely alive to the risks of an undesirable connectionespecially if it

were a marriageto any public man. At the same time the motherheart in her was stirred. Eustace had

never been so deep in her affection as Bertie, still he was her firstborn; and in face of news which meant that

he was lost to herfor this must indeed be 'the marriage of two minds' (or whatever that quotation

was)she felt strangely jealous of a woman, who had won her son's love, when she herself had never won it.

The aching of this jealousy gave her face for a moment almost a spiritual expression, then passed away into

impatience. Why should he marry her? Things could be arranged. People spoke of it already as an illicit

relationship; well then, let people have what they had invented. If the worst came to the worst, this was not

the only constituency in England; and a dissolution could not be far off. Better anything than a marriage

which would handicap him all his life! But would it be so great a handicap? After all, beauty counted for

much! If only her story were not too conspicuous! But what was her story? Not to know it was absurd! That

was the worst of people who were not in Society, it was so difficult to find out! And there rose in her that

almost brutal resentment, which ferments very rapidly in those who from their youth up have been hedged

round with the belief that they and they alone are the whole of the world. In this mood Lady Valleys passed

the letter to her daughters. They read, and in turn handed it to Bertie, who in silence returned it to his mother.

But that evening, in the billiardroom, having manoeuvred to get him to herself, Barbara said to Courtier:

Her lowcut dress was of yewgreen, with, little threads of flame colour, matching her hair, so that there

was about her a splendour of darkness and whiteness and gold, almost dazzling; and she stood very still,

leaning back against the lighter green of the billiardtable, grasping its edge so tightly that the smooth strong

"We have just heard that Miltoun is going to ask Mrs. Noel to marry him. People are never mysterious, are

"I don't think I quite grasp the situation," murmured Courtier. "You saidto marry him?"

Seeing that she had put out her hand, as if begging for the truth, he added: "How can your brother marry

The expression of which mention has been madethat peculiar white hot sardonically jolly lookvisited

Courtier's face at once. "Hoist with their own petard! The usual thing. Let a pretty woman live alonethe

"It was not so bad as that," said Barbara dryly; "they said she had divorced her husband."

Caught out thus characteristically riding past the hounds Courtier bit his lips.

"You had better hear the story now. Her father was a country parson, and a friend of my father's; so that I've

known her from a child. Stephen Lees Noel was his curate. It was a 'snap' marriageshe was only twenty,

and had met hardly any men. Her father was ill and wanted to see her settled before he died. Well, she found

out almost directly, like a good many other people, that she'd made an utter mistake."

"Not bad in his way, but one of those narrow, conscientious pig headed fellows who make the most trying

kind of husbandbone egoistic. A parson of that type has no chance at all. Every mortal thing he has to do

or say helps him to develop his worst points. The wife of a man like that's no better than a slave. She began to

show the strain of it at last; though she's the sort who goes on till she snaps. It took him four years to realize.

Then, the question was, what were they to do? He's a very High Churchman, with all their feeling about

marriage; but luckily his pride was wounded. Anyway, they separated two years ago; and there she is, left

high and dry. People say it was her fault. She ought to have known her own mind at twenty! She ought to

have held on and hidden it up somehow. Confound their thickskinned charitable souls, what do they know

of how a sensitive woman suffers? Forgive me, Lady BarbaraI get hot over this." He was silent; then

seeing her eyes fixed on him, went on: "Her mother died when she was born, her father soon after her

marriage. She's enough money of her own, luckily, to live on quietly. As for him, he changed his parish and

runs one somewhere in the Midlands. One's sorry for the poor devil, too, of course! They never see each

other; and, so far as I know, they don't correspond. That, Lady Barbara, is the simple history."

Barbara, said, "Thank you," and turned away; and he heard her mutter: "What a shame!"

But he could not tell whether it was Mrs. Noel's fate, or the husband's fate, or the thought of Miltoun that had

She puzzled him by her selfpossession, so almost hard, her way of refusing to show feeling.' Yet what a

woman she would make if the drying curse of highcaste life were not allowed to stereotype and shrivel her!

If enthusiasm were suffered to penetrate and fertilize her soul! She reminded him of a great tawny lily. He

had a vision of her, as that flower, floating, freed of roots and the mould of its cultivated soil, in the liberty of

the impartial air. What a passionate and noble thing she might become! What radiance and perfume she

would exhale! A spirit FleurdeLys! Sister to all the noble flowers of light that inhabited the wind!

Leaning in the deep embrasure of his window, he looked at anonymous Night. He could hear the owls hoot,

and feel a heart beating out there somewhere in the darkness, but there came no answer to his wondering.

Would shethis great tawny lily of a girlever become unconscious of her environment, not in manner

merely, but in the very soul, so that she might be just a woman, breathing, suffering, loving, and rejoicing

with the poet soul of all mankind? Would she ever be capable of riding out with the little company of big

hearts, naked of advantage? Courtier had not been inside a church for twenty years, having long felt that he

must not enter the mosques of his country without putting off the shoes of freedom, but he read the Bible,

considering it a very great poem. And the old words came haunting him: 'Verily I say unto you, It is harder

for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of Heaven.' And

now, looking into the Night, whose darkness seemed to hold the answer to all secrets, he tried to read the

riddle of this girl's future, with which there seemed so interwoven that larger enigma, how far the spirit can

The Night whispered suddenly, and low down, as if rising from the sea, came the moon, dropping a wan robe

of light till she gleamed out nude against the skycurtain. Night was no longer anonymous. There in the

dusky garden the statue of Diana formed slowly before his eyes, and behind heras it were, her

A copy of the Bucklandbury News, containing an account of his evening adventure, did not reach Miltoun till

he was just starting on his return journey. It came marked with blue pencil together with a note.

"The enclosedhowever unwarranted and impudentrequires attention. But we shall do nothing till you

The effect on Miltoun might perhaps have been different had he not been so conscious of his intention to ask

Audrey Noel to be his wife; but in any circumstances it is doubtful whether he would have done more than

smile, and tear the paper up. Truly that sort of thing had so little power to hurt or disturb him personally, that

he was incapable of seeing how it could hurt or disturb others. If those who read it were affected, so much the

worse for them. He had a real, if unobtrusive, contempt for groundlings, of whatever class; and it never

entered his head to step an inch out of his course in deference to their vagaries. Nor did it come home to him

that Mrs. Noel, wrapped in the glamour which he cast about her, could possibly suffer from the meanness of

vulgar minds. Shropton's note, indeed, caused him the more annoyance of those two documents. It was like

He hardly dozed at all during his swift journey through the sleeping country; nor when he reached his room at

Monkland did he go to bed. He had the wonderful, upborne feeling of man on the verge of achievement. His

spirit and senses were both on firefor that was the quality of this woman, she suffered no part of him to

He drank some tea; went out, and took a path up to the moor. It was not yet eight o'clock when he reached the

top of the nearest tor. And there, below him, around, and above, was a land and sky transcending even his

exaltation. It was like a symphony of great music; or the nobility of a stupendous mind laid bare; it was God

up there, in His many moods. Serenity was spread in the middle heavens, blue, illimitable, and along to the

East, three huge clouds, like thoughts brooding over the destinies below, moved slowly toward the sea, so

that great shadows filled the valleys. And the land that lay under all the other sky was gleaming, and

quivering with every colour, as it were, clothed with the divine smile. The wind, from the North, whereon

floated the white birds of the smaller clouds, had no voice, for it was above barriers, utterly free. Before

Miltoun, turning to this wind, lay the maze of the lower lands, the misty greens, rose pinks, and browns of the

fields, and white and grey dots and strokes of cottages and church towers, fading into the blue veil of

distance, confined by a far range of hills. Behind him there was nothing but the restless surface of the moor,

coloured purplish brown. On that untamed sea of graven wildness could be seen no ship of man, save one,

on the far horizonthe grim hulk, Dartmoor Prison. There was no sound, no scent, and it seemed to Miltoun

as if his spirit had left his body, and become part of the solemnity of God. Yet, as he stood there, with his

head bared, that strange smile which haunted him in moments of deep feeling, showed that he had not

surrendered to the Universal, that his own spirit was but being fortified, and that this was the true and secret

source of his delight. He lay down in a scoop of the stones. The sun entered there, but no wind, so that a dry

sweet scent exuded from the young shoots of heather. That warmth and perfume crept through the shield of

his spirit, and stole into his blood; ardent images rose before him, the vision of an unending embrace. Out of

an embrace sprang Life, out of that the World was made, this World, with its innumerable forms, and

naturesno two alike! And from him and her would spring forms to take their place in the great pattern. This

seemed wonderful, and rightfor they would be worthy forms, who would hand on those traditions which

seemed to him so necessary and great. And then there broke on him one of those delirious waves of natural

desire, against which he had so often fought, so often with great pain conquered. He got up, and ran downhill,

Audrey Noel, too, had been early astir, though she had gone late enough to bed. She dressed languidly, but

very carefully, being one of those women who put on armour against Fate, because they are proud, and

dislike the thought that their sufferings should make others suffer; because, too, their bodies are to them as it

were sacred, having been given them in trust, to cause delight. When she had finished, she looked at herself

in the glass rather more distrustfully than usual. She felt that her sort of woman was at a discount in these

days, and being sensitive, she was never content either with her appearance, or her habits. But, for all that,

she went on behaving in unsatisfactory ways, because she incorrigibly loved to look as charming as she

could; and even if no one were going to see her, she never felt that she looked charming enough. She was

as Lady Casterley had shrewdly guessedthe kind of woman who spoils men by being too nice to them;

of no use to those who wish women to assert themselves; yet having a certain passive stoicism, very

disconcerting. With little or no power of initiative, she would do what she was set to do with a thoroughness

that would shame an initiator; temperamentally unable to beg anything of anybody, she required love as a

plant requires water; she could give herself completely, yet remain oddly incorruptible; in a word, hopeless,

With all this, however, she was not quite what is called a 'sweet womana phrase she detestedfor there

was in her a queer vein of gentle cynicism. She 'saw' with extraordinary clearness, as if she had been born in

Italy and still carried that clear dry atmosphere about her soul. She loved glow and warmth and colour; such

mysticism as she felt was pagan; and she had few aspirationssufficient to her were things as they showed

This morning, when she had made herself smell of geraniums, and fastened all the small contrivances that

hold even the best of women together, she went downstairs to her little diningroom, set the spirit lamp

It was the hour of the day most dear to her. If the dew had been brushed off her life, it was still out there

every morning on the face of Nature, and on the faces of her flowers; there was before her all the pleasure of

seeing how each of those little creatures in the garden had slept; how many children had been born since the

Dawn; who was ailing, and needed attention. There was also the feeling, which renews itself every morning

in people who live lonely lives, that they are not lonely, until, the day wearing on, assures them of the fact.

Not that she was idle, for she had obtained through Courtier the work of reviewing music in a woman's paper,

for which she was intuitively fitted. This, her flowers, her own music, and the affairs of certain families of

cottagers, filled nearly all her time. And she asked no better fate than to have every minute occupied, having

that passion for work requiring no initiation, which is natural to the owners of lazy minds.

Suddenly she dropped her newspaper, went to the bowl of flowers on the breakfasttable, and plucked forth

two stalks of lavender; holding them away from her, she went out into the garden, and flung them over the

This strange immolation of those two poor sprigs, born so early, gathered and placed before her with such

kind intention by her maid, seemed of all acts the least to be expected of one who hated to hurt people's

feelings, and whose eyes always shone at the sight of flowers. But in truth the smell of lavenderthat scent

carried on her husband's handkerchief and clothesstill affected her so strongly that she could not bear to be

in a room with it. As nothing else did, it brought before her one, to live with whom had slowly become

torture. And freed by that scent, the whole flood of memory broke in on her. The memory of three years when

her teeth had been set doggedly, on her discovery that she was chained to unhappiness for life; the memory of

the abrupt end, and of her creeping away to let her scorched nerves recover. Of how during the first year of

this release which was not freedom, she had twice changed her abode, to get away from her own storynot

because she was ashamed of it, but because it reminded her of wretchedness. Of how she had then come to

Monkland, where the quiet life had slowly given her elasticity again. And then of her meeting with Miltoun;

the unexpected delight of that companionship; the frank enjoyment of the first four months. And she

remembered all her secret rejoicing, her silent identification of another life with her own, before she

acknowledged or even suspected love. And just three weeks ago now, helping to tie up her roses, he had

touched her, and she had known. But even then, until the night of Courtier's accident, she had not dared to

realize. More concerned now for him than for herself, she asked herself a thousand times if she had been to

blame. She had let him grow fond of her, a woman out of court, a dead woman! An unpardonable sin! Yet

surely that depended on what she was prepared to give! And she was frankly ready to give everything, and

ask for nothing. He knew her position, he had told her that he knew. In her love for him she gloried, would

continue to glory; would suffer for it without regret. Miltoun was right in believing that newspaper gossip

was incapable of hurting her, though her reasons for being so impervious were not what he supposed. She

was not, like him, secured from pain because such insinuations about the private affairs of others were mean

and vulgar and beneath notice; it had not as yet occurred to her to look at the matter in so lofty and general a

light; she simply was not hurt, because she was already so deeply Miltoun's property in spirit, that she was

almost glad that they should assign him all the rest of her. But for Miltoun's sake she was disturbed to the

soul. She had tarnished his shield in the eyes of men; and (for she was oddly practical, and saw things in very

She sat down to drink her tea. Not being a crying woman, she suffered quietly. She felt that Miltoun would be

coming to her. She did not know at all what she should say when he did come. He could not care for her so

much as she cared for him! He was a man; men soon forget! Ah! but he was not like most men. One could

not look at his eyes without feeling that he could suffer terribly! In all this her own reputation concerned her

not at all. Life, and her clear way of looking at things, had rooted in her the conviction that to a woman the

preciousness of her reputation was a fiction invented by men entirely for man's benefit; a secondhand fetish

insidiously, inevitably setup by men for worship, in novels, plays, and law courts. Her instinct told her that

men could not feel secure in the possession of their women unless they could believe that women set

tremendous store by sexual reputation. What they wanted to believe, that they did believe! But she knew

otherwise. Such greatminded women as she had met or read of had always left on her the impression that

reputation for them was a matter of the spirit, having little to do with sex. From her own feelings she knew

that reputation, for a simple woman, meant to stand well in the eyes of him or her whom she loved best. For

worldly womenand there were so many kinds of those, besides the merely fashionableshe had always

noted that its value was not intrinsic, but commercial; not a crown of dignity, but just a marketable asset. She

did not dread in the least what people might say of her friendship with Miltoun; nor did she feel at all that her

indissoluble marriage forbade her loving him. She had secretly felt free as soon as she had discovered that she

had never really loved her husband; she had only gone on dutifully until the separation, from sheer passivity,

and because it was against her nature to cause pain to anyone. The man who was still her husband was now as

dead to her as if he had never been born. She could not marry again, it was true; but she could and did love. If

that love was to be starved and die away, it would not be because of any moral scruples.

She opened her paper languidly; and almost the first words she read, under the heading of Election News,

'Apropos of the outrage on Mr. Courtier, we are requested to state that the lady who accompanied Lord

Miltoun to the rescue of that gentleman was Mrs. Lees Noel, wife of the Rev. Stephen Lees Noel, vicar of

This dubious little daub of whitewash only brought a rather sad smile to her lips. She left her tea, and went

out into the air. There at the gate was Miltoun coming in. Her heart leaped. But she went forward quietly, and

Exaltation had not left Miltoun. His sallow face was flushed, his eyes glowed with a sort of beauty; and

Audrey Noel who, better than most women, could read what was passing behind a face, saw those eyes with

the delight of a moth fluttering towards a lamp. But in a very unemotional voice she said:

It was not in Miltoun to observe the formalities of attack. Had he been going to fight a duel there would have

been no preliminary, just a look, a bow, and the swords crossed. So in this first engagement of his with the

He neither sat down nor suffered her to sit, but stood looking intently into her face, and said:

Now that it had come, with this disconcerting swiftness, she was strangely calm, and unashamed. The elation

of knowing for sure that she was loved was like a wand waving away all tremors, stilling them to sweetness.

Since nothing could take away that knowledge, it seemed that she could never again be utterly unhappy.

Then, too, in her nature, so deeply, unreasoningly incapable of perceiving the importance of any principle but

love, there was a secret feeling of assurance, of triumph. He did love her! And she, him! Well! And suddenly

panicstricken, lest he should take back those words, she put her hand up to his breast, and said:

The feel of his arms round her, the strength and passion of that moment, were so terribly sweet, that she died

to thought, just looking up at him, with lips parted and eyes darker with the depth of her love than he had ever

dreamed that eyes could be. The madness of his own feeling kept him silent. And they stood there, so merged

in one another that they knew and cared nothing for any other mortal thing. It was very still in the room; the

roses and carnations in the lustre bowl, seeming to know that their mistress was caught up into heaven, had

let their perfume steal forth and occupy every cranny of the abandoned air; a hovering bee, too, circled round

It has been said that Miltoun's face was not unhandsome; for Audrey Noel at this moment when his eyes were

so near hers, and his lips touching her, he was transfigured, and had become the spirit of all beauty. And she,

with heart beating fast against him, her eyes, half closing from delight, and her hair asking to be praised with

its fragrance, her cheeks fainting pale with emotion, and her arms too languid with happiness to embrace

The bee ended it; who, impatient with flowers that hid their honey so deep, had entangled himself in Audrey's

hair. And then, seeing that words, those dreaded things, were on his lips, she tried to kiss them back. But they

It all swayed a little. And with marvellous rapidity the whole position started up before her. She saw, with

preternatural insight, into its nooks and corners. Something he had said one day, when they were talking of

the Church view of marriage and divorce, lighted all up. So he had really never known about her! At this

moment of utter sickness, she was saved from fainting by her sense of humourher cynicism. Not content to

let her be, people's tongues had divorced her; he had believed them! And the crown of irony was that he

should want to marry her, when she felt so utterly, so sacredly his, to do what he liked with sans forms or

ceremonies. A surge of bitter feeling against the man who stood between her and Miltoun almost made her

cry out. That man had captured her before she knew the world or her own soul, and she was tied to him, till

by some beneficent chance he drew his last breath when her hair was grey, and her eyes had no love light,

and her cheeks no longer grew pale when they were kissed; when twilight had fallen, and the flowers, and

It was that feeling, the sudden revolt of the desperate prisoner, which steeled her to put out her hand, take up

When he had read the little paragraph, there followed one of those eternities which last perhaps two minutes.

This queer dry saying was so much more terrible than any outcry, that she remained, deprived even of the

The smile of the old Cardinal had come up there, and was to her like a living accusation. It seemed strange

that the hum of the bees and flies and the gentle swishing of the limetree should still go on outside, insisting

that there was a world moving and breathing apart from her, and careless of her misery. Then some of her

courage came back, and with it her woman's mute power. It came haunting about her face, perfectly still,

about her lips, sensitive and drawn, about her eyes, dark, almost mutinous under their arched brows. She

Her lips just moved for the words to pass: "I thought you knew. I never, dreamed you would want to marry

It seemed to her natural that he should be thinking only of himself, but with the subtlest defensive instinct,

"None. We have neither of us done wrong; besides with him, marriage isfor ever."

She had broken his smile, which had been cruel without meaning to be cruel; and with a smile of her own that

He looked at her now, conscious at last that she was suffering. And she felt that he was holding himself in

with all his might from taking her again into his arms. Seeing this, the warmth crept back to her lips, and a

little light into her eyes, which she kept hidden from him. Though she stood so proudly still, some wistful

force was coming from her, as from a magnet, and Miltoun's hands and arms and face twitched as though

palsied. This struggle, dumb and pitiful, seemed never to be coming to an end in the little white room,

darkened by the thatch of the verandah, and sweet with the scent of pinks and of a wood fire just lighted

somewhere out at the back. Then, without a word, he turned and went out. She heard the wicket gate swing

Lord Denis was flyfishingthe weather just too bright to allow the little trout of that shallow, never silent

stream to embrace with avidity the small enticements which he threw in their direction. Nevertheless he

continued to invite them, exploring every nook of their watery pathway with his softswishing line. In a

rough suit and battered hat adorned with those artificial and other flies, which infest Harris tweed, he crept

along among the hazel bushes and thorn trees, perfectly happy. Like an old spaniel, who has once gloried in

the fetching of hares, rabbits, and all manner of fowl, and is now glad if you will but throw a stick for him, so

one, who had been a famous fisher before the Lord, who had harried the waters of Scotland and Norway,

Florida and Iceland, now pursued trout no bigger than sardines. The glamour of a thousand memories

hallowed the hours he thus spent by that brown water. He fished unhasting, religious, like some good

Catholic adding one more to the row of beads already told, as though he would fish himself, gravely, without

complaint, into the other world. With each fish caught he experienced a solemn satisfaction.

Though he would have liked Barbara with him that morning, he had only looked at her once after breakfast in

such a way that she could not see him, and with a dry smile gone off by himself. Down by the stream it was

dappled, both cool and warm, windless; the trees met over the river, and there were many stones, forming

little basins which held up the ripple, so that the casting of a fly required much cunning. This long dingle ran

for miles through the footgrowth of folding hills. It was beloved of jays; but of human beings there were

none, except a chickenfarmer's widow, who lived in a house thatched almost to the ground, and made her

livelihood by directing tourists, with such cunning that they soon came back to her for tea.

It was while throwing a rather longer line than usual to reach a little dark piece of crisp water that Lord

Dennis heard the swishing and crackling of someone advancing at full speed. He frowned slightly, feeling for

the nerves of his fishes, whom he did not wish startled. The invader was Miltoun, hot, pale, dishevelled, with

a queer, hunted look on his face. He stopped on seeing his great uncle, and instantly assumed the mask of

Lord Dennis was not the man to see what was not intended for him, and he merely said:

"Well, Eustace!" as he might have spoken, meeting his nephew in the hall of one of his London Clubs.

He had not, in the least, missed the suffering behind Miltoun's mask; his eyes were still good, and there was a

little matter of some twenty years' suffering of his own on account of a womanancient history

nowwhich had left him quaintly sensitive, for an old man, to signs of suffering in others.

Miltoun would not have obeyed that invitation from anyone else, but there was something about Lord Dennis

which people did not resist; his power lay in a dry ironic suavity which could not but persuade people that

The two sat side by side on the roots of trees. At first they talked a little of birds, and then were dumb, so

dumb that the invisible creatures of the woods consulted together audibly. Lord Dennis broke that silence.

"This place," he said, "always reminds me of Mark Twain's writings can't tell why, unless it's the

evergreenness. I like the evergreen philosophers, Twain and Meredith. There's no salvation except through

courage, though I never could stomach the 'strong man' captain of his soul, Henley and Nietzsche and that

"To be captain of your soul!" continued Miltoun in a bitter voice; "it's a pretty phrase!"

His eyes were fixed intently on the place where a large trout had risen in the stillest toffeecoloured pool. He

knew that fellow, a halfpounder at least, and his thoughts began flighting round the top of his head,

hovering over the various merits of the flies. His fingers itched too, but he made no movement, and the

At a height more than level with the tops of the hills a buzzard hawk was stationary in the blue directly over

them. Inspired by curiosity at their stillness, he was looking down to see whether they were edible; the

upcurved ends of his great wings flirted just once to show that he was part of the living glory of the aira

Lord Dennis looked at his greatnephew. The boyfor what else was thirty to seventysix?was taking it

hard, whatever it might be, taking it very hard! He was that sortran till he dropped. The worst kind to

helpthe sort that made for troublethat let things gnaw at them! And there flashed before the old man's

mind the image of Prometheus devoured by the eagle. It was his favourite tragedy, which he still read

periodically, in the Greek, helping himself now and then out of his old lexicon to the meaning of some word

which had flown to Erebus. Yes, Eustace was a fellow for the heights and depths!

The buzzard hawk having seen them move, quivered his wings like a moth's, and deserted that plane of air. A

robin from the dappled warmth of a mossy stone, was regarding them instead. There was another splash in

"That fellow's risen twice; I believe he'd take a 'Wistman's treasure.'" Extracting from his hat its latest fly, and

The further piece of information about Mrs. Noel, already known by Barbara, and diffused by the

'Bucklandbury News', had not become common knowledge at the Court till after Lord Dennis had started out

to fish. In combination with the report that Miltoun had arrived and gone out without breakfast, it had been

received with mingled feelings. Bertie, Harbinger, and Shropton, in a short conclave, after agreeing that from

the point of view of the election it was perhaps better than if she had been a divorcee, were still inclined to

the belief that no time was to be lostin doing what, however, they were unable to determine. Apart from

the impossibility of knowing how a fellow like Miltoun would take the matter, they were faced with the

devilish subtlety of all situations to which the proverb 'Least said, soonest mended' applies. They were in the

presence of that aweinspiring thing, the power of scandal. Simple statements of simple facts, without moral

drawn (to which no legal exception could be taken) laid before the public as pieces of interesting information,

or at the worst exposed in perfect good faith, lest the public should blindly elect as their representative one

whose private life might not stand the inspection of daylight what could be more justifiable! And yet

Miltoun's supporters knew that this simple statement of where he spent his evenings had a poisonous potency,

through its power of stimulating that side of the human imagination the most easily excited. They recognized

only too well, how strong was a certain primitive desire, especially in rural districts, by yielding to which the

world was made to go, and how remarkably hard it, was not to yield to it, and how interesting and exciting to

see or hear of others yielding to it, and how (though here, of course, men might differ secretly) reprehensible

of them to do so! They recognized, too well, how a certain kind of conscience would appreciate this rumour;

and how the puritans would lick their lengthened chops. They knew, too, how irresistible to people of any

imagination at all, was the mere combination of a member of a class, traditionally supposed to be inclined to

having what it wanted, with a lady who lived alone! As Harbinger said: It was really devilish awkward! For,

to take any notice of it would be to make more people than ever believe it true. And yet, that it was working

mischief, they felt by the secret voice in their own souls, telling them that they would have believed it if they

The news was received by Lady Valleys with a sigh of intense relief, and the remark that it was probably

another lie. When Barbara confirmed it, she only said: "Poor Eustace!" and at once wrote off to her husband

to say that 'Anonyma' was still married, so that the worst fortunately could not happen.

Miltoun came in to lunch, but from his face and manner nothing could be guessed. He was a thought more

talkative than usual, and spoke of Brabrook's speechsome of which he had heard. He looked at Courtier

In that room, the old withdrawingroom of the Elizabethan wingwhere once had been the embroideries,

tapestries, and missals of beruffled dames were now books, pamphlets, oakpanels, pipes, fencing gear, and

along one wall a collection of Red Indian weapons and ornaments brought back by Miltoun from the United

States. High on the wall above these reigned the bronze deathmask of a famous Apache Chief, cast from a

plaster taken of the face by a professor of Yale College, who had declared it to be a perfect specimen of the

vanishing race. That visage, which had a certain weird resemblance to Dante's, presided over the room with

cruel, tragic stoicism. No one could look on it without feeling that, there, the human will had been pushed to

There followed one of those silences in which men whose spirits, though different, have a certain bigness in

"I have been living in the clouds, it seems. You are her oldest friend. The immediate question is how to make

Not even Courtier himself could have put such whiplash sting into the word 'miserable.'

"Your friends here," went on Courtier with a touch of contempt, "seem in a flutter. Don't let them do

anything, don't let them say a word. Treat the thing as it deserves to be treated. It'll die."

"I'm not sure," he said, "that the consequences will be as you think, but I shall do as you say."

"As for your candidature, any man with a spark of generosity in his soul will rally to you because of it."

Then, dimly conscious that their last words had revealed the difference of their temperaments and creeds,

Miltoun leaned his elbow on the mantelpiece, and shading his face with his hand, said:

On Courtier's face was the look which so often came when he was speaking for one of his lost causesas if

Miltoun unshaded his face. His gaze seemed to have to travel from an immense distance before it reached

When everything, that night, was quiet, Barbara, her hair hanging loose outside her dressing gown, slipped

from her room into the dim corridor. With bare feet thrust into furcrowned slippers which made no noise,

she stole along looking at door after door. Through a long Gothic window, uncurtained, the mild moonlight

was coming. She stopped just where that moonlight fell, and tapped. There came no answer. She opened the

The curtains were drawn, but a chink of moonlight peering through fell on the bed. This was empty. Barbara

stood uncertain, listening. In the heart of that darkness there seemed to be, not sound, but, as it were, the

muffled soul of sound, a sort of strange vibration, like that of a flame noiselessly licking the air. She put her

hand to her heart, which beat as though it would leap through the thin silk covering. From what corner of the

room was that mute tremor coming? Stealing to the window, she parted the curtains, and stared back into the

shadows. There, on the far side, lying on the floor with his arms pressed tightly round his head and his face to

the wall, was Miltoun. Barbara let fall the curtains, and stood breathless, with such a queer sensation in her

breast as she had never felt; a sense of something outragedof scarred pride. It was gone at once, in a rush of

pity. She stepped forward quickly in the darkness, was visited by fear, and stopped. He had seemed

absolutely himself all the evening. A little more talkative, perhaps, a little more caustic than usual. And now

to find him like this! There was no great share of reverence in Barbara, but what little she possessed had

always been kept for her eldest brother. He had impressed her, from a child, with his aloofness, and she had

been proud of kissing him because he never seemed to let anybody else do so. Those caresses, no doubt, had

the savour of conquest; his face had been the undiscovered land for her lips. She loved him as one loves that

which ministers to one's pride; had for him, too, a touch of motherly protection, as for a doll that does not get

Dared she now plunge in on this private agony? Could she have borne that anyone should see herself thus

prostrate? He had not heard her, and she tried to regain the door. But a board creaked; she heard him move,

and flinging away her fears, said: "It's me! Babs!" and dropped on her knees beside him. If it had not been so

pitch dark she could never have done that. She tried at once to take his head into her arms, but could not see

it, and succeeded indifferently. She could but stroke his arm continually, wondering whether he would hate

her ever afterwards, and blessing the darkness, which made it all seem as though it were not happening, yet

so much more poignant than if it had happened. Suddenly she felt him slip away from her, and getting up,

stole out. After the darkness of that room, the corridor seemed full of grey filmy light, as though

dreamspiders had joined the walls with their cobwebs, in which innumerable white moths, so tiny that they

could not be seen, were struggling. Small eerie noises crept about. A sudden frightened longing for warmth,

and light, and colour came to Barbara. She fled back to her room. But she could not sleep. That terrible mute

unseen vibration in the unlighted roomlike the noiseless licking of a flame at bland air; the touch of

Miltoun's hand, hot as fire against her cheek and neck; the whole tremulous dark episode, possessed her

through and through. Thus had the wayward force of Love chosen to manifest itself to her in all its wistful

violence. At this fiat sight of the red flower of passion her cheeks burned; up and down her, between the cool

sheets, little hot cruel shivers ran; she lay, wideeyed, staring at the ceiling. She thought, of the woman

whom he so loved, and wondered if she too were lying sleepless, flung down on a bare floor, trying to cool

Not for hours did she fall asleep, and then dreamed of running desperately through fields full of tall spiky

In the morning she dreaded to go down. Could she meet Miltoun now that she knew of the passion in him,

and he knew that she knew it? She had her breakfast brought upstairs. Before she had finished Miltoun

himself came in. He looked more than usually selfcontained, not to say ironic, and only remarked: "If you're

going to ride you might take this note for me over to old Haliday at Wippincott." By his coming she knew

that he was saying all he ever meant to say about that dark incident. And sympathizing completely with a

reticence which she herself felt to be the only possible way out for both of them, Barbara looked at him

He left her restless, divested of the cloak 'of course,' in a strange mood of questioning, ready as it were for the

sight of the magpie wings of Life, and to hear their quick flutterings. Talk jarred on her that morning, with its

sameness and attachment to the facts of the present and the future, its essential concern with the world as it

wasshe avoided all companionship on her ride. She wanted to be told of things that were not, yet might be,

to peep behind the curtain, and see the very spirit of mortal happenings escaped from prison. And this was all

so unusual with Barbara, whose body was too perfect, too sanely governed by the flow of her blood not to

revel in the moment and the things thereof. She knew it was unusual. After her ride she avoided lunch, and

walked out into the lanes. But about two o'clock, feeling very hungry, she went into a farmhouse, and asked

for milk. There, in the kitchen, like young jackdaws in a row with their mouths a little open, were the three

farm boys, seated on a bench gripped to the alcove of the great fireway, munching bread and cheese. Above

their heads a gun was hung, trigger upwards, and two hams were mellowing in the smoke. At the feet of a

blackhaired girl, who was slicing onions, lay a sheep dog of tremendous age, with nose stretched out on

paws, and in his little blue eyes a gleam of approaching immortality. They all stared at, Barbara. And one of

the boys, whose face had the delightful look of him who loses all sense of other things in what he is seeing at

the moment, smiled, and continued smiling, with sheer pleasure. Barbara drank her milk, and wandered out

again; passing through a gate at the bottom of a steep, rocky tor, she sat down on a sunwarmed stone. The

sunlight fell greedily on her here, like an invisible swift hand touching her all over, and specially caressing

her throat and face. A very gentle wind, which dived over the tor tops into the young fern; stole down at her,

spiced with the fern sap. All was warmth and peace, and only the cuckoos on the far thorn treesas though

stationed by the Wistful Master himselfwere there to disturb her heart: But all the sweetness and piping of

the day did not soothe her. In truth, she could not have said what was the matter, except that she felt so

discontented, and as it were empty of all but a sort of aching impatience withwhat exactly she could not

say. She had that rather dreadful feeling of something slipping by which she could not catch. It was so new to

her to feel like thatfor no girl was less given to moods and repinings. And all the time a sort of contempt

for this soft and almost sentimental feeling made her tighten her lips and frown. She felt distrustful and

sarcastic towards a mood so utterly subversive of that fetich 'Hardness,' to the unconscious worship of which

she had been brought up. To stand no sentiment or nonsense either in herself or others was the first article of

faith; not to slopover anywhere. So that to feel as she did was almost horrible to Barbara. Yet she could not

get rid of the sensation. With sudden recklessness she tried giving herself up to it entirely. Undoing the scarf

at her throat, she let the air play on her bared neck, and stretched out her arms as if to hug the wind to her;

then, with a sigh, she got up, and walked on. And now she began thinking of 'Anonyma'; turning her position

over and over. The idea that anyone young and beautiful should thus be clipped off in her life, roused her

impatient indignation. Let them try it with her! They would soon see! For all her cultivated 'hardness,'

Barbara really hated anything to suffer. It seemed to her unnatural. She never went to that hospital where

Lady Valleys had a ward, nor to their summer camp for crippled children, nor to help in their annual concert

for sweated workers, without a feeling of such vehement pity that it was like being seized by the throat: Once,

when she had been singing to them, the rows of wan, pinched faces below had been too much for her; she had

broken down, forgotten her words, lost memory of the tune, and just ended her performance with a smile,

worth more perhaps to her audience than those lost verses. She never came away from such sights and places

without a feeling of revolt amounting almost to rage; and she only continued to go because she dimly knew

that it was expected of her not to turn her back on such things, in her section of Society.

But it was not this feeling which made her stop before Mrs. Noel's cottage; nor was it curiosity. It was a quite

'Anonyma' seemed taking her trouble as only those women who are no good at selfassertion can take

thingsdoing exactly as she would have done if nothing had happened; a little paler than usual, with lips

They neither of them spoke at first, but stood looking, not at each other's faces, but at each other's breasts. At

After that, like two children who kiss first, and then make acquaintance, they stood apart, silent, faintly

smiling. It had been given and returned in real sweetness and comradeship, that kiss, for a sign of

womanhood making face against the world; but now that it was over, both felt a little awkward. Would that

kiss have been given if Fate had been auspicious? Was it not proof of misery? So Mrs. Noel's smile seemed

saying, and Barbara's smile unwillingly admitted. Perceiving that if they talked it could only be about the

most ordinary things, they began speaking of music, flowers, and the queerness of bees' legs. But all the time,

Barbara, though seemingly unconscious, was noting with her smiling eyes, the tiny movement's, by which

one woman can tell what is passing in another. She saw a little quiver tighten the corner of the lips, the eyes

suddenly grow large and dark, the thin blouse desperately rise and fall. And her fancy, quickened by last

night's memory, saw this woman giving herself up to the memory of love in her thoughts. At this sight she

felt a little of that impatience which the conquering feel for the passive, and perhaps just a touch of jealousy.

Whatever Miltoun decided, that would this woman accept! Such resignation, while it simplified things,

offended the part of Barbara which rebelled against all inaction, all dictation, even from her favourite brother.

"Are you going to do nothing? Aren't you going to try and free yourself? If I were in your position, I would

But Mrs. Noel did not answer; and sweeping her glance from that crown of soft dark hair, down the soft

Soon after that, not knowing what more to say, she went away. But walking home across the fields, where

full summer was swinging on the delicious air and there was now no bull but only red cows to crop short the

'milkmaids' and buttercups, she suffered from this strange revelation of the strength of softness and

passivityas though she had seen in the white figure of 'Anonyma,' and heard in her voice something from

Lord Valleys, relieved from official pressure by subsidence of the war scare, had returned for a long

weekend. To say that he had been intensely relieved by the news that Mrs. Noel was not free, would be to

put it mildly. Though not oldfashioned, like his motherinlaw, in regard to the mixing of the castes,

prepared to admit that exclusiveness was out of date, to pass over with a shrug and a laugh those numerous

alliances by which his order were renewing the sinews of war, and indeed in his capacity of an expert, often

pointing out the dangers of too much inbreedingyet he had a peculiar personal feeling about his own

family, and was perhaps a little extra sensitive because of Agatha; for Shropton, though a good fellow, and

extremely wealthy, was only a third baronet, and had originally been made of iron. It was inadvisable to go

outside the inner circle where there was no material necessity for so doing. He had not done it himself.

On the morning after his arrival, visiting the kennels before breakfast, he stood chatting with his head man,

and caressing the wet noses of his two favourite pointers,with something of the feeling of a boy let out of

school. Those pleasant creatures, cowering and quivering with pride against his legs, and turning up at him

their yellow Chinese eyes, gave him that sense of warmth and comfort which visits men in the presence of

their hobbies. With this particular pair, inbred to the uttermost, he had successfully surmounted a great risk. It

was now touch and go whether he dared venture on one more cross to the original strain, in the hope of

eliminating the last clinging of liver colour. It was a gambleand it was just that which rendered it so vastly

A small voice diverted his attention; he looked round and saw little Ann. She had been in bed when he

"Grandpapa, Granny wants you. She's on the terrace; she's talking to Mr. Courtier. I like himhe's a kind

man. If I put my guineapig down, will they bite it? Poor darlingthey shan't! Isn't it a darling!"

Lord Valleys, twirling his moustache, regarded the guineapig without favour; he had rather a dislike for all

Pressing the guineapig between her hands, as it might be a concertina, little Ann jigged it gently above the

As he approached the terrace his wife came, towards him. Her colour was, deeper than usual, and she had the

look, higher and more resolute, peculiar to her when she had been opposed. In truth she had just been through

a passage of arms with Courtier, who, as the first revealer of Mrs. Noel's situation, had become entitled to a

certain confidence on this subject. It had arisen from what she had intended as a perfectly natural and not

unkind remark, to the effect that all the trouble had come from Mrs. Noel not having made her position clear

"It's easy, Lady Valleys, for those who have never been in the position of a lonely woman, to blame her."

"I am the last person to be hard on a woman for conventional" reasons. But I think it showed lack of

"Plants are not equally robust, Lady Valleys. Some, as we know, are actually sensitive."

"What crimes are not committed under the sanctity of that creed 'survival of the fittest,' which suits the book

"Ah! we must talk that out. On the face of them your words sound a little unphilosophic, don't they?

He had looked straight at her with a queer, unpleasant smile; and she had felt at once disturbed and angry. It

was all very well to pet and even to admire these original sort of men, but there were limits. Remembering,

"Perhaps after all we had better not talk it out;" and moving away, she heard him answer: "In any case, I'm

certain Audrey Noel never wilfully kept your son in the dark; she's much too proud."

Though rude, she could not help liking the way he stuck up for this woman; and she threw back at him the

She went towards her husband conscious of the rather pleasurable sensation which combat always roused in

These two were very good comrades. Theirs had been a love match, and making due allowance for human

nature beset by opportunity, had remained, throughout, a solid and efficient alliance. Taking, as they both did,

such prominent parts in public and social matters, the time they spent together was limited, but productive of

mutual benefit and reinforcement. They had not yet had an opportunity of discussing their son's affair; and,

"H'm!" said Lord Valleys; "yes. The boy's looking worn. Good thing when this election's over."

"If he's beaten and hasn't something new and serious to concentrate himself on, he'll fret his heart out over

"Of course! But it's a real passion. And, you know, he's not like most boys, who'll take what they can."

"You're clearly the person to speak to him," replied Lord Valleys. "I'm no hand at that sort of thing."

"My dear, I'm so nervous with Eustace. When he puts on that smile of his I'm done for, at once."

"If it were only one of the others," muttered Lady Valleys: "Eustace has that queer way of making you feel

Lord Valleys looked at her askance. He had that kind of critical fastidiousness which a word will rouse into

When after breakfast she entered Miltoun's 'den,' he was buckling on his spurs preparatory, to riding out to

some of the remoter villages. Under the mask of the Apache chief, Bertie was standing, more inscrutable and

neat than ever, in a perfectly tied cravatte, perfectly cut riding breeches, and boots worn and polished till a

sooty glow shone through their natural russet. Not specially dandified in his usual dress, Bertie Caradoc

would almost sooner have died than disgrace a horse. His eyes, the sharper because they had only half the

space of the ordinary eye to glance from, at once took in the fact that his mother wished to be alone with 'old

That which disconcerted all who had dealings with Miltoun was the discovery made soon or late, that they

could not be sure how anything would strike him. In his mind, as in his face, there was a certain regularity,

and thenimpossible to say exactly whereit would, shoot off and twist round a corner. This was the

legacy no doubt of the hardbitten individuality, which had brought to the front so many of his ancestors; for

in Miltoun was the blood not only of the Caradocs and FitzHarolds, but of most other prominent families in

the kingdom, all of whom, in those ages before money made the man, must have had a forbear conspicuous

And now, though Lady Valleys had the audacity of her physique, and was not customarily abashed, she

began by speaking of politics, hoping her son would give her an opening. But he gave her none, and she grew

"I'm dreadfully sorry about this affair, dear boy. Your father told me of your talk with him. Try not to take it

Miltoun did not answer, and silence being that which Lady Valleys habitually most dreaded, she took refuge

in further speech, outlining for her son the whole episode as she saw it from her point of view, and ending

Miltoun heard her with his peculiar look, as of a man peering through a vizor. Then smiling, he said:

Lady Valleys, without quite knowing whether he intended her to do so, indeed without quite knowing

That afternoon the wind, which had been rising steadily, brought a flurry of clouds up from the SouthWest.

Formed out on the heart of the Atlantic, they sailed forward, swift and fleecy at first, like the skirmishing

white shallops of a great fleet; then, in serried masses, darkened the sun. About four o'clock they broke in

rain, which the wind drove horizontally with a cold whiffling murmur. As youth and glamour die in a face

before the cold rains of life, so glory died on the moor. The tors, from being uplifted wild castles, became

mere grey excrescences. Distance failed. The cuckoos were silent. There was none of the beauty that there is

in death, no tragic greatnessall was moaning and monotony. But about seven the sun tore its way back

through the swathe, and flared out. Like some huge star, whose rays were stretching down to the horizon, and

up to the very top of the hill of air, it shone with an amazing murky glamour; the clouds splintered by its

shafts, and tinged saffron, piled themselves up as if in wonder. Under the sultry warmth of this new great star,

the heather began to steam a little, and the glitter of its wet unopened bells was like that of innumerable tiny

smoking fires. The two brothers were drenched as they cantered silently home. Good friends always, they had

never much to say to one another. For Miltoun was conscious that he thought on a different plane from

Bertie; and Bertie grudged even to his brother any inkling of what was passing in his spirit, just as he grudged

parting with diplomatic knowledge, or stable secrets, or indeed anything that might leave him less in

command of life. He grudged it, because in a private sort of way it lowered his estimation of his own stoical

selfsufficiency; it hurt something proud in the withdrawingroom of his soul. But though he talked little, he

had the power of contemplationoften found in men of decided character, with a tendency to liver. Once in

Nepal, where he had gone to shoot, he had passed a month quite happily with only a Ghoorka servant who

could speak no English. To those who asked him if he had not been horribly bored, he had always answered:

With Miltoun's trouble he had the professional sympathy of a brother and the natural intolerance of a

confirmed bachelor. Women were to him very kittlecattle. He distrusted from the bottom of his soul those

who had such manifest power to draw things from you. He was one of those men in whom some day a

woman might awaken a really fine affection; but who, until that time, would maintain the perfectly male

attitude to the entire sex, and, after it, to all the sex but one. Women were, like Life itself, creatures to be

watched, carefully used, and kept duly subservient. The only allusion therefore that he made to Miltoun's

The words were followed by undisturbed silence: But passing Mrs. Noel's cottage Miltoun said:

She was sitting at her piano with her hands idle, looking at a line of music.... She had been sitting thus for

When Miltoun's shadow blotted the light by which she was seeing so little, she gave a slight start, and got up.

But she neither went towards him, nor spoke. And he, without a word, came in and stood by the hearth,

looking down at the empty grate. A tortoiseshell cat which had been watching swallows, disturbed by his

This silence, in which the question of their future lives was to be decided, seemed to both interminable; yet,

Miltoun shivered at that timid sign of possession. And they again stood in silence broken only by the sound

The depth of meaning in those wordsthe tremendous and subtle admission they contained of all that she

had been ready to do, the despairing knowledge in them that he was not, and never had been, ready to 'bear it

There followed another long, long silence! But though so close that they were almost touching, they no

At those clear words spoken by lips which, though just smiling, failed so utterly to hide his misery, Mrs.

Noel's face became colourless as her white gown. But her eyes, which had grown immense, seemed from the

sheer lack of all other colour, to have drawn into them the whole of her vitality; to be pouring forth a proud

Shivering, and crushing himself together with his arms, Miltoun walked towards the window. There was not

the faintest sound from her, and he looked back. She was following him with her eyes. He threw his hand up

over his face, and went quickly out. Mrs. Noel stood for a little while where he had left her; then, sitting

down once more at the piano, began again to con over the line of music. And the cat stole back to the window

to watch the swallows. The sunlight was dying slowly on the top branches of the limetree; a, drizzling rain

Claud Fresnay, Viscount Harbinger was, at the age of thirtyone, perhaps the least encumbered peer in the

United Kingdom. Thanks to an ancestor who had acquired land, and departed this life one hundred and thirty

years before the town of Nettlefold was built on a small portion of it, and to a father who had died in his son's

infancy, after judiciously selling the said town, he possessed a very large income independently of his landed

interests. Tall and wellbuilt, with handsome, stronglymarked features, he gave at first sight an impression

of strengthwhich faded somewhat when he began to talk. It was not so much the manner of his

speechwith its rapid slang, and its way of turning everything to a jestas the feeling it produced, that the

brain behind it took naturally the path of least resistance. He was in fact one of those personalities who are

often enough prominent in politics and social life, by reason of their appearance, position, assurance, and of a

certain energy, half genuine, and half mere inherent predilection for short cuts. Certainly he was not idle, had

written a book, travelled, was a Captain of Yeomanry, a Justice of the Peace, a good cricketer, and a constant

and glib speaker. It would have been unfair to call his enthusiasm for social reform spurious. It was real

enough in its way, and did certainly testify that he was not altogether lacking either in imagination or

goodheartedness. But it was over and overlaid with the publicschool habitthat peculiar, extraordinarily

English habit, so powerful and beguiling that it becomes a second nature stronger than the firstof relating

everything in the Universe to the standards and prejudices of a single class. Since practically all his intimate

associates were immersed in it, he was naturally not in the least conscious of this habit; indeed there was

nothing he deprecated so much in politics as the narrow and prejudiced outlook, such as he had observed in

the Nonconformist, or labour politician. He would never have admitted for a moment that certain doors had

been bangedto at his birth, bolted when he went to Eton, and padlocked at Cambridge. No one would have

denied that there was much that was valuable in his standardsa high level of honesty, candour,

sportsmanship, personal cleanliness, and self reliance, together with a dislike of such cruelty as had been

officially (so to speak) recognized as cruelty, and a sense of public service to a State run by and for the public

schools; but it would have required far more originality than he possessed ever to look at Life from any other

point of view than that from which he had been born and bred to watch Her. To fully understand harbinger,

one must, and with unprejudiced eyes and brain, have attended one of those great cricket matches in which he

had figured conspicuously as a boy, and looking down from some high impartial spot have watched the

ground at lunch time covered from rope to rope and stand to stand with a marvellous swarm, all walking in

precisely the same manner, with precisely the same expression on their faces, under precisely the same

hatsa swarm enshrining the greatest identity of, creed and habit ever known since the world began. No, his

environment had not been favourable to originality. Moreover he was naturally rapid rather than deep, and

life hardly ever left him alone or left him silent. Brought into contact day and night with people to whom

politics were more or less a game; run after everywhere; subjected to no form of disciplineit was a wonder

that he was as serious as he was. Nor had he ever been in love, until, last year, during her first season,

Barbara had, as he might have expressed itin the case of another 'bowled him middle stump. Though so

deeply smitten, he. had not yet asked her to marry himhad not, as it were, had time, nor perhaps quite the

courage, or conviction. When he was near her, it seemed impossible that he could go on longer without

knowing his fate; when he was away from her it was almost a relief, because there were so many things to be

done and said, and so little time to do or say them in. But now, during this fortnight, which, for her sake, he

had devoted to Miltoun's cause, his feeling had advanced beyond the point of comfort.

He did not admit that the reason of this uneasiness was Courtier, for, after all, Courtier was, in a sense,

nobody, and 'an extremist' into the bargain, and an extremist always affected the centre of Harbinger's

anatomy, causing it to give off a peculiar smile and tone of voice. Nevertheless, his eyes, whenever they fell

on that sanguine, steady, ironic face, shone with a sort of cold inquiry, or were even darkened by the shade of

fear. They met seldom, it is true, for most of his day was spent in motoring and speaking, and most of

Courtier's in writing and riding, his leg being still too weak for walking. But once or twice in the smoking

room late at night, he had embarked on some bantering discussion with the champion of lost causes; and very

soon an illconcealed impatience had crept into his voice. Why a man should waste his time, flogging dead.

horses on a journey to the moon, was incomprehensible! Facts were facts, human nature would never be

anything but human nature! And it was peculiarly galling to see in Courtier's eye a gleam, to catch in his

On a morning after one of these encounters, seeing Barbara sally forth in riding clothes, he asked if he too

might go round the stables, and started forth beside her, unwontedly silent, with an odd feeling about his

The stables at Monkland Court were as large as many country houses. Accommodating thirty horses, they

were at present occupied by twenty one, including the pony of little Ann. For height, perfection of lighting,

gloss, shine, and purity of atmosphere they were unequalled in the county. It seemed indeed impossible that

any horse could ever so far forget himself in such a place as to remember that he was a horse. Every morning

a little bin of carrots, apples, and lumps of sugar, was set close to the main entrance, ready for those who

Reined up to a brass ring on either side of their stalls with their noses towards the doors, they were always on

view from nine to ten, and would stand with their necks arched, ears pricked, and coats gleaming, wondering

about things, soothed by the faint hissing of the still busy grooms, and ready to move their noses up and down

In a large loosebox at the end of the north wing Barbara's favourite chestnut hunter, all but one saving

sixteenth of whom had been entered in the stud book, having heard her footstep, was standing quite still with

his neck turned. He had been crumping up an apple placed amongst his feed, and his senses struggled

between the lingering flavour of that delicacy,and the perception of a sound with which he connected

carrots. When she unlatched his door, and said "Hal," he at once went towards his manger, to show his

independence, but when she said: "Oh! very well!" he turned round and came towards her. His eyes, which

were full and of a soft brilliance, under thick chestnut lashes, explored her all over. Perceiving that her carrots

were not in front, he elongated his neck, let his nose stray round her waist, and gave her gauntletted hand a

nip with his lips. Not tasting carrot, he withdrew his nose, and snuffled. Then stepping carefully so as not to

tread on her foot, he bunted her gently with his shoulder, till with a quick manoeuvre he got behind her and

breathed low and long on her neck. Even this did not smell of carrots, and putting his muzzle over her

shoulder against her cheek, he slobbered a very little. A carrot appeared about the level of her waist, and

hanging his head over, he tried to reach it. Feeling it all firm and soft under his chin, he snuffled again, and

gave her a gentle dig with his knee. But still unable to reach the carrot, he threw his head up, withdrew, and

pretended not to see her. And suddenly he felt two long substances round his neck, and something soft

against his nose. He suffered this in silence, laying his ears back. The softness began puffing on his muzzle.

Pricking his ears again, he puffed back a little harder, with more curiosity, and the softness was withdrawn.

Harbinger had witnessed this episode, oddly pale, leaning against the loosebox wall. He spoke, as it came to

The tone of his voice must have been as strange as it sounded to himself, for Barbara spun round.

Neither changing colour nor dropping her eyes, she regarded him with a faintly inquisitive interest. It was not

a cruel look, had not a trace of mischief, or sex malice, and yet it frightened him by its serene inscrutability.

Impossible to tell what was going on behind it. He took her hand, bent over it, and said in a low voice:

His face was close to hers, but Barbara did not shrink back. She just shook her head; and Harbinger flushed

"Why?" he asked; and as though the enormous injustice of that rejecting gesture had suddenly struck him, he

But the silence was only broken by the cheeping of sparrows outside the round window, and the sound of the

horse, Hal, munching the last morsel of his carrot. Harbinger was aware in his every nerve of the sweetish,

slightly acrid, husky odour of the loosebox, mingling with the scent of Barbara's hair and clothes. And rather

She was calmly exposed to his embrace if he had only dared; but he did not dare, and went back to the

loosebox wall. Biting his finger, he stared at her gloomily. She was stroking the muzzle of her horse; and a

sort of dry rage began whisking and rustling in his heart. She had refused himHarbinger! He had not

known, had not suspected how much he wanted her. How could there be anybody else for him, while that

young, calm, sweetscented, smiling thing lived, to make his head go round, his senses ache, and to fill his

heart with longing! He seemed to himself at that moment the most unhappy of all men.

Barbara's answer was a smile, faintly curious, compassionate, yet almost grateful, as if she had said:

And rather quickly, a yard or so apart, and talking of horses, they returned to the house.

The SouWesterly spella matter of three dayshad given way before radiant stillness; and merely to be

alive was to feel emotion. At a little stream running beside the moor under the wild stone man, the riders

stopped their horses, just to listen, and, inhale the day. The far sweet chorus of life was tuned to a most

delicate rhythm; not one of those small mingled pipings of streams and the lazy air, of beasts, men; birds, and

bees, jarred out too harshly through the garment of sound enwrapping the earth. It was noonthe still

momentbut this hymn to the sun, after his too long absence, never for a moment ceased to be murmured.

And the earth wore an underrobe of scent, delicious, very finely woven of the young fern sap, heather buds;

larchtrees not yet odourless, gorse just going brown, drifted woodsmoke, and the breath of hawthorn. Above

Earth's twin vestments of sound and scent, the blue enwrapping scarf of air, that wistful wide champaign, was

After that long drink of the day, the riders mounted almost in silence to the very top of the moor. There again

they sat quite still on their horses, examining the prospect. Far away to South and East lay the sea, plainly

visible. Two small groups of wild ponies were slowly grazing towards each other on the hillside below.

"'Thus will I sit and sing, with love in my arms; watching our two herds mingle together, and below us the

"Lady Barbara, I am afraid this is the last time we shall be alone together. While I have the chance, therefore,

I must do homage.... You will always be the fixed star for my worship. But your rays are too bright; I shall

worship from afar. From your seventh Heaven, therefore, look down on me with kindly eyes, and do not quite

Under that speech, so strangely compounded of irony and fervour, Barbara sat very still, with glowing

"Yes," said Courtier, "only an immortal must embrace a goddess. Outside the purlieus of Authority I shall sit

"In the early morning," went on Courtier, "leaving the dark and dismal homes of Freedom I shall look

Courtier leaned over, took her hand, and put it to his lips. "We will now ride on...."

That night at dinner Lord Dennis, seated opposite his greatniece, was struck by her appearance.

She was placed between Courtier and Harbinger. And the old man's still keen eyes carefully watched those

two. Though attentive to their neighbours on the other side, they were both of them keeping the corner of an

eye on Barbara and on each other. The thing was transparent to Lord Dennis, and a smile settled in that nest

of gravity between his white peaked beard and moustaches. But he waited, the instinct of a fisherman bidding

him to neglect no piece of water, till he saw the child silent and in repose, and watched carefully to see what

would rise. Although she was so calmly, so healthily eating, her eyes stole round at Courtier. This quick look

seemed to Lord Dennis perturbed, as if something were exciting her. Then Harbinger spoke, and she turned to

answer him. Her face was calm now, faintly smiling, a little eager, provocative in its joy of life. It made Lord

Dennis think of his own youth. What a splendid couple! If Babs married young Harbinger there would not be

a finer pair in all England. His eyes travelled back to Courtier. Manly enough! They called him dangerous!

There was a look of effervescence, carefully corked downmight perhaps be attractive to a girl! To his

essentially practical and sober mind, a type like Courtier was puzzling. He liked the look of him, but

distrusted his ironic expression, and that appearance of blood to the head. Fellow no doubtthat would

ride off on his ideas, humanitarian! To Lord Dennis there was something queer about humanitarians. They

offended perhaps his dry and precise sense of form. They were always looking out for cruelty or injustice;

seemed delighted when they found it swelled up, as it were, when they scented it, and as there was a good

deal about, were never quite of normal size. Men who lived for ideas were, in fact, to one for whom facts

sufficed always a little worrying! A movement from Barbara brought him back to actuality. Was the

possessor of that crown of hair and those divine young shoulders the little Babs who had ridden with him in

the Row? Time was certainly the Devil! Her eyes were searching for something; and following the direction

of that glance, Lord Dennis found himself observing Miltoun. What a difference between those two! Both no

doubt in the great trouble of youth; which sometimes, as he knew too well, lasted on almost to old age. It was

a curious look the child was giving her brother, as if asking him to help her. Lord Dennis had seen in his day

many young creatures leave the shelter of their freedom and enter the house of the great lottery; many, who

had drawn a prize and thereat lost forever the coldness of life; many too, the light of whose eyes had faded

behind the shutters of that house, having drawn a blank. The thought of 'little' Babs on the threshold of that

inexorable saloon, filled him with an eager sadness; and the sight of the two men watching for her, waiting

for her, like hunters, was to him distasteful. In any case, let her not, for Heaven's sake, go ranging as far as

that red fellow of middle age, who might have ideas, but had no pedigree; let her stick to youth and her own

order, and marry theyoung man, confound him, who looked like a Greek god, of the wrong period, having

grown a moustache. He remembered her words the other evening about these two and the different lives they

lived. Some romantic notion or other was working in her! And again he looked at Courtier. A Quixotic

typethe sort that rode slapbang at everything! All very wellbut not for Babs! She was not like the

glorious Garibaldi's glorious Anita! It was truly characteristic of Lord Dennisand indeed of other

peoplethat to him champions of Liberty when dead were far dearer than champions of Liberty when living.

Yes, Babs would want more, or was it less, than just a life of sleeping under the stars for the man she loved,

and the cause he fought for. She would want pleasure, and, not too much effort, and presently a little power;

not the uncomfortable afterfame of a woman who went through fire, but the fame and power of beauty, and

Society prestige. This, fancy of hers, if it were a fancy, could be nothing but the romanticism of a young girl.

For the sake of a passing shadow, to give up substance? It wouldn't do!. And again Lord Dennis fixed his

shrewd glance on his greatniece. Those eyes, that smile! Yes! She would grow out of this. And take the

It was not till the morning of polling day itself that Courtier left Monkland Court. He had already suffered for

some time from bad conscience. For his knee was practically cured, and he knew well that it was Barbara,

and Barbara alone, who kept him staying there. The atmosphere of that big house with its army of servants,

the impossibility of doing anything for himself, and the feeling of hopeless insulation from the vivid and

necessitous sides of life, galled him greatly. He felt a very genuine pity for these people who seemed to lead

an existence as it were smothered under their own social importance. It was not their fault. He recognized that

they did their best. They were good specimens of their kind; neither soft nor luxurious, as things went in a

degenerate and extravagant age; they evidently tried to be simpleand this seemed to him to heighten the

pathos of their situation. Fate had been too much for them. What human spirit could emerge untrammelled

and unshrunken from that great encompassing host of material advantage? To a Bedouin like Courtier, it was

as though a subtle, but very terrible tragedy was all the time being played before his eyes; and in, the very

centre of this tragedy was the girl who so greatly attracted him. Every night when he retired to that lofty

room, which smelt so good, and where, without ostentation, everything was so perfectly ordered for his

But every morning when he met her at breakfast his thought was precisely the same, and there were moments

when he caught himself wondering: "Am I falling under the spell of this existenceam I getting soft?" He

recognized as never before that the peculiar artificial 'hardness' of the patrician was a brine or pickle, in

which, with the instinct of selfpreservation they deliberately soaked themselves, to prevent the decay of

their overprotected fibre. He perceived it even in Barbaraa sort of sentimentproof overall, a species of

mistrust of the emotional or lyrical, a kind of contempt of sympathy and feeling. And every day he was more

and more tempted to lay rude hands on this garment; to see whether he could not make her catch fire, and

flare up with some emotion or idea. In spite of her tantalizing, youthful selfpossession, he saw that she felt

this longing in him, and now and then he caught a glimpse of a streak of recklessness in her which lured him

And yet, when at last he was saying goodbye on the night before polling day, he could not flatter himself

that he had really struck any spark from her. Certainly she gave him no chance, at that final interview, but

stood amongst the other women, calm and smiling, as if determined that he should not again mock her with

He got up very early the next morning, intending to pass away unseen. In the car put at his disposal; he found

a small figure in a holland frock, leaning back against the cushions so that some sandalled toes pointed up at

the chauffeur's back. They belonged to little Ann, who in the course of business had discovered the vehicle

before the door. Her sudden little voice under her sudden little nose, friendly but not too friendly, was

There certainly was Lady Casterley, standing a little back from the drive, and directing a tall gardener how to

deal with an old oak tree. Courtier alighted, and went towards her to say goodbye. She greeted him with a

"So you are going! I am glad of that, though you quite understand that I like you personally."

"My granddaughter will marry Lord Harbinger. I mention that, Mr. Courtier, for your peace of mind. You are

Courtier smilingly raised his hat. His cheeks were burning. Regaining the car, he looked round. Lady

Casterley was busy once more exhorting the tall gardener. The voice of little Ann broke in on his thoughts:

"I hope you'll come again. Because I expect I shall be here at Christmas; and my brothers will be here then,

that is, Jock and Tiddy, not Christopher because he's young. I must go now. Goodbye! Hallo, Susie!"

Courtier saw her slide away, and join the little pale adoring figure of the lodgekeeper's daughter.

If Lady Casterley had planned this disclosure, which indeed she had not, for the impulse had only come over

her at the sound of Courtier's laugh, she could not have, devised one more effectual, for there was deep down

in him all a wanderer's very real distrust,, amounting almost to contempt, of people so settled and done for; as

aristocrats or bourgeois, and all a man of action's horror of what he called puking and muling. The pursuit of

Barbara with any other object but that of marriage had naturally not occurred to one who had little sense of

conventional morality, but much selfrespect; and a secret endeavour to cut out Harbinger, ending in a

marriage whereat he would figure as a sort of pirate, was quite as little to the taste of a man not unaccustomed

He caused the car to deviate up the lane that led to Audrey Noel's, hating to go away without a hail of cheer

She came out to him on the verandah. From the clasp of her hand, thin and faintly brownedthe hand of a

woman never quite idlehe felt that she relied on him to understand and sympathize; and nothing so

awakened the best in Courtier as such mute appeals to his protection. He said gently:

"Don't let them think you're down;" and, squeezing her hand hard: "Why should you be wasted like this? It's a

But he stopped in what he felt to be an unlucky speech at sight of her face, which without movement

expressed so much more than his words. He was protesting as a civilized man; her face was the protest of

Nature, the soundless declaration of beauty wasted against its will, beauty that was life's invitation to the

"I'm clearing out, myself," he said: "You and I, you know, are not good for these people. No birds of freedom

Pressing his hand, she turned away into the house, leaving Courtier gazing at the patch of air where her white

figure had stood. He had always had a special protective feeling for Audrey Noel, a feeling which with but

little encouragement might have become something warmer. But since she had been placed in her anomalous

position, he would not for the world have brushed the dew off her belief that she could trust him. And, now

that he had fixed his own gaze elsewhere, and she was in this bitter trouble, he felt on her account the rancour

that a brother feels when Justice and Pity have conspired to flout his sister. The voice of Frith the chauffeur

Following the man's eyes, Courtier saw against the skyline on the for above Ashman's Folly, an equestrian

He reached her at the ruin, screened from the road, by that divine chance which attends on men who take care

that it shall. He could not tell whether she knew of his approach, and he would have given all he had, which

was not much, to have seen through the stiff grey of her coat, and the soft cream of her body, into that

mysterious cave, her heart. To have been for a moment, like Ashman, done for good and all with material

things, and living the white life where are no barriers between man and woman. The smile on her lips so

baffled him, puffed there by her spirit, as a first flower is puffed through the sur face of earth to mock at the

spring winds. How tell what it signified! Yet he rather prided himself on his knowledge of women, of whom

"I shall see you in London!" she said; and, touching her horse with her whip, without looking back, she rode

Polling was already in brisk progress when Courtier arrived in Bucklandbury; and partly from a not unnatural

interest in the result, partly from a halfunconscious clinging to the chance of catching another glimpse of

Barbara, he took his bag to the hotel, determined to stay for the announcement of the poll. Strolling out into

the High Street he began observing the humours of the day. The bloom of political belief had long been

brushed off the wings of one who had so flown the world's winds. He had seen too much of more vivid

colours to be capable now of venerating greatly the dull and dubious tints of blue and yellow. They left him

feeling extremely philosophic. Yet it was impossible to get away from them, for the very world that day

seemed blue and yellow, nor did the third colour of red adopted by both sides afford any clear assurance that

either could see virtue in the other; rather, it seemed to symbolize the desire of each to have his enemy's

blood. But Courtier soon observed by the looks cast at his own detached, and perhaps sarcastic, face, that

even more hateful to either side than its antagonist, was the philosophic eye. Unanimous was the longing to

heave half a brick at it whenever it showed itself. With its dd impartiality, its habit of looking through the

integument of things to see if there might be anything inside, he felt that they regarded it as the real

adversary the eternal foe to all the little fat 'facts,' who, dressed up in blue and yellow, were swaggering

and staggering, calling each other names, wiping each other's eyes, blooding each other's noses. To these little

solemn delicious creatures, all front and no behind, the philosophic eye, with its habit of looking round the

corner, was clearly detestable. The very yellow and very blue bodies of these roistering small warriors with

their hands on their tin swords and their lips on their tin trumpets, started up in every window and on every

wall confronting each citizen in turn, persuading him that they and they alone were taking him to

Westminster. Nor had they apparently for the most part much trouble with electors, who, finding uncertainty

distasteful, passionately desired to be assured that the country could at once be saved by little yellow facts or

little blue facts, as the case might be; who had, no doubt, a dozen other good reasons for being on the one side

or the other; as, for instance, that their father had been so before them; that their bread was buttered yellow or

buttered blue; that they had been on the other side last time; that they had thought it over and made up their

minds; that they had innocent blue or naive yellow beer within; that his lordship was the man; or that the

words proper to their mouths were 'Chilcox for Bucklandbury'; and, above all, the one really creditable

reason, that, so far as they could tell with the best of their intellect and feelings, the truth at the moment was

The narrow high street was thronged with voters. Tall policemen stationed there had nothing to do. The

certainty of all, that they were going to win, seemed to keep everyone in good humour. There was as yet no

need to break anyone's head, for though the sharpest lookout was kept for any signs of the philosophic eye, it

was only to be foundoutside Courtierin the perambulators of babies, in one old man who rode a bicycle

waveringly along the street and stopped to ask a policeman what was the matter in the town, and in two rather

But though Courtier eyed the 'facts' with such suspicion, the keenness of everyone about the business struck

him as really splendid. They went at it with a will. Having looked forward to it for months, they were going

to look back on it for months. It was evidently a religious ceremony, summing up most high feelings; and this

seemed to one who was himself a man of action, natural, perhaps pathetic, but certainly no matter for scorn.

It was already late in the afternoon when there came debouching into the high street a long string of

sandwichmen, each bearing before and behind him a poster containing these words beautifully situated in

Courtier stopped to look at them with peculiar indignation. Not only did this poster tramp in again on his

cherished convictions about Peace, but he saw in it something more than met the unphilosophic eye. It

symbolized for him all that was catchpenny in the national lifean epitaph on the grave of generosity,

unutterably sad. Yet from a Party point of view what could be more justifiable? Was it not desperately

important that every blue nerve should be strained that day to turn yellow nerves, if not blue, at all events

green, before night fell? Was it not perfectly true that the Empire could only be saved by voting blue? Could

they help a blue paper printing the words, 'New complications,' which he had read that morning? No more

than the yellows could help a yellow journal printing the words 'Lord Miltoun's Evening Adventure.' Their

only business was to win, ever fighting fair. The yellows had not fought fair, they never did, and one of their

most unfair tactics was the way they had of always accusing the blues of unfair fighting, an accusation truly

ludicrous! As for truth! That which helped the world to be blue, was obviously true; that which didn't, as

obviously not. There was no middle policy! The man who saw things neither was a softy, and no proper

citizen. And as for giving the yellows credit for sinceritythe yellows never gave them credit! But though

Courtier knew all that, this poster seemed to him particularly damnable, and he could not for the life of him

resist striking one of the sandwichboards with his cane. The resounding thwack startled a butcher's pony

standing by the pavement. It reared, and bolted forward, with Courtier, who had naturally seized the rein,

hanging on. A dog dashed past. Courtier tripped and fell. The pony, passing over, struck him on the head with

a hoof. For a moment he lost consciousness; then coming to himself, refused assistance, and went to his hotel.

Miltoun, returning from that necessary exhibition of himself, the crowning fact, at every polling centre, found

"When there is a desert, Courtier, between a man and the sacred city, he doesn't renounce his journey because

There was such pentup fury in those words as to astonish even one whose life had been passed in conflict

"I hate its mean stupidities, I hate the sound of its voice, and the look on its faceit's so ugly, it's so little.

Courtier, I suffer purgatory from the thought that I shall scrape in by the votes of the mob. There is sin in

"You've been working too hard," he said at last, "you're off your balance. After all, the mob's made up of men

"No, Courtier, the mob is not made up of men like you and me. If it were it would not be the mob."

"It looks," Courtier answered gravely, "as if you had no business in this galley. I've always steered clear of it

"Drop your politicsif you feel like this about them; don't waste your life following whatever it is you

It was a wondrous still night, when, a few minutes before twelve, with his forehead bandaged under his hat,

the champion of lost causes left the hotel and made his way towards the Grammar School for the declaration

of the poll. A sound as of some monster breathing guided him, till, from a steep empty street he came in sight

of a surging crowd, spread over the town square, like a dark carpet patterned by splashes of lamplight. High

up above that crowd, on the little peaked tower of the Grammar School, a brightly lighted clock face

presided; and over the passionate hopes in those thousands of hearts knit together by suspense the sky had

lifted; and showed no cloud between them and the purple fields of air. To Courtier descending towards the

square, the swaying white faces, turned all one way, seemed like the heads of giant wild flowers in a dark

field, shivered by wind. The night had charmed away the blue and yellow facts, and breathed down into that

throng the spirit of emotion. And he realized all at once the beauty and meaning of this sceneexpression of

the quivering forces, whose perpetual flux, controlled by the Spirit of Balance, was the soul of the world.

Thousands of hearts with the thought of self lost in one overmastering excitement!

"Aye," said the old man, "'tis fine. I've not seen the like o' this since the great yearfortyeight. There they

Following the direction of that skinny hand Courtier saw on a balcony Lord and Lady Valleys, side by side,

looking steadily down at the crowd. There too, leaning against a window and talking to someone behind, was

Barbara. The old man went on muttering, and Courtier could see that his eyes had grown very bright, his

whole face transfigured by intense hostility; he felt drawn to this old creature, thus moved to the very soul.

Then he saw Barbara looking down at him, with her hand raised to her temple to show that she saw his

"You wouldn't remember fortyeight, I suppose. There was a feeling in the people thenwe would ha' died

for things in those days. I'm eightyfour," and he held his shaking hand up to his breast, "but the spirit's alive

here yet! God send the Radical gets in!" There was wafted from him a scent as of potatoes.

Far behind, at the very edge of the vast dark throng, some voices began singing: "Way down upon the

Then, in the very centre of the square a stentorian baritone roared forth: "Should auld acquaintance be

The song swelled, till every kind of voice, from treble to the old Chartist's quavering bass, was chanting it;

here and there the crowd heaved with the movement of linked arms. Courtier found the soft fingers of a

young woman in his right hand, the old Chartist's dry trembling paw in his left. He himself sang loudly. The

grave and fearful music sprang straight up into they air, rolled out right and left, and was lost among the hills.

But it had no sooner died away than the same huge baritone yelled "God save our gracious King!" The stature

of the crowd seemed at once to leap up two feet, and from under that platform of raised hats rose a

They were singing even on the balconies; by the lamplight he could see Lord Valleys mouth not opened quite

enough, as though his voice were just a little ashamed of coming out, and Barbara with her head flung back

against the pillar, pouring out her heart. No mouth in all the crowd was silent. It was as though the soul of the

English people were escaping from its dungeon of reserve, on the pinions of that chant.

But suddenly, like a shot bird closing wings, the song fell silent and dived headlong back to earth. Out from

under the clockface had moved a thin dark figure. More figures came behind. Courtier could see Miltoun. A

voice far away cried: "Up; Chilcox!" A huge: "Husill" followed; then such a silence, that the sound of an

The dark figure moved forward, and a tiny square of paper gleamed out white against the black of his

Miltoun Four thousand eight hundred and ninetyeight. Chilcox Four thousand eight hundred and two."

The silence seemed to fall to earth, and break into a thousand pieces. Through the pandemonium of cheers

and groaning, Courtier with all his strength forced himself towards the balcony. He could see Lord Valleys

leaning forward with a broad smile; Lady Valleys passing her hand across her eyes; Barbara with her hand in

Harbinger's, looking straight into his face. He stopped. The old Chartist was still beside him, tears rolling

At three o'clock in the afternoon of the nineteenth of July little Ann Shropton commenced the ascent of the

main staircase of Valleys House, London. She climbed slowly, in the very middle, an extremely small white

figure on those wide and shining stairs, counting them aloud. Their number was never alike two days

running, which made them attractive to one for whom novelty was the salt of life.

Coming to that spot where they branched, she paused to consider which of the two flights she had used last,

and unable to remember, sat down. She was the bearer of a message. It had been new when she started, but

was already comparatively old, and likely to become older, in view of a design now conceived by her of

travelling the whole length of the picture gallery. And while she sat maturing this plan, sunlight flooding

through a large window drove a white refulgence down into the heart of the wide polished space of wood and

marble, whence she had come. The nature of little Ann habitually rejected fairies and all fantastic things,

finding them quite too much in the air, and devoid of sufficient reality and 'go'; and this refulgence, almost

unearthly in its travelling glory, passed over her small head and played strangely with the pillars in the hall,

without exciting in her any fancies or any sentiment. The intention of discovering what was at the end of the

picture gallery absorbed the whole of her essentially practical and active mind. Deciding on the lefthand

flight of stairs, she entered that immensely long, narrow, andwith blinds drawnrather dark saloon. She

walked carefully, because the floor was very slippery here, and with a kind of seriousness due partly to the

darkness and partly to the pictures. They were indeed, in this light, rather formidable, those old Caradocs

black, armoured creatures, some of them, who seemed to eye with a sort of burning, grim, defensive greed the

small white figure of their descendant passing along between them. But little Ann, who knew they were only

pictures, maintained her course steadily, and every now and then, as she passed one who seemed to her rather

uglier than the others, wrinkled her sudden little nose. At the end, as she had thought; appeared a door. She

opened it, and passed on to a landing. There was a stone staircase in the corner, and there were two doors. It

would be nice to go up the staircase, but it would also be nice to open the doors. Going towards the first door,

with a little thrill, she turned the handle. It was one of those rooms, necessary in houses, for which she had no

great liking; and closing this door rather loudly she opened the other one, finding herself in a chamber not

resembling the rooms downstairs, which were all high and nicely gilded, but more like where she had lessons,

low, and filled with books and leather chairs. From the end of the room which she could not see, she heard a

sound as of someone kissing something, and instinct had almost made her turn to go away when the word:

"Hallo!" suddenly opened her lips. And almost directly she saw that Granny and Grandpapa were standing by

the fireplace. Not knowing quite whether they were glad to see her, she went forward and began at once:

Hearing the door shut behind her, Lord and Lady Valleys looked at each other with a dubious smile.

Accustomed to retire to this quiet and homely room, which was not his official study where he was always

liable to the attacks of secretaries, Lord Valleys had come up here after lunch to smoke and chew the cud of a

The matter was one in connection with his Pendridny estate, in Cornwall. It had long agitated both his agent

and himself, and had now come to him for final decision. The question affected two villages to the north of

the property, whose inhabitants were solely dependent on the working of a large quarry, which had for some

A kindly man, he was extremely averse to any measure which would plunge his tenants into distress, and

especially in cases where there had been no question of opposition between himself and them. But, reduced to

its essentials, the matter stood thus: Apart from that particular quarry the Pendridny estate was not only a

going, but even a profitable concern, supporting itself and supplying some of the sinews of war towards

Valleys House and the racing establishment at Newmarket and other general expenses; with this quarry still

running, allowing for the upkeep of Pendridny, and the provision of pensions to superannuated servants, it

Sitting there, that afternoon, smoking his favourite pipe, he had at last come to the conclusion that there was

nothing for it but to close down. He had not made this resolution lightly; though, to do him justice, the

knowledge that the decision would be bound to cause an outcry in the local, and perhaps the National Press,

had secretly rather spurred him on to the resolve than deterred him from it. He felt as if he were being

dictated to in advance, and he did not like dictation. To have to deprive these poor people of their immediate

living was, he knew, a good deal more irksome to him than to those who would certainly make a fuss about

it, his conscience was clear, and he could discount that future outcry as mere Party spite. He had very

honestly tried to examine the thing all round; and had reasoned thus: If I keep this quarry open, I am really

admitting the principle of pauperization, since I naturally look to each of my estates to support its own house,

grounds, shooting, and to contribute towards the support of this house, and my family, and racing stable, and

To allow any business to be run on my estates which does not contribute to the general upkeep, is to protect

and really pauperize a portion of my tenants at the expense of the rest; it must therefore be false economics

and a secret sort of socialism. Further, if logically followed out, it might end in my ruin, and to allow that,

though I might not personally object, would be to imply that I do not believe that I am by virtue of my

traditions and training, the best machinery through which the State can work to secure the welfare of the

When he had reached that point in his consideration of the question, his mind, or rather perhaps, his essential

Impersonality was in fashion, and as a rule he believed in thinking impersonally. There was a point, however,

where the possibility of doing so ceased, without treachery to oneself, one's order, and the country. And to the

argument which he was quite shrewd enough to put to himself, sooner than have it put by anyone else, that it

was disproportionate for a single man by a stroke of the pen to be able to dispose of the livelihood of

hundreds whose senses and feelings were similar to his ownhe had answered: "If I didn't, some plutocrat or

company wouldor, worse still, the State!" Cooperative enterprise being, in his opinion, foreign to the spirit

of the country, there was, so far as he could see, no other alternative. Facts were facts and not to be got over!

Notwithstanding all this, the necessity for the decision made him sorry, for if he had no great sense of

He was still smoking his pipe and staring at a sheet of paper covered with small figures when his wife

entered. Though she had come to ask his advice on a very different subject, she saw at once that he was

Lord Valleys rose, went to the hearth, deliberately tapped out his pipe, then held out to her the sheet of paper.

Lord Valleys stared at his nails. "It's putting a drag on the whole estate," he said.

"I know, but how could we face the peopleI should never be able to go down there. And most of them have

Since Lord Valleys continued to bend on his nails that slow, thought forming stare, she went on earnestly:

"Rather than that I'd make sacrifices. I'd sooner Pendridny were let than throw all those people out of work. I

"In time we might get the people drafted into other things. Have you consulted Miltoun?"

"I tell you," repeated Lord Valleys, "Miltoun's no good in a matter of this sorthe and his ideas throw back

"I don't like the thought of some outsider there. Time enough to come to that if we must. Take it as my

"I came about Babs. I don't know what to make of her since we came up. She's not putting her heart into

"It's the heat probablyor Claud Harbinger." In spite of his easy going parentalism, he disliked the thought

"There's something queer about her. I'm by no means certain she hasn't got some sort of feeling for that Mr.

"For twenty," murmured Lady Valleys. "I'm watching her. He's going to Persia, they say."

"And leaving his bones there, I hope," muttered Lord Valleys. "Really, it's too much. I should think you're all

Lady Valleys raised her eyebrows. Men were very queer about such things! Very queer and worse than

"Well," she said, "I must go to my meeting. I'll take her, and see if I can get at something," and she went

It was the inaugural meeting of the Society for the Promotion of the Birth Rate, over which she had promised

to preside. The scheme was one in which she had been prominent from the start, appealing as it did to her

large and fullblooded nature. Many movements, to which she found it impossible to refuse her name, had in

themselves but small attraction; and it was a real comfort to feel something approaching enthusiasm for one

branch of her public work. Not that there was any academic consistency about her in the matter, for in private

life amongst her friends she was not narrowly dogmatic on the duty of wives to multiply exceedingly. She

thought imperially on the subject, without bigotry. Large, healthy families, in all cases save individual ones!

The prime idea at the back of her mind was National Expansion! Her motto, and she intended if possible to

make it the motto of the League, was: 'De l'audace, et encore de l'audace!' It was a question of the full

realization of the nation. She had a true, and in a sense touching belief in 'the flag,' apart from what it might

cover. It was her idealism. "You may talk," she would say, "as much as you like about directing national life

in accordance with social justice! What does the nation care about social justice? The thing is much bigger

On the way to the meeting, occupied with her speech, she made no attempt to draw Barbara into

conversation. That must wait. The child, though languid, and pale, was looking so beautiful that it was a

In a little dark room behind the hall the Committee were already assembled, and they went at once on to the

Into the three weeks since Miltoun's election there had been crowded such a multitude of functions that she

had found, as it were, no time, no energy to know where she stood with herself. Since that morning in the

stable, when he had watched her with the horse Hal, Harbinger had seemed to live only to be close to her.

And the consciousness of his passion gave her a tingling sense of pleasure. She had been riding and dancing

with him, and sometimes this had been almost blissful. But there were times too, when she feltthough

always with a certain contempt of herself, as when she sat on that sunwarmed stone below the tora queer

dissatisfaction, a longing for something outside a world where she had to invent her own starvations and

She had seen Courtier three times. Once he had come to dine, in response to an invitation from Lady Valleys

worded in that charming, almost wistful style, which she had taught herself to use to those below her in social

rank, especially if they were intelligent; once to the Valleys House garden party; and next day, having told

him what time she would be riding, she had found him in the Row, not mounted, but standing by the rail just

where she must pass, with that look on his face of mingled deference and ironic selfcontainment, of which

he was a master. It appeared that he was leaving England; and to her questions why, and where, he had only

shrugged his shoulders. Up on this dusty platform, in the hot bare hall, facing all those people, listening to

speeches whose sense she was too languid and preoccupied to take in, the whole medley of thoughts, and

faces round her, and the sound of the speakers' voices, formed a kind of nightmare, out of which she noted

with extreme exactitude the colour of her mother's neck beneath a large black hat, and the expression on the

face of a Committee man to the right, who was biting his fingers under cover of a blue paper. She realized

that someone was speaking amongst the audience, casting forth, as it were, small bunches of words. She

could see hima little man in a black coat, with a white face which kept jerking up and down.

"I feel that this is terrible," she heard him say; "I feel that this is blasphemy. That we should try to tamper

with the greatest force, the greatest and the most sacred and secretforce, thatthat moves in the world, is to

me horrible. I cannot bear to listen; it seems to make everything so small!" She saw him sit down, and her

"We must all sympathize with the sincerity and to a certain extent with the intention of our friend in the body

Have we the right to allow ourselves the luxury, of private feelings in a matter which concerns the national

expansion. We must not give way to sentiment. Our friend in the body of the hall spokehe will forgive me

for saying solike a poet, rather than a serious reformer. I am afraid that if we let ourselves drop into poetry,

the birth rate of this country will very soon drop into poetry too. And that I think it is impossible for us to

contemplate with folded hands. The resolution I was about to propose when our friend in the body of the

But Barbara's attention, had wandered off again into that queer medley of thoughts, and feelings, out of which

the little man had so abruptly roused her. Then she realized that the meeting was breaking up, and her mother

When they were once more in the car, she leaned back very silent, watching the traffic.

"What a little bombshell," she said, "from that small person! He must have got in by mistake. I hear Mr.

An expression of compunction crossed Lady Valleys' face; she tried to possess herself of Barbara's hand. But

"I know the mood you're in, dear. It wants all one's pluck to shake it off; don't let it grow on you. You'd better

At the entrance of the two ladies, there rose at once a faint buzz and murmur. Lady Valleys, whose ample

presence radiated suddenly a businesslike and cheery confidence, went to a bedside and sat down. But

Barbara stood in a thin streak of the July sunlight, uncertain where to begin, amongst the faces turned towards

her. The poor dears looked so humble, and so wistful, and so tired. There was one lying quite flat, who had

not even raised her head to see who had come in. That slumbering, pale, high cheekboned face had a frailty

as if a touch, a breath, would shatter it; a wisp of the blackest hair, finer than silk, lay across the forehead; the

closed eyes were deep sunk; one hand, scarred almost to the bone with work, rested above her breast. She

breathed between lips which had no colour. About her, sleeping, was a kind of beauty. And there came over

the girl a queer rush of emotion. The sleeper seemed so apart from everything there, from all the formality

and stiffness of the ward. To look at her swept away the languid, hollow feeling with which she had come in;

it made her think of the tors at home, when the wind was blowing, and all was bare, and grand, and

sometimes terrible. There was something elemental in that still sleep. And the old lady in the next led, with a

brown wrinkled face and bright black eyes brimful of life, seemed almost vulgar beside such remote

tranquillity, while she was telling Barbara that a little bunch of heather in the better half of a soapdish on the

windowsill had come from Wales, because, as she explained: "My mother was born in Stirling, dearie; so I

But when Barbara again passed, the sleeping woman was sitting up, and looked but a poor ordinary

"My dear, my Naval Bazaar at fivethirty; and while I'm there you must go home and have a rest, and freshen

The Duchess of Gloucester's Ball, a function which no one could very well miss, had been fixed for this late

date owing to the Duchess's announced desire to prolong the season and so help the hackney cabmen; and

though everybody sympathized, it had been felt by most that it would be simpler to go away, motor up on the

day of the Ball, and motor down again on the following morning. And throughout the week by which the

season was thus prolonged, in long rows at the railway stations, and on their stands, the hackney cabmen,

unconscious of what was being done for them, waited, patient as their horses. But since everybody was

making this special effort, an exceptionally large, exclusive, and brilliant company reassembled at Gloucester

In the vast ballroom over the medley of entwined revolving couples, punkahs had been fixed, to clear and

freshen the languid air, and these huge fans, moving with incredible slowness, drove a faint refreshing

draught down over the sea of white shirtfronts and bare necks, and freed the scent from innumerable

Late in the evening, close by one of the great clumps of bloom, a very pretty woman stood talking to Bertie

Caradoc. She was his cousin, Lily Malvezin, sister of Geoffrey Winlow, and wife of a Liberal peer, a

charming creature, whose pink cheeks, bright eyes, quick lips, and rounded figure, endowed her with the

prettiest air of animation. And while she spoke she kept stealing sly glances at her partner, trying as it were to

"No, my dear," she said in her mocking voice, "you'll never persuade me that Miltoun is going to catch on. 'Il

For the girl had come gliding by, her eyes wandering lazily, her lips just parted; her neck, hardly less pale

than her white frock; her face pale, and marked with languor, under the heavy coil of her tawny hair; and her

swaying body seeming with each turn of the waltz to be caught by the arms of her partner from out of a

With that immobility of lips, learned by all imprisoned in Society, Lily Malvezin murmured:

But those inquisitive bright eyes still followed Barbara, drifting in the dance, like a great waterlily caught in

"She's hooked him. It's naughty of Babs, really!" And then she saw leaning against a pillar another whose

eyes also were following those two; and she thought: "H'm! Poor Claudno wonder he's looking like that.

By one of the statues on the terrace Barbara and her partner stood, where trees, disfigured by no gaudy

Wrapped in her new pale languor, still breathing deeply from the waltz, she seemed to Courtier too utterly

moulded out of loveliness. To what end should a man frame speeches to a vision! She was but an incarnation

of beauty imprinted on the air, and would fade out at a touchlike the sudden ghosts of enchantment that

came to one under the blue, and the starlit snow of a mountain night, or in a birch wood all wistful golden!

Speech seemed but desecration! Besides, what of interest was there for him to say in this world of hers, so

bewildering and of such glib assurancethis world that was like a building, whose every window was shut

and had a blind drawn down. A building that admitted none who had not sworn, as it were, to believe it the

world, the whole world, and nothing but the world, outside which were only the nibbled remains of what had

built it. This, world of Society, in which he felt like one travelling through a desert, longing to meet a

Long did the punkahs waft their breeze over that bravehued wheel of pleasure, and the sound of the violins

quaver and wail out into the morning. Then quickly, as the spangles of dew vanish off grass when the sun

rises, all melted away; and in the great rooms were none but flunkeys presiding over the polished surfaces

A brick dowerhouse of the FitzHarolds, just outside the little seaside town of Nettlefold, sheltered the

tranquil days of Lord Dennis. In that southcoast air, sanest and most healing in all England, he raged very

slowly, taking little thought of death, and much quiet pleasure in his life. Like the tall old house with its high

windows and squat chimneys, he was marvellously selfcontained. His books, for he somewhat passionately

examined old civilizations, and described their habits from time to time with a dry and not too poignant pen

in a certain oldfashioned magazine; his microscope, for he studied infusoria; and the fishing boat of his

friend John Bogle, who had long perceived that Lord Dennis was the biggest fish he ever caught; all these,

with occasional visitors, and little runs to London, to Monkland, and other country houses, made up the sum

of a life which, if not desperately beneficial, was uniformly kind and harmless, and, by its notorious

simplicity, had a certain negative influence not only on his own class but on the relations of that class with

the country at large. It was commonly said in Nettlefold, that he was a gentleman; if they were all like him

there wasn't much in all this talk against the Lords. The shop people and lodging house keepers felt that the

interests of the country were safer in his hands: than in the hands of people who wanted to meddle with

everything for the good of those who were only anxious to be let alone. A man too who could so completely

forget he was the son of a Duke, that other people never forgot it, was the man for their money. It was true

that he had never had a say in public affairs; but this was overlooked, because he could have had it if he liked,

and the fact that he did not like, only showed once more that he was a gentleman.

Just as he was the one personality of the little town against whom practically nothing was ever, said, so was

his house the one house which defied criticism. Time had made it utterly suitable. The ivied walls, and

purplish roof lichened yellow in places, the quiet meadows harbouring ponies and kine, reaching from it to

the seaall was mellow. In truth it made all the other houses of the town seem shoddystanding alone

beyond them, like its, master, if anything a little too esthetically remote from common wants.

He had practically no near neighbours of whom he saw anything, except once in a way young Harbinger three

miles distant at Whitewater. But since he had the faculty of not being bored with his own society, this did not

worry him. Of local charity, especially to the fishers of the town, whose winter months were nowadays very

bare of profit, he was prodigal to the verge of extravagance, for his income was not great. But in politics,

beyond acting as the figurehead of certain municipal efforts, he took little or no part. His Toryism indeed

was of the mild order, that had little belief in the regeneration of the country by any means but those of kindly

feeling between the classes. When asked how that was to be brought about, he would answer with his dry,

slightly malicious, suavity, that if you stirred hornets' nests with sticks the hornets would come forth. Having

no land, he was shy of expressing himself on that vexed question; but if resolutely attacked would give

utterance to some such sentiment as this: "The land's best in our hands on the whole, but we want fewer

He had, as became one of his race, a feeling for land, tender and protective, and could not bear to think of its

being put out to farm with that cold Mother, the State. He was ironical over the views of Radicals or

Socialists, but disliked to hear such people personally abused behind their backs. It must be confessed,

however, that if contradicted he increased considerably the ironical decision of his sentiments. Withdrawn

from all chance in public life of enforcing his views on others, the natural aristocrat within him was forced to

Each year, towards the end of July, he placed his house at the service of Lord Valleys, who found it a

It was on the morning after the Duchess of Gloucester's Ball, that he received this note:

"May I come down to you a little before time and rest? London is so terribly hot. Mother has three functions

still to stay for, and I shall have to come back again for our last evening, the political oneso I don't want to

go all the way to Monkland; and anywhere else, except with you, would be rackety. Eustace looks so seedy.

The same afternoon she came, but without Miltoun, driving up from the station in a fly. Lord Dennis met her

at the gate; and, having kissed her, looked at her somewhat anxiously, caressing his white peaked beard. He

had never yet known Babs sick of anything, except when he took her out in John Bogle's boat. She was

certainly looking pale, and her hair was done differentlya fact disturbing to one who did not discover it.

Slipping his arm through hers he led her out into a meadow still full of buttercups, where an old white pony,

who had carried her in the Row twelve years ago, came up to them and rubbed his muzzle against her waist.

And suddenly there rose in Lord Dennis the thoroughly discomforting and strange suspicion that, though the

child was not going to cry, she wanted time to get over the feeling that she was. Without appearing to

separate himself from her, he walked to the wall at the end of the field, and stood looking at the sea.

The tide was nearly up; the South wind driving over it brought him the scent of the seaflowers, and the crisp

rustle of little waves swimming almost to his feet. Far out, where the sunlight fell, the smiling waters lay

white and mysterious in July haze, giving him a queer feeling. But Lord Dennis, though he had his moments

of poetic sentiment, was on the whole quite able to keep the sea in its proper placefor after all it was the

English Channel; and like a good Englishman he recognized that if you once let things get away from their

names, they ceased to be facts, and if they ceased to be facts, they becamethe devil! In truth he was not

thinking much of the sea, but of Barbara. It was plain that she was in trouble of some kind. And the notion

that Babs could find trouble in life was extraordinarily queer; for he felt, subconsciously, what a great driving

force of disturbance was necessary to penetrate the hundred folds of the luxurious cloak enwrapping one so

young and fortunate. It was not Death; therefore it must be Love; and he thought at once of that fellow with

the red moustaches. Ideas were all very wellno one would object to as many as you liked, in their proper

placethe dinnertable, for example. But to fall in love, if indeed it were so, with a man who not only had

ideas, but an inclination to live up to them, and on them, and on nothing else, seemed to Lord Dennis 'outre'.

"To rest in the waters of Lethe, Babs? By the way, seen anything of our friend Mr. Courtier? Very

And in saying that, his voice (like so many refined voices which have turned their backs on speculation) was

tripletonedmocking at ideas, mocking at itself for mocking at ideas, yet showing plainly that at bottom it

only mocked at itself for mocking at ideas, because it would be, as it were, crude not to do so.

But Barbara did not answer his question, and began to speak of other things. And all that afternoon and

evening she talked away so lightly that Lord Dennis, but for his instinct, would have been deceived.

That wonderful smiling maskthe inscrutability of Youthwas laid aside by her at night. Sitting at her

window, under the moon, 'a goldbright moth slowspinning up the sky,' she watched the darkness hungrily,

as though it were a great thought into whose heart she was trying to see. Now and then she stroked herself,

getting strange comfort out of the presence of her body. She had that old unhappy feeling of having two

selves within her. And this soft night full of the quiet stir of the sea, and of dark immensity, woke in her a

terrible longing to be at one with something, somebody, outside herself. At the Ball last night the 'flying

feeling' had seized on her again; and was still therea queer manifestation of her streak of recklessness. And

this result of her contacts with Courtier, this 'cacoethes volandi', and feeling of clipped wings, hurt heras

She remembered how in the housekeeper's room at Monkland there lived a magpie who had once sought

shelter in an orchidhouse from some pursuer. As soon as they thought him wedded to civilization, they had

let him go, to see whether he would come back. For hours he had sat up in a high tree, and at last come down

again to his cage; whereupon, fearing lest the rooks should attack him when he next took this voyage of

discovery, they clipped one of his wings. After that the twilight bird, though he lived happily enough,

hopping about his cage and the terrace which served him for exercise yard, would seem at times restive and

frightened, moving his wings as if flying in spirit, and sad that he must stay on earth.

So, too, at her window Barbara fluttered her wings; then, getting into bed, lay sighing and tossing. A clock

struck three; and seized by an intolerable impatience at her own discomfort, she slipped a motor coat over her

nightgown, put on slippers, and stole out into the passage. The house was very still. She crept downstairs,

smothering her footsteps. Groping her way through the hall, inhabited by the thin ghosts of wouldbe light,

she slid back the chain of the door, and fled towards the sea. She made no more noise running in the dew,

than a bird following the paths of air; and the two ponies, who felt her figure pass in the darkness, snuffled,

sending out soft sighs of alarm amongst the closed buttercups. She climbed the wall over to the beach. While

she was running, she had fully meant to dash into the sea and cool herself, but it was so black, with just a thin

edging scarf of white, and the sky was black, bereft of lights, waiting for the day!

She stood, and looked. And all the leapings and pulsings of flesh and spirit slowly died in that wide dark

loneliness, where the only sound was the wistful breaking of small waves. She was well used to these dead

hoursonly last night, at this very time, Harbinger's arm had been round her in a last waltz! But here the

dead hours had such different faces, wideeyed, solemn, and there came to Barbara, staring out at them, a

sense that the darkness saw her very soul, so that it felt little and timid within her. She shivered in her fur

lined coat, as if almost frightened at finding herself so marvellously nothing before that black sky and dark

sea, which seemed all one, relentlessly great.... And crouching down, she waited for the dawn to break.

It came from over the Downs, sweeping a rush of cold air on its wings, flighting towards the sea. With it the

daring soon crept back into her blood. She stripped, and ran down into the dark water, fast growing pale. It

covered her jealously, and she set to work to swim. The water was warmer than the air. She lay on her back

and splashed, watching the sky flush. To bathe like this in the halfdark, with her hair floating out, and no

wet clothes clinging to her limbs, gave her the joy of a child doing a naughty thing. She swam out of her

She dashed into her two garments, climbed the wall, and scurried back to the house. All her dejection, and

feverish uncertainty were gone; she felt keen, fresh, terribly hungry, and stealing into the dark diningroom,

began rummaging for food. She found biscuits, and was still munching, when in the open doorway she saw

Lord Dennis, a pistol in one hand and a lighted candle in the other. With his carved features and white beard

above an old blue dressinggown, he looked impressive, having at the moment a distinct resemblance to

"You call this resting!" he said, dryly; then, looking at her drowned hair, added: "I see you have already

While Barbara was swimming to meet the dawn, Miltoun was bathing in those waters of mansuetude and

In that long debate on the Land question, for which he had waited to make his first speech, he had already

risen nine times without catching the Speaker's eye, and slowly a sense of unreality was creeping over him.

Surely this great Chamber, where without end rose the small sound of a single human voice, and queer

mechanical bursts of approbation and resentment, did not exist at all but as a gigantic fancy of his own! And

all these figures were figments of his brain! And when he at last spoke, it would be himself alone that he

addressed! The torpid air tainted with human breath, the unwinking stare of the countless lights, the long

rows of seats, the queer distant rounds of pale listening flesh perched up so high, they were all emanations of

himself! Even the coming and going in the gangway was but the coming and going of little wilful parts of

him! And rustling deep down in this Titanic creature of his fancy was 'the murmuration' of his own unspoken

speech, sweeping away the puff balls of words flung up by that faraway, small, varying voice.

Then, suddenly all that dream creature had vanished; he was on his feet, with a thumping heart, speaking.

Soon he had no tremors, only a dim consciousness that his words sounded strange, and a queer icy pleasure in

flinging them out into the silence. Round him there seemed no longer men, only mouths and eyes. And he

had enjoyment in the feeling that with these words of his he was holding those hungry mouths and eyes dumb

and unmoving. Then he knew that he had reached the end of what he had to say, and sat down, remaining

motionless in the centre of a various sound; staring at the back of the head in front of him, with his hands

clasped round his knee. And soon, when that little faraway voice was once more speaking, he took his hat,

Instead of the sensation of relief and wild elation which fills the heart of those who have taken the first

plunge, Miltoun had nothing in his deep dark well but the waters of bitterness. In truth, with the delivery of

that speech he had but parted with what had been a sort of anodyne to suffering. He had only put the fine

point on his conviction, of how vain was his career now that he could not share it with Audrey Noel. He

walked slowly towards the Temple, along the riverside, where the lamps were paling into nothingness before

For Miltoun was not one of those who take things lying down; he took things desperately, deeply, and with

revolt. He took them like a rider riding himself, plunging at the dig of his own spurs, chafing and wincing at

the cruel tugs of his own bitt; bearing in his friendless, proud heart all the burden of struggles which

He looked hardly less haggard, walking home, than some of those homeless ones who slept nightly by the

river, as though they knew that to lie near one who could so readily grant oblivion, alone could save them

from seeking that consolation. He was perhaps unhappier than they, whose spirits, at all events, had long

ceased to worry them, having oozed out from their bodies under the foot of Life:

Now that Audrey Noel was lost to him, her loveliness and that indescribable quality which made her lovable,

floated before him, the very tortureflowers of a beauty never to be graspedyet, that he could grasp, 'if he

only would! That was the heart and fervour of his suffering. To be grasped if he only would! He was

suffering, too, physically from a kind of slow fever, the result of his wetting on the day when he last saw her.

And through that latent fever, things and feelings, like his sensations in the House before his speech, were all

as it were muffled in a horrible way, as if they all came to him wrapped in a sort of flannel coating, through

which he could not cut. And all the time there seemed to be within him two men at mortal grips with one

another; the man of faith in divine sanction and authority, on which all his beliefs had hitherto hinged, and a

desperate warmblooded hungry creature. He was very miserable, craving strangely for the society of

someone who could understand what he was feeling, .and, from long habit of making no confidants, not

It was dawn when he reached his rooms; and, sure that he would not sleep, he did not even go to bed, but

changed his clothes, made himself some coffee, and sat down at the window which overlooked the flowered

In Middle Temple Hall a Ball was still in progress, though the glamour from its Chinese lanterns was already

darkened and gone. Miltoun saw a man and a girl, sheltered by an old fountain, sitting out their last dance.

Her head had sunk on her partner's shoulder; their lips were joined. And there floated up to the window the

scent of heliotrope, with the tune of the waltz that those two should have been dancing. This couple so

stealthily enlaced, the gleam of their furtively turned eyes, the whispering of their lips, that stony niche below

the twittering sparrows, so cunningly sought outit was the world he had abjured! When he looked again,

theylike a vision seenhad stolen away and gone; the music too had ceased, there was no scent of

heliotrope. In the stony niche crouched a stray cat watching the twittering sparrows.

Miltoun went out, and, turning into the empty Strand, walked on without heeding where, till towards five

He rested there, leaning over the parapet, looking down at the grey water. The sun was just breaking through

the heat haze; early waggons were passing, and already men were coming in to work. To what end did the

river wander up and down; and a human river flow across it twice every day? To what end were men and

women suffering? Of the full current of this life Miltoun could no more see the aim, than that of the wheeling

Leaving the bridge he made towards Barnes Common. The night was still ensnared there on the gorse bushes

grey with cobwebs and starry dewdrops. He passed a tramp family still sleeping, huddled all together. Even

>From the Common he emerged on the road near the gates of Ravensham; turning in there, he found his way

to the kitchen garden, and sat down on a bench close to the raspberry bushes. They were protected from

thieves, but at Miltoun's approach two blackbirds flustered out through the netting and flew away.

His long figure resting so motionless impressed itself on the eyes of a gardener, who caused a report to be

circulated that his young lordship was in the fruit garden. It reached the ears of Clifton, who himself came out

to see what this might mean. The old man took his stand in front of Miltoun very quietly.

"They are not what they were in the great days of your grandfather, I believe. He had a very good opinion of

"That is so. I find quite anew spirit towards public affairs. The ha'penny Press; one takes it in, but one hardly

approves. I shall be anxious to read your speech. They say a first speech is a great strain."

Miltoun saw that the old man's thin sallow cheeks had flushed to a deep orange between his snowwhite

"I have looked forward to this day," he stammered, "ever since I knew your lordshiptwentyeight years. It

"Would your lordship like a bathbreakfast is still at eight. I can procure you a razor."

When Miltoun entered the breakfast room, his grandmother, with a copy of the Times in her hands, was

seated before a grape fruit, which, with a shredded wheat biscuit, constituted her first meal. Her appearance

hardly warranted Barbara's description of 'terribly well'; in truth she looked a little white, as if she had been

feeling the heat. But there was no lack of animation in her little steelgrey eyes, nor of decision in her

"I see," she said, "that you've taken a line of your own, Eustace. I've nothing to say against that; in fact, quite

the contrary. But remember this, my dear, however you may change you mustn't wobble. Only one thing

counts in that place, hitting the same nail on the head with the same hammer all the time. You aren't looking

"Nonsense," replied Lady Casterley. "They don't look after you. Was your mother in the House?"

Lady Casterley set her jaw; then looking her grandson through and through, said:

"I shall take you down there this very day. I shall have the sea to you. What do you say, Clifton?"

"Have the carriage, and we'll go from Clapham Junction. Thomas can go in and fetch you some clothes. Or,

better, though I dislike them, we can telephone to your mother for a car. It's very hot for trains. Arrange that,

To this project Miltoun raised no objection. And all through the drive he remained sunk in an indifference

and lassitude which to Lady Casterley seemed in the highest degree ominous. For lassitude, to her, was the

strange, the unpardonable, state. The little great ladycasket of the aristocratic principlewas permeated to

the very backbone with the instinct of artificial energy, of that alert vigour which those who have nothing

socially to hope for are forced to develop, lest they should decay and be again obliged to hope. To speak

honest truth, she could not forbear an itch to run some sharp and foreign substance into her grandson, to rouse

him somehow, for she knew the reason of his state, and was temperamentally out of patience with such a

cause for backsliding. Had it been any other of her grandchildren she would not have hesitated, but there was

that in Miltoun which held even Lady Casterley in check, and only once during the four hours of travel did

she attempt to break down his reserve. She did it in a manner very soft for herwas he not of all living

things the hope and pride of her heart? Tucking her little thin sharp hand under his arm, she said quietly:

But Miltoun removed her hand gently, and laid it back on the dust rug, nor did he answer, or show other sign

And Lady Casterley, deeply wounded, pressed her faded lips together, and said sharply:

It was to Barbara that Miltoun unfolded, if but little, the trouble of his spirit, lying that same afternoon under

a ragged tamarisk hedge with the tide far out. He could never have done this if there had not been between

them the accidental revelation of that night at Monkland; nor even then perhaps had he not felt in this young

sister of his the warmth of life for which he was yearning. In such a matter as love Barbara was the elder of

these two. For, besides the motherly knowledge of the heart peculiar to most women, she had the inherent

womanoftheworldliness to be expected of a daughter of Lord and Lady Valleys. If she herself were in

doubt as to the state of her affections, it was not as with Miltoun, on the score of the senses and the heart, but

on the score of her spirit and curiosity, which Courtier had awakened and caused to flap their wings a little.

She worried over Miltoun's forlorn case; it hurt her too to think of Mrs. Noel eating her heart out in that

lonely cottage. A sister so good and earnest as Agatha had ever inclined Barbara to a rebellious view of

morals, and disinclined her altogether to religion. And so, she felt that if those two could not be happy apart,

And while her brother lay face to the sky under the tamarisks, she kept trying to think of how to console him,

conscious that she did not in the least understand the way he thought about things. Over the fields behind, the

larks were hymning the promise of the unripe corn; the foreshore was painted all colours, from vivid green to

mushroom pink; by the edge of the blue sea little black figures stooped, gathering sapphire. The air smelled

sweet in the shade of the tamarisk; there was ineffable peace. And Barbara, covered by the network of

sunlight, could not help impatience with a suffering which seemed to her so corrigible by action. At last she

"Persuade me that it is, Babs, and I'll bless you. If the singing of these larks means nothing, if that blue up

there is a morass of our invention, if we are pettily, creeping on furthering nothing, if there's no purpose in

Carried suddenly beyond her depth, Barbara could only put out her hand, and say: "Oh! don't take things so

"Since you say that life is short," Miltoun muttered, with his smile, "you shouldn't spoil it by feeling pity! In

old days we went to the Tower for our convictions. We can stand a little private roasting, I hope; or has the

"What we must bear, we must, I suppose. But why should we make trouble? That's what I can't stand!"

The galleons of the westering sun were already sailing in a broad gold fleet straight for that foreshore where

the little black stooping figures had not yet finished their toil, the larks still sang over the unripe cornwhen

Harbinger, galloping along the sands from Whitewater to Sea House, came on that silent couple walking

It would not be safe to say of this young man that he readily diagnosed a spiritual atmosphere, but this was

the less his demerit, since everything from his cradle up had conspired to keep the spiritual thermometer of

his surroundings at 60 in the shade. And the fact that his own spiritual thermometer had now run up so that it

threatened to burst the bulb, rendered him less likely than ever to see what was happening with other people's.

Yet, he did notice that Barbara was looking pale, andit seemedsweeter than ever.... With her eldest

brother he always somehow felt ill at ease. He could not exactly afford to despise an uncompromising spirit

in one of his own order, but he was no more impervious than others to Miltoun's caustic, thinlyveiled

contempt for the commonplace; and having a fullblooded belief in himselfusual with men of fine

physique, whose lots are so cast that this belief can never or almost never be really shakenhe greatly

disliked the feeling of being a little looked down on. It was an intense relief, when, saying that he wanted a

To Harbinger, no less than to Miltoun and Barbara, last night had been bitter and restless. The sight of that

pale swaying figure, with the parted lips, whirling round in Courtier's arms, had clung to his vision ever since,

the Ball. During his own last dance with her he had been almost savagely silent; only by a great effort

restraining his tongue from mordant allusions to that 'prancing, red haired fellow,' as he secretly called the

champion of lost causes. In fact, his sensations there and since had been a revelation, or would have teen if he

could have stood apart to see them. True, he had gone about next day with his usual cool, offhand manner,

because one naturally did not let people see, but it was with such an inner aching and rage of want and

jealousy as to really merit pity. Men of his physically big, rather rushing, type, are the last to possess their

souls in patience. Walking home after the Ball he had determined to follow her down to the sea, where she

had said, so maliciously; that she was going. After a second almost sleepless night he had no longer any

hesitation. He must see her! After all, a man might go to his own 'place' with impunity; he did not care if it

were a pointed thing to do.... Pointed! The more pointed the better! There was beginning to be roused in him

But now that he was walking at her side, all that determination and assurance melted to perplexed humility.

He marched along by his horse with his head down, just feeling the ache of being so close to her and yet so

far; angry with his own silence and awkwardness, almost angry with her for her loveliness, and the pain it

made him suffer. When they reached the house, and she left him at the stable yard, saying she was going to

get some flowers, he jerked the beast's bridle and swore at it for its slowness in entering the stable. He, was

terrified that she would be gone before he could get into the garden; yet half afraid of finding her there. But

she was still plucking carnations by the box hedge which led to the conservatories. And as she rose from

gathering those blossoms, before he knew what he was doing, Harbinger had thrown his arm around her, held

She seemed to offer no resistance, her smooth cheeks growing warmer and warmer, even her lips passive; but

suddenly he recoiled, and his heart stood still at his own outrageous daring. What had he done? He saw her

leaning back almost buried in the clipped box hedge, and heard her say with a sort of faint mockery: "Well!"

He would have flung himself down on his knees to ask for pardon but for the thought that someone might

come. He muttered hoarsely: "By God, I was mad!" and stood glowering in sullen suspense between

Then seeing her put her hand up to her lips as if he had hurt them, he muttered brokenly:

There was a full minute's silence while he stood there, no longer daring to look at her, beaten all over by his

He looked up at that. How could she love him, and speak so coolly! How could she not mind, if she did not

love him! She was passing her hands over her face and neck and hair, repairing the damage of his kisses.

"I love you so," he said; "I will put my life in your hands, and you shall throw it away."

At those words, of whose exact nature he had very little knowledge, he saw her smile.

Dinner that evening was a strange, uncomfortable meal. But its comedy, too subtly played for Miltoun and

Lord Dennis, seemed transparent to the eyes of Lady Casterley; for, when Harbinger had sallied forth to ride

back along the sands, she took her candle and invited Barbara to retire. Then, having admitted her

granddaughter to the apartment always reserved for herself, and specially furnished with practically nothing,

she sat down opposite that tall, young, solid figure, as it were taking stock of it, and said:

Barbara, stooping to perform this rite, saw a tear stealing down the carved fine nose. Knowing that to notice it

would be too dreadful, she raised herself, and went to the window. There, staring out over the dark fields and

dark sea, by the side of which Harbinger was riding home, she put her hand up to her, lips, and thought for

Three days after his first, and as he promised himself, his last Society Ball, Courtier received a note from

Audrey Noel, saying that she had left Monkland for the present, and come up to a little flat on the riverside

When he made his way there that same July day, the Houses of Parliament were bright under a sun which

warmed all the grave air emanating from their counsels of perfection: Courtier passed by dubiously. His

feelings in the presence of those towers were always a little mixed. There was not so much of the poet in him

as to cause him to see nothing there at all save only same lines against the sky, but there was enough of the

poet to make him long to kick something; and in this mood he wended his way to the riverside.

Mrs. Noel was not at home, but since the maid informed him that she would be in directly, he sat down to

wait. Her flat, which was on the first floor, overlooked the river and had evidently been taken furnished, for

there were visible marks of a recent struggle with an Edwardian taste which, flushed from triumph over

Victorianism, had filled the rooms with early Georgian remains. On the only definite victory, a rosecoloured

window seat of great comfort and little age, Courtier sat down, and resigned himself to doing nothing with

To the protective feeling he had once had for a very graceful, dark haired child, he joined not only the

championing pity of a man of warm heart watching a woman in distress, but the impatience of one, who,

though temperamentally incapable of feeling oppressed himself, rebelled at sight of all forms of tyranny

The sight of the grey towers, still just visible, under which Miltoun and his father sat, annoyed him deeply;

symbolizing to him, Authorityfoe to his deathless mistress, the sweet, invincible lost cause of Liberty. But

presently the river; bringing up in flood the unbound water that had bathed every shore, touched all sands,

and seen the rising and falling of each mortal star, so soothed him with its soundless hymn to Freedom, that

Audrey Noel coming in with her hands full of flowers, found him sleeping firmly, with his mouth shut.

Noiselessly putting down the flowers, she waited for his awakening. That sanguine visage, with its prominent

chin, flaring moustaches, and eyebrows raised rather Vshaped above his closed eyes, wore an expression of

cheery defiance even in sleep; and perhaps no face in all London was so utterly its obverse, as that of this

dark, soft haired woman, delicate, passive, and tremulous with pleasure at sight of the only person in the

world from whom she felt she might learn of Miltoun, without losing her selfrespect.

They sat for a long while talking, the riverside traffic drowsily accompanying their voices, the flowers

drowsily filling the room with scent; and when Courtier left, his heart was sore. She had not spoken of herself

at all, but had talked nearly all the time of Barbara, praising her beauty and high spirit; growing pale once or

twice, and evidently drinking in with secret avidity every allusion to Miltoun. Clearly, her feelings had not

changed, though she would not show them! Courtier's pity for her became wellnigh violent.

It was in such a mood, mingled with very different feelings, that he donned evening clothes and set out to

attend the last gathering of the season at Valleys House, a function which, held so late in July, was perforce

Mounting the wide and shining staircase, that had so often baffled the arithmetic of little Ann, he was

reminded of a picture entitled 'The Steps to Heaven' in his nursery fourandthirty years before. At the top of

this staircase, and surrounded by acquaintances, he came on Harbinger, who nodded curtly. The young man's

handsome face and figure appeared to Courtier's jaundiced eye more obviously successful and complacent

than ever; so that he passed him by sardonically, and manoeuvred his way towards Lady Valleys, whom he

could perceive stationed, like a general, in a little cleared space, where to and fro flowed constant streams of

people, like the rays of a star. She was looking her very best, going well with great and highlypolished

spaces; and she greeted Courtier with a special cordiality of tone, which had in it, besides kindness towards

one who must be feeling a strange bird, a certain diplomatic quality, compounded of desire, as it were, to

'warn him off,' and fear of saying something that might irritate and make him more dangerous. She had heard,

she said, that he was bound for Persia; she hoped he was not going to try and make things more difficult

there; then with the words: "So good of you to have come!" she became once more the centre of her

Perceiving that he was finished with, Courtier stood back against a wall and watched. Thus isolated, he was

like a solitary cuckoo contemplating the gyrations of a flock of rooks. Their motions seemed a little

meaningless to one so far removed from all the fetishes and shibboleths of Westminster. He heard them

discussing Miltoun's speech, the real significance of which apparently had only just been grasped. The words

'doctrinaire,' 'extremist,' came to his ears, together with the saying 'a new force.' People were evidently

puzzled, disturbed, not pleasedas if some star not hitherto accounted for had suddenly appeared amongst

Searching this crowd for Barbara, Courtier had all the time an uneasy sense of shame. What business had he

to come amongst these people so strange to him, just for the sake of seeing her! What business had he to be

hankering after this girl at all, knowing in his heart that he could not stand the atmosphere she lived in for a

week, and that she was utterly unsuited for any atmosphere that he could give her; to say nothing of the

"I want to talk to you about something serious: Will you come into the picture gallery?"

When at last they were close to a family group of Georgian Caradocs, and could as it were shut out the throng

"Miltoun's so horribly unhappy; I don't know what to do for him: He's making himself ill!"

And she suddenly looked up, in Courtier's face. She seemed to him very young, and touching, at that

moment. Her eyes had a gleam of faith in them, like a child's eyes; as if she relied on him to straighten out

this tangle, to tell her not only about Miltoun's trouble, but about all life, its meaning, and the secret of its

"What can I do? Mrs. Noel is in Town. But that's no good, unless" Not knowing how to finish this

At that quaint saying, Courtier was hard put to it not to take hold of the hands so close to him. This flash of

rebellion in her had quickened all his blood. But she seemed to have seen what had passed in him, for her

Strangely disturbed, Courtier remained motionless, consulting the grave stare of the group of Georgian

Behind him was Lord Harbinger. And once more the memory of Lady Casterley's words; the memory of the

two figures with joined hands on the balcony above the election crowd; all his latent jealousy of this

handsome young Colossus, his animus against one whom he could, as it were, smell out to be always fighting

on the winning side; all his consciousness too of what a lost cause his own was, his doubt whether he were

honourable to look on it as a cause at all, flared up in Courtier, so that his answer was a stare. On Harbinger's

face, too, there had come a look of stubborn violence slowly working up towards the surface.

"If you want to say that sort of thing, please choose a place where I can reply to you," and turned abruptly on

In Hyde Park the grass was parched and dewless under a sky whose stars were veiled by the heat and dust

haze. Never had Courtier so bitterly wanted the sky's consolationthe blessed sense of insignificance in the

face of the night's dark beauty, which, dwarfing all petty rage and hunger, made men part of its majesty,

It was past four o'clock the following day when Barbara issued from Valleys House on foot; clad in a pale

buff frock, chosen for quietness, she attracted every eye. Very soon entering a taxicab, she drove to the

Temple, stopped at the Strand entrance, and walked down the little narrow lane into the heart of the Law. Its

votaries were hurrying back from the Courts, streaming up from their Chambers for tea, or escaping

desperately to Lord's or the Parkyoung votaries, unbound as yet by the fascination of fame or fees. And

each, as he passed, looked at Barbara, with his fingers itching to remove his hat, and a feeling that this was

She. After a day spent amongst precedents and practice, after six hours at least of trying to discover what

chance A had of standing on his rights, or B had of preventing him, it was difficult to feel otherwise about

that calm apparitionlike a golden slim tree walking. One of them, asked by her the way to Miltoun's

staircase, preceded her with shy ceremony, and when she had vanished up those dusty stairs, lingered on,

hoping that she might find her visitee out, and be obliged to return and ask him the way back. But she did not

come, and he went sadly away, disturbed to the very bottom of all that he owned in fee simple.

In fact, no one answered Barbara's knock, and discovering that the door yielded, she walked through the

lobby past the clerk's den, converted to a kitchen, into the sittingroom. It was empty. She had never been to

Miltoun's rooms before, and she stared about her curiously. Since he did not practise, much of the proper gear

was absent. The room indeed had a worn carpet, a few old chairs, and was lined from floor to ceiling with

books. But the wall space between the windows was occupied by an enormous map of England, scored all

over with figures and crosses; and before this map stood an immense desk, on which were piles of double

foolscap covered with Miltoun's neat and rather pointed writing. Barbara examined them, puckering up her

forehead; she knew that he was working at a book on the land question; but she had never realized that the

making of a book requited so much writing. Papers, too, and Blue Books littered a large bureau on which

"What an uncomfortable place!" she thought. The room, indeed, had an atmosphere, a spirit, which depressed

her horribly. Seeing a few flowers down in the court below, she had a longing to get out to them. Then behind

her she heard the sound of someone talking. But there was no one in the room; and the effect of this disrupted

soliloquy, which came from nowhere, was so uncanny, that she retreated to the door. The sound, as of two

spirits speaking in one voice, grew louder, and involuntarily she glanced at the busts. They seemed quite

blameless. Though the sound had been behind her when she was at the window, it was again behind her now

that she was at the door; and she suddenly realized that it was issuing from a bookcase in the centre of the

wall. Barbara had her father's nerve, and walking up to the bookcase she perceived that it had been affixed to,

and covered, a door that was not quite closed. She pulled it towards her, and passed through. Across the

centre of an unkempt bedroom Miltoun was striding, dressed only in his shirt and trousers. His feet were bare,

and his head and hair dripping wet; the look on his thin dark face went to Barbara's heart. She ran forward,

and took his hand. This was burning hot, but the sight of her seemed to have frozen his tongue and eyes. And

the contrast of his burning hand with this frozen silence, frightened Barbara horribly. She could think of

"My dear Babs, you will do what I tell you. Go home, hold your tongue, and leave me to burn out in peace."

Barbara sustained that painful grip without wincing; she had regained her calmness.

The scorn he put into those two words was more withering than a whole philippic against redemption by

creature comforts. And feeling it dart into her, Barbara closed her lips tight. He had dropped her wrists, and

Barbara turned quickly, and went out frightened. She passed through the sittingroom and corridor on to the

staircase. He was ill raving! The fever in Miltoun's veins seemed to have stolen through the clutch of his

hands into her own veins. Her face was burning, she thought confusedly, breathed unevenly. She felt sore,

and at the same time terribly sorry; and withal there kept rising in her the gusty memory of Harbingers kiss.

She hurried down the stairs, turned by instinct downhill and found herself on the Embankment. And

suddenly, with her inherent power of swift decision, she hailed a cab, and drove to the nearest telephone

To a woman like Audrey Noel, born to be the counterpart and complement of another,whose occupations

and effort were inherently divorced from the continuity of any stiff and strenuous purpose of her own, the

Bereaved of the faces of her flowers, the friendly sighing of her limetree, the wants of her cottagers;

bereaved of that busy monotony of little home things which is the stay and solace of lonely women, she was

extraordinarily lost. Even music for review seemed to have failed her. She had never lived in London, so that

she had not the refuge of old haunts and habits, but had to make her ownand to make habits and haunts

required a heart that could at least stretch out feelers and lay hold of things, and her heart was not now able.

When she had struggled with her Edwardian flat, and laid down her simple routine of meals, she was as

stranded as ever was, convict let out of prison. She had not even that great support, the necessity of hiding her

feelings for fear of disturbing others. She was planted there, with her longing and grief, and nothing, nobody,

to take her out of herself. Having wilfully embraced this position, she tried to make the best of it, feeling it

less intolerable, at all events, than staying on at Monkland, where she had made that grievous, and

This offence, on the part of one who felt within herself a great capacity to enjoy and to confer happiness, had

arisenlike the other grievous and unpardonable offence, her marriagefrom too much disposition to yield

herself to the personality of another. But it was cold comfort to know that the desire to give and to receive

love had twice over left hera dead woman. Whatever the nature of those immature sensations with which,

as a girl of twenty, she had accepted her husband, in her feeling towards Miltoun there was not only

abandonment, but the higher flame of selfrenunciation. She wanted to do the best for him, and had not even

the consolation of the knowledge that she had sacrificed herself for his advantage. All had been taken out of

her hands! Yet with characteristic fatalism she did not feel rebellious. If it were ordained that she should, for

fifty, perhaps sixty years, repent in sterility and ashes that first error of her girlhood, rebellion was, none the

less, too farfetched. If she rebelled, it would not be in spirit, but in action. General principles were nothing

to her; she lost no force brooding over the justice or injustice of her situation, but merely tried to digest its

The whole day, succeeding Courtier's visit, was spent by her in the National Gallery, whose roof, alone of all

in London, seemed to offer her protection. She had found one painting, by an Italian master, the subject of

which reminded her of Miltoun; and before this she sat for a very long time, attracting at last the gouty stare

of an official. The still figure of this lady, with the oval face and grave beauty, both piqued his curiosity, and

stimulated certain moral qualms. She, was undoubtedly waiting for her lover. No woman, in his experience,

had ever sat so long before a picture without ulterior motive; and he kept his eyes well opened to see what

this motive would be like. It gave him, therefore, a sensation almost amounting to chagrin when coming

round once more, he found they had eluded him and gone off together without coming under his inspection.

Feeling his feet a good deal, for he had been on them all day, he sat down in the hollow which she had left

behind her; and against his will found himself also looking at the picture. It was painted in a style he did not

care for; the face of the subject, too, gave him the queer feeling that the gentleman was being roasted inside.

He had not been sitting there long, however, before he perceived the lady standing by the picture, and the lips

of the gentleman in the picture moving. It seemed to him against the rules, and he got up at once, and went

towards it; but as he did so, he found that his eyes were shut, and opened them hastily. There was no one

>From the National Gallery, Audrey had gone into an A.B.C. for tea, and then home. Before the Mansions

was a taxicab, and the maid met her with the news that 'Lady Caradoc' was in the sittingroom.

Barbara was indeed standing in the middle of the room with a look on her face such as her father wore

sometimes on the racecourse, in the hunting field, or at stormy Cabinet Meetings, a look both resolute and

"I got your address from Mr. Courtier. My brother is ill. I'm afraid it'll be brain fever, I think you had better

To Audrey everything in the room seemed to go round; yet all her senses were preternaturally acute, so that

she could distinctly smell the mud of the river at low tide. She said, with a shudder:

"He's quite alone. He hasn't asked for you; but I think your going is the only chance. He took me for you. You

The room was steady enough now, but she had lost the preternatural acuteness of her senses, and felt

confused. She heard Barbara say: "I can take you to the door in my cab," and murmuring: "I will get ready,"

went into her bedroom. For a moment she was so utterly bewildered that she did nothing. Then every other

thought was lost in a strange, soft, almost painful delight, as if some new instinct were being born in her; and

quickly, but without confusion or hurry, she began packing. She put into a valise her own toilet things; then

flannel, cottonwool, eau de Cologne, hotwater bottle, Etna, shawls, thermometer, everything she had

which could serve in illness. Changing to a plain dress, she took up the valise and returned to Barbara. They

went out together to the cab. The moment it began to bear her to this ordeal at once so longedfor and so

terrible, fear came over her again, so that she screwed herself into the corner, very white and still. She was

aware of Barbara calling to the driver: "Go by the Strand, and stop at a poulterer's for ice!" And, when the

bag of ice had been handed in, heard her saying: "I will bring you all you wantif he is really going to be

Then, as the cab stopped, and the open doorway of the staircase was before her, all her courage came back.

She felt the girl's warm hand against her own, and grasping her valise and the bag of ice, got out, and hurried

On leaving Nettlefold, Miltoun had gone straight back to his rooms, and begun at once to work at his book on

the land question. He worked all through that nighthis third night without sleep, and all the following day.

In the evening, feeling queer in the head, he went out and walked up and down the Embankment. Then,

fearing to go to bed and lie sleepless, he sat down in his armchair. Falling asleep there, he had fearful

dreams, and awoke unrefreshed. After his bath, he drank coffee, and again forced himself to work. By the

middle of the day he felt dizzy and exhausted, but utterly disinclined to eat. He went out into the hot Strand,

bought himself a necessary book, and after drinking more coffee, came back and again began to work. At

four o'clock he found that he was not taking in the words. His head was burning hot, and he went into his

bedroom to bathe it. Then somehow he began walking up and down, talking to himself, as Barbara had found

She had no sooner gone, than he felt utterly exhausted. A small crucifix hung over his bed, and throwing

himself down before it, he remained motionless with his face buried in the coverlet, and his arms stretched

out towards the wall. He did not pray, but merely sought rest from sensation. Across his halfhypnotized

consciousness little threads of burning fancy kept shooting. Then he could feel nothing but utter physical

sickness, and against this his will revolted. He resolved that he would not be ill, a ridiculous log for women to

hang over. But the moments of sickness grew longer and more frequent; and to drive them away he rose from

his knees, and for some time again walked up and down; then, seized with vertigo, he was obliged to sit on

the bed to save himself from falling. From being burning hot he had become deadly cold, glad to cover

himself with the bedclothes. The heat soon flamed up in him again; but with a sick man's instinct he did not

throw off the clothes, and stayed quite still. The room seemed to have turned to a thick white substance like a

cloud, in which he lay enwrapped, unable to move hand or foot. His sense of smell and hearing had become

unnaturally acute; he smelled the distant streets, flowers, dust, and the leather of his books, even the scent left

by Barbara's clothes, and a curious. odour of river mud. A clock struck six, he counted each stroke; and

instantly the whole world seemed full of striking clocks, the sound of horses' hoofs, bicycle bells, people's

footfalls. His sense of vision, on the contrary, was absorbed in consciousness of this white blanket of cloud

wherein he was lifted above the earth, in the midst of a dull incessant hammering. On the surface of the cloud

there seemed to be forming a number of little golden spots; these spots were moving, and he saw that they

were toads. Then, beyond them, a huge face shaped itself, very dark, as if of bronze, with eyes burning into

his brain. The more he struggled to get away from these eyes, the more they bored and burned into him. His

voice was gone, so that he was unable to cry out, and suddenly the face marched over him.

When he recovered consciousness his head was damp with moisture trickling from something held to his

forehead by a figure leaning above him. Lifting his hand he touched a cheek; and hearing a sob instantly

The room was so dark, that he could scarcely see her facehis sight too was dim; but he could hear her

breathing and the least sound of her dress and movementsthe scent too of her hands and hair seemed to

envelop him, and in the midst of all the acute discomfort of his fever, he felt the band round his brain relax.

He did not ask how long she had been there, but lay quite still, trying to keep his eyes on her, for fear of that

face, which seemed lurking behind the air, ready to march on him again. Then feeling suddenly that he could

not hold it back, he beckoned, and clutched at her, trying to cover himself with the protection of her breast.

This time his swoon was not so deep; it gave way to delirium, with intervals when he knew that she was

there, and by the shaded candle light could see her in a white garment, floating close to him, or sitting still

with her hand on his; he could even feel the faint comfort of the ice cap, and of the scent of eau de Cologne.

Then he would lose all consciousness of her presence, and pass through into the incoherent world, where the

crucifix above his bed seemed to bulge and hang out, as if it must fall on him. He conceived a violent longing

to tear it down, which grew till he had struggled up in bed and wrenched it from off the wall. Yet a

mysterious consciousness of her presence permeated even his darkest journeys into the strange land; and once

she seemed to be with him, where a strange light showed them fields and trees, a dark line of moor, and a

Soon after dawn he had a long interval of consciousness, and took in with a sort of wonder her presence in

the low chair by his bed. So still she sat in a white loose gown, pale with watching, her eyes immovably fixed

on him, her lips pressed together, and quivering at his faintest motion. He drank in desperately the sweetness

Barbara gave the news of her brother's illness to no one else, common sense telling her to run no risk of

disturbance. Of her own initiative, she brought a doctor, and went down twice a day to hear reports of

As a fact, her father and mother had gone to Lord Dennis, for Goodwood, and the chief difficulty had been to

excuse her own neglect of that favourite Meeting. She had fallen back on the halftruth that Eustace wanted

her in Town; and, since Lord and Lady Valleys had neither of them shaken off a certain uneasiness about

It was not until the sixth day, when the crisis was well past and Miltoun quite free from fever, that she again

On arriving she at once sought out her mother, whom she found in her bedroom, resting. It had been very hot

Barbara was not afraid of hershe was not, indeed, afraid of anyone, except Miltoun, and in some strange

way, a little perhaps of Courtier; yet, when the maid had gone, she did not at once begin her tale. Lady

Valleys, who at Goodwood had just heard details of a Society scandal, began a carefully expurgated account

of it suitable to her daughter's earsfor some account she felt she must give to somebody.

"Mother," said Barbara suddenly, "Eustace has been ill. He's out of danger now, and going on all right."

Then, looking hard at the bewildered lady, she added: "Mrs. Noel is nursing him."

The past tense in which illness had been mentioned, checking at the first moment any rush of panic in Lady

Valleys, left her confused by the situation conjured up in Barbara's last words. Instead of feeding that part of

man which loves a scandal, she was being fed, always an unenviable sensation. A woman did not nurse a man

under such circumstances without being everything to him, in the world's eyes. Her daughter went on:

"I took her to him. It seemed the only thing to dosince it's all through fretting for her. Nobody knows, of

The mother instinct in Lady Valleys took sudden fright. "Are you telling me the truth, Babs? Is he really out

"Stacey is a cat!" she said suddenly. The expurgated details of the scandal she had been retailing to her

daughter had included the usual maid. She could not find it in her to enjoy the irony of this coincidence.

"What a little wretch you are, Babs! "Maliciously she added: "Claud and his mother are coming over from

Whitewater, with Bertie and Lily Malvezin, you'd better go and dress;" and her eyes searched her daughter's

When she had gone, Lady Valleys rang for her maid again, and relapsed into meditation. Her first thought

was to consult her husband; her second that secrecy was strength. Since no one knew but Barbara, no one had

Her astuteness and experience comprehended the farreaching probabilities of this affair. It would not do to

take a single false step. If she had no one's action to control but her own and Barbara's, so much the less

chance of a slip. Her mind was a strange medley of thoughts and feelings, almost comic, wellnigh tragic; of

worldly prudence, and motherly instinct; of warmblooded sympathy with all loveaffairs, and coolblooded

concern for her son's career. It was not yet too late perhaps to prevent real mischief; especially since it was

agreed by everyone that the woman was no adventuress. Whatever was done, they must not forget that she

had nursed him saved him, Barbara had said! She must be treated with all kindness and consideration.

"I see. Now, would there be any danger if you and I went up and took charge over from Mrs. Noel?"

Barbara was silent. "No," she said at last, "I don't suppose it would, now; but it's for the doctor to say."

"We'll see him first, of course. Eustace will have to have an ordinary nurse, I suppose, for a bit."

>From the little smile on Barbara's lips she derived no sense of certainty; indeed she was visited by all her

late disquietude about her young daughter, by all the feeling that she, as well as Miltoun, was hovering on the

But Barbara lingered a little longer in that bedroom where ten nights ago she had lain tossing, till in despair

Her last little interview with Courtier stood between her and a fresh meeting with Harbinger, whom at the

Valleys House gathering she had not suffered to be alone with her. She came down late.

That same evening, out on the beach road, under a sky swarming with stars, the people were strollingfolk

from the towns, down for their fortnight's holiday. In twos and threes, in parties of six or eight, they passed

the wall at the end of Lord Dennis's little domain; and the sound of their sparse talk and laughter, together

with the sighing of the young waves, was blown over the wall to the ears of Harbinger, Bertie, Barbara, and

Lily Malvezin, when they strolled out after dinner to sniff the sea. The holidaymakers stared dully at the

four figures in evening dress looking out above their heads; they had other things than these to think of,

becoming more and more silent as the night grew dark. The four young people too were rather silent. There

was something in this warm night, with its sighing, and its darkness, and its stars, that was not favourable to

Standing there, gripping the wall, it seemed to Harbinger that there were no words left in the world. Not even

his worst enemy could have called this young man romantic; yet that figure beside him, the gleam of her neck

and her pale cheek in the dark, gave him perhaps the most poignant glimpse of mystery that he had ever had.

His mind, essentially that of a man of affairs, by nature and by habit at home amongst the material aspects of

things, was but gropingly conscious that here, in this dark night, and the dark sea, and the pale figure of this

girl whose heart was dark to him and secret, there was perhaps somethingyes, somethingwhich

surpassed the confines of his philosophy, something beckoning him on out of his snug compound into the

desert of divinity. If so, it was soon gone in the aching of his senses at the scent of her hair, and the longing to

Deep down within him Harbinger uttered a noiseless oath. Something sinister was making her behave like

"Tell me this" then speech seemed to stick in his throat. No! If there were anything in that, he preferred

Down below, a pair of lovers passed, very silent, their arms round each other's waists.

The days when Miltoun was first allowed out of bed were a time of mingled joy and sorrow to her who had

nursed him. To see him sitting up, amazed at his own weakness, was happiness, yet to think that he would be

no more wholly dependent, no more that sacred thing, a helpless creature, brought her the sadness of a mother

whose child no longer needs her. With every hour he would now get farther from her, back into the fastnesses

of his own spirit. With every hour she would be less his nurse and comforter, more the woman he loved. And

though that thought shone out in the obscure future like a glamorous flower, it brought too much wistful

uncertainty to the present. She was very tired, too, now that all excitement was overso tired that she hardly

knew what she did or where she moved. But a smile had become so faithful to her eyes that it clung there

Between the two bronze busts she had placed a bowl of lilies of the valley; and every free niche in that room

He was lying back in his big leather chair, wrapped in a Turkish gown of Lord Valleys'on which Barbara

had laid hands, having failed to find anything resembling a dressinggown amongst her brother's austere

clothing. The perfume of lilies had overcome the scent of books, and a bee, dusky, adventurer, filled the room

They did not speak, but smiled faintly, looking at one another. In this still moment, before passion had

returned to claim its own, their spirits passed through the sleepy air, and became entwined, so that neither

could withdraw that soft, slow, encountering glance. In mutual contentment, each to each, close as music to

the strings of a violin, their spirits clungso lost, the one in the other, that neither for that brief time seemed

In fulfilment of her resolution, Lady Valleys, who had returned to Town by a morning train, started with

Barbara for the Temple about three in the after noon, and stopped at the doctor's on the way. The whole thing

would be much simpler if Eustace were fit to be moved at once to Valleys House; and with much relief she

found that the doctor saw no danger in this course. The recovery had been remarkable touch and go for bad

brain fever just avoided! Lord Miltoun's constitution was extremely sound. Yes, he would certainly favour a

removal. His rooms were too confined in this weather. Well nursed decidedly) Oh; yes! Quite! And the

doctor's eyes became perhaps a trifle more intense. Not a professional, he understood. It might be as well to

have another nurse, if they were making the change. They would have this lady knocking up. Just so! Yes, he

would see to that. An ambulance carriage he thought advisable. That could all be arranged for this

afternoonat oncehe himself would look to it. They might take Lord Miltoun off just as he was; the men

would know what to do. And when they had him at Valleys House, the moment he showed interest in his

food, down to the seadown to the sea! At this time of year nothing like it! Then with regard to nourishment,

he would be inclined already to shove in a leetle stimulant, a thimbleful perhaps four times a day with

foodnot withoutmixed with an egg, with arrowroot, with custard. A week would see him on his legs, a

fortnight at the sea make him as good a man as ever. Overworkburning the candlea leetlemore would

have seen a very different state of things! Quite so! quite so! Would come round himself before dinner, and

make sure. His patient might feel it just at first! He bowed Lady Valleys out; and when she had gone, sat

Greatly fortified by this interview, Lady Valleys rejoined her daughter in the ear; but while it slid on amongst

the multitudinous traffic, signs of unwonted nervousness began to start out through the placidity of her face.

"I wish, my dear," she said suddenly, "that someone else had to do this. Suppose Eustace refuses!"

Lady Valleys gazed with curiosity at that young face, which had flushed pink. Yes, this daughter of hers was

"If you'd seen him as I saw him! And, what disaster? Mayn't they love each other, if they want?"

Lady Valleys swallowed a grimace. It was so exactly her own point of view. And yet!

"Why can't the poor thing be let out of her cage?" cried Barbara. "What good does it do to anyone? Mother, if

The tone of her voice was so quivering, and unlike the happy voice of Barbara, that Lady Valleys

"It can't be worse, anyway," muttered Barbara, "than being buried alive as that wretched woman is."

"The doctor promised that ambulance carriage at four o'clock. What am I going to say?"

It was the first time Lady Valleys had seen her in a house, and there was real curiosity mixed with the

assurance which masked her nervousness. A pretty creature, even lovely! But the quite genuine sympathy in

her words: "I am truly grateful. You must be quite worn out," did not prevent her adding hastily: "The doctor

says he must be got home out of these hot rooms. We'll wait here while you tell him."

The girl was standing against the wall with her head thrown back. Lady Valleys could not see her face; but

"My dear!" murmured Lady Valleys, thoroughly distressed, "what things you're saying today!"

This lurking in a dark passage, this whispering girlit was all queer, unlike an experience in proper life.

And then through the reopened door she saw Miltoun, stretched out in a chair, very pale, but still with that

look about his eyes and lips, which of all things in the world had a chastening effect on Lady Valleys, making

"I'm so glad you're better, dear. What a time you must have had! It's too bad that I knew nothing till

Held back by his smile from bending to kiss him, poor Lady Valleys fidgeted from head to foot. A sudden

Still wounded by his voice, Lady Valleys hardened instantly. And while preparing for departure she watched

the two furtively. They hardly looked at one another, and when they did, their eyes baffled her. The

expression was outside her experience, belonging as it were to a different world, with its faintly smiling,

Vastly relieved when Miltoun, covered with a fur, had been taken down to the carriage, she lingered to speak

"We owe you a great debt. It might have been so much worse. You mustn't be disconsolate. Go to bed and

have a good long rest." And from the door, she murmured again: "He will come and thank you, when he's

Descending the stone stairs, she thought: "'Anonyma''Anonyma'yes, it was quite the name." And

"Eustace would like some of those lilies." And, passing Lady Valleys, she went on up to Miltoun's chambers.

Mrs. Noel was not in the sittingroom, and going to the bedroom door, the girl looked in.

She was standing by the bed, drawing her hand over and over the white surface of the pillow. Stealing

Miltoun, whose constitution, had the steellike quality of Lady Casterley's, had a very rapid convalescence.

And, having begun to take an interest in his food, he was allowed to travel on the seventh day to Sea House in

The two spent their time in a little summerhouse close to the sea; lying out on the beach under the groynes;

To Barbara, keeping a close watch, he seemed tranquilly enough drinking in from Nature what was necessary

to restore balance after the struggle, and breakdown of the past weeks. Yet she could never get rid of a queer

feeling that he was not really there at all; to look at him was like watching an uninhabited house that was

During a whole fortnight he did not make a single allusion to Mrs. Noel, till, on the very last morning, as they

"It almost makes one believe her theory, that the old gods are not dead. Do you ever see them, Babs; or are

Certainly about those lithe invasions of the seanymph waves, with ashy, streaming hair, flinging themselves

into the arms of the land, there was the old pagan rapture, an inexhaustible delight, a passionate soft

acceptance of eternal fate, a wonderful acquiescence in the untiring mystery of life.

But Barbara, ever disconcerted by that tone in his voice, and by this quick dive into the waters of

And Barbara saw, once more on his face that look, neither sad nor impatient, but as of one uninhabited and

She left Sea House next day to rejoin her mother, who, having been to Cowes, and to the Duchess of

Gloucester's, was back in Town waiting for Parliament to rise, before going off to Scotland. And that same

afternoon the girl made her way to Mrs. Noel's flat. In paying this visit she was moved not so much by

compassion, as by uneasiness, and a strange curiosity. Now that Miltoun was well again, she was seriously

When she went into the little drawingroom Audrey was sitting in the deepcushioned windowseat with a

book on her knee; and by the fact that it was open at the index, Barbara judged that she had not been reading

too attentively. She showed no signs of agitation at the sight of her visitor, nor any eagerness to hear news of

Miltoun. But the girl had not been five minutes in the room before the thought came to her: " Why! She has

the same look as Eustace!" She, too, was like an empty tenement; without impatience, discontent, or grief

waiting! Barbara had scarcely realized this with a curious sense of discomposure, when Courtier was

announced. Whether there was in this an absolute coincidence or just that amount of calculation which might

follow on his part from receipt of a note written from Sea Housesaying that Miltoun was well again, that

she was coming up and meant to go and thank Mrs. Noelwas not clear, nor were her own sensations; and

she drew over her face that armoured look which she perhaps knew Courtier could not bear to see. His face,

at all events, was very red when he shook hands. He had come, he told Mrs. Noel, to say goodbye. He was

definitely off next week. Fighting had broken out; the revolutionaries were greatly outnumbered. Indeed he

"We are not all perfectly consistent, Lady Barbara. These poor devils have a holy cause."

"You only think their cause holy because they happen to be weak. Goodbye, Mrs. Noel; the world is meant

But no sooner had she got outside, after that strange outburst, than she bit her lips to keep back an angry,

miserable feeling. He had been rude to her, she had been rude to him; that was the way they had said

goodbye! Then, as she emerged into the sunlight, she thought: "Oh! well; he doesn't care, and I'm sure I

"May I get you a cab?" and at once the sore feeling began to die away; but she did not look round, only

But though they walked, they did not at first talk. There was rising within Barbara a tantalizing devil of desire

to know the feelings that really lay behind that deferential gravity, to make him show her how much he really

cared. She kept her eyes demurely lowered, but she let the glimmer of a smile flicker about her lips; she knew

too that her cheeks were glowing, and for that she was not sorry. Was she not to have anyanywas he

calmly to go awaywithout And she thought: "He shall say something! He shall show me, without that

She looked at him thenit pleased her to see him quiver as if that glance had gone right into him; and she

She knew those were reckless words, nor cared very much what they meant; but she knew the revolt in them

would move him. She saw from his face that it had; and after a little pause, said:

"Happiness is the great thing," and with soft, wicked slowness: "Isn't it, Mr. Courtier?"

But all the cheeriness had gone out of his face, which had grown almost pale. He lifted his hand, and let it

"As to that," he said: "The rough, unfortunately, has to be taken with the smooth. But life's frightfully jolly

A sense of utter mortification seized on Barbara. He was too strong for herhe was quixotiche was

hateful! And, determined not to show a sign, to be at least as strong as he, she said calmly:

When she was in the cab, and he was standing with his hat lifted, she looked at him in the way that women

When Miltoun came to thank her, Audrey Noel was waiting in the middle of the room, dressed in white, her

In that first look passing between them, they forgot everything but happiness. Swallows, on the first day of

summer, in their discovery of the bland air, can neither remember that cold winds blow, nor imagine the

death of sunlight on their feathers, and, flitting hour after hour over the golden fields, seem no longer birds,

but just the breathing of a new seasonswallows were no more forgetful of misfortune than were those two.

His gaze was as still as her very self; her look at him had in at the quietude of all emotion.

When they' sat down to talk it was as if they had gone back to those days at Monkland, when he had come to

her so often to discuss everything in heaven and earth. And yet, over that tranquil eager drinkingin of each

other's presence, hovered a sort of awe. It was the mood of morning before the sun has soared. The dewgrey

cobwebs enwrapped the flowers of their heartsyet every prisoned flower could be seen. And he and she

seemed looking through that web at the colour and the deepdown forms enshrouded so jealously; each

feared too much to unveil the other's heart. They were like lovers who, rambling in a shy wood, never dare

stay their babbling talk of the trees and birds and lost bluebells, lest in the deep waters of a kiss their star of

all that is to come should fall and be drowned. To each hour its familiarand the spirit of that hour was the

They spoke of Monkland, and Miltoun's illness; of his first speech, his impressions of the House of

Commons; of music, Barbara, Courtier, the river. He told her of his health, and described his days down by

the sea. She, as ever, spoke little of herself, persuaded that it could not interest even him; but she described a

visit to the opera; and how she had found a picture in the National Gallery which reminded her of him. To all

these trivial things and countless others, the tone of their voicessoft, almost murmuring, with a sort of

delighted gentlenessgave a high, sweet importance, a halo that neither for the world would have dislodged

It was past six when he got up to go, and there had not been a moment to break the calm of that sacred feeling

in both their hearts. They parted with another tranquil look, which seemed to say: 'It is well with uswe

And in this same amazing calm Miltoun remained after he had gone away, till about halfpast nine in the

evening, he started forth, to walk down to the House. It was now that sort of warm, clear night, which in the

country has firefly magic, and even over the Town spreads a dark glamour. And for Miltoun, in the delight of

his new health and wellbeing, with every sense alive and clean, to walk through the warmth and beauty of

this night was sheer pleasure. He passed by way of St. James's Park, treading down the purple shadows of

planetree leaves into the pools of lamplight, almost with remorseso beautiful, and as if alive, were they.

There were moths abroad, and gnats, born on the water, and scent of newmown grass drifted up from the

lawns. His heart felt light as a swallow he had seen that morning; swooping at a grey feather, carrying it

along, letting it flutter away, then diving to seize it again. Such was his elation, this beautiful night! Nearing

the House of Commons, he thought he would walk a little longer, and turned westward to the river: On that

warm evening the water, without movement at turn of tide, was like the black, snakesmooth hair of Nature

streaming out on her couch of Earth, waiting for the caress of a divine hand. Far away on the further; bank

throbbed some huge machine, not stilled as yet. A few stars were out in the dark sky, but no moon to invest

with pallor the gleam of the lamps. Scarcely anyone passed. Miltoun strolled along the river wall, then

crossed, and came back in front of the Mansions where she lived. By the railing he stood still. In the

sittingroom of her little flat there was no light, but the casement window was wide open, and the crown of

white flowers in the bowl on the windowsill still gleamed out in the darkness like a crescent moon lying on

its face. Suddenly, he saw two pale hands riseone on either side of that bowl, lift it, and draw it in. And he

quivered, as though they had touched him. Again those two hands came floating up; they were parted now by

darkness; the moon of flowers was gone, in its place had been set handfuls of purple or crimson blossoms.

And a puff of warm air rising quickly out of the night drifted their scent of cloves into his face, so that he

Again the hands had vanishedthrough the open window there was nothing to be seen but darkness; and

such a rush of longing seized on Miltoun as stole from him all power of movement. He could hear her

playing, now. The murmurous current of that melody was like the night itself, sighing, throbbing,

languorously soft. It seemed that in this music she was calling him, telling him that she, too, was longing; her

heart, too, empty. It died away; and at the window her white figure appeared. From that vision he could not,

nor did he try to shrink, but moved out into the, lamplight. And he saw her suddenly stretch out her hands to

him, and withdraw them to her breast. Then all save the madness of his longing deserted Miltoun. He ran

The door was open. He passed through. There, in the sittingroom, where the red flowers in the window

scented all the air, it was dark, and he could not at first see her, till against the piano he caught the glimmer of

her white dress. She was sitting with hands resting on the pale notes. And falling on his knees, he buried his

face against her. Then, without looking up, he raised his hands. Her tears fell on them covering her heart, that

throbbed as if the passionate night itself were breathing in there, and all but the night and her love had stolen

On a spur of the Sussex Downs, inland from NettleCold, there stands a beechgrove. The traveller who

enters it out of the heat and brightness, takes off the shoes of his spirit before its, sanctity; and, reaching the

centre, across the clean beechmat, he sits refreshing his brow with air, and silence. For the flowers of

sunlight on the ground under those branches are pale and rare, no insects hum, the birds are almost mute. And

close to the border trees are the quiet, milkwhite sheep, in congregation, escaping from noon heat. Here,

above fields and dwellings, above the ceaseless network of men's doings, and the vapour of their talk, the

traveller feels solemnity. All seems conveying divinitythe great white clouds moving their wings above

him, the faint longing murmur of the boughs, and in far distance, the sea.... And for a space his restlessness

So it was with Miltoun when he reached this temple, three days after that passionate night, having walked for

hours, alone and full of conflict. During those three days he had been borne forward on the flood tide; and

now, tearing himself out of London, where to think was impossible, he had come to the solitude of the Downs

For that position he saw to be very serious. In the flush of full realization, there was for him no question of

renunciation. She was his, he hers; that was determined. But what, then, was he to do? There was no chance

of her getting free. In her husband's view, it seemed, under no circumstances was marriage dissoluble. Nor,

indeed, to Miltoun would divorce have made things easier, believing as he did that he and she were guilty,

and that for the guilty there could be no marriage. She, it was true, asked nothing but just to be his in secret;

and that was the course he knew most men would take, without further thought. There was no material reason

in the world why he should not so act, and maintain unchanged every other current of his life. It would be

easy, usual. And, with her faculty for self effacement, he knew she would not be unhappy. But conscience,

in Miltoun, was a terrible and fierce thing. In the delirium of his illness it had become that Great Face which

had marched over him. And, though during the weeks of his recuperation, struggle of all kind had ceased,

now that he had yielded to his passion, conscience, in a new and dismal shape, had crept up again to sit above

his heart: He must and would let this man, her husband, know; but even if that caused no open scandal, could

he go on deceiving those who, if they knew of an illicit love, would no longer allow him to be their

representative? If it were known that she was his mistress, he could no longer maintain his position in public

lifewas he not therefore in honour bound; of his own accord, to resign it? Night and day he was haunted by

the thought: How can I, living in defiance of authority, pretend to authority over my fellows? How can I

remain in public life? But if he did not remain in public life, what was he to do? That way of life was in his

blood; he had been bred and born into it; had thought of nothing else since he was a boy. There was no other

occupation or interest that could hold him for a momenthe saw very plainly that he would be cast away on

So the battle raged in his proud and twisted spirit, which took everything so hardhis nature imperatively

commanding him to keep his work and his power for usefulness; his conscience telling him as urgently that if

He entered the beechgrove at the height of this misery, flaming with rebellion against the dilemma which

Fate had placed before him; visited by gusts of resentment against a passion, which forced him to pay the

price, either of his career, or of his selfrespect; gusts, followed by remorse that he could so for one moment

regret his love for that tender creature. The face of Lucifer was not more dark, more tortured, than Miltoun's

face in the twilight of the grove, above those kingdoms of the world, for which his ambition and his

conscience fought. He threw himself down among the trees; and stretching out his arms, by chance touched a

beetle trying to crawl over the grassless soil. Some bird had maimed it. He took the little creature up. The

beetle truly could no longer work, but it was spared the fate lying before himself. The beetle was not, as he

would be, when his power of movement was destroyed, conscious of his own wasted life. The world would

not roll away down there. He would still see himself cumbering the ground, when his powers were taken,

from him. This thought was torture. Why had he been suffered to meet her, to love her, and to be loved by

her? What had made him so certain from the first moment, if she were not meant for him? If he lived to be a

hundred, he would never meet another. Why, because of his love, must he bury the will and force of a man?

If there were no more coherence in God's scheme than this, let him too be incoherent! Let him hold authority,

and live outside authority! Why stifle his powers for the sake of a coherence which did not exist! That would

There was no answer to his thoughts in the stillness of the grove, unless it were the cooing of a dove, or the

faint thudding of the sheep issuing again into sunlight. But slowly that stillness stole into Miltoun's spirit. "Is

it like this in the grave?" he thought. "Are the boughs of those trees the dark earth over me? And the sound in

them the sound the dead hear when flowers are growing, and the wind passing through them? And is the feel

of this earth how it feels to lie looking up for ever at nothing? Is life anything but a nightmare, a dream; and

is not this the reality? And why my fury, my insignificant flame, blowing here and there, when there is really

no wind, only a shroud of still air, and these flowers of sunlight that have been dropped on me! Why not let

my spirit sleep, instead of eating itself away with rage; why not resign myself at once to wait for the

And he lay scarcely breathing, looking up at the unmoving branches setting with their darkness the pearls of

"Is not peace enough?" he thought. "Is not love enough? Can I not be reconciled, like a woman? Is not that

salvation, and happiness? What is all the rest, but 'sound and fury, signifying nothing?"

And as though afraid to lose his hold of that thought, he got up and hurried from the grove.

The whole wide landscape of field and wood, cut by the pale roads, was glimmering under the afternoon sun,

Here was no wild, windswept land, gleaming red and purple, and guarded by the grey rocks; no home of the

winds, and the wild gods. It was all serene and silver golden. In place of the shrill wailing pipe of the

hunting buzzard hawks half lost up in the wind, invisible larks were letting fall hymns to tranquillity; and

even the seano adventuring spirit sweeping the shore with its wingseemed to lie resting by the side of

When on the afternoon of that same day Miltoun did not come, all the chilly doubts which his presence alone

kept away, crowded thick and fast into the mind of one only too prone to distrust her own happiness. It could

His nature and her own were so far apart! Even in that giving of herself which had been such happiness, she

had yet doubted; for there was so much in him that was to her mysterious. All that he loved in poetry and

nature, had in it something craggy and culminating. The soft and fiery, the subtle and harmonious, seemed to

leave him cold. He had no particular love for all those simple natural things, birds, bees, animals, trees, and

Though it was not yet four o'clock she was already beginning to droop like a flower that wants water. But she

sat down to her piano, resolutely, till tea came; playing on and on with a spirit only half present, the other half

of her wandering in the Town, seeking for Miltoun. After tea she tried first to read, then to sew, and once

more came back to her piano. The clock struck six; and as if its last stroke had broken the armour of her

mind, she felt suddenly sick with anxiety. Why was he so long? But she kept on playing, turning the pages

without taking in the notes, haunted by the idea that he might again have fallen ill. Should she telegraph?

What good, when she could not tell in the least where he might be? And all the unreasoning terror of not

knowing where the loved one is, beset her so that her hands, in sheer numbness, dropped from the keys.

Unable to keep still, now, she wandered from window to door, out into the little hall, and back hastily to the

window. Over her anxiety brooded a darkness, compounded of vague growing fears. What if it were the end?

What if he had chosen this as the most merciful way of leaving her? But surely he would never be so cruel!

Close on the heels of this too painful thought came reaction; and she told herself that she was a fool. He was

at the House; something quite ordinary was keeping him. It was absurd to be anxious! She would have to get

used to this now. To be a drag on him would be dreadful. Sooner than that she would ratheryesrather he

never came back! And she took up her book, determined to read quietly till he came. But the moment she sat

down her fears returned with redoubled forcethe cold sickly horrible feeling of uncertainty, of the

knowledge that she could do nothing but wait till she was relieved by something over which she had no

control. And in the superstition that to stay there in the window where she could see him come, was keeping

him from her, she went into her bedroom. From there she could watch the sunset clouds winedark over the

river. A little talking wind shivered along the houses; the dusk began creeping in. She would not turn on the

light, unwilling to admit that it was really getting late, but began to change her dress, lingering desperately

over every little detail of her toilette, deriving therefrom a faint, mysterious comfort, trying to make herself

feel beautiful. From sheer dread of going back before he came, she let her hair fall, though it was quite

smooth and tidy, and began brushing it. Suddenly she thought with horror of her efforts at adornmentby

specially preparing for him, she must seem presumptuous to Fate. At any little sound she stopped and stood

listeningsave for her hair and eyes, as white from head to foot as a double narcissus flower in the dusk,

bending towards some faint tune played to it somewhere oft in the fields. But all those little sounds ceased,

one after anotherthey had meant nothing; and each time, her spirit returningwithin the pale walls of the

room, began once more to inhabit her lingering fingers. During that hour in her bedroom she lived through

Silent, but quivering all over; she clung to him in the hall; and this passion of emotion, without sound to give

it substance, affected him profoundly. How terribly sensitive and tender she was! She seemed to have no

armour. But though so stirred by her emotion, he was none the less exasperated. She incarnated at that

moment the life to which he must now resign himselfa life of unending tenderness, consideration, and

For a long time he could not bring himself to speak of his decision. Every look of her eyes, every movement

of her body, seemed pleading with him to keep silence. But in Miltoun's character there was an element of

rigidity, which never suffered him to diverge from an objective once determined.

And he felt with a sort of horror that he must begin his struggle over again. He got up, and threw open the

window. The sky was dark above the river; the wind had risen. That restless murmuration, and the width of

the night with its scattered stars, seemed to come rushing at his face. He withdrew from it, and leaning on the

sill looked down at her. What flowerlike delicacy she had! There flashed across him the memory of a

drooping blossom, which, in the Spring, he had seen her throw into the flames; with the words: "I can't bear

flowers to fade, I always want to burn them." He could see again those waxen petals yield to the fierce clutch

of the little red creeping sparks, and the slender stalk quivering, and glowing, and writhing to blackness like a

"I can't live a lie. What right have I to lead, if I can't follow? I'm not like our friend Courtier who believes in

Liberty. I never have, I never shall. Liberty? What is Liberty? But only those who conform to authority have

the right to wield authority. A man is a churl who enforces laws, when he himself has not the strength to

observe them. I will not be one of whom it can be said: 'He can rule others, himself!"

"I shall know," he said; but he saw clearly that she did not understand him. Her face had a strange, brooding,

shutaway look, as though he had frightened her. And the thought that she could not understand, angered

"If it had been a little thing to me, should I have left you at Monkland, and spent those five weeks in

Miltoun stared at her, for the first time understanding that she had a philosophy as deep and stubborn as his

And then he saw her looking at him, as if, seeing into the recesses of his soul, she had made some ghastly

discovery. The look was so mournful, so uncannily intent that he turned away from it.

"Perhaps it is a little thing," he muttered; "I don't know. I can't see my way. I've lost my bearings; I must find

But as if she had not heard, or not taken in the sense of his words, she said again:

And this stubbornness, when he was doing the very thing that would give him to her utterly, seemed to him

Feeling that he had borne all he could, Miltoun put his hands on her shoulders, and said: "That's enough!"

On the last day before Parliament rose, Lord Valleys, with a light heart, mounted his horse for a gallop in the

Row. Though she was a blood mare he rode her with a plain snaffle, having the horsemanship of one who has

hunted from the age of seven, and been for twenty years a Colonel of Yeomanry. Greeting affably everyone

he knew, he maintained a frank demeanour on all subjects, especially of Government policy, secretly

enjoying the surmises and prognostications, so pleasantly wide of the mark, and the way questions and hints

perished before his sphinxlike candour. He spoke cheerily too of Miltoun, who was 'all right again,' and

'burning for the fray' when the House met again in the autumn. And he chaffed Lord Malvezin about his wife.

If anythinghe saidcould make Bertie take an interest in politics, it would be she. He had two capital

gallops, being well known to the police: The day was bright, and he was sorry to turn home. Falling in with

Harbinger, he asked him to come back to lunch. There had seemed something different lately, an almost

morose look, about young Harbinger; and his wife's disquieting words about Barbara came back to Lord

Valleys with a shock. He had seen little of the child lately, and in the general clearing up of this time of year

Agatha, who was still staying at Valleys House with little Ann, waiting to travel up to Scotland with her

mother, was out, and there was no one at lunch except Lady Valleys and Barbara herself. Conversation

flagged; for the young people were extremely silent, Lady Valleys was considering the draft of a report which

had to be settled before she left, and Lord Valleys himself was rather carefully watching his daughter. The

news that Lord Miltoun was in the study came as a surprise, and somewhat of a relief to all. To an exhortation

to luring him in to lunch; the servant replied that Lord Miltoun had lunched, and would wait.

Lord Valleys also got up, and they went out together, leaving Barbara, who had risen, looking doubtfully at

Lord Valleys had recently been told of the nursing episode, and had received the news with the dubious air of

one hearing something about an eccentric person, which, heard about anyone else, could have had but one

significance. If Eustace had been a normal young man his father would have shrugged his shoulder's, and

thought: "Oh, well! There it is!" As it was, he had literally not known what to think.

And now, crossing the saloon which intervened between the diningroom and the study, he said to his wife

Miltoun was standing in the embrasure of a window above the terrace. He looked well, and his greeting was

"Well, my dear fellow," said Lord Valleys, "you're all right again evidentlywhat's the news?"

But Lady Valleys, with the greater quickness of women, divining already something of the reason, had

"Nonsense, my dear," she said; "it can't possibly be necessary, even if" Recovering herself, she added

"The reason is simply that I've joined my life to Mrs. Noel's, and I can't go on as I am, living a lie. If it were

Lady Valleys made a rapid movement. In the face of what she felt to be a really serious crisis between these

two utterly different creatures of the other sex, her husband and her son, she had dropped her mask and

become a genuine woman. Unconsciously both men felt this change, and in speaking, turned towards her.

"No, Eustace, I'm out of touch with your view of things altogether. I don't even begin to understand it."

"Listen to me, both of you!" said Lady Valleys: "You two are altogether different; and you must not quarrel. I

won't have that. Now, Eustace, you are our son, and you have got to be kind and considerate. Sit down, and

And motioning her husband to a chair, she sat down in the embrasure of a window. Miltoun remained

"I shall tell this man, of course, but you may make your minds easy, I imagine; I understand that his view of

"Well, then, my dear boy," she began, " even if you do feel you must tell him, there is surely no reason why it

"I should be glad if you would point out the connection between your honour and the resignation of your

"I do not see. The whole matter isis unfortunate, but to give up your work, so long as there is no absolute

necessity, seems to me farfetched and absurd. How many men are, there into whose lives there has not

entered some such relation at one time or another? This idea would disqualify half the nation." His eyes

seemed in that crisis both to consult and to avoid his wife's, as though he were at once asking her

endorsement of his point of view, and observing the proprieties. And for a moment in the midst of her

anxiety, her sense of humour got the better of Lady Valleys. It was so funny that Geoff should have to give

"It passes my comprehension;" he said, "why you should want to mix up sex and politics at all."

"There isforgive me for using the wordsuch a thing as one's religion. I don't happen to regard life as

divided into public and private departments. My vision is gonebrokenI can see no object before me now

"Oh! my dear," she said, "that's too dreadfully puritanical!" But at Miltoun's queer smile, she added hastily:

"Consult your common sense, Eustace, for goodness' sake," broke in Lord Valleys. "Isn't it your simple duty

to put your scruples in your pocket, and do the best you can for your country with the powers that have been

"In that case, of course, it may be just as well that you should leave public life."

"Nonsense!" cried Lady Valleys. "You don't understand, Geoffrey. I ask you again, Eustace, what will you do

"If you can't come to a reasonable arrangement with your conscience," again broke in Lord Valleys, "for

Lady Valleys laid her hand on his arm. "You must allow us a little logic too, my dear. You don't seriously

imagine that she would wish you to throw away your life for her? I'm not such a bad judge of character as

To this saying, which seemed to her cryptic and sinister, Lady Valleys did not know what to answer.

"If you feel, as you say," Lord Valleys began once more, "that the bottom has been knocked out of things for

you by thisthis affair, don't, for goodness' sake, do anything in a hurry. Wait! Go abroad! Get your balance

back! You'll find the thing settle itself in a few months. Don't precipitate matters; you can make your health

"You really are seeing the thing out of all proportion. What is a loveaffair. My dear boy, do you suppose for

a moment anyone would think the worse of you, even if they knew? And really not a soul need know."

At that word, which indeed seemed to them quite wanton, Lord and Lady Valleys turned on their son, and the

three stood staring, perfectly silent. A little noise from the doorway interrupted them.

Left by her father and mother to the further entertainment of Harbinger, Barbara had said:

Except for that one evening, when together by the sea wall they stood contemplating the populace, she had

not been alone with him since he kissed her under the shelter of the box hedge. And now, after the first

moment, she looked at him calmly, though in her breast there was a fluttering, as if an imprisoned bird were

struggling ever so feebly against that soft and solid cage. Her last jangled talk with Courtier had left an ache

Like a nymph pursued by a faun who held dominion over the groves, she, fugitive, kept looking back. There

was nothing in that fair wood of his with which she was not familiar, no thicket she had not travelled, no

stream she had not crossed, no kiss she could not return. His was a discovered land, in which, as of right, she

would reign. She had nothing to hope from him but power, and solid pleasure. Her eyes said: How am I to

know whether I shall not want more than you; feel suffocated in your arms; be surfeited by all that you will

She knew, from his downcast gloomy face, how cruel she seemed, and was sorry. She wanted to be good to

"There's something behind all this," he stammered, "you've no right to make a fool of me!"

At that moment there was revealed to Barbara a new acquaintancethe male proper. No, to live with him

His face had darkened; his eyes were dilated, his whole figure seemed to have grown. She suddenly noticed

the hair which covered his clenched fists. All his suavity had left him. He came very close.

How long that look between them lasted, and of all there was in it, she had no clear knowledge; thought after

thought, wave after wave of feeling, rushed through her. Revolt and attraction, contempt and admiration,

queer sensations of disgust and pleasure, all mingledas on a May day one may see the hail fall, and the sun

The sight of Lord and Lady Valleys so intently staring at Miltoun restored hex selfpossession.

It struck her as slightly comic, not knowing that the little scene was the outcome of that word. In truth, the

"Better comic than romantic. I suppose Barbara may know, considering her contribution to this matter. Your

brother is resigning his seat, my dear; his conscience will not permit him to retain it, under certain

"The matter has been argued, Babs," Lord Valleys said shortly; "unless you have some better reason to

advance than those of ordinary common sense, public spirit, and consideration for one's family, it will hardly

"Oh, Eusty!" she said, "you're not going to spoil your life like this! Just think how I shall feel."

"There is, I should imagine," put in Lord Valleys, "not a solitary creature in the whole world except your

brother himself who would wish for this consummation. But with him such a consideration does not weigh!"

It was plain enough that, behind his impassivity, a desperate struggle was going on in Miltoun. He spoke at

"If I have not already yielded to one who is naturally more to me than anything, when she begged and

entreated, it is because I feel this in a way you don't realize. I apologize for using the word comic just now, I

should have said tragic. I'll enlighten Uncle Dennis, if that will comfort you; but this is not exactly a matter

As the door closed, Barbara ran towards it; and, with a motion strangely like the wringing of hands, said

This ebullition of feeling, surpassing even their own, came as a real shock to Lady and Lord Valleys, ignorant

of how strungup she had been before she entered the room. They had not seen Barbara cry since she was a

tiny girl. And in face of her emotion any animus they might have shown her for having thrown Miltoun into

Mrs. Noel's arms, now melted away. Lord Valleys, especially moved, went up to his daughter, and stood with

her in that dark corner, saying nothing, but gently stroking her hand. Lady Valleys, who herself felt very

"Yes," murmured Lady Valleys from the window, "he was always uncomfortable, like that. I remember him

And then the silence was only broken by the little angry sounds of Barbara blowing her nose.

"I shall go and see mother," said Lady Valleys, suddenly: "The boy's whole life may be ruined if we can't stop

She went to her room, instead. This crisis in Miltoun's life had strangely shaken her. It was as if Fate had

suddenly revealed all that any step out of the beaten path might lead to, had brought her sharply up against

herself. To wing out into the blue! See what it meant! If Miltoun kept to his resolve, and gave up public life,

he was lost! And she herself! The fascination of Courtier's chivalrous manner, of a sort of innate gallantry,

suggesting the quest of everlasting dangerwas it not rather absurd? Andwas she fascinated? Was it not

simply that she liked the feeling of fascinating him? Through the maze of these thoughts, darted the memory

of Harbinger's face close to her own, his clenched hands, the swift revelation of his dangerous masculinity. It

was all a nightmare of scaring queer sensations, of things that could never be settled. She was stirred for once

out of all her normal conquering philosophy. Her thoughts flew back to Miltoun. That which she had seen in

their faces, then, had come to pass! And picturing Agatha's horror, when she came to hear of it, Barbara could

not help a smile. Poor Eustace! Why did he take things so hardly? If he really carried out his resolveand he

never changed his mindit would be tragic! It would mean the end of everything for him!

Perhaps now he would get tired of Mrs. Noel. But she was not the sort of woman a man would get tired of.

Even Barbara in her inexperience felt that. She would always be too delicately careful never to cloy him,

never to exact anything from him, or let him feel that he was bound to her by so much as a hair. Ah! why

couldn't they go on as if nothing had happened? Could nobody persuade him? She thought again of Courtier.

If he, who knew them both, and was so fond of Mrs. Noel, would talk to Miltoun, about the right to be happy,

the right to revolt? Eustace ought to revolt! It was his duty. She sat down to write; then, putting on her hat,

The flowers of summer in the great glass house at Ravensham were keeping the last afternoonwatch when

Since the news of Miltoun's illness, and of Mrs. Noel's nursing, the little old lady had possessed her soul in

patience; often, it is true, afflicted with poignant misgivings as to this new influence in the life of her

favourite, affected too by a sort of jealousy, not to be admitted, even in her prayers, which, though regular

enough, were perhaps somewhat formal. Having small liking now for leaving home, even for Catton, her

country place, she was still at Ravensham, where Lord Dennis had come up to stay with her as soon as

Miltoun had left Sea House. But Lady Casterley was never very dependent on company. She retained

unimpaired her intense interest in politics, and still corresponded freely with prominent men. Of late, too, a

slight revival of the June war scare had made its mark on her in a certain rejuvenescence, which always

accompanied her contemplation of national crises, even when such were a little in the air. At blast of trumpet

her spirit still leaped forward, unsheathed its sword, and stood at the salute. At such times, she rose earlier,

went to bed later, was far less susceptible to draughts, and refused with asperity any food between meals. She

wrote too with her own hand letters which she would otherwise have dictated to her secretary. Unfortunately

the scare had died down again almost at once; and the passing of danger always left her rather irritable. Lady

She kissed her daughter critically; for there was that about her manner which she did not like.

"H'm! Afraid of meeting me, since she committed that piece of folly over Eustace. You must be careful of

that child, Gertrude, or she will be doing something silly herself. I don't like the way she keeps Claud

Lady Casterley lost the little colour in her cheeks; lost, too, all her superfluity of irritable energy.

Having heard, she said nothing; but Lady Valleys noticed with alarm that over her eyes had come suddenly

Herself tired, and troubled, she was conscious of a quite unwonted feeling of discouragement before this

silent little figure, in the silent white room. She had never before seen her mother look as if she heard Defeat

passing on its dark wings. And moved by sudden tenderness for the little frail body that had borne her so long

"Yes," said Lady Casterley, as if speaking to herself, "the boy saves things up; he stores his feelingsthey

burst and sweep him away. First his passion; now his conscience. There are two men in him; but this will be

"Did you ever hear about him at Oxford, Gertrude? He broke out once, and ate husks with the Gadarenes.

Resentment rose in Lady Valleys, that anyone should knew her son better than herself; but she lost it again

"Go away, child; I must think. You say he's to consult' Dennis? Do you know her address? Ask Barbara when

you get back and telephone it to me. And at her daughter's kiss, she added grimly:

"If Lady Valleys rings up, Clifton, don't take the message, but call me." And seeing that Clifton did not move

"Forgive me, my lady, but I have had it on my mind for some time to ask you something."

And the old man raised his hand with a peculiar dignity, seeming to say: You will excuse me that for the

"The matter of his attachment," he went on, "is known to me; it has given me acute anxiety, knowing his

lordship as I do, and having heard him say something singular when he was here in July. I should be grateful

The expression on Lady Casterley's face was strangely compounded of surprise, kindliness, defence, and

"Not if I can prevent it, Clifton," she said shortly; "in fact, you need not concern yourself."

"Excuse me mentioning it, my lady;" a quiver ran over his face between its long white whiskers, "but his

When he had left her, Lady Casterley sat down in a little low chair long she sat there by the empty hearth,

Not far from the darkhaloed indeterminate limbo where dwelt that bugbear of Charles Courtier, the great

HalfTruth Authority, he himself had a couple of rooms at fifteen shillings a week. Their chief attraction was

that the great HalfTruth Liberty had recommended them. They tied him to nothing, and were ever at his

disposal when he was in London; for his landlady, though not bound by agreement so to do, let them in such

a way, that she could turn anyone else out at a week's notice. She was a gentle soul, married to a socialistic

plumber twenty years her senior. The worthy man had given her two little boys, and the three of them kept

her in such permanent order that to be in the presence of Courtier was the greatest pleasure she knew. When

he disappeared on one of his nomadic missions, explorations, or adventures, she enclosed the whole of his

belongings in two tin trunks and placed them in a cupboard which smelled a little of mice. When he

reappeared the trunks were reopened, and a powerful scent of dried roseleaves would escape. For,

recognizing the mortality of things human, she procured every summer from her sister, the wife of a market

gardener, a consignment of this commodity, which she passionately sewed up in bags, and continued to

This, and the way she made his toastvery crispand aired his linenvery dry, were practically the only

things she could do for a man naturally inclined to independence, and accustomed from his manner of life to

At first signs of his departure she would go into some closet or other, away from the plumber and the two

marks of his affection, and cry quietly; but never in Courtier's presence did she dream of manifesting

griefas soon weep in the presence of death or birth, or any other fundamental tragedy or joy. In face of the

realities of life she had known from her youth up the value of the simple verb 'stostareto stand fast.'

And to her Courtier was a reality, the chief reality of life, the focus of her aspiration, the morning and the

The request, then five days after his farewell visit to Mrs. Noel for the elephanthide trunk which

accompanied his rovings, produced her habitual period of seclusion, followed by her habitual appearance in

his sittingroom bearing a note, and some bags of dried rose leaves on a tray. She found him in his shirt

Mrs. Benton, plaiting her hands, for she had not yet lost something of the look and manner of a little girl,

"Yes, sir; and I hope you're not going anywhere very dangerous this time. I always think you go to such

Her, apparently castdown, eyes stored up a wealth of little details; the way his hair grew, the set of his back,

"You haven't a photograph you could spare, sir, to leave behind? Mr. Benton was only saying to me

"Oh!" she said; "you can see who it is." And holding it perhaps too tightly, for her fingers trembled, she

While he read the note she noticed with concern how packing had brought the blood into his head....

When, in response to that note, Courtier entered the wellknown confectioner's called Gustard's, it was still

not quite teatime, and there seemed to him at first no one in the room save three middle aged women

packing sweets; then in the corner he saw Barbara. The blood was no longer in his head; he was pale, walking

down that mahoganycoloured room impregnated with the scent of weddingcake. Barbara, too, was pale.

So close to her that he could count her every eyelash, and inhale the scent of her hair and clothes to listen to

her story of Miltoun, so hesitatingly, so wistfully told, seemed very like being kept waiting with the rope

already round his neck, to hear about another person's toothache. He felt this to have been unnecessary on the

part of Fate! And there came to him perversely the memory of that ride over the sunwarmed heather, when

he had paraphrased the old Sicilian song: 'Here will I sit and sing.' He was a long way from singing now; nor

was there love in his arms. There was instead a cup of tea; and in his nostrils the scent of cake, with now and

"I see," he said, when she had finished telling him: "'Liberty's a glorious feast!' You want me to go to your

One of the middleaged females passed, carrying a large white card board box; and the creaking of her

Courtier's heart stirred, as if it were turning over within him; and gazing into his teacup, he answered

"All men are decent to the evening star. I will go at once and find your brother. When shall I bring you

Looking back from the door, he saw her face puzzled, rather reproachful, and went out gloomily. The scent of

cake, and orange flower water, the creaking of the female's stays, the colour of mahogany, still clung to his

nose and ears, and eyes; but within him it was all dull baffled rage. Why had he not made the most of this

unexpected chance; why had he not made desperate love to her? A conscientious ass! And yetthe whole

thing was absurd! She was so young! God knew he would be glad to be out of it. If he stayed he was afraid

that he would play the fool. But the memory of her words: "You have been very sweet to me!" would not

leave him; nor the memory of her face, so puzzled, and reproachful. Yes, if he stayed he would play the fool!

He would be asking her to marry a man double her age, of no position but that which he had carved for

himself, and without a rap. And he would be asking her in such a way that she might possibly have some

little difficulty in refusing. He would be letting himself go. And she was only twentyfor all her

womanof theworld air, a child! No! He would be useful to her, if possible, this once, and then clear out!

When Miltoun left Valleys House he walked in the direction of Westminster. During the five days that he had

been back in London he had not yet entered the House of Commons. After the seclusion of his illness, he still

felt a yearning, almost painful, towards the movement and stir of the town. Everything he heard and saw

made an intensely vivid impression. The lions in Trafalgar Square, the great buildings of Whitehall, filled

him with a sort of exultation. He was like a man, who, after a long sea voyage, first catches sight of land, and

stands straining his eyes, hardly breathing, taking in one by one the lost features of that face. He walked on to

Westminster Bridge, and going to an embrasure in the very centre, looked back towards the towers.

It was said that the love of those towers passed into the blood. It was said that he who had sat beneath them

could never again be quite the same. Miltoun knew that it was truedesperately true, of himself. In person

he had sat there but three weeks, but in soul he seemed to have been sitting there hundreds of years. And now

he would sit there no more! An almost frantic desire to free himself from this coil rose up within him. To be

held a prisoner by that most secret of all his instincts, the instinct for authority! To be unable to wield

authority because to wield authority was to insult authority. God! It was hard! He turned his back on the

Each of these, he knew, had his struggle to keep selfrespect! Or was it that they were unconscious of

struggle or of selfrespect, and just let things drift? They looked like that, most of them! And all his inherent

contempt for the average or common welled up as he watched them. Yes, they looked like that! Ironically, the

sight of those from whom he had desired the comfort of compromise, served instead to stimulate that part of

him which refused to let him compromise. They looked soft, soggy, without pride or will, as though they

knew that life was too much for them, and had shamefully accepted the fact. They so obviously needed to be

told what they might do, and which way they should, go; they would accept orders as they accepted their

work, or pleasures: And the thought that he was now debarred from the right to give them orders, rankled in

him furiously. They, in their turn, glanced casually at his tall figure leaning against the parapet, not knowing

how their fate was trembling in the balance. His thin, sallow face, and hungry eyes gave one or two of them

perhaps a feeling of interest or discomfort; but to most he was assuredly no more than any other man or

woman in the hurly burly. That dark figure of conscious power struggling in the fetters of its own belief in

power, was a piece of sculpture they had neither time nor wish to understand, having no taste for

It was five o'clock before Miltoun left the Bridge, and passed, like an exile, before the gates of Church and

State, on his way to his uncle's Club. He stopped to telegraph to Audrey the time he would be coming

tomorrow afternoon; and on leaving the PostOffice, noticed in the window of the adjoining shop some

reproductions of old Italian masterpieces, amongst them one of Botticelli's 'Birth of Venus.' He had never

seen that picture; and, remembering that she had told him it was her favourite, he stopped to look at it.

Averagely well versed in such matters, as became one of his caste, Miltoun had not the power of letting a

work of art insidiously steal the private self from his soul, and replace it with the self of all the world; and he

examined this farfamed presentment of the heathen goddess with aloofness, even irritation. The drawing of

the body seemed to him crude, the whole picture a little flat and Early; he did not like the figure of the Flora.

The golden serenity, and tenderness, of which she had spoken, left him cold. Then he found himself looking

at the face, and slowly, but with uncanny certainty, began to feel that he was looking at the face of Audrey

herself. The hair was golden and different, the eyes grey and different, the mouth a little fuller; yetit was

her face; the same oval shape, the same farapart, arched brows, the same strangely tender, elusive spirit.

And, as though offended, he turned and walked on. In the window of that little shop was the effigy of her for

whom he had bartered away his lifethe incarnation of passive and entwining love, that gentle creature, who

had given herself to him so utterly, for whom love, and the flowers, and trees, and birds, music, the sky, and

the quickflowing streams, were allsufficing; and who, like the goddess in the picture, seemed wondering at

her own existence. He had a sudden glimpse of understanding, strange indeed in one who had so little power

of seeing into others' hearts: Ought she ever to have been born into a world like this? But the flash of insight

yielded quickly to that sickening consciousness of his own position, which never left him now. Whatever else

he did, he must get rid of that malaise! But what could he do in that coming life? Write books? What sort of

books could he write? Only such as expressed his views of citizenship, his political and social beliefs. As

well remain sitting and speaking beneath those towers! He could never join the happy band of artists, those

soft and indeterminate spirits, for whom barriers had no meaning, contentto understand, interpret, and

create. What should he be doing in that galley? The thought was inconceivable. A career at the Baryes, he

might take that up; but to what end? To become a judge! As well continue to sit beneath those towers! Too

late for diplomacy. Too late for the Army; besides, he had not the faintest taste for military glory. Bury

himself in the country like Uncle Dennis, and administer one of his father's estates? It would be death. Go

amongst the poor? For a moment he thought he had found a new vocation. But in what capacity to order

their lives, when he himself could not order his own; or, as a mere conduit pipe for money, when he believed

that charity was rotting the nation to its core? At the head of every avenue stood an angel or devil with drawn

sword. And then there came to him another thought. Since he was being cast forth from Church and State,

could he not play the fallen spirit like a manbe Lucifer, and destroy! And instinctively he at once saw

himself returning to those towers, and beneath them crossing the floor; joining the revolutionaries, the

Radicals, the freethinkers, scourging his present Party, the party of authority and institutions. The idea struck

The Club which Lord Dennis frequented was in St. James's untouched by the tides of the waters of

fashionsteadily swinging to its moorings in a quiet backwater, and Miltoun found his uncle in the library.

"Nobody comes here," he said, "so, in spite of that word on the door, we shall talk. Waiter, bring some more

Impatiently, but with a sort of pity, Miltoun watched Lord Dennis's urbane movements, wherein old age was,

pathetically, trying to make each little thing seem important, if only to the doer. Nothing his greatuncle

could say would outweigh the warning of his picturesque old figure! To be a bystander; to see it all go past

you; to let your sword rust in its sheath, as this poor old fellow had done! The notion of explaining what he

had come about was particularly hateful to Miltoun; but since he had given his word, he nerved himself with

"I promised my mother to ask you a question, Uncle Dennis. You know of my attachment, I believe?"

"Well, I have joined my life to this lady's. There will be no scandal, but I consider it my duty to resign my

seat, and leave public life alone. Is that right or wrong according to, your view?"

Lord Dennis looked at his nephew in silence. A faint flush coloured his brown cheeks. He had the appearance

"I have not the pleasure of knowing this lady, and am therefore somewhat in the dark; but it appears to me

"Good! You say you are going to give up public life for the sake of your conscience. I should have no

He paused, and for quite a minute remained silent, evidently searching for words to express some intricate

"But it won't, Eustace; the public man in you is far stronger than the other. You want leadership more than

you want love. Your sacrifice will kill your affection; what you imagine is your loss and hurt, will prove to be

"You are not listening to me; but I can see very well that the process has begun already underneath. There's a

curious streak of the Jesuit in you, Eustace. What you don't want to see, you won't look at."

"On the contrary, I point out that you will be compromising if you try to keep both your conscience and your

Miltoun rose. "In other words, you, like the others, recommend me to desert this lady who loves me, and

But Lord Dennis had risen, too, having lost all the appanage and manner of old age.

"Of my own case," he said bluntly, "we won't talk. I don't advise you to desert anyone; you quite mistake me.

I advise you to know yourself. And I tell you my opinion of youyou were cut out by Nature for a

statesman, not a lover! There's something driedup in you, Eustace; I'm not sure there isn't something

driedup in all our caste. We've had to do with forms and ceremonies too long. We're not good at taking the

"Unfortunately," said Miltoun, "I cannot, to fit in with a theory of yours, commit a baseness."

Lord Dennis began pacing up and down. He was keeping his lips closed very tight.

"A man who gives advice," he said at last, "is always something of a fool. For all that, you have mistaken

mine. I am not so presumptuous as to attempt to enter the inner chamber of your spirit. I have merely told you

that, in my opinion, it would be more honest to yourself, and fairer to this lady, to compound with your

conscience, and keep both your love and your public life, than to pretend that you were capable of sacrificing

what I know is the stronger element in you for the sake of the weaker. You remember the saying, Democritus

I think: 'each man's nature or character is his fate or God'. I recommend it to you."

"I am sorry to have troubled you, Uncle Dennis. A middle policy is no use to me. Goodbye!" And without

"Run you to earth at last," he said; "I wish you'd come and dine with me. I'm leaving England tomorrow

There passed through Miltoun's mind the rapid thought: 'Does he know?' He assented, however, and they

The place chosen was a little hostel, frequented by racing men, and famed for the excellence of its steaks.

And as they sat down opposite each other in the almost empty room, Miltoun thought: Yes, he does know!

Can I stand any more of this? He waited almost savagely for the attack he felt was coming.

But there was that in Courtier's face which checked his anger; its friendliness was transparent.

"I am about her only friend," Courtier proceeded earnestly; "and this is my last chanceto say nothing of my

"Forgive me for putting it bluntly. Have you considered what her position was before she met you?"

Miltoun felt the blood rushing to his face, but he sat still, clenching his nails into the palms of his hands.

"Yes, yes," said Courtier, "but that attitude of mindyou used to have it yourselfwhich decrees either

living death, or spiritual adultery to women, makes my blood boil. You can't deny that those were the

alternatives, and I say you had the right fundamentally to protest against them, not only in words but deeds.

You did protest, I know; but this present decision of yours is a climb down, as much as to say that your

"For her sake, you must. If you give up your public work, you'll spoil her life a second time."

Miltoun again sat down. At the word 'must' a steely feeling had come to his aid; his eyes began to resemble

the old Cardinal's. "Your nature and mine, Courtier," he said, "are too far apart; we shall never understand

"Never mind that," answered Courtier. "Admitting those two alternatives to be horrible, which you never

"Anyway, you do admit themif you believe you had not the right to rescue her, on what principle do you

Miltoun placed his elbow on the table, and leaning his chin on his hand, regarded the champion of lost causes

without speaking. There was such a turmoil going on within him that with difficulty he could force his lips to

"By what right do you ask me that?" he said at last. He saw Courtier's face grow scarlet, and his fingers

twisting furiously at those flamelike moustaches; but his answer was as steadily ironical as usual.

"Well, I can hardly sit still, my last evening in England, without lifting a finger, while you immolate a woman

to whom I feel like a brother. I'll tell you what your principle is: Authority, unjust or just, desirable or

undesirable, must be implicitly obeyed. To break a law, no matter on what provocation, or for whose sake, is

Courtier smiled : "I knew you were coming out with that. I deny that they do with this law, which is

"No, Courtier, if we must fight, let us fight on the naked facts." have not rescued anyone. I have merely stolen

sooner than starve. That is why I cannot go on pretending to be a pattern. If it were known, I could not retain

Courtier was silent; and with his eyes Miltoun pressed on him, as though he would despatch him with that

"I could," said Courtier at last. "When this law, by enforcing spiritual adultery on those who have come to

hate their mates, destroys the sanctity of the married statethe very sanctity it professes to uphold, you must

expect to have it broken by reasoning men and women without their feeling shame, or losing selfrespect."

In Miltoun there was rising that vast and subtle passion for dialectic combat, which was of his very fibre. He

had almost lost the feeling that this was his own future being discussed. He saw before him in this sanguine

man, whose voice and eyes had such a whitehot sound and look, the incarnation of all that he

"That," he said, "is devil's advocacy. I admit no individual as judge in his own case."

They were no sooner in the cooler street, than the voice of Courtier began again:

"Distrust of human nature, fearit's the whole basis of action for men of your stamp. You deny the right of

the individual to judge, because you've no faith in the essential goodness of men; at heart you believe them

bad. You give them no freedom, you allow them no consent, because you believe that their decisions would

move downwards, and not upwards. Well, it's the whole difference between the aristocratic and the

Again Miltoun felt rising within him a sort of fury. Once for all he would slay this redhaired rebel; he

"Strangely enough, by that Being to mention whom you objectworking through the medium of the best."

"HighPriest! Look at that girl slinking along there, with her eye on us; suppose, instead of withdrawing your

garment, you went over and talked to her, got her to tell you what she really felt and thought, you'd find

things that would astonish you. At bottom, mankind is splendid. And they're raised, sir, by the aspiration

that's in all of them. Haven't you ever noticed that public sentiment is always in advance of the Law?"

"And you," said Miltoun, "are the man who is never on the side of the majority?"

"Not so logical as all that," he answered; "the wind still blows; and Life's not a set of rules hung up in an

office. Let's see, where are we?" They had been brought to a standstill by a group on the pavement in front

of the Queen's Hall: "Shall we go in, and hear some music, and cool our tongues?"

The great lighted hall, filled with the faint bluefish vapour from hundreds of little rolls of tobacco leaf, was

Taking his stand among the strawhatted throng, Miltoun heard that steady ironical voice behind him:

"Profanum vulgus! Come to listen to the finest piece of music ever written! Folk whom you wouldn't trust a

He made no answer. The first slow notes of the seventh Symphony of Beethoven had begun to steal forth

across the bank of flowers; and, save for the steady rising of that bluefish vapour, as it were incense burnt to

the god of melody, the crowd had become deathly still, as though one mind, one spirit, possessed each pale

face inclined towards that music rising and falling like the sighing of the winds, that welcome from death the

"Well," said the voice behind him, "hasn't that shown you how things swell and grow; how splendid the

And suddenly, as if the music had loosened some band within him, he began to pour forth words:

"Look at the crowd in this street, Courtier, which of all crowds in the whole world can best afford to be left to

itself; secure from pestilence, earthquake, cyclone, drought, from extremes of heat and cold, in the heart of

the greatest and safest city in the world; and yetsee the figure of that policeman! Running through all the

good behaviour of this crowd, however safe and free it looks, there is, there always must be, a central force

holding it together. Where does that central force come from? From the crowd itself, you say. I answer: No.

Look back at the origin of human States. From the beginnings of things, the best man has been the

unconscious medium of authority, of the controlling principle, of the divine force; he felt that power within

himphysical, at firsthe used it to take the lead, he has held the lead ever since, he must always hold it.

All your processes of election, your socalled democratic apparatus, are only a blind to the inquiring, a sop to

the hungry, a salve to the pride of the rebellious. They are merely surface machinery; they cannot prevent the

best man from coming to the top; for the best man stands nearest to the Deity, and is the first to receive the

waves that come from Him. I'm not speaking of heredity. The best man is not necessarily born in my class,

and I, at all events, do not believe he is any more frequent there than in other classes."

"You needn't be afraid," answered Courtier, "that I take you for an average specimen. You're at one end, and I

at the other, and we probably both miss the golden mark. But the world is not ruled by power, and the fear

which power produces, as you think, it's ruled by love. Society is held together by the natural decency in

man, by fellowfeeling. The democratic principle, which you despise, at root means nothing at all but that.

Man left to himself is on the upward lay. If it weren't so, do you imagine for a moment your 'boys in blue'

could keep order? A man knows unconsciously what he can and what he can't do, without losing his

selfrespect. He sucks that knowledge in with every breath. Laws and authority are not the be all and

endall, they are conveniences, machinery, conduit pipes, main roads. They're not of the structure of the

"That's rather different, my friend, from identifying them with the building. They are things to be taken down

as fast as ever they can be cleared away, to make room for an edifice that begins on earth, not in the sky. All

the scaffolding of law is merely there to save time, to prevent the temple, as it mounts, from losing its way,

"No," said Miltoun, "no! The scaffolding, as you call it, is the material projection of the architect's

conception, without which the temple does not and cannot rise; and the architect is God, working through the

"We are now at the bedrock," cried Courtier, "your God is outside this world. Mine within it."

In the silence that followed Miltoun saw that they were in Leicester Square, all quiet as yet before the theatres

had disgorged; quiet yet waiting, with the lights, like yellow stars lowdriven from the dark heavens, clinging

to the white shapes of musichalls and cafes, and a sort of flying glamour blanching the still foliage of the

"A 'whitely wanton'this Square!" said Courtier: "Alive as a face; no end to its queer beauty! And, by Jove,

He felt weary all of a sudden, anxious to get to his rooms, unwilling to continue this battle of words, that

brought him no nearer to relief. It was with strange lassitude that he heard the voice still speaking:

"We must make a night of it, since tomorrow we die.... You would curb licence from withoutI from

within. When I get up and when I go to bed, when I draw a breath, see a face, or a flower, or a tree if I

didn't feel that I was looking on the Deity, I believe I should quit this palace of varieties, from sheer boredom.

You, I understand, can't look on your God, unless you withdraw into some high place. Isn't it a bit lonely

"There are worse things than loneliness." And they walked on, in silence; till suddenly Miltoun broke out:

"You talk of tyranny! What tyranny could equal this tyranny of your freedom? What tyranny in the world like

that of this 'free' vulgar, narrow street, with its hundred journals teeming like ants' nests, to producewhat? In

the entrails of that creature of your freedom, Courtier, there is room neither for exaltation, discipline, nor

There was no answer for a moment; and from those tall houses, whose lighted windows he had

apostrophized, Miltoun turned away towards the river. "No," said the voice beside him, "for all its faults, the

wind blows in that street, and there's a chance for everything. By God, I would rather see a few stars struggle

And suddenly it seemed to Miltoun that he could never free himself from the echoes of that voiceit was not

The river's black water was making stilly, slow recessional under a halfmoon. Beneath the cloak of night the

chaos on the far bank, the forms of cranes, high buildings, jetties, the bodies of the sleeping barges,

amillion queer dark shapes, were invested with emotion. All was religious out there, all beautiful, all

strange. And over this great quiet friend of man, lampsthose humble flowers of night, were throwing down

the faint continual glamour of fallen petals; and a sweetscented wind stole along from the West, very slow

as yet, bringing in advance the tremor and perfume of the innumerable trees and fields which the river had

A murmur that was no true sound, but like the whisper of a heart to. a heart, accompanied this voyage of the

Then a small blunt skiffmanned by two rowers came by under the wall, with the thudding and the creak of

"So 'Tomorrow we die'?" said Miltoun : "You mean, I suppose, that 'public life' is the breath of my nostrils,

"Am I right in thinking that it was my young sister who sent you on this crusade?"

"And so," Miltoun went on, looking him through and through; "tomorrow is to be your last day, too? Well,

you're right to go. She is not an ugly duckling, who can live out of the social pond; she'll always want her

native element. And now, we'll say goodbye! Whatever happens to us both, I shall remember this evening."

Courtier sat in Hyde Park waiting for five o'clock. The day had recovered somewhat from a grey morning, as

though the glow of that long hot summer were too burntin on the air to yield to the first assault. The sun,

piercing the crisped clouds, those breast feathers of heavenly doves, darted its beams at the mellowed leaves,

and showered to the ground their delicate shadow stains. The first, too early, scent from leaves about to fall,

penetrated to the heart. And sorrowful sweet birds were tuning their little autumn pipes, blowing into them

Courtier thought of Miltoun and his mistress. By what a strange fate had those two been thrown together; to

what end was their love coming? The seeds of grief were already sown, what flowers of darkness, or of

tumult would come up? He saw her again as a little, grave, considering child, with her soft eyes, set wide

apart under the dark arched brows, and the little tuck at the corner of her mouth that used to come when he

teased her. And to that gentle creature who would sooner die than force anyone to anything, had been given

this queer lover; this aristocrat by birth and nature, with the dried fervent soul, whose every fibre had been

bred and trained in and to the service of Authority; this rejecter of the Unity of Life; this worshipper of an old

God! A God that stood, whip in hand, driving men to obedience. A God that even now Courtier could conjure

up staring at him from the walls of his nursery. The God his own father had believed in. A God of the Old

Testament, knowing neither sympathy nor understanding. Strange that He should be alive still; that there

should still be thousands who worshipped Him. Yet, not so very strange, if, as they said, man made God in

his own image! Here indeed was a curious mating of what the philosophers would call the will to Love, and

A soldier and his girl came and sat down on a bench close by. They looked askance at this trim and upright

figure with the fighting face; then, some subtle thing informing them that he was not of the disturbing breed

called officer, they ceased to regard him, abandoning themselves to dumb and inexpressive felicity. Arm in

arm, touching each other, they seemed to Courtier very jolly, having that look of living entirely in the

moment, which always especially appealed to one whose blood ran too fast to allow him to speculate much

A leaf from the bough above him, loosened by the sun's kisses, dropped, and fell yellow at his feet. The

It was characteristic of this man, who could be so hot over the lost causes of others, that, sitting there within

half an hour of the final loss of his own cause, he could be so calm, so almost apathetic. This apathy was

partly due to the hopelessness, which Nature had long perceived, of trying to make him feel oppressed, but

also to the habits of a man incurably accustomed to carrying his fortunes in his hand, and that hand open. It

did not seem real to him that he was actually going to suffer a defeat, to have to confess that he had hankered

after this girl all these past weeks, and that tomorrow all would be wasted, and she as dead to him as if he

had never seen her. No, it was not exactly resignation, it was rather sheer lack of commercial instinct. If only

this had been the lost cause of another person. How gallantly he would have rushed to the assault, and taken

her by storm! If only he himself could have been that other person, how easily, how passionately could he not

have pleaded, letting forth from him all those words which had knocked at his teeth ever since he knew her,

and which would have seemed so ridiculous and so unworthy, spoken on his own behalf. Yes, for that other

person he could have cut her out from under the guns of the enemy; he could have taken her, that fairest

prize. And in queer, cheerylooking apathynot far removed perhaps from despairhe sat, watching the

leaves turn over and fall, and now and then cutting with his stick at the air, where autumn was already riding.

And, if in imagination he saw himself carrying her away into the wilderness, and with his devotion making

her happiness to grow, it was so far a flight, that a smile crept about his lips, and once or twice he snapped his

The soldier and his girl rose, passing in front of him down the Row. He watched their scarlet and blue figures,

moving slowly towards the sun, and another couple close to the rails, crossing those receding forms. Very

straight and tall, there was something exhilarating in the way this new couple swung along, holding their

heads up, turning towards each other, to exchange words or smiles. Even at that distance they could be seen

to be of high fashion; in their gait was the almost insolent poise of those who are above doubts and cares,

certain of the world and of themselves. The girl's dress was tawny brown, her hair and hat too of the same

hue, and the pursuing sunlight endowed her with a hazy splendour. Then, Courtier saw who they werethat

Except for an unconscious grinding of his teeth, he made no sound or movement, so that they went by

without seeing him. Her voice, though not the words, came to him distinctly. He saw her hand slip up under

Harbinger's arm and swiftly down again. A smile, of whose existence he was unaware, settled on his lips. He

got up, shook himself, as a dog shakes off a beating, and walked away, with his mouth set very firm.

Left alone among the little mahogany tables of Gustard's, where the scent of cake and of orangeflower water

made happy all the air, Barbara had sat for some minutes, her eyes cast downas a child from whom a toy

has been taken contemplates the ground, not knowing precisely what she is feeling. Then, paying one of the

middleaged females, she went out into the Square. There a German band was playing Delibes' Coppelia; and

She went straight back to Valleys House. In the room where three hours ago she had been left alone after

lunch with Harbinger, her sister was seated in the window, looking decidedly upset. In fact, Agatha had just

spent an awkward hour. Chancing, with little Ann, into that confectioner's where she could best obtain a

particularly gummy sweet which she believed wholesome for her children, she had been engaged in

purchasing a pound, when looking down, she perceived Ann standing stockstill, with her sudden little nose

pointed down the shop, and her mouth opening; glancing in the direction of those frank, enquiring eyes,

Agatha saw to her amazement her sister, and a man whom she recognized as Courtier. With a readiness

which did her complete credit, she placed a sweet in Ann's mouth, and saying to the middleaged female:

"Then you'll send those, please. Come, Ann!" went out. Shocks never coming singly, she had no sooner

reached home, than from her father she learned of the development of Miltoun's love affair. When Barbara

returned, she was sitting, unfeignedly disturbed and grieved; unable to decide whether or no she ought to

divulge what she herself had seen, but withal buoyedup by that peculiar indignation of the essentially

Judging at once from the expression of her face that she must have heard the news of Miltoun, Barbara said:

"You may think it right to joke over the ruin of Miltoun's life," murmured Agatha; "I don't."

Agatha closed her lips very tightly, as who should imply: "Then it ought to be!" But she only answered:

"I see," she said; "monstrous depravitypoor old Gustard's!" And still laughing that dangerous laugh, she

At dinner and afterwards that evening she was very silent, having on her face the same look that she wore out

hunting, especially when in difficulties of any kind, or if advised to 'take a pull.' When she got away to her

own room she had a longing to relieve herself by some kind of action that would hurt someone, if only

herself. To go to bed and toss about in a feverfor she knew herself in these thwarted moodswas of no

use! For a moment she thought of going out. That would be fun, and hurt them, too; but it was difficult. She

did not want to be seen, and have the humiliation of an open row. Then there came into her head the memory

of the roof of the tower, where she had once been as a little girl. She would be in the air there, she would be

able to breathe, to get rid of this feverishness. With the unhappy pleasure of a spoiled child taking its revenge,

she took care to leave her bedroom door open, so that her maid would wonder where she was, and perhaps be

anxious, and make them anxious. Slipping through the moonlit picture gallery on to the landing, outside her

father's sanctum, whence rose the stone staircase leading to the roof, she began to mount. She was breathless

when, after that unending flight of stairs she emerged on to the roof at the extreme northern end of the big

house, where, below her, was a sheer drop of a hundred feet. At first she stood, a little giddy, grasping the rail

that ran round that garden of lead, still absorbed in her brooding, rebellious thoughts. Gradually she lost

consciousness of everything save the scene before her. High above all neighbouring houses, she was almost

appalled by the majesty of what she saw. This nightclothed city, so remote and dark, so whitegleaming and

alive, on whose purple hills and valleys grew such myriad golden flowers of light, from whose heart came

this deep incessant murmurcould it possibly be the same city through which she had been walking that

very day! From its sleeping body the supreme wistful spirit had emerged in dark loveliness, and was

lowflying down there, tempting her. Barbara turned round, to take in all that amazing prospect, from the

black glades of Hyde Park, in front, to the powdery white ghost of a church tower, away to the East. How

marvellous was this city of night! And as, in presence of that wide darkness of the sea before dawn, her spirit

had felt little and timid within herso it felt now, in face of this great, brooding, beautiful creature, whom

man had made. She singled out the shapes of the Piccadilly hotels, and beyond them the palaces and towers

of Westminster and Whitehall; and everywhere the inextricable loveliness of dim blue forms and sinuous

pallid lines of light, under an indigodark sky. Near at hand, she could see plainly the stilllighted windows,

the motorcars gliding by far down, even the tiny shapes of people walking; and the thought that each of them

Drinking of this wondercup, she began to experience a queer intoxication, and lost the sense of being little;

rather she had the feeling of power, as in her dream at Monkland. She too, as well as this great thing below

her, seemed to have shed her body, to be emancipated from every barrierfloating deliciously identified with

air. She seemed to be one with the enfranchised spirit of the city, drowned in perception of its beauty. Then

all that feeling went, and left her frowning, shivering, though the wind from the West was warm. Her whole

adventure of coming up here seemed bizarre, ridiculous. Very stealthily she crept down, and had reached

once more the door into 'the picture gallery, when she heard her mother's voice say in amazement: "That you,

Of a sudden very cool, with all her faculties about her, Barbara smiled, and stood looking at Lady Valleys,

In that room resorted to for comfort, Lord Valleys was standing with his back to the hearth, and an expression

on his face that wavered between vexation and decision. The doubt in Agatha's mind whether she should tell

or no, had been terribly resolved by little Ann, who in a pause of conversation had announced: "We saw

Upset by the events of the afternoon, Lady Valleys had not shown her usual 'savoir faire'. She had told her

husband. A meeting of this sort in a shop celebrated for little save its wedding cakes was in a sense of no

importance; but, being disturbed already by the news of Miltoun, it seemed to them both nothing less than

sinister, as though the heavens were in league for the demolition of their house. To Lord Valleys it was

peculiarly mortifying, because of his real admiration for his daughter, and because he had paid so little

attention to his wife's warning of some weeks back. In consultation, however, they had only succeeded in

deciding that Lady Valleys should talk with her. Though without much spiritual insight, they had, each of

them, a certain cool judgment; and were fully alive to the danger of thwarting Barbara. This had not

prevented Lord Valleys from expressing himself strongly on the 'confounded unscrupulousness of that

fellow,' and secretly forming his own plan for dealing with this matter. Lady Valleys, more deeply conversant

with her daughter's nature, and by reason of femininity more lenient towards the other sex, had not tried to

excuse Courtier, but had thought privately: 'Babs is rather a flirt.' For she could not altogether help

Summoned thus unexpectedly, Barbara, her lips very firmly pressed together, took her stand, coolly enough,

Seeing her suddenly appear, Lord Valleys instinctively relaxed his frown; his experience of men and things,

his thousands of diplomatic hours, served to give him an air of coolness and detachment which he was very

far from feeling. In truth he would rather have faced a hostile mob than his favourite daughter in such

circumstances. His tanned face with its crisp grey moustache, his whole head indeed, took on, unconsciously,

a more than ordinarily soldierlike appearance. His eyelids drooped a little, his brows rose slightly.

She was wearing a blue wrap over her evening frock, and he seized instinctively on that indifferent trifle to

Alive to her very fingernails, with every nerve tingling, but showing no sign, Barbara answered:

It gave her a real malicious pleasure to feel the perplexity beneath her father's dignified exterior. And

Then, with that sudden resolution peculiar to him, as though he were bored with having to delay and

"Do you know, I doubt whether it's wise to make appointments in confectioner's shops when Ann is in

The dangerous little gleam in Barbara's eyes escaped his vision but not that of Lady Valleys, who said at

Barbara curled her lip. Had it not been for the scene they had been through that day with Miltoun, and for

their very real anxiety, both would have seen, then, that while their daughter was in this mood, least said was

soonest mended. But their nerves were not quite within control; and with more than a touch of impatience

"Ah!" said Lord Valleys: "I see. An explanation can be had no doubt from the gentleman whose sense of

In Barbara, thus for the first time in her life seriously reprimanded, there was at work the most peculiar

sensation she had ever felt, as if something were scraping her very skina sick, and at the same time

devilish, feeling. At that moment she could have struck her father dead. But she showed nothing, having

"My dear," broke in Lady Valleys very suddenly, "Babs will tell me. It's nothing, of course."

The repetition of this phrase in that maddening, cool voice almost broke down her father's sorely tried

"Nothing from you," he said with deadly coldness. "I shall have the honour of telling this gentleman what I

At those words Barbara drew herself together, and turned her eyes from one face to the other.

Under that gaze, which for all its cool hardness, was so furiously alive, neither Lord nor Lady Valleys could

keep quite still. It was as if she had stripped from them the wellbred mask of those whose spirits, by long

unquestioning acceptance of themselves, have become inelastic, inexpansive, commoner than they knew. In

When she had regained her room, she locked the door, threw off her cloak, and looked at herself in the glass.

With pleasure she saw how firmly her teeth were clenched, how her breast was heaving, and how her eyes

In that mood of rebellious mortification she fell asleep. And, curiously enough, dreamed not of him whom

she had in mind been so furiously defending, but of Harbinger. She fancied herself in prison, lying in a cell

fashioned like the drawingroom at Sea house; and in the next cell, into which she could somehow look,

Harbinger was digging at the wall with his nails. She could distinctly see the hair on the back of his hands,

and hear him breathing. The hole he was making grew larger and larger. Her heart began to beat furiously;

She rose with a new and malicious resolution to show no sign of rebellion, to go through the day as if nothing

had happened, to deceive them all, and then! Exactly what 'and then' meant, she did not explain even to

In accordance with this plan of action she presented an untroubled front at breakfast, went out riding with

little Ann, and shopping with her mother afterwards. Owing to this news of Miltoun the journey to Scotland

had been postponed. She parried with cool ingenuity each attempt made by Lady Valleys to draw her into

conversation on the subject of that meeting at Gustard's, nor would she talk of her brother; in every other way

she was her usual self. In the afternoon she even volunteered to accompany her mother to old Lady

Harbinger's in the neighbourhood of Prince's Gate. She knew that Harbinger would be there, and with the

thought of meeting that other at 'five o'clock,' had a cynical pleasure in thus encountering him. It was so

complete a blind to them all! Then, feeling that she was accomplishing a masterstroke; she even told him, in

her mother's hearing, that she would walk home, and he might come if he cared. He did care.

But when once she had begun to swing along in the mellow afternoon, under the mellow trees, where the air

was sweetened by the SouthWest wind, all that mutinous, reckless mood of hers vanished, she felt suddenly

happy and kind, glad to be walking with him. Today too he was cheerful, as if determined not to spoil her

gaiety; and she was grateful for this. Once or twice she even put her hand up and touched his sleeve, calling

his attention to birds or trees, friendly, and glad, after all those hours of bitter feelings, to be giving happiness.

When they parted at the door of Valleys House, she looked back at him with a queer, halfrueful smile. For,

In a little unfrequented anteroom, all white panels and polish, she sat down to wait. The entrance drive was

visible from here; and she meant to encounter Courtier casually in the hall. She was excited, and a little

scornful of her own excitement. She had expected him to be punctual, but it was already past five; and soon

she began to feel uneasy, almost ridiculous, sitting in this room where no one ever came. Going to the

Turning, she saw little Ann regarding her with those wide, frank, hazel eyes. A shiver of nerves passed

"Yes. I've never been in here before. There's somebody just come, so I must go now."

Barbara involuntarily put her hands up to her cheeks, and quickly passed with her niece into the hall. At the

very door the footman William handed her a note. She looked at the superscription. It was from Courtier. She

went back into the room. Through its halfclosed door the figure of little Ann could be seen, with her legs

rather wide apart, and her hands clasped on her lowdown belt, pointing up at William her sudden little nose.

"I happened to be sitting in the Park just now, and I want to wish you every happiness before I go. It has been

the greatest pleasure to know you. I shall never have a thought of you that will not be my pride; nor a

memory that will not help me to believe that life is good. If I am tempted to feel that things are dark, I shall

remember that you are breathing this same mortal air. And to beauty and joy' I shall take off my hat with the

greater reverence, that once I was permitted to walk and talk, with you. And so, goodbye, and God bless you.

Her cheeks burned, quick sighs escaped her lips; she read the letter again, but before getting to the end could

not see the words for mist. If in that letter there had been a word of complaint or even of regret! She could not

let him go like this, without goodbye, without any explanation at all. He should not think of her as a cold,

stony flirt, who had been merely stealing a few weeks' amusement out of him. She would explain to him at all

events that it had not been that. She would make him understand that it was not what he thoughtthat

something in her wantedwanted! Her mind was all confused. "What was it?" she thought: "What did

I do?" And sore with anger at herself, she screwed the letter up in her glove, and ran out. She walked swiftly

down to Piccadilly, and crossed into the Green Park. There she passed Lord Malvezin and a friend strolling

up towards Hyde Park Corner, and gave them a very faint bow. The composure of those two precise and

wellgroomed figures sickened her just then. She wanted to run, to fly to this meeting that should remove

from him the odious feelings he must have, that she, Barbara Caradoc, was a vulgar enchantress, a common

traitress and coquette! And his letterwithout a syllable of reproach! Her cheeks burned so, that she could

As she drew nearer to his rooms she walked slower, forcing herself to think what she should do, what she

should let him do! But she continued resolutely forward. She would not shrink nowwhatever came of it!

Her heart fluttered, seemed to stop beating, fluttered again. She set her teeth; a sort of desperate hilarity rose

in her. It was an adventure! Then she was gripped by the feeling that had come to her on the roof. The whole

thing was bizarre, ridiculous! She stopped, and drew the letter from her glove. It might be ridiculous, but it

was due from her; and closing her lips very tight, she walked on. In thought she was already standing close to

him, her eyes shut, waiting, with her heart beating wildly, to know what she would feel when his lips had

spoken, perhaps touched her face or hand. And she had a sort of mirage vision of herself, with eyelashes

resting on her cheeks, lips a little parted, arms helpless at her sides. Yet, incomprehensibly, his figure was

She rang the bell calmly, but instead of dropping her hand, pressed the little bare patch of palm left open by

The door had been opened by some unseen agency, disclosing a passage and flight of stairs covered by a red

carpet, at the foot of which lay an old, tangled, brownwhite dog full of fleas and sorrow. Unreasoning terror

seized on Barbara; her body remained rigid, but her spirit began flying back across the Green Park, to the

very hall of Valleys House. Then she saw coming towards her a youngish woman in a blue apron, with mild,

"Yes, miss." The teeth of the young woman were few in number and rather black; and Barbara could only

stand there saying nothing, as if her body had been deserted between the sunlight and this dim red passage,

Barbara felt a movement in her heart, like the twang and quiver of an elastic band, suddenly relaxed. She bent

"And, of course, I can't give you his address, because he's gone to foreign parts."

With a murmur, of whose sense she knew nothing, Barbara hurried out into the sunshine. Was she glad? Was

she sorry? At the corner of the street she turned and looked back; the two heads, of the woman and the dog,

A horrible inclination to laugh seized her, followed by as horrible a desire to cry.

By the river the West wind, whose murmuring had visited Courtier and Miltoun the night before, was

bringing up the first sky of autumn. Slowcreeping and fleecy grey, the clouds seemed trying to overpower a

sun that shone but fitfully even thus early in the day. While Audrey Noel was dressing sunbeams danced

desperately on the white wall, like little lost souls with no tomorrow, or gnats that wheel and wheel in brief

joy, leaving no footmarks on the air. Through the chinks of a side window covered by a dark blind some

smoky filaments of light were tethered to the back of her mirror. Compounded of trembling grey spirals, so

thick to the eye that her hand felt astonishment when it failed to grasp them, and so jealous as ghosts of the

space they occupied, they brought a moment's distraction to a heart not happy. For how could she be happy,

her lover away from her now thirty hours, without having overcome with his last kisses the feeling of disaster

which had settled on her when he told her of his resolve. Her eyes had seen deeper than his; her instinct had

To be the draggerdown, the destroyer of his usefulness; to be not the helpmate, but the clog; not the

inspiring sky, but the cloud! And because of a scruple which she could not understand! She had no anger with

that unintelligible scruple; but her fatalism, and her sympathy had followed it out into his future. Things

being so, it could not be long before he felt that her love was maiming him; even if he went on desiring her, it

would be only with his body. And if, for this scruple, he were capable of giving up his public life, he would

be capable of living on with her after his love was dead! This thought she could not bear. It stung to the very

marrow of her nerves. And yet surely Life could not be so cruel as to have given her such happiness meaning

to take it from her! Surely her love was not to be only one summer's day; his love but an embrace, and then

This morning, fortified by despair, she admitted her own beauty. He would, he must want her more than that

other life, at the very thought of which her face darkened. That other life so hard, and far from her! So

loveless, formal, and yetto him so real, so desperately, accursedly real! If he must indeed give up his

career, then surely the life they could live together would make up to him a life among simple and sweet

things, all over the world, with music and pictures, and the flowers and all Nature, and friends who sought

them for themselves, and in being kind to everyone, and helping the poor and the unfortunate, and loving

each other! But he did not want that sort of life! What was the good of pretending that he did? It was right

and natural he should want, to use his powers! To lead and serve! She would not have him otherwise: With

these thoughts hovering and darting within her, she went on twisting and coiling her dark hair, and burying

her heart beneath its lace defences. She noted too, with her usual care, two fading blossoms in the bowl of

flowers on her dressingtable, and, removing their, emptied out the water and refilled the bowl.

Before she left her bedroom the sunbeams had already ceased to dance, the grey filaments of light were gone.

Autumn sky had come into its own. Passing the mirror in the hall which was always rough with her, she had

not courage to glance at it. Then suddenly a woman's belief in the power of her charm came to her aid; she

felt almost happy surely he must love her better than his conscience! But that confidence was very

tremulous, ready to yield to the first rebuff. Even the friendly freshcheeked maid seemed that morning to

be regarding her with compassion; and all the innate sense, not of 'good form,' but of form, which made her

shrink from anything that should disturb or hurt another, or make anyone think she was to be pitied, rose up

at once within her; she became more than ever careful to show nothing even to herself. So she passed the

morning, mechanically doing the little usual things. An overpowering longing was with her all the time, to

get him away with her from England, and see whether the thousand beauties she could show him would not

fire him with love of the things she loved. As a girl she had spent nearly three years abroad. And Eustace had

never been to Italy, nor to her beloved mountain valleys! Then, the remembrance of his rooms at the Temple

broke in on that vision, and shattered it. No Titian's feast of gentian, tawny brown, and alpenrose could

intoxicate the lover of those books, those papers, that great map. And the scent of leather came to her now as

poignantly as if she were once more flitting about noiselessly on her business of nursing. Then there rushed

through her again the warm wonderful sense that had been with her all those precious daysof love that

knew secretly of its approaching triumph and fulfilment; the delicious sense of giving every minute of her

time, every thought, and movement; and all the sweet unconscious waiting for the divine, irrevocable

moment when at last she would give herself and be his. The remembrance too of how tired, how sacredly

tired she had been, and of how she had smiled all the time with her inner joy of being tired for him.

The sound of the bell startled her. His telegram had said, the afternoon! She determined to show nothing of

the trouble darkening the whole world for her, and drew a deep breath, waiting for his kiss.

The shock sent the blood buzzing into her temples. Then she noticed that the little figure before her was also

The tone of that old voice, thanking her, brought back sharply the memory of her garden, at Monkland,

bathed in the sweetness and shimmer of summer, and of Barbara standing at her gate towering above this

little figure, which now sat there so silent, with very white face. Those carved features, those keen, yet veiled

"We have heard of his decision. I will not beat about the bush with you. It is a disaster for me a calamity. I

have known and loved him since he was born, and I have been foolish enough to dream, dreams about him. I

wondered perhaps whether you knew how much we counted on him. You must forgive an old woman's

coming here like this. At my age there are few things that matter, but they matter very much."

And Audrey thought: "And at my age there is but one thing that matters, and that matters worse than death."

But she did not speak. To whom, to what should she speak? To this hard old woman, who personified the

"I can say to you," went on the voice of the little figure, that seemed so to fill the room with its grey presence,

A quiver passed up from the heart so praised to the still lips. No, she was not hardhearted! She could even

"Eustace cannot live without his career. His career is himself, he must be doing, and leading, and spending

his powers. What he has given you is not his true self. I don't want to hurt you, but the truth is the truth, and

To respect sorrow! Yes, this grey visitor could do that, as the wind passing over the sea respects its surface,

as the air respects the surface of a rose, but to penetrate to the heart, to understand her sorrow, that old age

could not do for youth! As well try to track out the secret of the twistings in the flight of those swallows out

there above the river, or to follow to its source the faint scent of the lilies in that bowl! How should she know

what was passing in herethis little old woman whose blood was cold? And Audrey had the sensation of

watching someone pelt her with the rind and husks of what her own spirit had long devoured. She had a

longing to get up, and take the hand, the chill, spidery hand of age, and thrust it into her breast, and say: "Feel

But, withal, she never lost her queer dull compassion for the owner of that white carved face. It was not her

"It is early days. If you do not end it now, at once, it will only come harder on you presently. You know how

determined he is. He will not change his mind. If you cut him off from his work in life, it will but recoil on

you. I can only expect your hatred, for talking like this, but believe me, it's for your good, as well as his, in

A tumultuous heartbeating of ironical rage seized on the listener to that speech. Her good! The good of a

corse that the breath is just abandoning; the good of a flower beneath a heel; the good of an old dog whose

master leaves it for the last time! Slowly a weight like lead stopped all that fluttering of her heart. If she did

not end it at once! The words had now been spoken that for so many hours, she knew, had lain unspoken

within her own breast. Yes, if she did not, she could never know a moment's peace, feeling that she was

forcing him to a death in life, desecrating her own love and pride! And the spur had been given by another!

The thought that someonethis hard old woman of the hard worldshould have shaped in words the

hauntings of her love and pride through all those ages since Miltoun spoke to her of his resolve; that someone

else should have had to tell her what her heart had so long known it must dothis stabbed her like a knife!

With a sort of pleasure she saw a look of bewilderment cover that old face; with a sort of pleasure she marked

the trembling of the hands raising their owner from the chair; and heard the stammering in the voice: "You

are going? Beforebefore he comes? Youyou won't be seeing him again?" With a sort of pleasure she

marked the hesitation, which did not know whether to thank, or bless, or just say nothing and creep away.

With a sort of pleasure she watched the flush mount in the faded cheeks, the faded lips pressed together.

Then, at the scarcely whispered words: "Thank you, my dear!" she turned, unable to bear further sight or

sound. She went to the window and pressed her forehead against the glass, trying to think of nothing. She

heard the sound of wheelsLady Casterley had gone. And then, of all the awful feelings man or woman can

At this most bitter and deserted moment of her life, she felt strangely calm, foreseeing clearly, exactly; what

she must do, and where go. Quickly it must be done, or it would never be done! Quickly! And without fuss!

She put some things together, sent the maid out for a cab, and sat down to write.

She must do and say nothing that could excite him, and bring back his illness. Let it all be sober, reasonable!

It would be easy to let him know where she was going, to write a letter that would bring him flying after her.

But to write the calm, reasonable words that would keep him waiting and thinking, till he never again came to

When she had finished and sealed the letter, she sat motionless with a numb feeling in hands and brain, trying

Her trunks had been taken down already. She chose the little hat that he liked her best in, and over it fastened

her thickest veil. Then, putting on her travelling coat and gloves, she looked in the long mirror, and seeing

that there was nothing more to keep her, lifted her dressing bag, and went down.

Over on the embankment a child was crying; and the passionate screaming sound, broken by the gulping of

tears, made her cover her lips, as though she had heard her own escaped soul wailing out there.

Only when she was alone in the train, secure from all eyes, did she give way to desperate weeping. The white

smoke rolling past the windows was not more evanescent than her joy had been. For she had no illusionsit

was over! From first to lastnot quite a year! But even at this moment, not for all the world would she have

been without her love, gone to its grave, like a dead child that evermore would be touching her breast with its

Barbara returning from her visit to Courtier's deserted rooms, was met at Valleys House with the message:

When, in obedience, she reached Ravensham, she found her grandmother and LordDennis in the white

room. They were standing by one of the tall windows, apparently contemplating the view. They turned indeed

at sound of Barbara's approach, but neither of them spoke or nodded. Not having seen her grandfather since

before Miltoun's illness, Barbara found it strange to be so treated; she too took her stand silently before the

window. A very large wasp was crawling up the pane, then slipping down with a faint buzz.

Lady Casterley bent down; when she raised herself she had a slipper in her hand.

"Don't irritate him!" cried Barbara, catching her wrist. But Lady Casterley freed her hand.

"I will," she said, and brought the sole of the slipper down on the insect, so that it dropped on the floor, dead.

And, as if that little incident had happened to three other people, they again stood silently looking through the

"Yes, yes; she is your favourite, but that won't save her. This womanto her great creditI say to her great

credithas gone away, so as to put herself out of Eustace's reach, until he has recovered his senses."

"Ah!" she said: "Exactly. But, curiously enough, I am thinking of Eustace." Her little figure was quivering

"The world," went on Lady Casterley, "is a place of facts, not of romantic fancies. You have done more harm

than can possibly be repaired. I went to her myself. I was very much moved.' If it hadn't been for your foolish

Lady Casterley paused, tapping the floor with her little foot. Barbara's eyes were gleaming.

"Babs!" murmured Lord Dennis; but, unconsciously pressing his hand against her heart, the girl went on.

At these dark words Lady Casterley turned away, her shoes leaving little dull stains on the polished floor.

Barbara raised to her cheek the fingers which she had been so convulsively embracing. "Don't let her go on,

"It has been your sentimental folly," came Lady Casterley's voice from a far corner, "which has brought this

Responding to the pressure of the hand, back now at her waist, Barbara did not answer; and the sound of the

little feet retracing their steps rose in the stillness. Neither of those two at the window turned their heads;

"Oh! Granny, for Heaven's sake, stand still; haven't you squashed the hornet enough, even if he did come in

"Disgusting!" she said; but when she next spoke it was in a less hard, more querulous voice.

For a moment Lady Casterley looked almost as if she might strike her granddaughter; then a little sardonic

"To let you and your mother know of this woman's most unselfish behaviour; to put you on the 'qui vive' for

what Eustace may do now; to give you a chance to make up for your folly. Moreover to warn you

She had withdrawn against the wall, tall, and as it were, formidable, with her head up. Lady Casterley

He had come in quietly and quickly, preceding the announcement, and stood almost touching that little group

at the window before they caught sight of him. His face had the rather ghastly look of sunburnt faces from

which emotion has driven the blood; and his eyes, always so much the most living part of him, were full of

Visibly, for perhaps the first time in her life, that indomitable little figure flinched. Lord Dennis drew Barbara

The two voices, low, and so far off in the long white room, were uncannily distinct, emotion charging each

word with preternatural power of penetration; and every movement of the speakers had to the girl's excited

eyes a weird precision, as of little figures she had once seen at a Paris puppet show. She could hear Miltoun

reproaching his grandmother in words terribly dry and bitter. She edged nearer and nearer, till, seeing that

they paid no more heed to her than if she were an attendant statue, she had regained her position by the

"I was not going to see you ruined before my eyes, Eustace. I did what I did at very great cost. I did my best

Barbara saw Miltoun's face transfigured by a dreadful smilethe smile of one defying his torturer with hate.

"Yes, you stand there looking like a devil. Hate me if you likebut don't betray us, moaning and moping

because you can't have the moon. Put on your armour, and go down into the battle. Don't play the coward,

And weirdly, there was silence. It was not the brutality of the words, but the sight of force suddenly naked of

all disguiselike a fierce dog let for a moment off its chainwhich made Barbara utter a little dismayed

sound. Lady Casterley had dropped into a chair, trembling. And without a look Miltoun passed her. If their

grandmother had fallen dead, Barbara knew he would not have stopped to see. She ran forward, but the old

She caught her brother as he was entering the taxicab in which he had come, and without a word slipped in

beside him. The driver's face appeared at the window, but Miltoun only motioned with his head, as if to say:

"To Nettlefold, in Sussexnever mind your petrolget more on the road. You can have what fare you like.

The clock over the stables was chiming seven when Miltoun and Barbara passed out of the tall iron gates, in

their swiftmoving small world, that smelled faintly of petrol. Though the cab was closed, light spurts of rain

drifted in through the open windows, refreshing the girl's hot face, relieving a little her dread of this drive.

For, now that Fate had been really cruel, now that it no longer lay in Miltoun's hands to save himself from

suffering, her heart bled for him; and she remembered to forget herself. The immobility with which he had

received her intrusion, was ominous. And though silent in her corner, she was desperately working all her

woman's wits to discover a way of breaking into the house of his secret mood. He appeared not even to have

noticed that they had turned their backs on London, and passed into Richmond Park.

Here the trees, made dark by rain, seemed to watch gloomily the progress of this whirringwheeled red box,

unreconciled even yet to such harsh intruders on their windscented tranquillity. And the deer, pursuing

happiness on the sweet grasses, raised disquieted noses, as who should say: Poisoners of the fern, defilers of

Barbara vaguely felt the serenity out there in the clouds, and the trees, and wind. If it would but creep into

this dim, travelling prison, and help her; if it would but come, like sleep, and steal away dark sorrow, and in

one moment make griefjoy. But it stayed outside on its wistful wings; and that grand chasm which yawns

between soul and soul remained unbridged. For what could she say? How make him speak of what he was

going to do? What alternatives indeed were now before him? Would he sullenly resign his seat, and wait till

he could find Audrey Noel again? But even if he did find her, they would only be where they were. She had

gone, in order not to be a drag on himit would only be the same thing all over again! Would he then, as

Granny had urged him, put on his armour, and go down into the fight? But that indeed would mean the end,

for if she had had the strength to go away now, she would surely never come back and break in on his life a

second time. And a grim thought swooped down on Barbara. What if he resigned everything! Went out into

the dark! Men did sometimesshe knewcaught like this in the full flush of passion. But surely not

Miltoun, with his faith! 'If the lark's song means nothingif that sky is a morass of our invention if we are

pettily creeping on, furthering nothingpersuade me of it, Babs, and I'll bless you.' But had he still that

anchorage, to prevent him slipping out to sea? This sudden thought of death to one for whom life was joy,

who had never even seen the Great Stillness, was very terrifying. She fixed her eyes on the back of the

chauffeur, in his drab coat with the red collar, finding some comfort in its solidity. They were in a taxicab,

in Richmond Park! Death incongruous, incredible death! It was stupid to be frightened! She forced herself

to look at Miltoun. He seemed to be asleep; his eyes were closed, his arms foldedonly a quivering of his

eyelids betrayed him. Impossible to tell what was going on in that grim waking sleep, which made her feel

Horribly startled by this reading of her thoughts, Barbara could only edge away and stammer:

Terrified lest he should relapse into that grim silence, she timidly possessed herself of his hand.

It was fast growing dark; the cab, having left the villas of Surbiton behind, was flying along at great speed

Miltoun said presently, in a queer, slow voice "If I want, I have only to open that door and jump. You who

believe that 'tomorrow we die'give me the faith to feel that I can free myself by that jump, and out I go!"

Then, seeming to pity her terrified squeeze of his hand, he added: "It's all right, Babs; we, shall sleep

"Let us be skinned quietly," muttered Miltoun, "if nothing else. Sorry to have disturbed you."

The cab, moving at unaccustomed speed along these deserted roads, moaned dismally; and Barbara was

possessed now by a desire which she dared not put in practice, to pull his head down, and rock it against her.

Her heart felt empty, and timid; to have something warm resting on it would have made all the difference.

Everything real, substantial, comforting, seemed to have slipped away. Among these flying dark ghosts of

pinetreesas it were the unfrequented borderland between two worldsthe feeling of a cheek against her

breast alone could help muffle the deep disquiet in her, lost like a child in a wood.

The cab slackened speed, the driver was lighting his lamps; and his red face appeared at the window.

"We'll 'ave to stop here, miss; I'm out of petrol. Will you get some dinner, or go through?"

While they were passing the little their, buying then petrol, asking the way, she felt less miserable, and even

looked about her with a sort of eagerness. Then when they had started again, she thought: If I could get him

to sleepthe sea will comfort him! But his eyes were staring, wideopen. She feigned sleep herself; letting

her head slip a little to one side, causing small sounds of breathing to escape. The whirring of the wheels, the

moaning of the cab joints, the dark trees slipping by, the scent of the wet fern drifting in, all these must surely

help! And presently she felt that he was indeed slipping into darknessand thenshe felt nothing.

When she awoke from the sleep into which she had seen Miltoun fall, the cab was slowly mounting a steep

hill, above which the moon had risen. The air smelled strong and sweet, as though it had passed over leagues

In sudden terror, she looked round for Miltoun. But he was still there, exactly as before, leaning back rigid in

his corner of the cab, with staring eyes, and no other signs of life. And still only half awake, like a great warm

sleepy child startled out of too deep slumber, she clutched, and clung to him. The thought that he had been

sitting like that, with his spirit far away, all the time that she had been betraying her watch in sleep, was

dreadful. But to her embrace there was no response, and awake indeed now, ashamed, sore, Barbara released

Out there, two thin, denseblack, long clouds, shaped like the wings of a hawk, had joined themselves

together, so that nothing of the moon showed but a living brightness imprisoned, like the eyes and life of a

bird, between those swift sweeps of darkness. This great uncanny spirit, brooding malevolent over the high

leagues of moonwan grass, seemed waiting to swoop, and pluck up in its talons, and devour, all that

intruded on the wild loneness of these farup plains of freedom. Barbara almost expected to hear coming

from it the lost whistle of the buzzard hawks. And her dream came back to her. Where were her wingsthe

wings that in sleep had borne her to the stars; the wings that would never lift herwakingfrom the

ground? Where too were Miltoun's wings? She crouched back into her corner; a tear stole up and trickled out

between her closed lidsanother and another followed. Faster and faster they came. Then she felt Miltoun's

arm round her, and heard him say: "Don't cry, Babs!" Instinct telling her what to do, she laid her head against

his chest, and sobbed bitterly. Struggling with those sobs, she grew less and less unhappyknowing that he

could never again feel quite so desolate, as before he tried to give her comfort. It was all a bad dream, and

they would soon wake from it! And they would be happy; as happy as they had been beforebefore these

Old Lady Harbinger dying in the early February of the following year, the marriage of Barbara with her son

Much of the wild sweetness of Spring still clung to the high moor borders of Monkland on the early morning

Barbara was already up and dressed for riding when her maid came to call her; and noting Stacey's astonished

Refusing the company of a groom, she made her way towards the stretch of high moor where she had ridden

with Courtier a year ago. Here over the short, as yet unflowering, heather, there was a mile or more of level

galloping ground. She mounted steadily, and her spirit rode, as it were, before her, longing to get up there

among the peewits and curlew, to feel the crisp, peaty earth slip away under her, and the wind drive in her

face, under that deep blue sky. Carried by this warmblooded sweetheart of hers, ready to jump out of his

smooth hide with pleasure, snuffling and sneezing in sheer joy, whose eye she could see straying round to

catch a glimpse of her intentions, from whose lips she could hear issuing the sweet bitt music, whose

vagaries even seemed designed to startle from her a closer embracingshe was filled with a sort of delicious

Reaching the top, she put him into a gallop. With the wind furiously assailing her face and throat, every

She reined in at the cairn whence she and Courtier had looked down at the herds of ponies. It was the merest

memory now, vague and a little sweet, like the remembrance of some exceptional Spring day, when trees

seem to flower before your eyes, and in sheer wantonness exhale a scent of lemons. The ponies were there

still, and in distance the shining sea. She sat thinking of nothing, but how good it was to be alive. The fullness

and sweetness of it all, the freedom and strength! Away to the West over a lonely farm she could see two

buzzard hawks hunting in wide circles. She did not envy themso happy was she, as happy as the morning.

And there came to her suddenly the true, the overmastering longing of mountain tops.

Slipping off her horse she lay down on her back, and at once everything was lost except the sky. Over her

body, supported above solid earth by the warm, soft heather, the wind skimmed without sound or touch. Her

spirit became one with that calm unimaginable freedom. Transported beyond her own contentment, she no

The horse Hal, attempting to eat her sleeve, aroused her. She mounted him, and rode down. Near home she

took a short cut across a meadow, through which flowed two thin bright streams, forming a delta full of

lingering 'milkmaids,' mauve marsh orchis, and yellow flags. >From end to end of this long meadow, so

varied, so pied with trees and stones, and flowers, and water, the last of the Spring was passing.

Some ponies, shyly curious of Barbara and her horse, stole up, and stood at a safe distance, with their noses

dubiously stretched out, swishing their lean tails. And suddenly, far up, following their own music, two

cuckoos flew across, seeking the thorntrees out on the moor. While she was watching the arrowy birds, she

caught sight of someone coming towards her from a clump of beechtrees, and suddenly saw that it was Mrs.

She rode forward, flushing. What dared she say? Could she speak of her wedding, and betray Miltoun's

presence? Could she open her mouth at all without rousing painful feeling of some sort? Then, impatient of

"I only came back to England yesterday, and I'm just here to see to the packing of my things."

"I'm so glad to have seen you," she murmured once more; "I expect I ought to be getting on," and with the

But her mood of delight was gone; even the horse Hal seemed to tread unevenly, for all that he was going

back to that stable which ever appeared to him desirable ten minutes after he had left it.

Except that her eyes seemed darker, Mrs. Noel had not changed. If she had shown the faintest sign of

Leaving the stables, she saw that the wind was driving up a huge, white, shining cloud. "Isn't it going to be

Reentering the house by an old and socalled secret stairway that led straight to the library, she had to

traverse that great dark room. There, buried in an armchair in front of the hearth she saw Miltoun with a book

on his knee, not reading, but looking up at the picture of the old Cardinal. She hurried on, tiptoeing over the.

soft carpet, holding her breath, fearful of disturbing the queer interview, feeling guilty, too, of her new

knowledge, which she did not mean to impart. She had burnt her fingers once at the flame between them; she

Through the window at the far end she saw that the cloud had burst; it was raining furiously. She regained her

bedroom unseen. In spite of her joy out there on the moor, this last adventure of her girlhood had not been all

success; she had again the old sensations, the old doubts, the dissatisfaction which she had thought dead.

Those two! To shut one's eyes, and be happywas it possible! A great rainbow, the nearest she had ever

seen, had sprung up in the park, and was come to earth again in some fields close by. The sun was shining out

already through the winddriven bright rain. Jewels of blue had begun to star the black and white and golden

clouds. A strange white lightghost of Spring passing in this last violent outburstpainted the leaves of every

tree; and a hundred savage hues had come down like a motley of bright birds on moor and fields.

The moment of desperate beauty caught Barbara by the throat. Its spirit of galloping wildness flew straight

into her heart. She clasped her hands across her breast to try and keep that moment. Far out, a cuckoo

hootedand the immortal call passed on the wind. In that call all the beauty, and colour, and rapture of life

seemed to be flying by. If she could only seize and evermore have it in her heart, as the buttercups out there

imprisoned the sun, or the fallen raindrops on the sweetbriars round the windows enclosed all changing light!

Her clock struck ten. At this time tomorrow! Her cheeks turned hot; in a mirror she could see them burning,

her lips scornfully curved, her eyes strange. Standing there, she looked long at herself, till, little by little, her

face lost every vestige of that disturbance, became solid and resolute again. She ceased to have the galloping

wild feeling in her heart, and instead felt cold. Detached from herself she watched, with contentment, her own

After dinner that night, when the men left the dininghall, Miltoun slipped away to his den. Of all those

present in the little church he had seemed most unemotional, and had been most moved. Though it had been

so quiet and private a wedding, he had resented all cheap festivity accompanying the passing of his young

sister. He would have had that ceremony in the little dark disused chapel at the Court; those two, and the

priest alone. Here, in this halfpagan little country church smothered hastily in flowers, with the raw singing

of the halfpagan choir, and all the village curiosity and homageeverything had jarred, and the stale

aftermath sickened him. Changing his swallowtail to an old smoking jacket, he went out on to the lawn. In

Since the day of his election he had not once been at Monkland; since Mrs. Noel's flight he had never left

London. In London and work he had buried himself; by London and work he had saved himself! He had gone

Dew had not yet fallen, and he took the path across the fields. There was no moon, no stars, no wind; the

cattle were noiseless under the trees; there were no owls calling, no nightjars churring, the flybynight

chafers were not abroad. The stream alone was alive in the quiet darkness. And as Miltoun followed the

wispy line of grey path cleaving the dim glamour of daisies and buttercups, there came to him the feeling that

he was in the presence, not of sleep, but of eternal waiting. The sound of his footfalls seemed desecration. So

devotional was that hush, burning the spicy incense of millions of leaves and blades of grass.

Crossing the last stile he came out, close to her deserted cottage, under her limetree, which on the night of

Courtier's adventure had hung blueblack round the moon. On that side, only a rail, and a few shrubs

The house was all dark, but the many tall white flowers, like a bright vapour rising from earth, clung to the

>From the silent boughs which drooped round his dark figure, a little sleepy bird uttered a faint cheep; a

hedgehog, or some small beast of night, rustled away in the grass close by; a moth flew past, seeking its

candle flame. And something in Miltoun's heart took wings after it, searching for the warmth and light of his

blown candle of love. Then, in the hush he heard a sound as of a branch ceaselessly trailed through long

grass, fainter and fainter, more and more distinct; again fainter; but nothing could he see that should make

that homeless sound. And the sense of some near but unseen presence crept on him, till the hair moved on his

scalp. If God would light the moon or stars, and let him see! If God would end the expectation of this night,

let one wan glimmer down into her garden, and one wan glimmer into his breast! But it stayed dark, and the

homeless noise never ceased. The weird thought came to Miltoun that it was made by his own heart,

wandering out there, trying to feel warm again. He closed his eyes and at once knew that it was not his heart,

but indeed some external presence, unconsoled. And stretching his hands out he moved forward to arrest that

sound. As he reached the railing, it ceased. And he saw a flame leap up, a pale broad pathway of light

And, realizing that she was there, within, he gasped. His finger nails bent and broke against the iron railing

without his knowing. It was not as on that night when the red flowers on her windowsill had wafted their

scent to him; it was no sheer overpowering rush of passion. Profounder, more terrible, was this rising up

within him of yearning for loveas if, now defeated, it would nevermore stir, but lie dead on that dark grass

beneath those dark boughs. And if victoriouswhat then? He stole back under the tree.

He could see little white moths travelling down that path of lamplight; he could see the white flowers quite

plainly now, a pale watch of blossoms guarding the dark sleepy ones; and he stood, not reasoning, hardly any

longer feeling; stunned, battered by struggle. His face and hands were sticky with the honeydew, slowly,

invisibly distilling from the limetree. He bent down and felt the grass. And suddenly there came over him

the certainty of her presence. Yes, she was thereout on the verandah! He could see her white figure from

head to foot; and, not realizing that she could not see him, he expected her to utter some cry. But no sound

came from her, no gesture; she turned back into the house. Miltoun ran forward to the railing. But there, once

more, he stoppedunable to think, unable to feel; as it were abandoned by himself. And he suddenly found

his hand up at his mouth, as though there were blood there to be staunched that had escaped from his heart.

Still holding that hand before his mouth, and smothering the sound of his feet in the long grass, he crept

In the great glass house at Ravensham, Lady Casterley stood close to some Japanese lilies, with a letter in her

hand. Her face was very white, for it was the first day she had been allowed down after an attack of influenza;

"Just a line, dear, before the post goes, to tell you that Babs has gone off happily. The child looked beautiful.

She sent you her love, and some absurd messagethat you would be glad to hear, she was perfectly safe,

A grim little smile played on Lady Casterley's pale lips: Yes, indeed, and time too! The child had been very

near the edge of the cliffs! Very near committing a piece of romantic folly! That was well over! And raising

"We were all down for it, of course, and come back tomorrow. Geoffrey is quite cut up. Things can't be what

they were without our Babs. I've watched Eustace very carefully, and I really believe he's safely over that

affair at last. He is doing extraordinarily well in the House just now. Geoffrey says his speech on the Poor

Lady Casterley let fall the hand which held the letter. Safe? Yes, he was safe! He had done the rightthe

natural thing! And in time he would be happy! He would rise now to that pinnacle of desired authority which

she had dreamed of for him, ever since he was a tiny thing, ever since his little thin brown hand had clasped

hers in their wanderings amongst the flowers, and the furniture of tall rooms. But, as she stoodcrumpling

the letter, greywhite as some small resolute ghost, among her tall lilies that filled with their scent the great

glass houseshadows flitted across her face. Was it the fugitive noon sunshine? Or was it some glimmering

perception of the old Greek saying'Character is Fate;' some sudden sense of the universal truth that all are

in bond to their own natures, and what a man has most desired shall in the end enslave him?