The Man ...............................................................................................................................................................1

Bram Stoker.............................................................................................................................................1

FOREGLIMPSE ....................................................................................................................................2

CHAPTER ISTEPHEN .......................................................................................................................5

CHAPTER IITHE HEART OF A CHILD ..........................................................................................9

CHAPTER IIIHAROLD...................................................................................................................11

CHAPTER IVHAROLD AT NORMANSTAND............................................................................13

CHAPTER VTHE CRYPT...............................................................................................................16

CHAPTER VIA VISIT TO OXFORD ..............................................................................................21

CHAPTER VIITHE NEED OF KNOWING....................................................................................23

CHAPTER VIIITHE TCART .........................................................................................................29

CHAPTER IXIN THE SPRING.......................................................................................................33

CHAPTER XTHE RESOLVE..........................................................................................................35

CHAPTER XITHE MEETING .........................................................................................................38

CHAPTER XIION THE ROAD HOME ...........................................................................................45

CHAPTER XIIIHAROLD'S RESOLVE..........................................................................................50

CHAPTER XIVTHE BEECH GROVE ............................................................................................55

CHAPTER XVTHE END OF THE MEETING...............................................................................59

CHAPTER XVIA PRIVATE CONVERSATION ............................................................................64

CHAPTER XVIIA BUSINESS TRANSACTION...........................................................................69

CHAPTER XVIIIMORE BUSINESS ...............................................................................................73

CHAPTER XIXA LETTER ..............................................................................................................77

CHAPTER XXCONFIDENCES......................................................................................................81

CHAPTER XXITHE DUTY OF COURTESY .................................................................................85

CHAPTER XXIIFIXING THE BOUNDS ........................................................................................89

CHAPTER XXIIITHE MAN ............................................................................................................94

CHAPTER XXIVFROM THE DEEPS............................................................................................98

CHAPTER XXVA LITTLE CHILD SHALL LEAD .....................................................................100

CHAPTER XXVIA NOBLE OFFER.............................................................................................102

CHAPTER XXVIIAGE'S WISDOM ..............................................................................................106

CHAPTER XXVIIIDE LANNOY ..................................................................................................109

CHAPTER XXIXTHE SILVER LADY .........................................................................................112

CHAPTER XXXTHE LESSON OF THE WILDERNESS............................................................117

CHAPTER XXXITHE LIFELINE...............................................................................................119

CHAPTER XXXII'TO BE GOD AND ABLE TO DO THINGS'..................................................124

CHAPTER XXXIIITHE QUEEN'S ROOM ...................................................................................129

CHAPTER XXXIVWAITING.......................................................................................................136

CHAPTER XXXVA CRY..............................................................................................................141

CHAPTER XXXVILIGHT .............................................................................................................147

CHAPTER XXXVIIGOLDEN SILENCE ......................................................................................152

The voice of the speaker sounded clearly through the hawthorn tree. The young man and the young girl who

sat together on the low tombstone looked at each other. They had heard the voices of the two children talking,

but had not noticed what they said; it was the sentiment, not the sound, which roused their attention.

The girl put her finger to her lips to impress silence, and the man nodded; they sat as still as mice whilst the

The scene would have gladdened a painter's heart. An old churchyard. The church low and squaretowered,

with long mullioned windows, the yellowgrey stone roughened by age and tenderhued with lichens. Round

it clustered many tombstones tilted in all directions. Behind the church a line of gnarled and twisted yews.

The churchyard was full of fine trees. On one side a magnificent cedar; on the other a great copper beech.

Here and there among the tombs and headstones many beautiful blossoming trees rose from the long green

grass. The laburnum glowed in the June afternoon sunlight; the lilac, the hawthorn and the clustering

meadowsweet which fringed the edge of the lazy stream mingled their heavy sweetness in sleepy fragrance.

The yellowgrey crumbling walls were green in places with wrinkled hartstongues, and were topped with

sweetwilliams and spreading houseleek and stonecrop and wild flowers whose delicious sweetness

But amid all that mass of glowing colour the two young figures seated on the grey old tomb stood out

conspicuously. The man was in conventional huntingdress: red coat, white stock, black hat, white breeches,

and topboots. The girl was one of the richest, most glowing, and yet withal daintiest figures the eye of man

could linger on. She was in ridinghabit of hunting scarlet cloth; her black hat was tipped forward by

piledup masses redgolden hair. Round her neck was a white lawn scarf in the fashion of a man's

huntingstock, close fitting, and sinking into a goldbuttoned waistcoat of snowy twill. As she sat with the

long skirt across her left arm her tiny black topboots appeared underneath. Her gauntleted gloves were of

white buckskin; her ridingwhip was plaited of white leather, topped with ivory and banded with gold.

Even in her fourteenth year Miss Stephen Norman gave promise of striking beauty; beauty of a rarely

composite character. In her the various elements of her race seemed to have cropped out. The firm set jaw,

with chin broader and more square than is usual in a woman, and the wide fine forehead and aquiline nose

marked the high descent from Saxon through Norman. The glorious mass of red hair, of the true flame colour,

showed the blood of another ancient ancestor of Northern race, and suited well with the voluptuous curves of

the full, crimson lips. The purpleblack eyes, the raven eyebrows and eyelashes, and the fine curve of the

nostrils spoke of the Eastern blood of the farback wife of the Crusader. Already she was tall for her age,

with something of that lankiness which marks the early development of a really fine figure. Longlegged,

longnecked, as straight as a lance, with head poised on the proud neck like a lily on its stem.

Stephen Norman certainly gave promise of a splendid womanhood. Pride, selfreliance and dominance were

Her companion, Harold An Wolf, was some five years her senior, and by means of those five years and

certain qualities had long stood in the position of her mentor. He was more than six feet two in height,

deepchested, broadshouldered, leanflanked, longarmed and big handed. He had that appearance

strength, with wellpoised neck and forward set of the head, which marks the successful athlete.

The two sat quiet, listening. Through the quiet hum of afternoon came the voices of the two children. Outside

the lichgate, under the shade of the spreading cedar, the horses stamped occasionally as the flies troubled

them. The grooms were mounted; one held the delicatelimbed white Arab, the other the great black horse.

The little girl who made the remark was an ideal specimen of the village Sundayschool child. Blueeyed,

rosycheeked, thicklegged, with her straight brown hair tied into a hard bunch with a much creased,

cherrycoloured ribbon. A glance at the girl would have satisfied the most sceptical as to her goodness.

Without being in any way smug she was radiant with selfsatisfaction and welldoing. A child of the people;

an early riser; a help to her mother; a good angel to her father; a little mother to her brothers and sisters;

The other little girl was prettier, but of a more stubborn type; more passionate, less organised, and infinitely

more assertive. Black haired, blackeyed, swarthy, largemouthed, snubnosed; the very type and essence

of unrestrained, impulsive, emotional, sensual nature. A seeing eye would have noted inevitable danger for

the early years of her womanhood. She seemed amazed by the selfabnegation implied by her companion's

'I wouldn't! I'd rather be up at the top of everything and give orders to the angels if I chose. I can't think,

'That's just it, Susan. I don't want to give orders; I'd rather obey them. It must be very terrible to have to think

of things so much, that you want everything done your own way. And besides, I shouldn't like to have to be

'Oh Susan. Just fancy having to punish; for of course justice needs punishing as well as praising. Now an

angel has such a nice time, helping people and comforting them, and bringing sunshine into dark places.

Putting down fresh dew every morning; making the flowers grow, and bringing babies and taking care of

them till their mothers find them. Of course God is very good and very sweet and very merciful, but oh, He

Then the children moved off out of earshot. The two seated on the tombstone looked after them. The first to

'That's very sweet and good of Marjorie; but do you know, Harold, I like Susie's idea better.'

'Why, didn't you notice what she said: "I'd like to be God and be able to do things"?'

'Yes,' he said after a moment's reflection. 'That's a fine idea in the abstract; but I doubt of its happiness in the

'Doubt of its happiness? Come now? what could there be better, after all? Isn't it good enough to be God?

The girl's tone was quizzical, but her great black eyes blazed with some thought of sincerity which lay behind

the fun. The young man shook his head with a smile of kindly tolerance as he answered:

'It isn't thatsurely you must know it. I'm ambitious enough, goodness knows; but there are bounds to

satisfy even me. But I'm not sure that the good little thing isn't right. She seemed, somehow, to hit a bigger

'Pardon me,' he answered, 'there is perhaps nothing so difficult in the whole range of a man's work.' There

'And why not, pray?' The mere suggestion of any disability of woman as such aroused immediate antagonism.

'Because, my dear Stephen, the Almighty has ordained that justice is not a virtue women can practise. Mind, I

do not say women are unjust. Far from it, where there are no interests of those dear to them they can be of a

sincerity of justice that can make a man's blood run cold. But justice in the abstract is not an ordinary virtue:

it has to be considerate as well as stern, and above all interest of all kinds and of every one' The girl

'I don't agree with you at all. You can't give an instance where women are unjust. I don't mean of course

individual instances, but classes of cases where injustice is habitual.' The suppressed smile cropped out now

unconsciously round the man's lips in a way which was intensely aggravating to the girl.

'I'll give you a few,' he said. 'Did you ever know a mother just to a boy who beat her own boy at school?' The

'Oh, I don't mean that kind of beating. I mean getting the prizes their own boys contended for; getting above

them in class; showing superior powers in running or cricket or swimming, or in any of the forms of effort in

'Well, you may be right. I don't altogether admit it, but I accept it as not on my side. But this is only one case.'

'A pretty common one. Do you think that Sheriff of Galway, who in default of a hangman hanged his son

with his own hands, would have done so if he had been a woman?' The girl answered at once:

'Frankly, no. I don't suppose the mother was ever born who would do such a thing. But that is not a common

'Well, because after all you know, Stephen, you are only a girl and you can't be expected to know.' The girl

'Well, if it's anything about women surely a girl, even of my tender age, must know something more of it, or

be able to guess at, than any young man can. However, say what you think and I'll tell you frankly if I

'Shortly the point is this: Can a woman be just to another woman, or to a man for the matter of that, where

'I don't see any reason to the contrary. Surely pride alone should ensure justice in the former case, and the

'Pride and the consciousness of superiority! Are they not much the same thing. But whether or no, if either of

them has to be relied on, I'm afraid the scales of Justice would want regulating, and her sword should be

blunted in case its edge should be turned back on herself. I have an idea that although pride might be a

guiding principle with you individually, it would be a failure with the average. However, as it would be in

Harold looked at his watch and rose. Stephen followed him; transferring her whip into the hand which held

up the skirt, she took his arm with her right hand in the pretty way in which a young girl clings to her elders.

Together they went out at the lichgate. The groom drew over with the horses. Stephen patted hers and gave

her a lump of sugar. Then putting her foot into Harold's ready hand she sprang lightly into the saddle. Harold

As the two rode up the road, keeping on the shady side under the trees, Stephen said quietly, half to herself,

Stephen Norman of Normanstand had remained a bachelor until close on middle age, when the fact took hold

of him that there was no immediate heir to his great estate. Whereupon, with his wonted decision, he set

He had been a close friend of his next neighbour, Squire Rowly, ever since their college days. They had, of

course, been often in each other's houses, and Rowly's young sisteralmost a generation younger than

himself, and the sole fruit of his father's second marriagehad been like a little sister to him too. She had, in

the twenty years which had elapsed, grown to be a sweet and beautiful young woman. In all the past years,

with the constant opportunity which friendship gave of close companionship, the feeling never altered. Squire

Norman would have been surprised had he been asked to describe Margaret Rowly and found himself

Now, however, when his thoughts went womanward and wifeward, he awoke to the fact that Margaret came

within the category of those he sought. His usual decision ran its course. Semibrotherly feeling gave place

to a stronger and perhaps more selfish feeling. Before he even knew it, he was head over ears in love with his

Norman was a fine man, stalwart and handsome; his forty years sat so lightly on him that his age never

seemed to come into question in a woman's mind. Margaret had always liked him and trusted him; he was the

big brother who had no duty in the way of scolding to do. His presence had always been a gladness; and the

sex of the girl, first unconsciously then consciously, answered to the man's overtures, and her consent was

When in the fulness of time it was known that an heir was expected, Squire Norman took for granted that the

child would be a boy, and held the idea so tenaciously that his wife, who loved him deeply, gave up warning

and remonstrance after she had once tried to caution him against too fond a hope. She saw how bitterly he

would be disappointed in case it should prove to be a girl. He was, however, so fixed on the point that she

determined to say no more. After all, it might be a boy; the chances were equal. The Squire would not listen

to any one else at all; so as the time went on his idea was more firmly fixed than ever. His arrangements were

made on the base that he would have a son. The name was of course decided. Stephen had been the name of

all the Squires of Normanstand for agesas far back as the records went; and Stephen the new heir of course

Like all middleaged men with young wives he was supremely anxious as the time drew near. In his anxiety

for his wife his belief in the son became passive rather than active. Indeed, the idea of a son was so deeply

fixed in his mind that it was not disturbed even by his anxiety for the young wife he idolised.

When instead of a son a daughter was born, the Doctor and the nurse, who knew his views on the subject,

held back from the mother for a little the knowledge of the sex. Dame Norman was so weak that the Doctor

feared lest anxiety as to how her husband would bear the disappointment, might militate against her.

Therefore the Doctor sought the Squire in his study, and went resolutely at his task.

'Well, Squire, I congratulate you on the birth of your child!' Norman was of course struck with the use of the

word 'child'; but the cause of his anxiety was manifested by his first question:

'How is she, Doctor? Is she safe?' The child was after all of secondary importance! The Doctor breathed more

freely; the question had lightened his task. There was, therefore, more assurance in his voice as he answered:

'She is safely through the worst of her trouble, but I am greatly anxious yet. She is very weak. I fear anything

'There must be no upset! And now tell me about my son?' He spoke the last word half with pride, half

'Your son is a daughter!' There was silence for so long that the Doctor began to be anxious. Squire Norman

sat quite still; his right hand resting on the writingtable before him became clenched so hard that the

'Splendid!I never saw a finer child in my life. She will be a comfort and an honour to you!' The Squire

'She does not know yet that it is a girl. I thought it better not to let her know till I had told you.'

'BecausebecauseNorman, old friend, you know why! Because you had set your heart on a son; and I

know how it would grieve that sweet young wife and mother to feel your disappointment. I want your lips to

be the first to tell her; so that on may assure her of your happiness in that a daughter has been born to you.'

The Squire put out his great hand and laid it on the other's shoulder. There was almost a break in his voice as

'Thank you, my old friend, my true friend, for your thought. When may I see her?'

'By right, not yet. But, as knowing your views, she may fret herself till she knows, I think you had better

All Norman's love and strength combined for his task. As he leant over and kissed his young wife there was

'Where is my dear daughter that you may place her in my arms?' For an instant there came a chill to the

mother's heart that her hopes had been so far disappointed; but then came the reaction of her joy that her

husband, her baby's father, was pleased. There was a heavenly dawn of red on her pale face as she drew her

'Oh, my dear,' she said, 'I am so happy that you are pleased!' The nurse took the mother's hand gently and

The Doctor touched him gently on the arm and beckoned him away. He went with careful footsteps, looking

After dinner he talked with the Doctor on various matters; but presently he asked:

'I suppose, Doctor, it is no sort of rule that the first child regulates the sex of a family?'

'No, of course not. Otherwise how should we see boys and girls mixed in one family, as is nearly always the

case. But, my friend,' he went on, 'you must not build hopes so far away. I have to tell you that your wife is

far from strong. Even now she is not so well as I could wish, and there yet may be change.' The Squire leaped

'Then why are we waiting here? Can nothing be done? Let us have the best help, the best advice in the world.'

'Then let us be ready in case your fears should be justified! Who are the best men in London to help in such a

case?' The Doctor mentioned two names; and within a few minutes a mounted messenger was galloping to

Norcester, the nearest telegraph centre. The messenger was to arrange for a special train if necessary. Shortly

afterwards the Doctor went again to see his patient. After a long absence he came back, pale and agitated.

Norman felt his heart sink when he saw him; a groan broke from him as the Doctor spoke:

'She is much worse! I am in great fear that she may pass away before the morning!' The Squire's strong voice

'Not yet; at present she is sleeping. She may wake strengthened; in which case you may see her. But if not'

'Then I shall send for you at once!' The Doctor returned to his vigil. The Squire, left alone, sank on his knees,

his face in his hands; his great shoulders shook with the intensity of his grief.

'Alas! no. I fear her minutes are numbered. School yourself, my dear old friend! God will help you in this

When they came into the room Margaret was dozing. When her eyes opened and she found her husband

beside her bed there spread over her face a glad look; which, alas! soon changed to one of pain. She motioned

to him to bend down. He knelt and put his head beside her on the pillow; his arms went tenderly round her as

though by his iron devotion and strength he would shield her from all harm. Her voice came very low and in

'My dear, dear husband, I am so sad at leaving you! You have made me so happy, and I love you so! Forgive

me, dear, for the pain I know you will suffer when I am gone! And oh, Stephen, I know you will cherish our

little oneyours and minewhen I am gone. She will have no mother; you will have to be father and

'I will hold her in my very heart's core, my darling, as I hold you!' He could hardly speak from emotion. She

'And oh, my dear, you will not grieve that she is not a son to carry on your name?' And then a sudden light

'She is to be our only one; let her be indeed our son! Call her the name we both love!' For answer he rose and

'This dear one, my sweet wife, who will carry your soul in her breast, will be my son; the only son I shall ever

have. All my life long I shall, please Almighty God, so love herour little Stephen as you and I love each

She laid her hand on his so that it touched at once her husband and her child. Then she raised the other weak

arm, and placed it round his neck, and their lips met. Her soul went out in this last kiss.

For some weeks after his wife's death Squire Norman was overwhelmed with grief. He made a brave effort,

however, to go through the routine of his life; and succeeded so far that he preserved an external appearance

Little Stephen had winning ways which sent deep roots into her father's heart. The little bundle of nerves

which the father took into his arms must have realised with all its senses that, in all that it saw and heard and

touched, there was nothing but love and help and protection. Gradually the trust was followed by expectation.

If by some chance the father was late in coming to the nursery the child would grow impatient and cast

Time went quickly by, and Norman was only recalled to its passing by the growth of his child. Seedtime and

harvest, the many comings of nature's growth were such commonplaces to him, and had been for so many

years, that they made on him no impressions of comparison. But his baby was one and one only. Any change

in it was not only in itself a new experience, but brought into juxtaposition what is with what was. The

changes that began to mark the divergence of sex were positive shocks to him, for they were unexpected. In

the very dawn of babyhood dress had no special import; to his masculine eyes sex was lost in youth. But,

little by little, came the tiny changes which convention has established. And with each change came to Squire

Norman the growing realisation that his child was a woman. A tiny woman, it is true, and requiring more care

and protection and devotion than a bigger one; but still a woman. The pretty little ways, the eager caresses,

the graspings and holdings of the childish hands, the little roguish smiles and pantings and flirtings were all

but repetitions in little of the dalliance of long ago. The father, after all, reads in the same book in which the

At first there was through all his love for his child a certain resentment of her sex. His old hope of a son had

been rooted too deeply to give way easily. But when the conviction came, and with it the habit of its

acknowledgment, there came also a certain resignation, which is the haltingplace for satisfaction. But he

never, not then nor afterwards, quite lost the old belief that Stephen was indeed a son. Could there ever have

been a doubt, the remembrance of his wife's eyes and of her faint voice, of her hope and her faith, as she

placed her baby in his arms would have refused it a restingplace. This belief tinged all his afterlife and

moulded his policy with regard to his girl's upbringing. If she was to be indeed his son as well as his

daughter, she must from the first be accustomed to boyish as well as to girlish ways. This, in that she was an

only child, was not a difficult matter to accomplish. Had she had brothers and sisters, matters of her sex

There was one person who objected strongly to any deviation from the conventional rule of a girl's education.

This was Miss Laetitia Rowly, who took after a time, in so far as such a place could be taken, that of the

child's mother. Laetitia Rowly was a young aunt of Squire Rowly of Norwood; the younger sister of his

father and some sixteen years his own senior. When the old Squire's second wife had died, Laetitia, then a

conceded spinster of thirtysix, had taken possession of the young Margaret. When Margaret had married

Squire Norman, Miss Rowly was well satisfied; for she had known Stephen Norman all her life. Though she

could have wished a younger bridegroom for her darling, she knew it would be hard to get a better man or

one of more suitable station in life. Also she knew that Margaret loved him, and the woman who had never

found the happiness of mutual love in her own life found a pleasure in the romance of true love, even when

the wooer was middleaged. She had been travelling in the Far East when the belated news of Margaret's

death came to her. When she had arrived home she announced her intention of taking care of Margaret's

child, just as she had taken care of Margaret. For several reasons this could not be done in the same way. She

was not old enough to go and live at Normanstand without exciting comment; and the Squire absolutely

refused to allow that his daughter should live anywhere except in his own house. Educational supervision,

exercised at such distance and so intermittently, could neither be complete nor exact.

Though Stephen was a sweet child she was a wilful one, and very early in life manifested a dominant nature.

This was a secret pleasure to her father, who, never losing sight of his old idea that she was both son and

daughter, took pleasure as well as pride out of each manifestation of her imperial will. The keen instinct of

childhood, which reasons in feminine fashion, and is therefore doubly effective in a womanchild, early

grasped the possibilities of her own will. She learned the measure of her nurse's foot and then of her father's;

and so, knowing where lay the bounds of possibility of the achievement of her wishes, she at once avoided

trouble and learned how to make the most of the space within the limit of her tether.

It is not those who 'cry for the Moon' who go furthest or get most in this limited world of ours. Stephen's

pretty ways and unfailing good temper were a perpetual joy to her father; and when he found that as a rule her

Miss Rowly seldom saw any individual thing to disapprove of. She it was who selected the governesses and

who interviewed them from time to time as to the child's progress. Not often was there any complaint, for the

little thing had such a pretty way of showing affection, and such a manifest sense of justified trust in all

But though all went in tears of affectionate regret, and with eminently satisfactory emoluments and

Stephen's affection for her 'Auntie' was never affected by any of the changes. Others might come and go, but

there no change came. The child's little hand would steal into one of the old lady's strong ones, or would clasp

a finger and hold it tight. And then the woman who had never had a child of her own would feel, afresh each

With her father she was sweetest of all. And as he seemed to be pleased when she did anything like a little

An only child has certain educational difficulties. The true learning is not that which we are taught, but that

which we take in for ourselves from experience and observation, and children's experiences and observation,

especially of things other than repressive, are mainly of children. The little ones teach each other. Brothers

and sisters are more with each other than are ordinary playmates, and in the familiarity of their constant

intercourse some of the great lessons, so useful in afterlife, are learned. Little Stephen had no means of

learning the wisdom of give andtake. To her everything was given, given bountifully and gracefully.

Graceful acceptance of good things came to her naturally, as it does to one who is born to be a great lady. The

children of the farmers in the neighbourhood, with whom at times she played, were in such habitual awe of

the great house, that they were seldom sufficiently at ease to play naturally. Children cannot be on equal

terms on special occasions with a person to whom they have been taught to bow or courtesy as a public habit.

The children of neighbouring landowners, who were few and far between, and of the professional people in

Norcester, were at such times as Stephen met them, generally so much on their good behaviour, that the

spontaneity of play, through which it is that sharp corners of individuality are knocked off or worn down, did

And so Stephen learned to read in the Book of Life; though only on one side of it. At the age of six she had,

though surrounded with loving care and instructed by skilled teachers, learned only the accepting side of life.

Giving of course there was in plenty, for the traditions of Normanstand were royally benevolent; many a

blessing followed the little maid's footsteps as she accompanied some timely aid to the sick and needy sent

from the Squire's house. Moreover, her Aunt tried to inculcate certain maxims founded on that noble one that

it is more blessed to give than to receive. But of giving in its true sense: the giving that which we want for

ourselves, the giving that is as a temple built on the rock of self sacrifice, she knew nothing. Her sweet and

spontaneous nature, which gave its love and sympathy so readily, was almost a bar to education: it blinded

the eyes that would have otherwise seen any defect that wanted altering, any evil trait that needed repression,

Squire Norman had a clerical friend whose rectory of Carstone lay some thirty miles from Normanstand.

Thirty miles is not a great distance for railway travel; but it is a long drive. The days had not come, nor were

they ever likely to come, for the making of a railway between the two places. For a good many years the two

men had met in renewal of their old University days. Squire Norman and Dr. An Wolf had been chums at

Trinity, Cambridge, and the boyish friendship had ripened and lasted. When Harold An Wolf had put in his

novitiate in a teeming Midland manufacturing town, it was Norman's influence which obtained the rectorship

for his friend. It was not often that they could meet, for An Wolf's work, which, though not very exacting,

had to be done singlehanded, kept him to his post. Besides, he was a good scholar and eked out a small

income by preparing a few pupils for public school. An occasional midweek visit to Normanstand in the

slack time of school work on the Doctor's part, and now and again a drive by Norman over to the rectory,

returning the next day, had been for a good many years the measure of their meeting. Then An Wolf's

marriage and the birth of a son had kept him closer to home. Mrs. An Wolf had been killed in a railway

accident a couple of years after her only child had been born; and at the time Norman had gone over to render

any assistance in his power to the afflicted man, and to give him what was under the circumstances his best

gift, sympathy. After an interval of a few years the Squire's courtship and marriage, at which his old friend

had assisted, had confined his activities to a narrower circle. The last time they had met was when An Wolf

had come over to Norcester to aid in the burial of his friend's wife. In the process of years, however, the

shadow over Norman's life had begun to soften; when his baby had grown to be something of a companion,

they met again. Norman, 'who had never since his wife's death been able to tear himself, even for a night,

away from Normanstand and Stephen, wrote to his old friend asking him to come to him. An Wolf gladly

promised, and for a week of growing expectation the Squire looked forward to their meeting. Each found the

An Wolf was delighted with the little Stephen. Her dainty beauty seemed to charm him; and the child,

seeming to realise what pleasure she was giving, exercised all her little winning ways. The rector, who knew

more of children than did his, friend, told her as she sat on his knee of a very interesting person: his own son.

The child listened, interested at first, then enraptured. She asked all kinds of questions; and the father's eyes

brightened as he gladly answered the pretty sympathetic child, already deep in his heart for her father's sake.

He told her about the boy who was so big and strong, and who could run and leap and swim and play cricket

and football better than any other boy with whom he played. When, warmed himself by the keen interest of

the little girl, and seeing her beautiful black eyes beginning to glow, he too woke to the glory of the time; and

all the treasured moments of the father's lonely heart gave out their store. And the other father, thrilled with

delight because of his baby's joy with, underlying all, an added pleasure that the little Stephen's interest was

in sports that were for boys, looked on approvingly, now and again asking questions himself in furtherance of

All the afternoon they sat in the garden, close to the stream that came out of the rock, and An Wolf told

father's tales of his only son. Of the great cricket match with Castra Puerorum when he had made a hundred

not out. Of the school races when he had won so many prizes. Of the swimming match in the Islam River

when, after he had won the race and had dressed himself, he went into the water in his clothes to help some

children who had upset a boat. How when Widow Norton's only son could not be found, he dived into the

deep hole of the intake of the milldam of the great Carstone mills where Wingate the farrier had been

drowned. And how, after diving twice without success, he had insisted on going down the third time though

people had tried to hold him back; and how he had brought up in his arms the child all white and so near

death that they had to put him in the ashes of the baker's oven before he could be brought back to life.

When her nurse came to take her to bed, she slid down from her father's knee and coming over to Dr. An

Wolf, gravely held out her hand and said: 'Goodbye!' Then she kissed him and said:

'Thank you so much, Mr. Harold's daddy. Won't you come soon again, and tell us more?' Then she jumped

again upon her father's knee and hugged him round the neck and kissed him, and whispered in his ear:

'Daddy, please make Mr. Harold's daddy when he comes again, bring Harold with him!'

After all it is natural for women to put the essence of the letter in the postscript!

Two weeks afterwards Dr. An Wolf came again and brought Harold with him. The time had gone heavily

with little Stephen when she knew that Harold was coming with his father. Stephen had been all afire to see

the big boy whose feats had so much interested her, and for a whole week had flooded Mrs. Jarrold with

questions which she was unable to answer. At last the time came and she went out to the hall door with her

father to welcome the guests. At the top of the great granite steps, down which in time of bad weather the

The meeting was a great pleasure to both the children, and resulted in an immediate friendship. The small girl

at once conceived a great admiration for the big, strong boy nearly twice her age and more than twice her

size. At her time of life the convenances are not, and love is a thing to be spoken out at once and in the open.

Mrs. Jarrold, from the moment she set eyes on him, liked the big kindly faced boy who treated her like a

lady, and who stood awkwardly blushing and silent in the middle of the nursery listening to the tiny child's

proffers of affection. For whatever kind of love it is that boys are capable of, Harold had fallen into it.

'Calflove' is a thing habitually treated with contempt. It may be ridiculous; but all the same it is a serious

Harold's newfound affection was as deep as his nature. An only child who had in his memory nothing of a

mother's love, his naturally affectionate nature had in his childish days found no means of expression. A man

child can hardly pour out his full heart to a man, even a father or a comrade; and this child had not, in a way,

the consolations of other children. His father's secondary occupation of teaching brought other boys to the

house and necessitated a domestic routine which had to be exact. There was no place for little girls in a boys'

school; and though many of Dr. An Wolf's friends who were mothers made much of the pretty, quiet boy, and

took him to play with their children, he never seemed to get really intimate with them. The equality of

companionship was wanting. Boys he knew, and with them he could hold his own and yet be on affectionate

terms. But girls were strange to him, and in their presence he was shy. With this lack of understanding of the

other sex, grew up a sort of awe of it. His opportunities of this kind of study were so few that the view never

And so it was that from his boyhood up to his twelfth year, Harold's knowledge of girlhood never increased

nor did his awe diminish. When his father had told him all about his visit to Normanstand and of the

invitation which had been extended to him there came first awe, then doubt, then expectation. Between

Harold and his father there was love and trust and sympathy. The father's married love so soon cut short

found expression towards his child; and between them there had never been even the shadow of a cloud.

When his father told him how pretty the little Stephen was, how dainty, how sweet, he began to picture her in

His first glimpse of Stephen was, he felt, one that he never could forget. She had made up her mind that she

would let Harold see what she could do. Harold could fly kites and swim and play cricket; she could not do

any of these, but she could ride. Harold should see her pony, and see her riding him all by herself. And there

would be another pony for Harold, a big, big, big oneshe had spoken about its size herself to Topham, the

studgroom. She had coaxed her daddy into promising that after lunch she should take Harold riding. To this

end she had made ready early. She had insisted on putting on the red riding habit which Daddy had given her

for her birthday, and now she stood on the top of the steps all glorious in hunting pink, with the habit held

over her arms, with the tiny huntinghoots all shiny underneath. She had no hat on, and her beautiful hair of

golden red shone in its glory. But even it was almost outshone by the joyous flush on her cheeks as she stood

waving the little hand that did not hold Daddy's. She was certainly a picture to dream of! Her father's eyes

lost nothing of her dainty beauty. He was so proud of her that he almost forgot to wish that she had been a

boy. The pleasure he felt in her appearance was increased by the fact that her dress was his own idea.

During luncheon Stephen was fairly silent; she usually chattered all through as freely as a bird sings. Stephen

was silent because the occasion was important. Besides, Daddy wasn't all alone, and therefore had not to be

cheered up. Alsothis in postscript form Harold was silent! In her present frame of mind Harold could do

no wrong, and what Harold did was right. She was unconsciously learning already a lesson from his presence.

That evening when going to bed she came to say goodnight to Daddy. After she had kissed him she also

kissed 'old Mr. Harold,' as she now called him, and as a matter of course kissed Harold also. He coloured up

The next day from early morning until bedtime was one long joy to Stephen, and there were few things of

interest that Harold had not been shown; there were few of the little secrets which had not been shared with

him as they went about hand in hand. Like all manly boys Harold was good to little children and patient with

them. He was content to follow Stephen about and obey all her behests. He had fallen in love with her to the

When the guests were going, Stephen stood with her father on the steps to see them off. When the carriage

had swept behind the farthest point in the long avenue, and when Harold's cap waving from the window

could no longer be seen, Squire Norman turned to go in, but paused in obedience to the unconscious restraint

of Stephen's hand. He waited patiently till with a long sigh she turned to him and they went in together.

That night before she went to bed Stephen came and sat on her father's knee, and after sundry pattings and

'Daddy, wouldn't it be nice if Harold could come here altogether? Couldn't you ask him to? And old Mr.

Two years afterwards a great blow fell upon Harold. His father, who had been suffering from repeated attacks

of influenza, was, when in the low condition following this, seized with pneumonia, to which in a few days

he succumbed. Harold was heartbroken. The affection which had been between him and his father had been

When Squire Norman had returned to the house with him after the funeral, he sat in silence holding the boy's

hand till he had wept his heart out. By this time the two were old friends, and the boy was not afraid or too

shy to break down before him. There was sufficient of the love of the old generation to begin with trust in the

Presently, when the storm was past and Harold had become his own man again, Norman said:

'And now, Harold, I want you to listen to me. You know, my dear boy, that I am your father's oldest friend,

and right sure I am that he would approve of what I say. You must come home with me to live. I know that in

his last hours the great concern of your dear father's heart would have been for the future of his boy. And I

know, too, that it was a comfort to him to feel that you and I are such friends, and that the son of my dearest

old friend would be as a son to me. We have been friends, you and I, a long time, Harold; and we have

learned to trust, and I hope to love, one another. And you and my little Stephen are such friends already that

your coming into the house will be a joy to us all. Why, long ago, when first you came, she said to me the

night you went away: "Daddy, wouldn't it be nice if Harold could come here altogether?"'

And so Harold An Wolf came back with the Squire to Normanstand, and from that day on became a member

of his house, and as a son to him. Stephen's delight at his coming was of course largely qualified by her

sympathy with his grief; but it would have been hard to give him more comfort than she did in her own pretty

way. Putting her lips to his she kissed him, and holding his big hand in both of her little ones, she whispered

'Poor Harold! You and I should love each other, for we have both lost our mother. And now you have lost

At this time Harold was between fourteen and fifteen years old. He was well educated in so far as private

teaching went. His father had devoted much care to him, so that he was well grounded in all the Academic

branches of learning. He was also, for his years, an expert in most manly exercises. He could ride anything,

shoot straight, fence, run, jump or swim with any boy more than his age and size.

In Normanstand his education was continued by the rector. The Squire used often to take him with him when

he went to ride, or fish, or shoot; frankly telling him that as his daughter was, as yet, too young to be his

companion in these matters, he would act as her locum tenens. His living in the house and his helping as he

did in Stephen's studies made familiarity perpetual. He was just enough her senior to command her childish

obedience; and there were certain qualities in his nature which were eminently calculated to win and keep the

respect of women as well as of men. He was the very incarnation of sincerity, and had now and again, in

certain ways, a sublime selfnegation which, at times, seemed in startling contrast to a manifestly militant

nature. When at school he had often been involved in fights which were nearly always on matters of

principle, and by a sort of unconscious chivalry he was generally found fighting on the weaker side. Harold's

father had been very proud of his ancestry, which was Gothic through the Dutch, as the manifestly corrupted

prefix of the original name implied, and he had gathered from a constant study of the Sagas something of the

This new stage of Harold's life made for quicker development than any which had gone before. Hitherto he

had not the same sense of responsibility. To obey is in itself a relief; and as it is an actual consolation to weak

natures, so it is only a retarding of the strong. Now he had another individuality to think of. There was in his

own nature a vein of anxiety of which the subconsciousness of his own strength threw up the outcrop.

Little Stephen with the instinct of her sex discovered before long this weakness. For it is a weakness when

any quality can be assailed or used. The using of a man's weakness is not always coquetry; but it is something

very like it. Many a time the little girl, who looked up to and admired the big boy who could compel her to

anything when he was so minded, would, for her own ends, work on his sense of responsibility, taking an

The result of Stephen's harmless little coquetries was that Harold had occasionally either to thwart some little

plan of daring, or else cover up its results. In either case her confidence in him grew, so that before long he

became an established fact in her life, a being in whose power and discretion and loyalty she had absolute,

blind faith. And this feeling seemed to grow with her own growth. Indeed at one time it came to be more than

The old Church of St. Stephen, which was the parish church of Normanstand, had a peculiar interest for the

Norman family. There, either within the existing walls or those which had preceded them when the church

was rebuilt by that Sir Stephen who was standard bearer to Henry VI., were buried all the direct members of

the line. It was an unbroken record of the inheritors since the first Sir Stephen, who had his place in the

Domesday Book. Without, in the churchyard close to the church, were buried all such of the collaterals as had

died within hail of Norcester. Some there were of course who, having achieved distinction in various walks of

life, were further honoured by a restingplace within the chancel. The whole interior was full of records of

the family. Squire Norman was fond of coming to the place; and often from the very beginning had taken

Stephen with him. One of her earliest recollections was kneeling down with her father, who held her hand in

his, whilst with the other he wiped the tears from his eyes, before a tomb sculptured beautifully in snowy

'You will always remember, darling, that your dear mother rests in this sacred place. When I am gone, if you

are ever in any trouble come here. Come alone and open out your heart. You need never fear to ask God for

help at the grave of your mother!' The child had been impressed, as had been many and many another of her

race. For seven hundred years each child of the house of Norman had been brought alone by either parent and

had heard some such words. The custom had come to be almost a family ritual, and it never failed to leave its

Whenever Harold had in the early days paid a visit to Normanstand, the church had generally been an

objective of their excursions. He was always delighted to go. His love for his own ancestry made him admire

and respect that of others; so that Stephen's enthusiasm in the matter was but another cord to bind him to her.

In one of their excursions they found the door into the crypt open; and nothing would do Stephen but that

they should enter it. Today, however, they had no light; but they arranged that on the morrow they would

bring candles with them and explore the place thoroughly. The afternoon of the next day saw them at the door

of the crypt with a candle, which Harold proceeded to light. Stephen looked on admiringly, and said in a

'Not a bit! In my father's church there was a crypt, and I was in it several times.' As he spoke the memory of

the last time he had been there swept over him. He seemed to see again the many lights, held in hands that

were never still, making a grim gloom where the black shadows were not; to hear again the stamp and hurried

shuffle of the many feet, as the great oak coffin was borne by the struggling mass of men down the steep

stairway and in through the narrow door . . . And then the hush when voices faded away; and the silence

seemed a real thing, as for a while he stood alone close to the dead father who had been all in all to him. And

once again he seemed to feel the recall to the living world of sorrow and of light, when his inert hand was

He did not like to tell her then. Somehow, it seemed out of place. He had often spoken to her of his father,

and she had always been a sympathetic listener; but here, at the entrance of the grim vault, he did not wish to

pain her with his own thoughts of sorrow and all the terrible memories which the similarity of the place

evoked. And even whilst he hesitated there came to him a thought so laden with pain and fear that he rejoiced

at the pause which gave it to him in time. It was in that very crypt that Stephen's mother had been buried, and

had they two gone in, as they had intended, the girl might have seen her mother's coffin as he had seen his

father's, but under circumstances which made him shiver. He had been, as he said, often in the crypt at

Carstone; and well he knew the sordidness of the chamber of death. His imagination was alive as well as his

memory; he shuddered, not for himself, but for Stephen. How could he allow the girl to suffer in such a way

as she might, as she infallibly would, if it were made apparent to her in such a brutal way? How pitiful, how

meanly pitiful, is the aftermath of death. Well he remembered how many a night he woke in an agony,

thinking of how his father lay in that cold, silent, duststrewn vault, in the silence and the dark, with never a

ray of light or hope or love! Gone, abandoned, forgotten by all, save perhaps one heart which bled . . . He

would save little Stephen, if he could, from such a memory. He would not give any reason for refusing to go

He blew out the candle, and turned the key in the lock, took it out, and put it in his pocket.

'Come, Stephen!' he said, 'let us go somewhere else. We will not go into the crypt today!'

'Why not?' The lips that spoke were pouted mutinously and the face was flushed. The imperious little lady

was not at all satisfied to give up the cherished project. For a whole day and night she had, whilst waking,

thought of the coming adventure; the thrill of it was not now to be turned to cold disappointment without

even an explanation. She did not think that Harold was afraid; that would be ridiculous. But she wondered;

and mysteries always annoyed her. She did not like to be at fault, more especially when other people knew.

'Because, Stephen, there is really a good reason. Don't ask me, for I can't tell you. You must take it from me

that I am right. You know, dear, that I wouldn't willingly disappoint you; and I know that you had set your

Stephen was really angry now. She was amenable to reason, though she did not consciously know what

reason was; but to accept some one else's reason blindfold was repugnant to her nature, even at her then age.

She was about to speak angrily, but looking up she saw that Harold's mouth was set with marble firmness. So,

But in the inner recesses of her firmset mind was a distinct intention to visit the vault when more favourable

It was some weeks before Stephen got the chance she wanted. She knew it would be difficult to evade

Harold's observation, for the big boy's acuteness as to facts had impressed itself on her. It was strange that out

of her very trust in Harold came a form of distrust in others. In the little matter of evading him she inclined to

any one in whom there was his opposite, in whose reliability she instinctively mistrusted. 'There is nothing

bad or good but thinking makes it so!' To enter that crypt, which had seemed so small a matter at first, had

now in process of thinking and wishing and scheming become a thing to be much desired. Harold saw, or

rather felt, that something was in the girl's mind, and took for granted that it had something to do with the

crypt. But he thought it better not to say anything lest he should keep awake a desire which he hoped would

One day it was arranged that Harold should go over to Carstone to see the solicitor who had wound up his

father's business. He was to stay the night and ride back next day. Stephen, on hearing of the arrangement, so

contrived matters that Master Everard, the son of a banker who had recently purchased an estate in the

neighbourhood, was asked to come to play with her on the day when Harold left. It was holiday time at Eton,

and he was at home. Stephen did not mention to Harold the fact of his coming; it was only from a chance

allusion of Mrs. Jarrold before he went that he inferred it. He did not think the matter of sufficient importance

to wonder why Stephen, who generally told him everything, had not mentioned this.

During their play, Stephen, after pledging him to secrecy, told Leonard of her intention of visiting the crypt,

and asked him to help her in it. This was an adventure, and as such commended itself to the schoolboy heart.

He entered at once into the scheme con amore; and the two discussed ways and means. Leonard's only regret

was that he was associated with a little girl in such a project. It was something of a blow to his personal

vanity, which was a large item in his moral equipment, that such a project should have been initiated by the

girl and not by himself. He was to get possession of the key and in the forenoon of the next day he was to be

waiting in the churchyard, when Stephen would join him as soon as she could evade her nurse. She was now

more than eleven, and had less need of being watched than in her earlier years. It was possible, with strategy,

At Carstone Harold got though what he had to do that same afternoon and arranged to start early in the

morning for Normanstand. After an early breakfast he set out on his thirtymile journey at eight o'clock.

Littlejohn, his horse, was in excellent form, notwithstanding his long journey of the day before, and with his

nose pointed for home, put his best foot foremost. Harold felt in great spirits. The long ride the day before

had braced him physically, though there were on his journey times of great sadness when the thought of his

father came back to him and the sense of loss was renewed with each thought of his old home. But youth is

naturally buoyant. His visit to the church, the first thing on his arrival at Carstone, and his kneeling before the

stone made sacred to his father's memory, though it entailed a silent gush of tears, did him good, and even

seemed to place his sorrow farther away. When he came again in the morning before leaving Carstone there

were no tears. There was only a holy memory which seemed to sanctify loss; and his father seemed nearer to

As he drew near Normanstand he looked forward eagerly to seeing Stephen, and the sight of the old church

lying far below him as he came down the steep road over Alt Hill, which was the shortcut from Norcester,

set his mind working. His visit to the tomb of his own father made him think of the day when he kept Stephen

The keenest thought is not always conscious. It was without definite intention that when he came to the

bridlepath Harold turned his horse's head and rode down to the churchyard. As he pushed open the door of

the church he half expected to see Stephen; and there was a vague possibility that Leonard Everard might be

The church was cool and dim. Coming from the hot glare the August sunshine it seemed, at the first glance,

dark. He looked around, and a sense of relief came over him. The place was empty.

But even as he stood, there came a sound which made his heart grow cold. A cry, muffled, far away and full

It was the voice of Stephen. He instinctively knew where it came from; the crypt. Only for the experience he

had had of her desire to enter the place, he would never have suspected that it was so close to him. He ran

towards the corner where commenced the steps leading downward. As he reached the spot a figure came

rushing up the steps. A boy in Eton jacket and wide collar, careless, pale, and agitated. It was Leonard

'In the vault below there. She dropped her light and then took mine, and she dropped it too. Let me go! Let

'Give me themthis instant!' He was examining the frightened boy's waistcoat pockets as he spoke. When he

had got the matches he let the boy go, and ran down the steps and through the open door into the crypt,

'Stephen! Stephen dear, where are you? It is IHarold!' There was no response; his heart seemed to grow

cold and his knees to weaken. The match spluttered and flashed, and in the momentary glare he saw across

the vault, which was not a large place, a white mass on the ground. He had to go carefully, lest the match

should be blown out by the wind of his passage; but on coming close he saw that it was Stephen lying

senseless in front of a great coffin which rested on a builtout pile of masonry. Then the match went out. In

the flare of the next one he lit he saw a piece of candle lying on top of the coffin. He seized and lit it. He was

able to think coolly despite his agitation, and knew that light was the first necessity. The bruised wick was

slow to catch; he had to light another match, his last one, before it flamed. The couple of seconds that the

light went down till the grease melted and the flame leaped again seemed of considerable length. When the lit

candle was placed steadily on top of the coffin, and a light, dim, though strong enough to see with, spread

around, he stooped and lifted Stephen in his arms. She was quite senseless, and so limp that a great fear came

upon him that she might be dead. He did not waste time, but carried her across the vault where the door to the

church steps stood out sharp against the darkness, and bore her up into the church. Holding her in one arm,

with the other hand he dragged some long cushions from one of the pews and spread them on the floor; on

these he laid her. His heart was smitten with love and pity as he looked. She was so helpless; so pitifully

helpless! Her arms and legs were doubled up as though broken, disjointed; the white frock was smeared with

patches of thick dust. Instinctively he stooped and pulled the frock down and straightened out the arms and

feet. He knelt beside her, and felt if her heart was still beating, a great fear over him, a sick apprehension. A

gush of thankful prayer came from his heart. Thank God! she was alive; he could feel her heart beat, though

faintly underneath his hand. He started to his feet and ran towards the door, seizing his hat, which lay on a

seat. He wanted it to bring back some water. As he passed out of the door he saw Leonard a little distance off,

but took no notice of him. He ran to the stream, filled his hat with water, and brought it back. When he came

into the church he saw Stephen, already partially restored, sitting up on the cushions with Leonard supporting

He was rejoiced; but somehow disappointed. He would rather Leonard had not been there. He

rememberedhe could not forgetthe white face of the boy who fled out of the crypt leaving Stephen in a

faint within, and who had lingered outside the church door whilst he ran for water. Harold came forward

quickly and raised Stephen, intending to bring her into the fresh air. He had a shrewd idea that the sight of the

sky and God's greenery would be the best medicine for her after her fright. He lifted her in his strong arms as

he used to do when she was a very little child and had got tired in their walks together; and carried her to the

door. She lent herself unconsciously to the movement, holding fast with her arm round his neck as she used

to do. In her clinging was the expression of her trust in him. The little sigh with which she laid her head on

his shoulder was the tribute to his masculine power, and her belief in it. Every instant her senses were coming

back to her more and more. The veil of oblivion was passing from her halfclosed eyes, as the tide of full

remembrance swept in upon her. Her inner nature was expressed in the sequence of her emotions. Her first

feeling was one of her own fault. The sight of Harold and his proximity recalled to her vividly how he had

refused to go into the crypt, and how she had intentionally deceived him, negatively, as to her intention of

doing that of which he disapproved. Her second feeling was one of justice; and was perhaps partially evoked

by the sight of Leonard, who followed close as Harold brought her to the door. She did not wish to speak of

herself or Harold before him; but she did not hesitate to speak of him to Harold:

'You must not blame Leonard. It was all my fault. I made him come!' Her generosity appealed to Harold. He

was angry with the boy for being there at all; but more for his desertion of the girl in her trouble.

'I'm not blaming him for being with you!' he said simply. Leonard spoke at once. He had been waiting to

defend himself, for that was what first concerned that young gentleman; next to his pleasure, his safety most

'I went to get help. You had let the candle drop; and how could I see in the dark? You would insist on looking

A low moan broke from Stephen, a long, low, trembling moan which went to Harold's heart. Her head

drooped over again on his shoulder; and she clung close to him as the memory of her shock came back to her.

Harold spoke to Leonard over his shoulder in a low, fierce whisper, which Stephen did not seem to hear:

'There! that will do. Go away! You have done enough already. Go! Go!' he added more sternly, as the boy

seemed disposed to argue. Leonard ran a few steps, then walked to the lichgate, where he waited.

Stephen clung close to Harold in a state of agitation which was almost hysterical. She buried her face in his

'Oh, Harold! It was too awful. I never thought, never for a moment, that my poor dear mother was buried in

the crypt. And when I went to look at the name on the coffin that was nearest to where I was, I knocked away

the dust, and then I saw her name: "Margaret Norman, aetat 22." I couldn't bear it. She was only a girl herself,

only just twice my agelying there in that terrible dark place with all the thick dust and the spiders' webs.

Oh, Harold, Harold! How shall I ever bear to think of her lying there, and that I shall never see her dear face?

He tried to soothe her by patting and holding her hands. For a good while the resolution of the girl faltered,

and she was but as a little child. Then her habitual strength of mind asserted itself. She did not ask Harold

how she came to be out in the church instead of in the crypt when she recovered her senses. She seemed to

take it for granted that Leonard had carried her out; and when she said how brave it had been of him, Harold,

with his customary generosity, allowed her to preserve the belief. When they had made their way to the gate

Leonard came up to them; but before he could speak Stephen had begun to thank him. He allowed her to do

so, though the sight of Harold's mouth set in scorn, and his commanding eyes firmly fixed on him, made him

grow hot and cold alternately. He withdrew without speaking; and took his way home with a heart full of

In the park Stephen tried to dust herself, and then Harold tried to assist her. But her white dress was incurably

soiled, the fine dust of the vault seemed to have got ingrained in the muslin. When she got to the house she

The next day but one she took Harold for a walk in the afternoon. When they were quite alone and out of

'I have been thinking all night about poor mother. Of course I know she cannot be moved from the crypt. She

must remain there. But there needn't be all that dust. I want you to come there with me some time soon. I fear

I am afraid to go alone. I want to bring some flowers and to tidy up the place. Won't you come with me this

time? I know now, Harold, why you didn't let me go in before. But now it is different. This is not curiosity. It

Harold leaped from the edge of the haha where he had been sitting and held up his hand. She took it and

'Come,' he said, 'let us go there now!' She took his arm when they got on the path again, and clinging to him

in her pretty girlish way they went together to the piece of garden which she called her own; there they

picked a great bunch of beautiful white flowers. Then they walked to the old church. The door was open and

they passed in. Harold took from his pocket a tiny key. This surprised her, and heightened the agitation which

she naturally suffered from revisiting the place. She said nothing whilst he opened the door to the crypt.

Within, on a bracket, stood some candles in glass shades and boxes of matches. Harold lit three candles, and

leaving one of them on the shelf, and placing his cap beside it, took the other two in his hands. Stephen,

holding her flowers tightly to her breast with her right hand, took Harold's arm with the left, and with beating

For several minutes Harold kept her engaged, telling her about the crypt in his father's church, and how he

went down at his last visit to see the coffin of his dear father, and how he knelt before it. Stephen was much

moved, and held tight to his arm, her heart beating. But in the time she was getting accustomed to the place.

Her eyes, useless at first on coming out of the bright sunlight, and not able to distinguish anything, began to

take in the shape of the place and to see the rows of great coffins that stood out along the far wall. She also

saw with surprise that the newest coffin, on which for several reasons her eyes rested, was no longer dusty

but was scrupulously clean. Following with her eyes as well as she could see into the further corners she saw

that there the same reform had been effected. Even the walls and ceiling had been swept of the hanging

cobwebs, and the floor was clean with the cleanliness of ablution. Still holding Harold's arm, she moved over

towards her mother's coffin and knelt before it. Harold knelt with her; for a little while she remained still and

silent, praying inwardly. Then she rose, and taking her great bunch of flowers placed them lovingly on the lid

of the coffin above where she thought her mother's heart would be. Then she turned to Harold, her eyes

flowing and her cheeks wet with tears, and laid her head against his breast. Her arms could not go round his

neck till he had bent his head, for with his great height he simply towered above her. Presently she was quiet;

the paroxysm of her grief had passed. She took Harold's hand in both hers, and together they went to the

door. With his disengaged hand, for he would not have disturbed the other for worlds, Harold put out the

In the church she held him away from her, and looked him fairly in the face. She said slowly:

She took the great hand which she held between hers, and before he knew what she was doing and could

'Oh, Harold! No brother in all the wide world could be kinder. And and' this with a sob, 'we both thank

The next important move in the household was Harold's going to Cambridge. His father had always intended

this, and Squire Norman had borne his wishes in mind. Harold joined Trinity, the college which had been his

Stephen was now nearly twelve. Her range of friendships, naturally limited by her circumstances in life, was

enlarged to the full; and if she had not many close friends there were at least of them all that was numerically

possible. She still kept up to certain degree the little gatherings which in her childhood were got together for

her amusement, and in the various games then instituted she still took a part. She never lost sight of the fact

that her father took a certain pleasure in her bodily vigour. And though with her growing years and the

conscious acceptance of her womanhood, she lost sight of the old childish fancy of being a boy instead of a

girl, she could not lose sight of the fact that strength and alertness are sources of feminine as well as of

Amongst the young friends who came from time to time during his holidays was Leonard Everard, now a tall,

handsome boy. He was one of those boys who develop young, and who seem never to have any of that gawky

stage so noticeable in the youth of men made in a large pattern. He was always wellpoised, trimset, alert;

fleet of foot, and springy all over. In games he was facile princeps, seeming to make his effort always in the

right way and without exertion, as if by an instinct of physical masterdom. His universal success in such

matters helped to give him an easy debonair manner which was in itself winning. So physically complete a

youth has always a charm. In its very presence there is a sort of sympathetic expression, such as comes with

Stephen always in Leonard's presence showed something of the common attitude. His youth and beauty and

sex all had their influence on her. The influence of sex, as it is understood with regard to a later period of life,

did not in her case exist; Cupid's darts are barbed and winged for more adult victims. But in her case

Leonard's masculine superiority, emphasised by the few years between their age, his sublime selfbelief, and,

above all, his absolute disregard for herself or her wishes or her feelings, put him on a level at which she had

to look up to him. The first step in the ladder of pre eminence had been achieved when she realised that he

was not on her level; the second when she experienced rather than thought that he had more influence on her

than she had on him. Here again was a little morsel of hero worship, which, though based on a misconception

of fact, was still of influence. In that episode of the crypt she had always believed that it was Leonard who

had carried her out and laid her on the church floor in light and safety. He had been strong enough and

resolute enough to do this, whilst she had fainted! Harold's generous forbearance had really worked to a false

It was not strange, therefore, that she found occasional companionship with the handsome, wilful,

domineering boy somewhat of luxury. She did not see him often enough to get tired of him; to find out the

weakness of his character; to realise his deepseated, remorseless selfishness. But after all he was only an

episode in a young life which was full of interests. Term after term came and went; the holidays had their

Harold's attitude was the same as ever. He was of a constant nature; and now that manhood was within hail

the love of his boyhood was ripening to a man's love. That was all. He was with regard to Stephen the same

devoted, worshipping protector, without thought of self; without hope of reward. Whatever Stephen wished

Harold did; and Stephen, knowing their old wishes and their old pleasures, was content with their renewal.

Each holiday between the terms became mainly a repetition of the days of the old life. They lived in the past.

Amongst the things that did not change was Stephen's riding dress. The scarlet habit had never been a thing

for everyday wear, but had from the first been kept for special occasions. Stephen herself knew that it was not

a conventional costume; but she rather preferred it, if on that account alone. In a certain way she felt justified

It was on one of these occasions that she had gone with Harold into the churchyard where they had heard the

When Stephen was about sixteen she went for a short visit to Oxford. She stayed at Somerville with Mrs.

Egerton, an old friend of her mother's, who was a professor at the college. She sent back her maid who had

travelled with her, as she knew that the college girls did not have servants of their own. The visit was

prolonged by mutual consent into a duration of some weeks. Stephen fell in love with the place and the life,

and had serious thoughts of joining the college herself. Indeed she had made up her mind to ask her father to

allow her, knowing well that he would consent to that or to any other wholesome wish of hers. But then came

the thought that he would be all alone at home; and following that came another thought, and one of more

poignant feeling. He was alone now! Already, for many days, she had left him, for the first time in her life!

Stephen was quick to act; well she knew that at home there would be no fault found with her for a speedy

return. Within a few hours she had brought her visit to an end, and was by herself, despite Mrs. Egerton's

In the train she began to review, for the first time, her visit to the university. All had been so strange and new

and delightful to her that she had never stopped for retrospect. Life in the new and enchanting place had been

in the moving present. The mind had been receptive only, gathering data for later thought. During her visit

she had had no one to direct her thought, and so it had been all personal, with the freedom of individuality at

large. Of course her mother's friend, skilled in the mindworkings of average girls, and able to pick her way

through intellectual and moral quagmires, had taken good care to point out to her certain intellectual

movements and certain moral lessons; just as she had in their various walks and drives pointed out matters of

interestarchitectural beauties and spots of historic import. And she had taken in, loyally accepted, and

thoroughly assimilated all that she had been told. But there were other lessons which were for her young

eyes; facts which the older eyes had ceased to notice, if they had ever noticed them at all. The selfcontent,

the sexcontent in the endless tide of young men that thronged the streets and quads and parks; the

allsufficing nature of sport or study, to whichever their inclinations tended. The small part which

womankind seemed to have in their lives. Stephen had had, as we know, a peculiar training; whatever her

instincts were, her habits were largely boy habits. Here she was amongst boys, a glorious tide of them; it

made now and again her heart beat to look at them. And yet amongst them all she was only an outsider. She

could not do anything better than any of them. Of course, each time she went out, she became conscious of

admiring glances; she could not be woman without such consciousness. But it was as a girl that men looked

at her, not as an equal. As well as personal experience and the lessons of eyes and ears and intelligence, there

were other things to classify and adjust; things which were entirely from the outside of her own life. The

fragments of commonroom gossip, which it had been her fortune to hear accidentally now and again. The

half confidences of scandals, borne on whispered breaths. The whole confidences of dormitory and study

which she had been privileged to share. All were parts of the new and strange world, the great world which

As she sat now in the train, with some formulation of memory already accomplished in the two hours of

solitude, her first comment, spoken half audibly, would have surprised her teachers as much as it would have

surprised herself, if she had been conscious of it; for as yet her thinking was not selfconscious:

It was of the women she had been thinking, not of the men. The glimpse which she had had of her own sex

had been an awakening to her; and the awakening had not been to a pleasant world. All at once she seemed to

realise that her sex had defectslittlenesses, meannesses, cowardices, falsenesses. That their occupations

were apt to be trivial or narrow or selfish; that their desires were earthly, and their tastes coarse; that what she

held to be goodness was apt to be realised only as fear. That innocence was but ignorance, or at least baffled

A flood of shame swept over her, and instinctively she put her hands before her burning face. As usual, she

And above all these was borne upon her, and for the first time in her life, that she was herself a woman!

For a long time she sat quite still. The train thrilled and roared on its way. Crowded stations took and gave

their quantum of living freight; but the young girl sat abstracted, unmoved, seemingly unconscious. All the

If, indeed, she was a woman, and had to abide by the exigencies of her own sex, she would at least not be

ruled and limited by woman's weakness. She would plan and act and manage things for herself, in her own

Whatever her thoughts might be, she could at least control her acts. And those acts should be based not on

When Stephen announced her intention of going with her father to the Petty Sessions Court, there was

consternation amongst the female population of Normanstand and Norwood. Such a thing had not been heard

of in the experiences of any of them. Courts of Justice were places for men; and the lower courts dealt with a

class of cases . . . It was quite impossible to imagine where any young lady could get such an idea . . .

Miss Laetitia Rowly recognised that she had a difficult task before her, for she was by now accustomed to

She made a careful toilet before driving over to Normanstand. Her wearing her best bonnet was a

circumstance not unattended with dread for some one. Behold her then, sailing into the great drawingroom

at Normanstand with her mind so firmly fixed on the task before her as to be oblivious of minor

considerations. She was so fond of Stephen, and admired so truly her many beauties and fine qualities, that

she was secure and without flaw in her purpose. Stephen was in danger, and though she doubted if she would

be able to effect any change, she was determined that at least she should not go into danger with her eyes

Stephen entered hastily and ran to her. She loved her greataunt; really and truly loved her. And indeed it

would have been strange if she had not, for from the earliest hour which she could recollect she had received

from her nothing but the truest, fondest affection. Moreover she deeply respected the old lady, her truth, her

resolution, her kindliness, her genuine commonsense ability. Stephen always felt safe with her aunt. In the

presence of others she might now and again have a qualm or a doubt; but not with her. There was an abiding

calm in her love, answering love realised and respected. Her long and intimate knowledge of Laetitia made

her aware of her moods. She could read the signs of them. She knew well the meaning of the bonnet which

actually seemed to quiver as though it had a sentience of its own. She knew well the cause of her aunt's

perturbation; the pain which must be caused to her was perhaps the point of most resistance in herselfshe

having made up her mind to her new experience. All she could do would be to try to reconcile her by the

assurance of good intention; by reason, and by sweetness of manner. When she had kissed her and sat beside

her, holding her hand after her pretty way, she, seeing the elder woman somewhat at a loss, opened the

'Yes! yes, Stephen. Oh! my dear child, what is this I hear about your going to Petty Sessions with your

'Oh, that! Why, Auntie dear, you must not let that trouble you. It is all right. That is necessary!'

'Necessary!' the old lady's figure grew rigid and her voice was loud and high. 'Necessary for a young lady to

go to a court house. To hear low people speaking of low crimes. To listen to cases of the most shocking kind;

cases of low immorality; cases of a kind, of a nature of aaclass that you are not supposed to know

anything about. Really, Stephen! . . . ' She was drawing away her hand in indignation. But Stephen held it

'That is just it, Auntie. I am so ignorant that I feel I should know more of the lives of those very people!' Miss

'Ignorant! Of course you are ignorant. That is what you ought to be. Isn't it what we have all been devoting

ourselves to effect ever since you were born? Read your third chapter of Genesis and remember what came of

'I think the Tree of Knowledge must have been an orange tree.' The old lady looked up, her interest aroused:

'Because ever since Eden other brides have worn its blossom!' Her tone was demure. Miss Rowly looked

'H'm!' she said, and was silent. Stephen seized the opportunity to put her own case:

'Auntie dear, you must forgive me! You really must, for my heart is set on this. I assure you I am not doing it

merely to please myself. I have thought over the whole matter. Father has always wished me to be in a

positiona position of knowledge and experienceto manage Normanstand if I should ever succeed him.

From the earliest time I can remember he has always kept this before me, and though of course I did not at

first understand what it meant, I have seemed in the last few years to know better. Accordingly I learned all

sorts of things under his care, and sometimes even without his help. I have studied the estate map, and I have

been over the estate books and read some of the leases and all such matters which they deal with in the estate

office. This only told me the bones of the thing. I wanted to know more of our people; and so I made a point

of going now and again to each house that we own. Of seeing the people and talking with them familiarly; as

familiarly as they would let me, and indeed so far as was possible considering my position. For, Auntie dear,

I soon began to learnto learn in a way there was no mistakingwhat my position is. And so I want to get

to know more of their ordinary lives; the darker as well as the lighter side. I would like to do them good. I can

see how my dear daddy has always been a sort of power to help them, and I would like to carry on his work;

Her aunt had been listening with growing interest, and with growing respect too, for she realised the intense

earnestness which lay behind the girl's words and her immediate purpose. Her voice and manner were both

'But, my dear, surely it is not necessary to go into the Court to know these things. The results of each case

'That is just it, Auntie,' she answered quickly. 'The magistrates have to hear the two sides of the case before

even they can make up their minds. I want to hear both sides, too! If people are guilty, I want to know the

cause of their guilt. If they are innocent, I want to know what the circumstances can be which make

innocence look like guilt. In my own daily life I may be in the way of just such judgments; and surely it is

Again she paused; there rose before her mind that conversation in the churchyard when Harold had said that

Miss Rowly reflected too. She was becoming convinced that in principle the girl was right. But the details

were repugnant as ever to her; concentrating her mind on the point where she felt the ground firm under her,

'The more need to know of sordid things; if sordidness plays so important a part in the tragedy of their lives!'

'But there are cases which are not within a woman's province. Cases that touch sin . . . '

'What kind of sin do you mean? Surely all wrongdoing is sin!' The old lady was embarrassed. Not by the

fact, for she had been for too many years the mistress of a great household not to know something of the

subject on which she spoke, but that she had to speak of such a matter to the young girl whom she so loved.

'The sin, my dear, of . . . of woman's wrongdoing . . . as woman . . . of motherhood, without marriage!' All

'Why, Auntie,' she spoke out at once, 'you yourself show the want of the very experience I look for!'

'How? what?' asked the old lady amazed and bristling. Stephen took her hand and held it affectionately as she

'You speak of a woman's wrongdoing, when surely it is a man's as well. There does not seem to be blame

for him who is the more guilty. Only for poor women! . . . And, Auntie dear, it is such poor women that I

should like to help . . . Not when it is too late, but before! But how can I help unless I know? Good girls

cannot tell me, and good women won't! You yourself, Auntie, didn't want to speak on the subject; even to

'But, my dear child, these are not things for unmarried women. I never speak of them myself except with

'And yet you are unmarried! Oh, Auntie dear, I did not and I do not mean to be offensive, or to hurt you in

any way. I know, dear, your goodness and your kindness to all. But you limit yourself to one side!' The elder

'The punishment side. I want to know the cause of that which brings the punishment. There surely is some

cross road in a girl's life where the ways part. I want to stand there if I can, with warning in one hand and help

in the other. Oh! Auntie, Auntie, can't you see that my heart is in this . . . These are our people; Daddy says

they are to be my people; and I want to know their lives right through; to understand their wants, and their

temptations, and their weakness. Bad and good, whatever it be, I must know it all; or I shall be working in the

As she spoke she looked glorified. The afternoon autumn sun shone full through the great window and

lighted her up till she looked like a spirit. Lighted her white diaphanous dress till it seemed to take shape as

an ethereal robe; lighted her red hair till it looked like a celestial crown; lighted her great dark eyes till their

The heart of the old woman who loved her best heaved, and her bosom swelled with pride. Instinctively she

'Oh, you noble, beautiful creature! Of course you are right, and your way is God's way!' With tears that rained

down her furrowed cheeks, she put her arms round the girl and kissed her fondly. Still holding her in her arms

she gave her the gentle counsel which was the aftermath of her moment of inspiration.

'But Stephen dear, do be careful! Knowledge is a twoedged sword, and it is apt to side with pride.

Remember what was the last temptation of the serpent to Eve: "Your eyes shall be opened, and ye shall be as

'I shall be very careful,' she said gravely; and then added as if by an afterthought, 'of course you understand

'Don't you think, dear, that Eve's object was not so much the acquisition of knowledge as the gratification of

'That may be,' said the elder lady in a doubtful tone; 'but my dear, who is to enlighten us as to which is

which? We are apt in such matters to deceive ourselves. The more we know, the better are we able to deceive

others; and the better we are able to deceive others the better we are able to deceive ourselves. As I tell you,

'True!' said Stephen reflectively. Long after her aunt had gone she sat thinking.

Once again did Miss Rowly try to restrain Stephen from a project. This was when a little later she wished to

go for a few days to the University Mission House in the East end of London. Ever since her visit to Oxford

she had kept up a correspondence with her mother's old friend. It was this lady's habit to spend a part of

vacation in the Mission; and Stephen had had much correspondence with her regarding the work. At last she

wrote that if she might, she would like to come and see for herself. The answer was a cordial invitation,

armed with which she asked her father to allow her to go. He at once assented. He had been watching keenly

the development of her character, and had seen with pride and satisfaction that as time went on she seemed to

acquire greater resolution, larger self dependence. She was becoming more and more of his ideal. Without

losing any of her womanhood, she was beginning to look at things more from a man's point of view than is

When she returned at the end of a week she was full of new gravity. After a while this so far changed that her

old lighter moods began to have their place, but it seemed that she never lost, and that she never would lose,

The effect of the mental working was shown by a remark made by Harold when home on his next college

vacation. He had been entering with her on a discussion of an episode on the estate:

At the moment she was chagrined by the remark, though she accepted it in silence; but later, when she had

thought the matter over, she took from it infinite pleasure. This was indeed to share man's ideas and to think

with the workings of man's mind. It encouraged her to further and larger ideas, and to a greater toleration than

Of all those who loved her, none seemed to understand so fully as Laetitia Rowly the change in her mental

attitude, or rather the development of it. Now and again she tried to deflect or modify certain coming forces,

so that the educational process in which she had always had a part would continue in the right direction. But

she generally found that the girl had been over the ground so thoroughly that she was able to defend her

position. Once, when she had ventured to remonstrate with her regarding her attitude of woman's equality

with man, she felt as if Stephen's barque was indeed entering on dangerous seas. The occasion had arisen

thus: Stephen had been what her aunt had stigmatised as 'laying down the law' with regard to the position a

'But what if a woman does not get the opportunity of being married?' Stephen looked at her a moment before

'It is a woman's fault if she does not get the opportunity!' The old lady smiled as she answered:

'Her fault? My dear, what if no man asks her?' This seemed to her own mind a poser.

'Still her own fault! Why doesn't she ask him?' Her aunt's lorgnon was dropped in horrified amazement.

'Certainly! Why shouldn't she? Marriage is a union. As it is in the eye of the law a civil contract, either party

to it should be at liberty to originate the matter. If a woman is not free to think of a man in all ways, how is

she to judge of the suitability of their union? And if she is free in theory, why not free to undertake if

necessary the initiative in a matter so momentous to herself?' The old lady actually groaned and wrung her

hands; she was horrified at such sentiments. They were daring enough to think; but to put them in words! . . .

'Oh, my dear, my dear!' she moaned, 'be careful what you say. Some one might hear you who would not

understand, as I do, that you are talking theory.' Stephen's habit of thought stood to her here. She saw that her

aunt was distressed, and as she did not wish to pain her unduly, was willing to divert the immediate channel

of her fear. She took the hand which lay in her lap and held it firmly whilst she smiled in the loving old eyes.

'Of course, Auntie dear, it is theory. But still it is a theory which I hold very strongly!' . . . Here a thought

'Did you ever . . . How many proposals did you have, Auntie?' The old lady smiled; her thoughts were already

'Oh yes, you do, Auntie! No woman ever forgets that, no matter what else she may or may not remember!

'There is no need to specify, my dear. Let it be at this, that there were more than you could count on your

'And why did you refuse them?' The tone was wheedling, and the elder woman loved to hear it. Wheedling is

'Ah! my dear, that is a different matter. That is the real tragedy of a woman's life.' In flooding reminiscent

'To love; and be helpless! To wait, and wait, and wait; with your heart all aflame! To hope, and hope; till time

seems to have passed away, and all the world to stand still on your hopeless misery! To know that a word

might open up Heaven; and yet to have to remain mute! To keep back the glances that could enlighten; to

modulate the tones that might betray! To see all you hoped for passing away . . . to another! . . . '

'I understand! Isn't it wrong, Auntie, that there should be such tragedies? Should not that glance be given?

Why should that tone be checked? Why should one be mute when a single word might, would, avert the

tragedy? Is it not possible, Auntie, that there is something wrong in our social system when such things can

She looked remorseless as well as irresistible in the pride of her youthful strength as with eyes that blazed,

not flashing as in passion but with a steady light that seemed to burn, she continued:

'Some day women must learn their own strength, as well as they have learned their own weakness. They are

taught this latter from their cradles up; but no one ever seems to teach them wherein their power lies. They

have to learn this for themselves; and the process and the result of the selfteaching are not good. In the

University Settlement I learned much that made my heart ache; but out of it there seemed some lesson for

good.' She paused; and her aunt, wishing to keep the subject towards higher things, asked:

'And that lesson, Stephen dear?' The blazing eyes turned to her so that she was stirred by them as the answer

'It is bad women who seem to know men best, and to be able to influence them most. They can make men

come and go at will. They can turn and twist and mould them as they choose. And THEY never hesitate to

speak their own wishes; to ask for what they want. There are no tragedies, of the negative kind, in THEIR

lives. Their tragedies have come and gone already; and their power remains. Why should good women leave

power to such as they? Why should good women's lives be wrecked for a convention? Why in the blind

following of some society fetish should life lose its charm, its possibilities? Why should love eat its heart out,

in vain? The time will come when women will not be afraid to speak to men, as they should speak, as free

and equal. Surely if a woman is to be the equal and lifelong companion of a man, the closest to himnay,

the only one really close to him: the mother of his childrenshe should be free at the very outset to show her

inclination to him just as he would to her. Don't be frightened, Auntie dear; your eyes are paining me! . . .

There! perhaps I said too much. But after all it is only theory. Take for your comfort, Auntie dear, that I am

free an heartwhole. You need not fear for me; I can see what your dear eyes tell me. Yes! I am very young;

perhaps too young to think such things. But I have thought of them. Thought them all over in every way and

She stopped suddenly; bending over, she took the old lady in her arms and kissed her fondly several times,

holding her tight. Then, as suddenly releasing her, she ran away before she could say a word.

When Harold took his degree, Stephen's father took her to Cambridge. She enjoyed the trip very much;

When they had returned to Normanstand, the Squire took an early opportunity of bringing Harold alone into

his study. He spoke to him with what in a very young man would have seemed diffidence:

'I have been thinking, Harold, that the time has come when you should be altogether your own master. I am

more than pleased, my boy, with the way you have gone through college; it is, I am sure, just as your dear

father would have wished it, and as it would have pleased him best.' He paused, and Harold said in a low

'I tried hard, sir, to do what I thought he would like; and what you would.' The Squire went on more

'I know that, my boy! I know that well. And I can tell you that it is not the least of the pleasures we have all

had in your success, how you have justified yourself. You have won many honours in the schools, and you

have kept the reputation as an athlete which your father was so proud of. Well, I suppose in the natural order

of things you would go into a profession; and of course if you so desire you can do that. But if you can see

your way to it I would rather that you stayed here. My house is your home as long as I live; but I don't wish

you to feel in any way dependent. I want you to stay here if you will; but to do it just because you wish to. To

this end I have made over to you the estate at Camp which was my father's gift to me when I came of age. It

is not a very large one; but it will give you a nice position of your own, and a comfortable income. And with

it goes my blessing, my dear boy. Take it as a gift from your father and myself!'

Harold was much moved, not only by the act itself but by the gracious way of doing it. There were tears in

his eyes as he wrung the Squire's hand; his voice thrilled with feeling as he said:

'Your many goodnesses to my father's son, sir, will, I hope, be justified by his love and loyalty. If I don't say

much it is because I do not feel quite master of myself. I shall try to show in time, as I cannot say it all at

Harold continued to live at Normanstand. The house at Camp was in reality a charming cottage. A couple of

servants were installed, and now and again he stayed there for a few days as he wished to get accustomed to

the place. In a couple of months every one accepted the order of things; and life at Normanstand went on

much as it had done before Harold had gone to college. There was a man in the house now instead of a boy:

that was all. Stephen too was beginning to be a young woman, but the relative positions were the same as

they had been. Her growth did not seem to make an ostensible difference to any one. The one who might

have noticed it most, Mrs. Jarrold, had died during the last year of Harold's life at college.

When the day came for the quarterly meeting of the magistrates of the county of Norcester, Squire Rowly

arranged as usual to drive Squire Norman. This had been their habit for good many years. The two men

usually liked to talk over the meeting as they returned home together. It was a beautiful morning for a drive,

and when Rowly came flying up the avenue in his Tcart with three magnificent bays, Stephen ran out on the

top of the steps to see him draw up. Rowly was a fine whip, and his horses felt it. Squire Norman was ready,

and, after a kiss from Stephen, climbed into the high cart. The men raised their hats and waved goodbye. A

word from Rowly; with a bound the horses were off. Stephen stood looking at them delighted; all was so

sunny, so bright, so happy. The world was so full of life and happiness today that it seemed as if it would

Harold, later on that morning, was to go into Norcester also; so Stephen with a lonely day before her set

herself to take up loose ends of all sorts of little personal matters. They would all meet at dinner as Rowly

Harold left the club in good time to ride home to dinner. As he passed the County Hotel he stopped to ask if

Squire Norman had left; and was told that he had started only a short time before with Squire Rowly in his

Tcart. He rode on fast, thinking that perhaps he might overtake them and ride on with them. But the bays

knew their work, and did it. They kept their start; it was only at the top of the North hill, five miles out of

Norcester, that he saw them in the distance, flying along the level road. He knew he would not now overtake

The Norcester highroad, when it has passed the village of Brackling, turns away to the right behind the great

clump of oaks. From this the road twists to the left again, making a double curve, and then runs to Norling

Parva in a clear stretch of some miles before reaching the sharp turn down the hill which is marked

'Dangerous to Cyclists.' From the latter village branches the byroad over the hill which is the short cut to

When Harold turned the corner under the shadow of the oaks he saw a belated roadmender, surrounded by

some gaping peasants, pointing excitedly in the distance. The man, who of course knew him, called to him to

'It be Squire Rowly's bays which have run away with him. Three on 'em, all in a row and comin' like the

wind. Squire he had his reins all right, but they 'osses didn't seem to mind 'un. They was fair mad and bolted.

The leader he had got frightened at the heap o' stones theer, an' the others took scare from him.'

Without a word Harold shook his reins and touched the horse with his whip. The animal seemed to

understand and sprang forward, covering the ground at a terrific pace. Harold was not given to alarms, but

here might be serious danger. Three spirited horses in a light cart made for pace, all bolting in fright, might

end any moment in calamity. Never in his life did he ride faster than on the road to Norling Parva. Far ahead

of him he could see at the turn, now and again, a figure running. Something had happened. His heart grew

cold: he knew as well as though he had seen it, the high cart swaying on one wheel round the corner as the

maddened horses tore on their way; the one jerk too much, and the momentary reaction in the crash! . . .

It was all too true. By the side of the roadway on the inner curve lay the cart on its side with broken shafts.

The horses were prancing and stamping about along the roadway not recovered from their fright. Each was

And on the grass two figures were still lying where they had been thrown out. Rowly, who had of course

been on the offside, had been thrown furthest. His head had struck the milestone that stood back on the

waste ground before the ditch. There was no need for any one to tell that his neck had been broken. The way

his head lay on one side, and the twisted, inert limbs, all told their story plainly enough.

Squire Norman lay on his back stretched out. Some one had raised him to a sitting posture and then lowered

him again, straightening his limbs. He did not therefore look so dreadful as Rowly, but there were signs of

coming death in the stertorous breathing, the ooze of blood from nostrils and ears as well as mouth. Harold

knelt down by him at once and examined him. Those who were round all knew him and stood back. He felt

Just then the local doctor, for whom some one had run, arrived in his gig. He, too, knelt beside the injured

man, a quick glance having satisfied him that there was only one patient requiring his care. Harold stood up

and waited. The doctor looked up, shaking his head. Harold could hardly suppress the groan which was rising

'I shall go at once!' answered Harold, turning to jump on his horse, which was held on the road.

'No, no!' said the doctor, 'send some one else. You had better stay here yourself. He may become conscious

just before the end; and he may want to say something!' It seemed to Harold that a great bell was sounding in

his ears.'Before the end! Good God! Poor Stephen!' . . . But this was no time for sorrow, or for thinking of

it. That would come later. All that was possible must be done; and to do it required a cool head. He called to

'Get on my horse and ride as fast as you can to Normanstand. Send at once to Miss Norman and tell her that

she is wanted instantly. Tell her that there has been an accident; that her father is alive, but that she must

come at once without a moment's delay. She had better ride my horse back as it will save time. She will

The lad sprang to the saddle, and was off in a flash. Whilst Harold was speaking, the doctor had told the men,

who, accustomed to hunting accidents, had taken a gate from its hinges and held it in readiness, to bring it

closer. Then under his direction the Squire was placed on the gate. The nearest house was only about a

hundred yards away; and thither they bore him. He was lifted on a bed, and then the doctor made fuller

'I greatly fear she cannot arrive in time. That bleeding from the ears means rupture of the brain. It is relieving

the pressure, however, and he may recover consciousness before he dies. You had better be close to him.

There is at present nothing that can be done. If he becomes conscious at all it will be suddenly. He will

All at once Norman opened his eyes, and seeing him said quietly, as he looked around:

'Sent for Stephen! Am I about to die?' His voice, though feeble, was grave and even.

'Alas! sir, I fear so!' He sank on his knees as he spoke and took him, his second father, in his arms.

'Then listen to me! If I don't see Stephen, give her my love and blessing! Say that with my last breath I prayed

'I will! I will!' He could hardly speak for the emotion which was choking him. Then the voice went on, but

'And Harold, my dear boy, you will look after her, will you not? Guard her and cherish her, as if you were

'I will. So help me God!' There was a pause of a few seconds which seemed an interminable time. Then in a

'And Haroldbend downI must whisper! If it should be that in time you and Stephen should find that

there is another affection between you, remember that I sanction itwith my dying breath. But give her

time! I trust that to you! She is young, and the world is all before her. Let her choose . . . and be loyal to her if

it is another! It may be a hard task, but I trust you, Harold. God bless you, my other son!' He rose slightly and

listened. Harold's heart leaped. The swift hoofstrokes of a galloping horse were heard . . . The father spoke

'There she is! That is my brave girl! God grant that she may be in time. I know what it will mean to her

A quick patter of feet along the passage and then Stephen half dressed with a peignoir thrown over her, swept

into the room. With the soft agility of a leopard she threw herself on her knees beside her father and put her

arms round him. The dying man motioned to Harold to raise him. When this had been done he laid his hand

'Let now, O Lord, Thy servant depart in peace! God bless and keep you, my dear child! You have been all

your life a joy and a delight to me! I shall tell your mother when I meet her all that you have been to me!

His head fell over, and Harold, laying him gently down, knelt beside Stephen. He put his arm round her; and

she, turning to him, laid her hand on his breast and sobbed as though her heart would break.

The bodies of the two squires were brought to Normanstand. Rowly had long ago said that if he died

unmarried he would like to lie beside his halfsister, and that it was fitting that, as Stephen would be the new

Squire of Norwood, her dust should in time lie by his. When the terrible news of her nephew's and of

Norman's death came to Norwood, Miss Laetitia hurried off to Normanstand as fast as the horses could bring

Her coming was an inexpressible comfort to Stephen. After the first overwhelming burst of grief she had

settled into an acute despair. Of course she had been helped by the fact that Harold had been with her, and she

was grateful for that too. But it did not live in her memory of gratitude in the same way. Of course Harold

From that hour Miss Rowly stayed at Normanstand. Stephen wanted her; and she wanted to be with Stephen.

After the funeral Harold, with an instinctive delicacy of feeling, had gone to live in his own house; but he

came to Normanstand every day. Stephen had so long been accustomed to consulting him about everything

that there was no perceptible change in their relations. Even necessary business to be done did not come as a

And so things went on outwardly at Normanstand very much as they had done before the coming of the

tragedy. But for a long time Stephen had occasional bursts of grief which to witness was positive anguish to

Then her duty towards her neighbours became a sort of passion. She did not spare herself by day or by night.

With swift intuition she grasped the needs of any ill case which came before her, and with swift movement

Her aunt saw and approved. Stephen, she felt, was in this way truly fulfilling her duty as a woman. The old

lady began to secretly hope, and almost to believe, that she had laid aside those theories whose carrying into

But theories do not die so easily. It is from theory that practice takes its real strength, as well as its direction.

And did the older woman whose life had been bound under more orderly restraint but know, Stephen was

The months since her father's death spread into the second year before Stephen began to realise the loneliness

of her life. She had no companion now but her aunt; and though the old lady adored her, and she returned her

love in full, the mere years between them made impossible the companionship that youth craves. Miss

Rowly's life was in the past. Stephen's was in the future. And loneliness is a feeling which comes unbidden to

Stephen felt her loneliness all round. In old days Harold was always within hail, and companionship of equal

age and understanding was available. But now his very reticence in her own interest, and by her father's

wishes, made for her pain. Harold had put his strongest restraint on himself, and in his own way suffered a

sort of silent martyrdom. He loved Stephen with every fibre of his being. Day by day he came toward her

with eager step; day by day he left her with a pang that made his heart ache and seemed to turn the brightness

of the day to gloom. Night by night he tossed for hours thinking, thinking, wondering if the time would ever

come when her kisses would be his . . . But the tortures and terrors of the night had their effect on his days. It

seemed as if the mere act of thinking, of longing, gave him ever renewed selfcontrol, so that he was able in

his bearing to carry out the task he had undertaken: to give Stephen time to choose a mate for herself. Herein

lay his weaknessa weakness coming from his want of knowledge of the world of women. Had he ever had

a love affair, be it never so mild a one, he would have known that love requires a positive expression. It is not

sufficient to sigh, and wish, and hope, and long, all to oneself. Stephen felt instinctively that his guarded

speech and manner were due to the coldnessor rather the trusting abated worshipof the brotherhood to

which she had been always accustomed. At the time when new forces were manifesting and expanding

themselves within her; when her growing instincts, cultivated by the senses and the passions of young nature,

made her aware of other forces, new and old, expanding themselves outside her; at the time when the heart of

a girl is eager for new impressions and new expansions, and the calls of sex are working within her all

unconsciously, Harold, to whom her heart would probably have been the first to turn, made himself in his

Thus Stephen, whilst feeling that the vague desires of budding womanhood were trembling within her, had

neither thought nor knowledge of their character or their ultimate tendency. She would have been shocked,

horrified, had that logical process, which she applied so freely to less personal matters, been used upon her

own intimate nature. In her case logic would of course act within a certain range; and as logic is a conscious

intellectual process, she became aware that her objective was man. Manin the abstract. 'Man,' not 'a man.'

Beyond that, she could not go. It is not too much to say that she did not ever, even in her most errant thought,

apply her reasoning, or even dream of its following out either the duties, the responsibilities, or the

consequences of having a husband. She had a vague longing for younger companionship, and of the kind

One only of her male acquaintances did not at this time appear. Leonard Everard, who had some time ago

finished his course at college, was living partly in London and partly on the Continent. His very absence

made him of added interest to his old playfellow. The image of his grace and comeliness, of his dominance

and masculine force, early impressed on her mind, began to compare favourably with the actualities of her

other friends; those of them at least who were within the circle of her personal interest. 'Absence makes the

heart grow fonder.' In Stephen's mind had been but a very mustardseed of fondness. But new lights were

breaking for her; and all of them, in greater or lesser degree, shone in turn on the memory of the pretty

selfwilled dominant boy, who now grew larger and more masculine in stature under the instance of each

successive light. Stephen knew the others fairly well through and through. The usual mixture of good and

evil, of strength and weakness, of purpose and vacillation, was quite within the scope of her own feeling and

of her observation. But this man was something of a problem to her; and, as such, had a prominence in her

In movement of some form is life; and even ideas grow when the pulses beat and thought quickens. Stephen

had long had in her mind the idea of sexual equality. For a long time, in deference to her aunt's feelings, she

had not spoken of it; for the old lady winced in general under any suggestion of a breach of convention. But

though her outward expression being thus curbed had helped to suppress or minimise the opportunities of

inward thought, the idea had never left her. Now, when sex was, consciously or unconsciously, a dominating

factor in her thoughts, the dormant idea woke to new life. She had held that if men and women were equal the

woman should have equal rights and opportunities as the man. It had been, she believed, an absurd

conventional rule that such a thing as a proposal of marriage should be entirely the prerogative of man.

And then came to her, as it ever does to woman, opportunity. Opportunity, the cruelest, most remorseless,

most unsparing, subtlest foe that womanhood has. Here was an opportunity for her to test her own theory; to

prove to herself, and others, that she was right. They'they' being the impersonal opponents of, or

unbelievers in, her theorywould see that a woman could propose as well as a man; and that the result

It is a part of selfsatisfaction, and perhaps not the least dangerous part of it, that it has an increasing or

multiplying power of its own. The desire to do increases the power to do; and desire and power united find

new ways for the exercise of strength. Up to now Stephen's inclination towards Leonard had been vague,

nebulous; but now that theory showed a way to its utilisation it forthwith began to become, first definite, then

concrete, then substantial. When once the idea had become a possibility, the mere passing of time did the rest.

Her aunt sawand misunderstood. The lesson of her own youth had not been applied; not even of those long

hours and days and weeks at which she hinted when she had spoken of the tragedy of life which by inference

was her own tragedy: 'to love and to be helpless. To wait, and wait, and wait, with your heart all aflame!'

Stephen recognised her aunt's concern for her health in time to protect herself from the curiosity of her

lovingkindness. Her youth and readiness and adaptability, and that power of playacting which we all have

within us and of which she had her share, stood to her. With but little effort, based on a seeming acquiescence

in her aunt's views, she succeeded in convincing the old lady that her incipient feverish cold had already

reached its crisis and was passing away. But she had gained certain knowledge in the playing of her little part.

All this selfprotective instinct was new; for good or ill she had advanced one more step in not only the

knowledge but the power of duplicity which is so necessary in the conventional life of a woman.

Oh! did we but see! Could we but see! Here was a woman, dowered in her youth with all the goods and

graces in the power of the gods to bestow, who fought against convention; and who yet found in convention

For nearly two weeks Stephen's resolution was held motionless, neither advancing nor receding; it was

veritably the slack water of her resolution. She was afraid to go on. Not afraid in sense of fear as it is usually

understood, but with the opposition of virginal instincts; those instincts which are natural, but whose uses as

The next few days saw Stephen abnormally restless. She had fairly well made up her mind to test her theory

of equality of the sexes by asking Leonard Everard to marry her; but her difficulty was as to the doing it. She

knew well that it would not do to depend on a chance meeting for an opportunity. After all, the matter was

too serious to allow of the possibility of levity. There were times when she thought she would write to him

and make her proffer of affection in this way; but on every occasion when such thought recurred it was

forthwith instantly abandoned. During the last few days, however, she became more reconciled to even this

method of procedure. The fever of growth was unabated. At last came an evening which she had all to

herself. Miss Laetitia was going over to Norwood to look after matters there, and would remain the night.

Stephen saw in her absence an opportunity for thought and action, and said that, having a headache, she

would remain at home. Her aunt offered to postpone her visit. But she would not hear of it; and so she had the

After dinner in her boudoir she set herself to the composition of a letter to Leonard which would convey at

least something of her feelings and wishes towards him. In the depths of her heart, which now and again beat

furiously, she had a secret hope that when once the idea was broached Leonard would do the rest. And as she

thought of that 'rest' a languorous dreaminess came upon her. She thought how he would come to her full of

love, of yearning passion; how she would try to keep towards him, at first, an independent front which would

preserve her secret anxiety until the time should come when she might yield herself to his arms and tell him

all. For hours she wrote letter after letter, destroying them as quickly as she wrote, as she found that she had

but swayed pendulum fashion between overtness and coldness. Some of the letters were so chilly in tone that

she felt they would defeat their own object. Others were so frankly warm in the expression ofregard she

called it, that with burning blushes she destroyed them at once at the candle before her.

At last she made up her mind. Just as she had done when a baby she realised that the opposing forces were

too strong for her; she gave in gracefully. It would not do to deal directly in a letter with the matter in hand.

She would write to Leonard merely asking him to see her. Then, when they were together without fear of

'I shall not be in a hurry. I must sleep on it before I write!' She took up the novel she had been reading in the

That night she did not sleep. It was not that she was agitated. Indeed, she was more at ease than she had been

for days; she had after much anxious thought made up her mind to a definite course of action. Therefore her

sleeplessness was not painful. It was rather that she did not want to sleep, than that she could not. She lay

still, thinking, thinking; dreaming such dreams as are the occasions of sanctified privacy to her age and sex.

In the morning she was no worse for her vigil. When at luncheontime Aunt Laetitia had returned she went

into all the little matters of which she had to report. It was after teatime when she found herself alone, and

with leisure to attend to what was, she felt, directly her own affair. During the night she had made up her

mind exactly what to say to Leonard; and as her specific resolution bore the test of daylight she was satisfied.

The opening words had in their inception caused her some concern; but after hours of thought she had come

to the conclusion that to address, under the circumstance, the recipient of the letter as 'Dear Mr. Everard'

would hardly do. The only possible justification of her unconventional act was that there existed already a

friendship, an intimacy of years, since childhood; that there were already between them knowledge and

understanding of each other; that what she was doing, and about to do, was but a further step in a series of

She thought it better to send by post rather than messenger, as the latter did away with all privacy with regard

'DEAR LEONARD,Would it be convenient for you to meet me tomorrow, Tuesday, at halfpast twelve

o'clock on the top of Caester Hill? I want to speak about a matter that may have some interest to you, and it

will be more private there than in the house. Also it will be cooler in the shade on the hilltop.

Having posted the letter she went about the usual routine of her life at Normanstand, and no occasion of

In her room that night when she had sent away her maid, she sat down to think, and all the misgivings of the

'I am free to do as I like. I am my own mistress; and I am doing nothing that is wrong. Even if it is

unconventional, what of that? God knows there are enough conventions in the world that are wrong,

hopelessly, unalterably wrong. After all, who are the people who are most bound by convention? Those who

call themselves "smart!" If Convention is the god of the smart set, then it is about time that honest people

Leonard received the letter at breakfasttime. He did not give it any special attention, as he had other letters

at the same time, some of which were, if less pleasant, of more immediate importance. He had of late been

bombarded with dunning letters from tradesmen; for during his University life, and ever since, he had run

into debt. The moderate allowance his father made him he had treated as cash for incidental expenses, but

everything else had been on credit. Indeed he was beginning to get seriously alarmed about the future, for his

father, who had paid his debts once, and at a time when they were by comparison inconsiderable, had said

that he would not under any circumstances pay others. He was not sorry, therefore, for an opportunity of

getting away for a few hours from home; from himself from anxieties, possibilities. The morning was a

sweltering one, and he grumbled to himself as he set out on his journey through the woods.

Stephen rose fresh and in good spirits, despite her sleepless night. When youth and strength are to the fore, a

night's sleep is not of much account, for the system once braced up is not allowed to slacken. It was a notable

sign of her strong nature that she was not even impatient, but waited with calm fixity the hour at which she

had asked Leonard Everard to meet her. It is true that as the time grew closer her nerve was less marked. And

just before it she was a girl and nothing more; with all girl's diffidence, a girl's self distrust, a girl's

In the more purely personal aspect of her enterprise Stephen's effort was more conscious. It is hardly possible

for a pretty woman to seek in her study of perfection the aid of her mirror and to be unconscious of her aims.

There must certainly be at least one dominant purpose: the achievement of success. Stephen did not attempt

to deny her own beauty; on the contrary she gave it the fullest scope. There was a certain triumph in her

glance as she took her last look in her mirror; a gratification of her wish to show herself in the best way

It may be that there is a companionship in a mirror, especially to a woman; that the reflection of oneself is an

emboldening presence, a personality which is better than the actuality of an unvalued stranger. Certainly,

when Stephen closed the door and stood in the wainscoted passage, which was only dimly lit by the high

Probably for the first time in her life, as she left the shade of the long passage and came out on the staircase

flooded with the light of the noonday sun, Stephen felt that she was a girl'girl' standing as some sort of

synonym for weakness, pretended or actual. Fear, in whatever form or degree it may come, is a vital quality

and must move. It cannot stand at a fixed point; if it be not sent backward it must progress. Stephen felt this,

and, though her whole nature was repugnant to the task, forced herself to the effort of repression. It would,

she felt, have been to her a delicious pleasure to have abandoned all effort; to have sunk in the lassitude of

She turned and looked around her, as though conscious of being watched. Then, seeing that she was alone,

she went her way with settled purpose; with flashing eyes and glowing cheeksand a beating heart. A heart

all woman's since it throbbed the most with apprehension when the enemy, Man, was the objective of her

most resolute attack. She knew that she must keep moving; that she must not stop or pause; or her whole

resolution must collapse. And so she hurried on, fearful lest a chance meeting with any one might imperil her

On she went through the faint mossgreen paths; through meadows rich with flowering grasses and the many

reds of the summer wildflowers. And so up through the path cut in the natural dipping of the rock that rose

over Caester Hill and formed a strong base for the clump of great trees that made a landmark for many a mile

around. During the first part of her journey between the house and the hilltop, she tried to hold her purpose at

arm's length; it would be sufficient to face its terrors when the time had come. In the meantime the matter

was of such overwhelming importance that nothing else could take its place; all she could do was to suspend

But when she had passed through the thin belt of stunted oak and beech which hedged in the last of the lush

meadows, and caught sight of the clump of trees on the hilltop, she unconsciously braced herself as a young

regiment loses its tremors when the sight of the enemy breaks upon it. No longer her eyes fell earthward; they

were raised, and raised proudly. Stephen Norman was fixed in her intention. Like the woman of old, her feet

As she drew near the appointed place her pace grew slower and slower; the woman in her was unconsciously

manifesting itself. She would not be first in her tryst with a man. Unconsciousness, however, is not a working

quality which can be relied upon for staying power; the approach to the trystingplace brought once more

home to her the strange nature of her enterprise. She had made up her mind to it; there was no use in

deceiving herself. What she had undertaken to do was much more unconventional than being first at a

meeting. It was foolish and weak to delay. The last thought braced her up; and it was with a hurried gait,

which alone would have betrayed her to an intelligent observer, that she entered the grove.

Had Stephen been better acquainted with men and women, she would have been more satisfied with herself

for being the first at the tryst. The conventional idea, in the minds of most women and of all men, is that a

woman should never be the first. But real women, those in whom the heart beats strong, and whose blood can

leap, know better. These are the commanders of men. In them sex calls to sex, all unconsciously at first; and

Two opposite feelings strove for dominance as Stephen found herself on the hilltop, alone. One a feeling

natural enough to any one, and especially to a girl, of relief that a dreaded hour had been postponed; the other

After a few moments, however, one of the two militant thoughts became dominant: the feeling of chagrin.

With a pang she thought if she had been a man and summoned for such a purpose, how she would have

hurried to the trystingplace; how the flying of her feet would have vied with the quick rapturous beating of

her heart! With a little sigh and a blush, she remembered that Leonard did not know the purpose of the

meeting; that he was a friend almost brought up with her since boy and girl times; that he had often been

For nearly half an hour Stephen sat on the rustic seat under the shadow of the great oak, looking, half

unconscious of its beauty and yet influenced by it, over the wide landscape stretched at her feet.

In spite of her disregard of conventions, she was no fool; the instinct of wisdom was strong within her, so

strong that in many ways it ruled her conscious efforts. Had any one told her that her preparations for this

interview were made deliberately with some of the astuteness that dominated the Devil when he took Jesus to

the top of a high mountain and showed him all the kingdoms of the earth at His feet, she would have, and

with truth, denied it with indignation. Nevertheless it was a fact that she had, in all unconsciousness, chosen

for the meeting a spot which would evidence to a man, consciously or unconsciously, the desirability for his

own sake of acquiescence in her views and wishes. For all this spreading landscape was her possession,

which her husband would share. As far as the eye could reach was within the estate which she had inherited

The halfhour passed in waiting had in one way its advantages to the girl: though she was still as high strung

as ever, she acquired a larger measure of control over herself. The nervous tension, however, was so complete

physically that all her faculties were acutely awake; very early she became conscious of a distant footstep.

To Stephen's straining ears the footsteps seemed wondrous slow, and more wondrous regular; she felt

instinctively that she would have liked to have listened to a more hurried succession of less evenly marked

sounds. But notwithstanding these thoughts, and the qualms which came in their turn, the sound of the

coming feet brought great joy. For, after all, they were coming; and coming just in time to prevent the sense

of disappointment at their delay gaining firm foothold. It was only when the coming was assured that she felt

how strong had been the undercurrent of her apprehension lest they should not come at all.

Very sweet and tender and beautiful Stephen looked at this moment. The strong lines of her face were

softened by the dark fire in her eyes and the feeling which glowed in the deep blushes which mantled her

cheeks. The proudness of her bearing was no less marked than ever, but in the willowy sway of her body

there was a yielding of mere sorry pride. In all the many moods which the gods allow to good women there is

none so dear or so alluring, consciously as well as instinctively, to true men as this selfsurrender. As

Leonard drew near, Stephen sank softly into a seat, doing so with a guilty feeling of acting a part. When he

actually came into the grove he found her seemingly lost in a reverie as she gazed out over the wide expanse

in front of her. He was hot after his walk, and with something very like petulance threw himself into a cane

'What a girl you are, Stephen! dragging a fellow all the way up here. Couldn't you have fixed it down below

Strangely enough, as it seemed to her, Stephen did not dislike his tone of mastery. There was something in it

which satisfied her. The unconscious recognition of his manhood, as opposed to her womanhood, soothed her

in a peaceful way. It was easy to yield to a dominant man. She was never more womanly than when she

'It was rather unfair; but I thought you would not mind coming so far. It is so cool and delightful here; and we

can talk without being disturbed.' Leonard was lying back in his chair fanning himself with his

widebrimmed straw hat, with outstretched legs wide apart and resting on the back of his heels. He replied

'Yes, it's cool enough after the hot tramp over the fields and through the wood. It's not so good as the house,

though, in one way: a man can't get a drink here. I say, Stephen, it wouldn't be half bad if there were a shanty

put up here like those at the Grands Mulets or on the Matterhorn. There could be a tap laid on where a fellow

Before Stephen's eyes floated a momentary vision of a romantic chalet with wide verandah and big windows

looking over the landscape; a great wide stone hearth; quaint furniture made from the gnarled branches of

trees; skins on the floor; and the walls adorned with antlers, great horns, and various trophies of the chase.

And amongst them Leonard, in a picturesque suit, lolling back just as at present and smiling with a loving

look in his eyes as she handed him a great blueandwhite Munich beer mug topped with cool foam. There

'Perhaps, Leonard, there will some day be such a place here!' He seemed to grumble as he replied:

This seemed a good opening for Stephen; for the fear of the situation was again beginning to assail her, and

she felt that if she did not enter on her task at once, its difficulty might overwhelm her. She felt angry with

'Some day may meancan mean everything. Things needn't be a longer way off than we choose ourselves,

'I say, that's a good one! Do you mean to say that because I am some day to own Brindehow I can do as I like

with it at once, whilst the governor's all there, and a better life than I am any day? Unless you want me to

shoot the old man by accident when we go out on the First.' He laughed a short, unmeaning masculine laugh

which jarred somewhat on her. She did not, however, mean to be diverted from her main purpose, so she

'You know quite well, Leonard, that I don't mean anything of the kind. But there was something I wanted to

say to you, and I wished that we should be alone. Can you not guess what it is?'

Despite her resolution she turned her head; she could not meet his eyes. It cut her with a sharp pain to notice

when she turned again that he was not looking at her. He continued fanning himself with his hat as he gazed

out at the view. She felt that the critical moment of her life had come, that it was now or never as to her

'Leonard, you and I have been friends a long time. You know my views on some points, and that I think a

woman should be as free to act as a man!' She paused; words and ideas did not seem to flow with the

readiness she expected. Leonard's arrogant assurance completed the dragging her back to earth which her

'Drive on, old girl! I know you're a crank from Crankville on some subjects. Let us have it for all you're

Stephen paused. 'A crank from Crankville!'this after her nights of sleepless anxiety; after the making of the

resolution which had cost her so much, and which was now actually in process of realisation. Was it all worth

so much? why not abandon it now? . . . Abandon it! Abandon a resolution! All the obstinacy of her

natureshe classed it herself as firmnessrose in revolt. She shook her head angrily, pulled herself

'That may be! though it's not what I call myself, or what I am usually called, so far as I know. At any rate my

convictions are honest, and I am sure you will respect them as such, even if you do not share them.' She did

'It has always seemed to me that awhen a woman has to speak to a man she should do so as frankly as she

would like him to speak to her, and as freely. Leonard, II,' as she halted, a sudden idea, winged with

'I know you are in trouble about money matters. Why not let me help you?' He sat up and looked at her and

'Well, Stephen, you are a good old sort! No mistake about it. Do you mean to say you would help me to pay

'It would be a great pleasure to me, Leonard, to do anything for your good or your pleasure.'

There was a long pause; they both sat looking down at the ground. The woman's heart beat loud; she feared

that the man must hear it. She was consumed with anxiety, and with a desolating wish to be relieved from the

strain of saying more. Surely, surely Leonard could not be so blind as not to see the state of things! . . . He

would surely seize the occasion; throw aside his diffidence and relieve her! . . . His words made a momentary

The words filled her with a great shame. She felt herself a dilemma. It had been no part of her purpose to

allude his debts. Viewed in the light of what was to follow, it would seem to him that she was trying to

foreclose his affection. That could not be allowed to pass; the error must be rectified. And yet! . . . And yet

this very error must be cleared up before she could make her full wish apparent. She seemed to find herself

compelled by inexorable circumstances into an unlookedfor bluntness. In any case she must face the

situation. Her pluck did not fail her; it was with a very noble and graceful simplicity that she turned to her

'Leonard, I did not quite mean that. It would be a pleasure to me to be of that or any other service to you, if I

might be so happy! But I never meant to allude to your debts. Oh! Leonard, can't you understand! If you were

my husbandoror going to be, all such little troubles would fall away from you. But I would not for the

Her very voice failed her. She could not speak what was in her mind; she turned away, hiding in her hands

her face which fairly seemed to burn. This, she thought, was the time for a true lover's opportunity! Oh, if she

had been a man, and a woman had so appealed, how he would have sprung to her side and taken her in his

arms, and in a wild rapture of declared affection have swept away all the pain of her shame!

But she remained alone. There was no springing to her side; no rapture of declared affection; no obliteration

of her shame. She had to bear it all alone. There, in the open; under the eyes that she would fain have seen

any other phase of her distress. Her heart beat loud and fast; she waited to gain her selfcontrol.

Leonard Everard had his faults, plenty of them, and he was in truth composed of an amalgam of far baser

metals than Stephen thought; but he had been born of gentle blood and reared amongst gentlefolk. He did not

quite understand the cause or the amount of his companion's concern; but he could not but recognise her

distress. He realised that it had followed hard upon her most generous intention towards himself. He could

not, therefore, do less than try to comfort her, and he began his task in a conventional way, but with a

blundering awkwardness which was all manlike. He took her hand and held it in his; this much at any rate he

had learned in sitting on stairs or in conservatories after extra dances. He said as tenderly as he could, but

'Forgive me, Stephen! I suppose I have said or done something which I shouldn't. But I don't know what it is;

upon my honour I don't. Anyhow, I am truly sorry for it. Cheer up, old girl! I'm not your husband, you know;

Stephen took her courage a deux mains. If Leonard would not speak she must. It was manifestly impossible

Leonard, in addition to being an egotist and the very incarnation of selfishness, was a prig of the first water.

He had been reared altogether in convention. Home life and Eton and Christchurch had taught him many

things, wise as well as foolish; but had tended to fix his conviction that affairs of the heart should proceed on

adamantine lines of conventional decorum. It never even occurred to him that a lady could so far step from

the confines of convention as to take the initiative in a matter of affection. In his blind ignorance he

blundered brutally. He struck better than he knew, as, meaning only to pass safely by an awkward

'No jolly fear of that! You're too much of a boss for me!' The words and the levity with which they were

spoken struck the girl as with a whip. She turned for an instant as pale as ashes; then the red blood rushed

from her heart, and face and neck were dyed crimson. It was not a blush, it was a suffusion. In his ignorance

Leonard thought it was the former, and went on with what he considered his teasing.

'Oh yes! You know you always want to engineer a chap your own way and make him do just as you wish.

The man who has the happiness of marrying you, Stephen, will have a hard row to hoe!' His 'chaff' with its

utter want of refinement seemed to her, in her highstrung earnest condition, nothing short of brutal, and for

a few seconds produced a feeling of repellence. But it is in the nature of things that opposition of any kind

arouses the fighting instinct of a naturally dominant nature. She lost sight of her femininity in the pursuit of

her purpose; and as this was to win the man to her way of thinking, she took the logical course of answering

his argument. If Leonard Everard had purposely set himself to stimulate her efforts in this direction he could

hardly have chosen a better way. It came somewhat as a surprise to Stephen, when she heard her own words:

'I would make a good wife, Leonard! A husband whom I loved and honoured would, I think, not be unhappy!'

The sound of her own voice speaking these words, though the tone was low and tender and more

selfsuppressing by far than was her wont, seemed to peal like thunder in her own ears. Her last bolt seemed

to have sped. The blood rushed to her head, and she had to hold on to the arms of the rustic chair or she

The time seemed long before Leonard spoke again; every second seemed an age. She seemed to have grown

tired of waiting for the sound of his voice; it was with a kind of surprise that she heard him say:

As he spoke Leonard stretched himself again luxuriously, and laughed with the intellectual arrogance of a

man who is satisfied with a joke, however inferior, of his own manufacture. Stephen looked at him with a

long look which began in angerthat anger which comes from an unwonted sense of impotence, and ends in

tolerance, the intermediate step being admiration. It is the primeval curse that a woman's choice is to her

husband; and it is an important part of the teaching of a British gentlewoman, knit in the very fibres of her

being by the remorseless etiquette of a thousand years, that she be true to him. The man who has in his person

the necessary powers or graces to evoke admiration in his wife, even for a passing moment, has a stronghold

Leonard Everard was certainly good to look upon as he lolled at his ease on that summer morning. Tall,

straight, supple; a typical British gentleman of the educated class, with all parts of the body properly

As Stephen looked, the anxiety and chagrin which tormented her seemed to pass. She realised that here was a

nature different from her own, and which should be dealt with in a way unsuitable to herself; and the

conviction seemed to make the action which it necessitated more easy as well as more natural to her. Perhaps

for the first time in her life Stephen understood that it may be necessary to apply to individuals a standard of

criticism unsuitable to selfjudgment. Her recognition might have been summed up in the thought which ran

Stephen, when once she had allowed the spirit of toleration to work within her, felt immediately its calming

influence. It was with brighter thoughts and better humour that she went on with her task. A task only, it

'Leonard, tell me seriously, why do you think I gave you the trouble of coming out here?'

'You don't seem to care either, lolling like that when I am serious!' The words were acid, but the tone was soft

and friendly, familiar and genuine, putting quite a meaning of its own on them. Leonard looked at her

'I can't guess. The day's too hot, and that shanty with the drinks is not built yet.'

A quick blush leaped to Stephen's cheeks. The words were full of meaning, though the tone lacked

something; but the news was too good. She could not accept it at once; she decided to herself to wait a short

time. Ere many seconds had passed she rejoiced that she had done so as he went on:

'I hope you'll give me a say before that husband of yours comes along. He might be a blueribbonite; and it

Again a cold wave swept over her. The absolute difference of feeling between the man and herself; his levity

against her earnestness, his callous blindness to her purpose, even the commonness of his words chilled her.

For a few seconds she wavered again in her intention; but once again his comeliness and her own obstinacy

joined hands and took her back to her path. With chagrin she felt that her words almost stuck in her throat, as

'Yes, Leonard, for you and me!' She turned away; her blushes so overcame her that she could not look at him.

She stood up also. He was silent for a while; so long that the silence became intolerable, and she spoke:

'Leonard, I am waiting!' He turned round and said slowly, the absence of all emotion from his face chilling

Stephen Norman was plucky, and when she was face to face with any difficulty she was all herself. Leonard

did not look pleasant; his face was hard and there was just a suspicion of anger. Strangely enough, this last

He turned from her and stood looking out on the distant prospect. Then she felt that the blow which she had

all along secretly feared had fallen on her. But her pride as well as her obstinacy now rebelled. She would not

accept a silent answer. There must be no doubt left to torture her afterwards. She would take care that there

was no mistake. Schooling herself to her task, and pressing one hand for a moment to her side as though to

repress the beating of her heart, she came behind him and touched him tenderly on the arm.

'Leonard,' she said softly, 'are you sure there is no mistake? Do you not see that I am asking you,' she

intended to say 'to be my husband,' but she could not utter the words, they seemed to stick in her mouth, so

The moment the words were spokenthe bare, hard, naked, shameless wordsthe revulsion came. As a

lightning flash shows up the blackness of the night the appalling truth of what she had done was forced upon

her. The blood rushed to her head till cheeks and shoulders and neck seemed to burn. Covering her face with

her hands she sank back on the seat crying silently bitter tears that seemed to scald her eyes and her cheeks as

Leonard was angry. When it began to dawn upon him what was the purpose of Stephen's speech, he had been

shocked. Young men are so easily shocked by breaches of convention made by women they respect! And his

pride was hurt. Why should he have been placed in such a ridiculous position! He did not love Stephen in that

way; and she should have known it. He liked her and all that sort of thing; but what right had she to assume

that he loved her? All the weakness of his moral nature came out in his petulance. It was boyish that his eyes

filled with tears. He knew it, and that made him more angry than ever. Stephen might well have been at a loss

'What a girl you are, Stephen. You are always doing something or other to put a chap in the wrong and make

him ridiculous. I thought you were jokingnot a good joke either! Upon my soul, I don't know what I've

If Stephen had suffered the red terror before, she suffered the white terror now. It was not injured pride, it

was not humiliation, it was not fear; it was something vague and terrible that lay far deeper than any of these.

Under ordinary circumstances she would have liked to have spoken out her mind and given back as good as

she got; and even as the thoughts whirled through her brain they came in a torrent of vague vituperative

eloquence. But now her tongue was tied. Instinctively she knew that she had put it out of her power to

revenge, or even to defend herself. She was tied to the stake, and must suffer without effort and in silence.

Most humiliating of all was the thought that she must propitiate the man who had so wounded her. All love

for him had in the instant passed from her; or rather she realised fully the blank, bare truth that she had never

really loved him at all. Had she really loved him, even a blow at his hands would have been acceptable; but

She shook the feelings and thoughts from her as a bird does the water from its wings; and, with the courage

and strength and adaptability of her nature, addressed herself to the hard task which faced her in the

immediate present. With eloquent, womanly gesture she arrested the torrent of Leonard's indignation; and, as

'That will do, Leonard! It is not necessary to say any more; and I am sure you will see, later on, that at least

there was no cause for your indignation! I have done an unconventional thing, I know; and I dare say I shall

have to pay for it in humiliating bitterness of thought later on! But please remember we are all alone! This is

She rose as she concluded. The quiet dignity of her speech and bearing brought back Leonard in some way to

his sense of duty as a gentleman. He began, in a sheepish way, to make an apology:

'There is no need for pardon; the fault, if there were any, was mine alone. It was I, remember, who asked you

to come here and who introduced and conducted this melancholy business. I have asked you several things,

As she moved away, her dismissal of the subject was that of an empress to a serf. Leonard would have liked

to answer her; to have given vent to his indignation that, even when he had refused her offer, she should have

the power to treat him if he was the one refused, and to make him feel small and ridiculous in his own eyes.

There was another factor too, in his forming his conclusion of silence. He had never seen Stephen look so

well, or so attractive. He had never respected her so much as when her playfulness had turned to majestic

gravity. All the boy and girl strife of the years that had gone seemed to have passed away. The girl whom he

had played with, and bullied, and treated as frankly as though she had been a boy, had in an instant become a

When Leonard Everard parted from Stephen he did so with a feeling of dissatisfaction: firstly, with Stephen;

secondly, with things in general; thirdly, with himself. The first was definite, concrete, and immediate; he

could give himself chapter and verse for all the girl's misdoing. Everything she had said or done had touched

some nerve painfully, or had offended his feelings; and to a man of his temperament his feelings are very

'Why had she put him in such a ridiculous position? That was the worst of women. They were always

wanting him to do something he didn't want to do, or crying . . . there was that girl at Oxford.'

Here he turned his head slowly, and looked round in a furtive way, which was getting almost a habit with

him. 'A fellow should go away so that he wouldn't have to swear lies. Women were always wanting money;

or worse: to be married! Confound women; they all seemed to want him to marry them! There was the

Oxford girl, and then the Spaniard, and now Stephen!' This put his thoughts in a new channel. He wanted

money himself. Why, Stephen had spoken of it herself; had offered to pay his debts. Gad! it was a good idea

that every one round the countryside seemed to know his affairs. What a flat he had been not to accept her

offer then and there before matters had gone further. Stephen had lots of money, more than any girl could

want. But she didn't give him time to get the thing fixed . . . If he had only known beforehand what she

wanted he could have come prepared . . . that was the way with women! Always thinking of themselves! And

now? Of course she wouldn't stump up after his refusing her. What would his father say if he came to hear of

it? And he must speak to him soon, for these chaps were threatening to County Court him if he didn't pay.

Those harpies in Vere Street were quite nasty . . . ' He wondered if he could work Stephen for a loan.

He walked on through the woodland path, his pace slower than before. 'How pretty she had looked!' Here he

touched his little moustache. 'Gad! Stephen was a fine girl anyhow! If it wasn't for all that red hair . . . I like

'em dark better! . . . And her being such an infernal boss!'. . . Then he said unconsciously aloud:

'So that's what the governor meant by telling me that fortune was to be had, and had easily, if a man wasn't a

blind fool. The governor is a starchy old party. He wouldn't speak out straight and say, "Here's Stephen

Norman, the richest girl you are ever likely to meet; why don't you make up to her and marry her?" But that

would be encouraging his son to be a fortunehunter! Rot! . . . And now, just because she didn't tell me what

she wanted to speak about, or the governor didn't give me a hint so that I might be prepared, I have gone and

thrown away the chance. After all it mightn't be so bad. Stephen is a fine girl! . . . But she mustn't ever look at

me as she did when I spoke about her not obeying. I mean to be master in my own house anyhow!

'A man mustn't be tied down too tight, even if he is married. And if there's plenty of loose cash about it isn't

hard to cover up your tracks . . . I think I'd better think this thing over calmly and be ready when Stephen

comes at me again. That's the way with women. When a woman like Stephen fixes her cold grey on a man

she does not mean to go asleep over it. I daresay my best plan will be to sit tight, and let her work herself up a

bit. There's nothing like a little wholesome neglect for bringing a girl to her bearings!' . . .

'Confound her! why couldn't she have let me know that she was fond of me in some decent way, without all

that formal theatrical proposing? It's a deuced annoying thing in the long run the way the women get fond of

me. Though it's nice enough in some ways while it lasts!' he added, as if in unwilling recognition of fact. As

'Well, she's a mighty fine girl, anyhow! And if she is red I've had about enough of the black! . . . That Spanish

When he got home he found a letter from his father. He took it to his room before breaking the seal. It was at

'The enclosed has been sent to me. You will have to deal with it yourself. You know my opinion and also my

intention. The items which I have marked have been incurred since I spoke to you last about your debts. I

The enclosed was a jeweller's bill, the length and the total of which lengthened his face and drew from him a

low whistle. He held it in his hand for a long time, standing quite still and silent. Then drawing a deep breath

'That settles it! The halter is on me! It's no use squealing. If it's to be a red head on my pillow! . . . All right! I

must only make the best of it. Anyhow I'll have a good time today, even if it must be the last!'

That day Harold was in Norcester on business. It was late when he went to the club to dine. Whilst waiting

for dinner he met Leonard Everard, flushed and somewhat at uncertain in his speech. It was something of a

Leonard was, however, an old friend, and man is as a rule faithful to friends in this form of distress. So in his

kindly feeling Harold offered to drive him home, for he knew that he could thus keep him out of further

harm. Leonard thanked him in uncertain speech, and said he would be ready. In the meantime he would go

At ten o'clock Harold's dogcart was ready and he went to look for Leonard, who had not since come near him.

He found him half asleep in the smokingroom, much drunker than he had been earlier in the evening.

The drive was fairly long, so Harold made up his mind for a prolonged term of uneasiness and anxiety. The

cool nightair, whose effect was increased by the rapid motion, soon increased Leonard's somnolence and for

a while he slept soundly, his companion watching carefully lest he should sway over and fall out of the trap.

After a time he woke up, and woke in a nasty temper. He began to find fault in an incoherent way with

everything. Harold said little, just enough to prevent any cause for further grievance. Then Leonard changed

and became affectionate. This mood was a greater bore than the other, but Harold managed to bear it with

stolid indifference. Leonard was this by time making promises to do things for him, that as he was what he

called a 'goo' fell',' he might count on his help and support in the future. As Harold knew him to be a wastrel,

over head and ears in debt and with only the succession to a small estate, he did not take much heed to his

maunderings. At last the drunken man said something which startled him so much that he instinctively drew

himself together with such suddenness as to frighten the horse and almost make him rear up straight.

'Woa! Woa! Steady, boy. Gently!' he said, quieting him. Then turning to his companion said in a voice

Harold grew cold. To hear of any one marrying Stephen was to him like plunging him in a glacier stream; but

to hear her name so lightly spoken, and by such a man, was a bewildering shock which within a second set

'What do you mean?' he thundered. 'You marry Ste . . . Miss Norman! You're not worthy to untie her shoe!

You indeed! She wouldn't look on the same side of the street with a drunken brute like you! How dare you

'Brute!' said Leonard angrily, his vanity reaching inward to heart and brain through all the numbing obstacle

of his drunken flesh. 'Who's brute? Brute yourself! Tell you goin' to marry Stephen, 'cos Stephen wants it.

His words merged in a lessening gurgle, for Harold had now got him by the throat.

'Take care what you say about that lady! damn you!' he said, putting his face close the other's with eyes that

blazed. 'Don't you dare to mention her name in such a way, or you will regret it longer than you can think.

The struggle and the fierce grip on his throat sobered Leonard somewhat. Momentarily sobbed him to that

point when he could be coherent and vindictive, though not to the point where he could think ahead. Caution,

wisdom, discretion, taste, were not for him at such a moment. Guarding his throat with both hands in an

'Who are you calling swine? I tell you she loves me. She ought to know. Didn't she tell me so this very day!'

Harold drew back his arm to strike him in the face, his anger too great for words. But the other, seeing the

'Keep your hair on! You know so jolly much more than I do. I tell you that she told me this and a lot more

Harold's heart grew cold as ice. There is something in the sound of a voice speaking truthfully which a true

man can recognise. Through all Leonard's halfdrunken utterings came such a ring of truth; and Harold

recognised it. He felt that his voice was weak and hollow as he spoke, thinking it necessary to give at first a

'I'm no liar!' answered Leonard. He would like to have struck him in answer to such a word had he felt equal

to it. 'She asked me to marry her today on the hill above the house, where I went to meet her by

appointment. Here! I'll prove it to you. Read this!' Whilst he was speaking he had opened the greatcoat and

was fumbling in the breastpocket of his coat. He produced a letter which he handed to Harold, who took it

with trembling hand. By this time the reins had fallen slack and the horse was walking quietly. There was

moonlight, but not enough to read by. Harold bent over and lifted the drivinglamp next to him and turned it

so that he could read the envelope. He could hardly keep either lamp or paper still, his hand trembled so when

he saw that the direction was in Stephen's handwriting. He was handing it back when Leonard said again:

'Open it! Read it! You must do so; I tell you, you must! You called me a liar, and now must read the proof

that I am not. If you don't I shall have to ask Stephen to make you!' Before Harold's mind flashed a rapid

thought of what the girl might suffer in being asked to take part in such a quarrel. He could not himself even

act to the best advantage unless he knew the truth . . . he took the letter from the envelope and held it before

the lamp, the paper fluttering as though in a breeze from the trembling of his hand. Leonard looked on, the

dull glare of his eyes brightening with malignant pleasure as he beheld the other's concern. He owed him a

grudge, and by God he would pay it. Had he not been struckthrottledcalled a liar! . . .

As he read the words Harold's face cleared. 'Why, you infernal young scoundrel!' he said angrily, 'that letter is

nothing but a simple note from a young girl to an old friendplaymate asking him to come to see her about

some trivial thing. And you construe it into a proposal of marriage. You hound!' He held the letter whilst he

spoke, heedless of the outstretched hand of the other waiting to take it back. There was a dangerous glitter in

Leonard's eyes. He knew his man and he knew the truth of what he had himself said, and he felt, with all the

strength of his base soul, how best he could torture him. In the very strength of Harold's anger, in the

poignancy of his concern, in the relief to his soul expressed in his eyes and his voice, his antagonist realised

the jealousy of one who honoursand loves. Second by second Leonard grew more sober, and more and

'Wait!' said Harold as he put the lamp back into its socket. 'That will do presently. Take back what you said

Leonard felt that in a physical struggle for the possession of the letter he would be outmatched; but his

passion grew colder and more malignant, and in a voice that cut like the hiss of a snake he spoke slowly and

deliberately. He was all sober now; the drunkenness of brain and blood was lost, for the time, in the strength

'It is true. By God it is true; every word of it! That letter, which you want to steal, is only a proof that I went

to meet her on Caester Hill by her own appointment. When I got there, she was waiting for me. She began to

There was such conviction, such a triumphant truth in his voice, that Harold was convinced.

'Stop!' he thundered; 'stop, don't tell me anything. I don't want to hear. I don't want to know.' He covered his

face with his hands and groaned. It was not as though the speaker were a stranger, in which case he would

have been by now well on in his death by strangulation; he had known Leonard all his life, and he was a

The baleful glitter of Leonard's eyes grew brighter still. He was as a serpent when he goes to strike. In this

'I shall not stop. I shall go on and tell you all I choose. You have called me liartwice. You have also called

me other names. Now you shall hear the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. And if you won't

listen to me some one else will.' Harold groaned again; Leonard's eyes brightened still more, and the evil

smile on his face grew broader as he began more and more to feel his power. He went on to speak with a cold

deliberate malignancy, but instinctively so sticking to absolute truth that he could trust himself to hurt most.

The other listened, cold at heart and physically; his veins and arteries seemed stagnant.

'I won't tell you anything of her pretty embarrassments; how her voice fell as she pleaded; how she blushed

and stammered. Why, even I, who am used to women and their pretty ways and their passions and their

flushings and their stormy upbraidings, didn't quite know for a while what she was driving at. So at last she

spoke out pretty plainly, and told me what a fond wife she'd make me if I would only take her!' Harold said

nothing; he only rocked a little as one in pain, and his hands fell. The other went on:

'That is what happened this morning on Caester Hill under the trees where I met Stephen Norman by her own

appointment; honestly what happened. If you don't believe me now you can ask Stephen. My Stephen!' he

added in a final burst of venom as in a gleam of moonlight through a rift in the shadowy wood he saw the

ghastly pallor of Harold's face. Then he added abruptly as he held out his hand:

In the last few seconds Harold had been thinking. And as he had been thinking for the good, the safety, of

Stephen, his thoughts flew swift and true. This man's very tone, the openness of his malignity, the underlying

scorn when he spoke of her whom others worshipped, showed him the dangerthe terrible immediate

danger in which she stood from such a man. With the instinct of a mind working as truly for the woman he

loved as the needle does to the Pole he spoke quietly, throwing a sneer into the tone so as to exasperate his

'And of course you accepted. You naturally would!' The other fell into the trap. He could not help giving an

'Oh no, I didn't! Stephen is a fine girl; but she wants taking down a bit. She's too high and mighty just at

present, and wants to boss a chap too much. I mean to be master in my own house; and she's got to begin as

she will have to go on. I'll let her wait a bit: and then I'll yield by degrees to her lovemaking. She's a fine girl,

Harold listened, chilled into still and silent amazement. To hear Stephen spoken of in such a way appalled

him. She of all women! . . . Leonard never knew how near sudden death he was, as he lay back in his seat, his

eyes getting dull again and his chin sinking. The drunkenness which had been arrested by his passion was

reasserting itself. Harold saw his state in time and arrested his own movement to take him by the throat and

dash him to the ground. Even as he looked at him in scornful hate, the cart gave a lurch and Leonard fell

forward. Instinctively Harold swept an arm round him and held him up. As he did so the unconsciousness of

arrested sleep came; Leonard's chin sank on his breast and he breathed stertorously.

As he drove on, Harold's thoughts circled in a tumult. Vague ideas of extreme measures which he ought to

take flashed up and paled away. Intention revolved upon itself till its weak side was exposed, and, it was

abandoned. He could not doubt the essential truth of Leonard's statement regarding the proposal of marriage.

He did not understand this nor did he try to. His own love for the girl and the bitter awaking to its futility

made him so hopeless that in his own desolation all the mystery of her doing and the cause of it was merged

His only aim and purpose now was her safety. One thing at least he could do: by fair means or foul stop

Leonard's mouth, so that others need not know her shame! He groaned aloud as the thought came to him.

Beyond this first step he could do nothing, think of nothing as yet. And he could not take this first step till

As they went on their way Harold noticed that Leonard's breathing became more regular, as in honest sleep.

He therefore drove slowly so that the other might be sane again before they should arrive at the gate of his

Seeing him sleeping so peacefully, Harold passed a strap round him to prevent him falling from his seat.

Then he could let his thoughts run more freely. Her safety was his immediate concern; again and again he

Whilst he was pondering with set brows, he was startled by Leonard's voice at his side:

'Is that you, Harold? I must have been asleep!' Harold remained silent, amazed at the change. Leonard went

'By George! I must have been pretty well cut. I don't remember a thing after coming down the stairs of the

club and you and the hall porter helping me up here. I say, old chap, you have strapped me up all safe and

tight. It was good of you to take charge of me. I hope I haven't been a beastly nuisance!' Harold answered

'It wasn't exactly what I should have called it!' Then, after looking keenly at his companion, he said: 'Are you

'Quite.' The answer came defiantly; there was something in his questioner's tone which was militant and

aggressive. Before speaking further Harold pulled up the horse. They were now crossing bare moorland,

where anything within a mile could have easily been seen. They were quite alone, and would be undisturbed.

'You talked a good deal in your drunken sleepif sleep it was. You appeared to be awake!' Leonard

'I am going to tell you. You said something so strange and so wrong that you must answer for it. But first I

'Must! You are pretty dictatorial,' said Leonard angrily. 'Must answer for it! What do you mean?'

'What if I was? It is none of your affair. Did I say anything in what you have politely called my drunken

'I shall tell you in time. But I must know the truth as I proceed. There is some one else concerned in this, and

'Then ask away and be damned to you!' Harold's calm voice seemed to quell the other's turbulence as he went

'Was it by appointment?' Some sort of idea or halfrecollection seemed to come to Leonard; he fumbled half

'I know the answer to that question,' said Harold slowly. 'You showed me the letter yourself, and insisted on

my reading it.' Leonard's heart began to quail. He seemed to have an instinctive dread of what was coming.

'Yes!' The answer was defiantly given; Leonard began to feel that his back was against the wall.

'Who made it?' The answer was a sudden attempt at a blow, but Harold struck down his hand in time and held

'Why must you? What have you to do with it? You are not my keeper! Nor Stephen's; though I dare say you

would like to be!' The insult cooled Harold's rising passion, even whilst it wrung his heart.

'I have to do with it because I choose. You may find the answer if you wish in your last insult! Now, clearly

understand me, Leonard Everard. You know me of old; and you know that what I say I shall do. One way or

another, your life or mine may hang on your answers to meif necessary!' Leonard felt himself pulled up.

He knew well the strength and purpose of the man. With a light laugh, which he felt to be, as it was, hollow,

'Well, schoolmaster, as you are asking questions, I suppose I may as well answer them. Go on! Next!' Harold

'Did . . . Was it made at once and directly, or after some preliminary suggestion?'

'After a bit. I didn't quite understand at first what she was driving at.' There was a long pause. With an effort

'Did you accept?' Leonard hesitated. With a really wicked scowl he eyed his big, powerfullybuilt

companion, who still had his hand as in a vice. Then seeing no resource, he answered:

'I did not! That does not mean that I won't, though!' he added defiantly. To his surprise Harold suddenly

'That will do! I know now that you have spoken the truth, sober as well as drunk. You need say no more. I

know the rest. Most men even brutes like you, if there are anywould have been ashamed even to think

the things you said, said openly to me, you hound. You vile, traitorous, meansouled hound!'

'I know what you said; and I shall not forget it.' He went on, his voice deepening into a stern judicial

'Leonard Everard, you have treated vilely a lady whom I love and honour more than I love my own soul. You

have insulted her to her face and behind her back. You have made such disloyal reference to her and to her

mad act in so trusting you, and have so shown your intention of causing, intentionally or unintentionally, woe

to her, that I tell you here and now that you hold henceforth your life in your hand. If you ever mention to a

living soul what you have told me twice tonight, even though you should be then her husband; if you should

cause her harm though she should then be your wife; if you should cause her dishonour in public or in

Not a word more did he say; but, taking up the reins, drove on in silence till they arrived at the gate of

When he arrived at his own house he sent the servant to bed, and then went to his study, where he locked

himself in. Then, and then only, did he permit his thoughts to have full range. For the first time since the

blow had fallen he looked straight in the face the change in his own life. He had loved Stephen so long and so

honestly that it seemed to him now as if that love had been the very foundation of his life. He could not

remember a time when he had not loved her; away back to the time when he, a big boy, took her, a little girl,

under his care, and devoted himself to her. He had grown into the belief that so strong and so consistent an

affection, though he had never spoken it or even hinted at it or inferred it, had become a part of her life as

well as of his own. And this was the end of that dreaming! Not only did she not care for him, but found

herself with a heart so empty that she needs must propose marriage to another man! There was surely

something, more than at present he knew of or could understand, behind such an act done by her. Why should

she ask Everard to marry her? Why should she ask any man? Women didn't do such things! . . . Here he

paused. 'Women didn't do such things.' All at once there came back to him fragments of discussionsin

which Stephen had had a part, in which matters of convention had been dealt with. Out of these dim and

shattered memories came a comfort to his heart, though his brain could not as yet grasp the reason of it. He

knew that Stephen had held an unconventional idea as to the equality of the sexes. Was it possible that she

The idea stirred him so that he could not remain quiet. He stood up, and walked the room. Somehow he felt

light beginning to dawn, though he could not tell its source, or guess at the final measure of its fulness. The

fact of Stephen having done such a thing was hard to bear; but it was harder to think that she should have

done such a thing without a motive; or worse: with love of Leonard as a motive! He shuddered as he paused.

She could not love such a man. It was monstrous! And yet she had done this thing . . . 'Oh, if she had had any

one to advise her, to restrain her! But she had no mother! No mother! Poor Stephen!'

The pity of it, not for himself but for the woman he loved, overcame him. Sitting down heavily before his

Long, long after the violence of his emotion had passed, he sat there motionless, thinking with all the power

When a strong man thinks unselfishly some good may come out of it. He may blunder; but the conclusion of

his reasoning must be in the main right. So it was with Harold. He knew that he was ignorant of women, and

of woman's nature, as distinguished from man's. The only woman he had ever known well was Stephen; and

she in her youth and in her ignorance of the world and herself was hardly sufficient to supply to him data for

his present needs. To a cleanminded man of his age a woman is something divine. It is only when in later

life disappointment and experience have hammered bitter truth into his brain, that he begins to realise that

woman is not angelic but human. When he knows more, and finds that she is like himself, human and limited

but with qualities of purity and sincerity and endurance which put his own to shame, he realises how much

better a helpmate she is for man than could be the vague, unreal creations of his dreams. And then he can

thank God for His goodness that when He might have given us Angels He did give us women!

Of one thing, despite the seeming of facts, he was sure: Stephen did not love Leonard. Every fibre of his

being revolted at the thought. She of so high a nature; he of so low. She so noble; he so mean. Bah! the belief

Impossible! Herein was the manifestation of his ignorance; anything is possible where love is concerned! It

was characteristic of the man that in his mind he had abandoned, for the present at all events, his own pain.

He still loved Stephen with all the strength of his nature, but for him the selfish side ceased to exist. He was

trying to serve Stephen; and every other thought had to give way. He had been satisfied that in a manner she

loved him in some way and in some degree; and he had hoped that in the fulness of time the childish love

would ripen, so that in the end would come a mutual affection which was of the very essence of Heaven. He

believed still that she loved him in some way; but the future that was based on hope had now been wiped out

with a sudden and unsparing hand. She had actually proposed marriage to another man. If the idea of a

marriage with him had ever crossed her mind she could have had no doubt of her feeling toward another. . . .

And yet? And yet he could not believe that she loved Leonard; not even if all trains of reasoning should end

by leading to that point. One thing he had at present to accept, that whatever might be the measure of

affection Stephen might have for him, it was not love as he understood it. He resolutely turned his back on

the thought of his own side of the matter, and tried to find some justification of Stephen's act.

'Seek and ye shall find; knock and it shall be opened to ye' has perhaps a general as well as a special

significance. It is by patient tireless seeking that many a precious thing has been found. It was after many a

long cycle of thought that the seeking and the knocking had effectual result. Harold came to believe, vaguely

at first but more definitely as the evidence nucleated, that Stephen's act was due to some mad girlish wish to

test her own theory; to prove to herself the correctness of her own reasoning, the fixity of her own purpose.

He did not go on analysing further; for as he walked the room with a portion of the weight taken from his

heart he noticed that the sky was beginning to quicken. The day would soon be upon him, and there was work

to be done. Instinctively he knew that there was trouble in store for Stephen, and he felt that in such an hour

he should be near her. All her life she had been accustomed to him. In her sorrows to confide in him, to tell

him her troubles so that they might dwindle and pass away; to enhance her pleasures by making him a sharer

Harold was inspirited by the coming of the new day. There was work to be done, and the work must be based

on thought. His thoughts must take a practical turn; what was he to do that would help Stephen? Here there

dawned on him for the first time the understanding of a certain humiliation which she had suffered; she had

been refused! She who had stepped so far out of the path of maidenly reserve in which she had always

walked as to propose marriage to a man, had been refused! He did not, could not, know to the full the

measure of such humiliation to a woman; but he could guess at any rate a part. And that guessing made him

But out of that rage came an inspiration. If Stephen had been humiliated by the refusal of one man, might not

this be minimised if she in turn might refuse another? Harold knew so well the sincerity of his own love and

the depth of his own devotion that he was satisfied that he could not err in giving the girl the opportunity of

refusing him. It would be some sort of balm to her wounded spirit to know that Leonard's views were not

shared by all men. That there were others who would deem it a joy to serve as her slaves. When she had

refused him she would perhaps feel easier in her mind. Of course if she did not refuse him . . . Ah! well, then

would the gates of Heaven open . . . But that would never be. The past could not be blotted out! All he could

do would be to serve her. He would go early. Such a man as Leonard Everard might make some new

It was a poor enough thing for him, he thought at length. She might trample on him; but it was for her sake.

On the morning following the proposal Stephen strolled out into a beech grove, some little distance from the

house, which from childhood had been a favourite haunt of hers. It was not in the immediate road to

anywhere, and so there was no occasion for any of the household or the garden to go through it or near it. She

did not put on a hat, but took only a sunshade, which she used in passing over the lawn. The grove was on the

side of the house away from her own room and the breakfastroom. When she had reached its shade she felt

The grove was a privileged place. Long ago a great number of young beeches had been planted so thickly that

as they grew they shot up straight and branchless in their struggle for the light. Not till they had reached a

considerable altitude had they been thinned; and then the thinning had been so effected that, as the high

branches began to shoot out in the freer space, they met in time and interlaced so closely that they made in

many places a perfect screen of leafy shade. Here and there were rifts or openings through which the light

passed; under such places the grass was fine and green, or the wild hyacinths in due season tinged the earth

with blue. Through the grove some wide alleys had been left: great broad walks where the soft grass grew

short and fine, and to whose edges came a drooping of branches and an upspringing of undergrowth of laurel

and rhododendron. At the far ends of these walks were little pavilions of marble built in the classic style

which ruled for garden use two hundred years ago. At the near ends some of them were close to the broad

stretch of water from whose edges ran back the great sloping banks of emerald sward dotted here and there

with great forest trees. The grove was protected by a haha, so that it was never invaded from without, and

the servants of the house, both the domestics and the gardeners and grooms, had been always forbidden to

enter it. Thus by long usage it had become a place of quiet and solitude for the members of the family.

To this soothing spot had come Stephen in her pain. The long spell of selfrestraint during that morning had

almost driven her to frenzy, and she sought solitude as an anodyne to her tortured soul. The long anguish of a

third sleepless night, following on a day of humiliation and terror, had destroyed for a time the natural

resilience of a healthy nature. She had been for so long in the prison of her own purpose with Fear as warder;

the fetters of conventional life had so galled her that here in the accustomed solitude of this place, in which

from childhood she had been used to move and think freely, she felt as does a captive who has escaped from

an irksome durance. As Stephen had all along been free of movement and speech, no such opportunities of

freedom called to her. The pentup passion in her, however, found its own relief. Her voice was silent, and

she moved with slow steps, halting often between the green treetrunks in the cool shade; but her thoughts

ran free, and passion found a vent. No stranger seeing the tall, queenly girl moving slowly through the trees

could have imagined the fierce passion which blazed within her, unless he had been close enough to see her

eyes. The habit of physical restraint to which all her life she had been accustomed, and which was intensified

by the experience of the past thirtysix hours, still ruled her, even here. Gradually the habit of security began

to prevail, and the shackles to melt away. Here had she come in all her childish troubles. Here had she fought

with herself, and conquered herself. Here the spirits of the place were with her and not against her. Here

memory in its second degree, habit, gave her the full sense of spiritual freedom.

As she walked to and fro the raging of her spirit changed its objective: from restraint to its final causes; and

chief amongst them the pride which had been so grievously hurt. How she loathed the day that had passed,

and how more than all she hated herself for her part in it; her mad, foolish, idiotic, selfimportance which

gave her the idea of such an act and urged her to the bitter end of its carrying out; her mulish obstinacy in

persisting when every fibre of her being had revolted at the doing, and when deep in her inmost soul was a

deterring sense of its futility. How could she have stooped to have done such a thing: to ask a man . . . oh! the

shame of it, the shame of it all! How could she have been so blind as to think that such a man was worthy! . .

In the midst of her whirlwind of passion came a solitary gleam of relief: she knew with certainty that she did

not love Leonard; that she had never loved him. The coldness of disdain to him, the fear of his future acts

which was based on disbelief of the existence of that finer nature with which she had credited him, all proved

to her convincingly that he could never really have been within the charmed circle of her inner life. Did she

but know it, there was an even stronger evidence of her indifference to him in the ready manner in which her

thoughts flew past him in their circling sweep. For a moment she saw him as the centre of a host of besetting

fears; but her own sense of superior power nullified the force of the vision. She was able to cope with him

and his doings, were there such need. And so her mind flew back to the personal side of her trouble: her

In truth she was doing good work for herself. Her mind was working truly and to a beneficent end. One by

one she was overcoming the false issues of her passion and drifting to an end in which she would see herself

face to face and would place so truly the blame for what had been as to make it a warning and ennobling

lesson of her life. She moved more quickly, passing to and fro as does a panther in its cage when the desire of

That which makes the irony of life will perhaps never be understood in its casual aspect by the finite mind of

man. The 'why' and 'wherefore' and the 'how' of it is only to be understood by that All wise intelligence

which can scan the future as well as the present, and see the far farreaching ramifications of those schemes

To any mortal it would seem a pity that to Stephen in her solitude, when her passion was working itself out to

an end which might be good, should come an interruption which would throw it back upon itself in such a

way as to multiply its malignant force. But again it is a part of the Great Plan that instruments whose use

man's finite mind could never predicate should be employed: the seeming good to evil, the seeming evil to

As she swept to and fro, her raging spirit compelling to violent movement, Stephen's eyes were arrested by

the figure of a man coming through the aisles of the grove. At such a time any interruption of her passion was

a cause for heightening anger; but the presence of a person was as a draught to a fullfed furnace. Most of all,

in her present condition of mind, the presence of a manfor the thought of a man lay behind all her trouble,

was as a tornado striking a burning forest. The blood of her tortured heart seemed to leap to her brain and to

It mattered not that the man whom she saw she knew and trusted. Indeed, this but added fuel to the flame. In

the presence of a stranger some of her habitual selfrestraint would doubtless have come back to her. But

now the necessity for such was foregone; Harold was her alter ego, and in his presence was safety. He was, in

this aspect, but a higher and more intelligent rendering of the trees around her. In another aspect he was an

opportune victim, something to strike at. When the anger of a poison snake opens its gland, and the fang is

charged with venom, it must strike at something. It does not pause or consider what it may be; it strikes,

though it may be at stone or iron. So Stephen waited till her victim was within distance to strike. Her black

eyes, fierce with passion and bloodrimmed as a cobra's, glittered as he passed among the treetrunks

Harold was a man of strong purpose. Had he not been, he would never have come on his present errand.

Never, perhaps, had any suitor set forth on his quest with a heavier heart. All his life, since his very boyhood,

had been centred round the girl whom today he had come to serve. All his thought had been for her: and

today all he could expect was a gentle denial of all his hopes, so that his future life would be at best a blank.

But he would be serving Stephen! His pain might be to her good; ought to be, to a certain extent, to her

mental ease. Her wounded pride would find some solace . . . As he came closer the feeling that he had to play

a part, veritably to act one, came stronger and stronger upon him, and filled him with bitter doubt as to his

power. Still he went on boldly. It had been a part of his plan to seem to come eagerly, as a lover should come;

and so he came. When he got close to Stephen, all the witchery of her presence came upon him as of old.

After all, he loved her with his whole soul; and the chance had come to tell her so. Even under the distressing

Stephen schooled herself to her usual attitude with him; and that, too, since the effort was based on truth

came with a certain ease to her. At the present time, in her present frame of mind, nothing in the wide world

could give her pleasure; the ease which came, if it did not change her purpose, increased her power. Their

usual salutation, begun when she was a little baby, was 'Good morning, Stephen!' 'Good morning, Harold!' It

had become so much a custom that now it came mechanically on her part. The tender reference to childhood's

days, though it touched her companion to the quick, did not appeal to her since she had no special thought of

it. Had such a thought come to her it might have softened her even to tears, for Harold had been always deep

in her heart. As might have been expected from her character and condition of mind, she was the first to

'I suppose you want to see me about something special, Harold, you have come so early.'

'Were you at the house?' she asked in a voice whose quietness might have conveyed a warning. She was so

suspicious now that she suspected even Harold ofof what she did not know. He answered in all simplicity:

'How did you know I should be here?' Her voice was now not only quiet but sweet. Without thinking, Harold

blundered on. His intention was so singleminded, and his ignorance of woman so complete, that he did not

'I knew you always came here long ago when you were a child when you were in' Here it suddenly flashed

upon him that if he seemed to expect that she was in trouble as he had purposed saying, he would give away

his knowledge of what had happened and so destroy the work to which he had set himself. So he finished the

sentence in a lame and impotent manner, which, however, saved complete annihilation as it was verbally

accurate: 'in short frocks.' Stephen needed to know little more. Her quick intelligence grasped the fact that

there was some purpose afoot which she did not know or understand. She surmised, of course, that it was

some way in connection with her mad act, and she grew cooler in her brain as well as colder in her heart as

she prepared to learn more. Stephen had changed from girl to woman in the last twentyfour hours; and all

the woman in her was now awake. After a moment's pause she said with a winning smile:

'Why, Harold, I've been in long frocks for years. Why should I come here on this special day on that

account?' Even as she was speaking she felt that it would be well to abandon this ground of inquiry. It had

clearly told her all it could. She would learn more by some other means. So she went on in a playful way, as a

'That reason won't work, Harold. It's quite rusty in the joints. But never mind it! Tell me why you have come

so early?' This seemed to Harold to be a heavensent opening; he rushed in at once:

'Because, Stephen, I wanted to ask you to be my wife! Oh! Stephen, don't you know that I love you? Ever

since you were a little girl! When you were a little girl and I a big boy I loved you. I have loved you ever

since with all my heart, and soul, and strength. Without you the world is a blank to me! For you and your

This was no acting. When once the barrier of beginning had been broken, his soul seemed to pour itself out.

The man was vibrant through all his nature; and the woman's very soul realised its truth. For an instant a

flame of gladness swept through her; and for the time it lasted put all other thought aside.

But suspicion is a hard metal which does not easily yield to fire. It can come to white heat easily enough, but

its meltingpoint is high indeed. When the flame had leaped it had spent its force; the reaction came quick.

Stephen's heart seemed to turn to ice, all the heat and life rushing to her brain. Her thoughts flashed with

convincing quickness; there was no time for doubting amid their rush. Her life was for good or ill at the

crossing of the ways. She had trusted Harold thoroughly. The habit of her whole life from her babyhood up

had been to so look to him as comrade and protector and sympathetic friend. She was so absolutely sure of

his earnest devotion that this new experience of a riper feeling would have been a joy to her, if it should be

that his act was all spontaneous and done in ignorance of her shame. 'Shame' was the generic word which

now summarised to herself her thought of her conduct in proposing to Leonard. But of this she must be

certain. She could not, dare not, go farther till this was settled. With the same craving for certainty with which

she convinced herself that Leonard understood her overtures, and with the same dogged courage with which

'I was at Norcester all day. I went early. By the way, here is the ribbon you wanted; I think it's exactly the

same as the pattern.' As he spoke he took a tissuepiper parcel from his pocket and handed it to her.

'At the club!' He began to be uneasy at this questioning; but he did not see any way to avoid answering

'Did you see any one you knew at the club?' Her voice as she spoke was a little harder, a little more strained.

Harold noticed the change, rather by instinct than reason. He felt that there was danger in it, and paused. The

pause seemed to suddenly create a new fury in the breast of Stephen. She felt that Harold was playing with

her. Harold! If she could not trust him, where then was she to look for trust in the world? If he was not frank

with her, what then meant his early coming; his seeking her in the grove; his proposal of marriage, which

seemed so sudden and so inopportune? He must have seen Leonard, and by some means have become

Here her mind halted. She knew as well as if it had been trumpeted from the skies that Harold knew all. But

She was standing erect, her hands held down by her sides and clenched together till the knuckles were white;

all her body strung highlike an overpitched violin. Now she raised her right hand and flung it downward

'Answer me!' she cried imperiously. 'Answer me! Why are you playing with me? Did you see Leonard

Everard last night? Answer me, I say. Harold An Wolf, you do not lie! Answer me!'

As she spoke Harold grew cold. From the question he now knew that Stephen had guessed his secret. The fat

was in the fire with a vengeance. He did not know what to do, and still remained silent. She did not give him

time to think, but spoke again, this time more coldly. The white terror had replaced the red:

'Are you not going to answer me a simple question, Harold? To be silent now is to wrong me! I have a right

In his trouble, for he felt that say what he would he could only give her new pain, he said humbly:

'Don't ask me, Stephen! Won't you understand that I want to do what is best for you? Won't you trust me?'

Her answer came harshly. A more experienced man than Harold, one who knew women better, would have

seen how overwrought she was, and would have made pity the pivot of his future bearing and acts and words

while the interview lasted; pity, and pity only. But to Harold the high ideal was ever the same. The Stephen

whom he loved was no subject for pity, but for devotion only. He knew the nobility of her nature and must

trust it to the end. When her silence and her blazing eyes denied his request, he answered her query in a low

'I did!' Even whilst he spoke he was thankful for one thing, he had not been pledged in any way to

confidence. Leonard had forced the knowledge on him; and though he would have preferred a million times

over to be silent, he was still free to speak. Stephen's next question came more coldly still:

'Did he tell you all?' It was torture to him to answer; but he was at the stake and must bear it.

'What did he tell you? Stay! I shall ask you the facts myself; the broad facts. We need not go into details . . . '

'If I can go into this matter, surely you can. If I can bear the shame of telling, you can at least bear that of

listening. Remember that knowingknowing what you know, or at least what you have heard you could

come here and propose marriage to me!' This she said with a cold, cutting sarcasm which sounded like the

rasping of a roughly sharpened knife through raw flesh. Harold groaned in spirit; he felt a weakness which

began at his heart to steal through him. It took all his manhood to bear himself erect. He dreaded what was

coming, as of old the oncetortured victim dreaded the coming torment of the rack.

'Did he tell you that I had asked him to marry me?' Despite herself, as she spoke the words a red tide dyed her

face. It was not a flush; it was not a blush; it was a sort of flood which swept through her, leaving her in a few

seconds whiter than before. Harold saw and understood. He could not speak; he lowered his head silently.

Her eyes glittered more coldly. The madness that every human being may have once was upon her. Such a

'Did he tell you how I pressed him?' There was no red tide this time, nor ever again whilst the interview

'You understood so! Oh, I don't doubt he embellished the record with some of his own pleasantries. But you

'Yes!' Harold knew now that he was under the torture, and that there was no refusing. She went on, with a

light laugh, which wrung his heart even more than her pain had done . . . Stephen to laugh like that!

'And I have no doubt that he embellished that too, with some of his fine masculine witticisms. I understood

myself that he was offended at my asking him. I understood it quite well; he told me so!' Then with feminine

'I dare say that before he was done he said something kindly of the poor little thing that loved him; that loved

him so much, and that she had to break down all the bounds of modesty and decorum that had made the

women of her house honoured for a thousand years! And you listened to him whilst he spoke! Ohhh!' she

quivered with her whitehot anger, as the fierce heat in the heart of a furnace quivers. But her voice was cold

'But who could help loving him? Girls always did. It was such a beastly nuisance! You "understood" all that,

I dare say; though perhaps he did not put it in such plain words!' Then the scorn, which up to now had been

imprisoned, turned on him; and he felt as though some hose of deathly chill was being played upon him.

'And yet you, knowing that only yesterday, he had refused merefused my pressing request that he should

marry me, come to me hotfoot in the early morning and ask me to be your wife. I thought such things did

not take place; that men were more honourable, or more considerate, or more merciful! Or at least I used to

think so; till yesterday. No! till today. Yesterday's doings were my own doings, and I had to bear the penalty

of them myself. I had come here to fight out by myself the battle of my shame . . . '

Here Harold interrupted her. He could not bear to hear Stephen use such a word in connection with herself.

'No! You must not say "shame." There is no shame to you, Stephen. There can be none, and no one must say

it in my presence!' In her secret heart of hearts she admired him for his words; she felt them at the moment

sink into her memory, and knew that she would never forget the mastery of his face and bearing. But the

blindness of rage was upon her, and it is of the essence of this whitehot anger that it preys not on what is

basest in us, but on what is best. That Harold felt deeply was her opportunity to wound him more deeply than

'Even here in the solitude which I had chosen as the battleground of my shame you had need to come

unasked, unthought of, when even a lesser mind than yours, for you are no fool, would have thought to leave

me alone. My shame was my own, I tell you; and I was learning to take my punishment. My punishment!

Poor creatures that we are, we think our punishment will be what we would like best: to suffer in silence, and

not to have spread abroad our shame!' How she harped on that word, though she knew that every time she

uttered it, it cut to the heart of the man who loved her. 'And yet you come right on top of my torture to torture

me still more and illimitably. You come, you who alone had the power to intrude yourself on my grief and

sorrow; power given you by my father's kindness. You come to me without warning, considerately telling me

that you knew I would be here because I had always come here when I had been in trouble. No I do you an

injustice. "In trouble" was not what you said, but that I had come when I had been in short frocks. Short

frocks! And you came to tell me that you loved me. You thought, I suppose, that as I had refused one man, I

would jump at the next that came along. I wanted a man. God! God! what have I done that such an affront

should come upon me? And come, too, from a hand that should have protected me if only in gratitude for my

father's kindness!' She was eyeing him keenly, with eyes that in her unflinching anger took in everything with

But Harold had nerves and muscles of steel; and when the call came to them they answered. Though the pain

of death was upon him he did not flinch. He stood before her like a rock, in all his great manhood; but a rock

on whose summit the waves had cast the wealth of their foam, for his face was as white as snow. She saw and

understood; but in the madness upon her she went on trying new places and new ways to wound:

'You thought, I suppose, that this poor, neglected, despised, rejected woman, who wanted so much to marry

that she couldn't wait for a man to ask her, would hand herself over to the first chance comer who threw his

'Oh, Stephen! How can you say such things, think such things?' The protest broke from him with a groan. His

pain seemed to inflame her still further; to gratify her hate, and to stimulate her mad passion:

'Why did I ever see you at all? Why did my father treat you as a son; that when you had grown and got strong

on his kindness you could thus insult his daughter in the darkest hour of her pain and her shame!' She almost

choked with passion. There was now nothing in the whole world that she could trust. In the pause he spoke:

'Stephen, I never meant you harm. Oh, don't speak such wild words. They will come back to you with sorrow

afterwards! I only meant to do you good. I wanted . . . ' Her anger broke out afresh:

'There; you speak it yourself! You only wanted to do me good. I was so bad that any kind of a husband . . .

Oh, get out of my sight! I wish to God I had never seen you! I hope to God I may never see you again! Go!

This was the end! To Harold's honest mind such words would have been impossible had not thoughts of truth

lain behind them. That Stephen his Stephen, whose image in his mind shut out every other woman in the

world, past, present, and futureshould say such things to any one, that she should think such things, was to

him a deadly blow. But that she should say them to him! . . . Utterance, even the utterance which speaks in

the inmost soul, failed him. He had in some way that he knew not hurtwoundedkilled Stephen; for the

finer part was gone from the Stephen that he had known and worshipped so long. She wished him gone; she

wished she had never seen him; she hoped to God never to see him again. Life for him was over and done!

There could be no more happiness in the world; no more wish to work, to live! . . .

Stephen saw him go, his tall form moving amongst the tree trunks till finally it was lost in their massing. She

was so filled with the tumult of her passion that she looked, unmoved. Even the sense of his going did not

change her mood. She raged to and fro amongst the trees, her movements getting quicker and quicker as her

excitement began to change from mental to physical; till the fury began to exhaust itself. All at once she

stopped, as though arrested by a physical barrier; and with a moan sank down in a helpless heap on the cool

Harold went from the grove as one seems to move in a dream. Little things and big were mixed up in his

mind. He took note, as he went towards the town by the byroads, of everything around him in his usual way,

for he had always been one of those who notice unconsciously, or rather unintentionally. Long afterwards he

could shut his eyes and recall every step of the way from the spot where he had turned from Stephen to the

railway station outside Norcester. And on many and many such a time when he opened them again the

eyelids were wet. He wanted to get away quickly, silently, unobserved. With the instinct of habitual thought

his mind turned Londonward. He met but few persons, and those only cottiers. He saluted them in his usual

cheery way, but did not stop to speak with any. He was about to take a single ticket to London when it struck

him that this might look odd, so he asked for a return. Then, his mind being once more directed towards

concealment of purpose, he sent a telegram to his housekeeper telling her that he was called away to London

on business. It was only when he was far on his journey that he gave thought to ways and means, and took

stock of his possessions. Before he took out his purse and pocketbook he made up his mind that he would be

content with what it was, no matter how little. He had left Normanstand and all belonging to it for ever, and

was off to hide himself in whatever part of the world would afford him the best opportunity. Life was over!

There was nothing to look forward to; nothing to look back at! The present was a living pain whose lightest

element was despair. As, however, he got further and further away, his practical mind began to work; he

thought over matters so as to arrange in his mind how best he could dispose of his affairs, so to cause as little

comment as might be, and to save the possibility of worry or distress of any kind to Stephen.

Even then, in his agony of mind, his heart was with her; it was not the least among his troubles that he would

have to be away from her when perhaps she would need him most. And yet whenever he would come to this

point in his endless chain of thought, he would have to stop for a while, overcome with such pain that his

power of thinking was paralysed. He would never, could never, be of service to her again. He had gone out of

her life, as she had gone out of his life; though she never had, nor never could out of his thoughts. It was all

over! All the years of sweetness, of hope, and trust, and satisfied and justified faith in each other, had been

wiped out by that last terrible, cruel meeting. Oh! how could she have said such things to him! How could she

have thought them! And there she was now in all the agony of her unrestrained passion. Well he knew, from

his long experience of her nature, how she must have suffered to be in such a state of mind, to have so

forgotten all the restraint of her teaching and her life! Poor, poor Stephen! Fatherless now as well as

motherless; and friendless as well as fatherless! No one to calm her in the height of her wild abnormal

passion! No one to comfort her when the fit had passed! No one to sympathise with her for all that she had

suffered! No one to help her to build new and better hopes out of the wreck of her mad ideas! He would

cheerfully have given his life for her. Only last night he was prepared to kill, which was worse than to die, for

her sake. And now to be far away, unable to help, unable even to know how she fared. And behind her

eternally the shadow of that worthless man who had spurned her love and flouted her to a chance comer in his

drunken delirium. It was too bitter to bear. How could God lightly lay such a burden on his shoulders who

had all his life tried to walk in sobriety and chastity and in all worthy and manly ways! It was unfair! It was

unfair! If he could do anything for her? Anything! Anything! . . . And so the unending whirl of thoughts went

The smoke of London was dim on the horizon when he began to get back to practical matters. When the train

drew up at Euston he stepped from it as one to whom death would be a joyous relief!

He went to a quiet hotel, and from there transacted by letter such business matters as were necessary to save

pain and trouble to others. As for himself, he made up his mind that he would go to Alaska, which he took to

be one of the best places in the as yet uncivilised world for a man to lose his identity. As a security at the start

he changed his name; and as John Robinson, which was not a name to attract public attention, he shipped as a

The Scoriac was one of the great cargo boats which take a certain number of passengers. The few necessaries

which he took with him were chosen with an eye to utility in that frozen land which he sought. For the rest,

he knew nothing, nor did he care how or whither he went. His vague purpose was to cross the American

Continent to San Francisco, and there to take passage for the high latitudes north of the Yukon River.

When Stephen began to regain consciousness her first sensation was one of numbness. She was cold in the

back, and her feet did not seem to exist; but her head was hot and pulsating as though her brain were a living

thing. Then her halfopen eyes began to take in her surroundings. For another long spell she began to wonder

why all around her was green. Then came the inevitable process of reason. Trees! It is a wood! How did I

All at once wakened memory opened on her its floodgates, and overwhelmed her with pain. With her hands

pressed to her throbbing temples and her burning face close to the ground, she began to recall what she could

of the immediate past. It all seemed like a terrible dream. By degrees her intelligence came back to its normal

strength, and all at once, as does one suddenly wakened from sleep to the knowledge of danger, she sat up.

Somehow the sense of time elapsed made Stephen look at her watch. It was halfpast twelve. As she had

come into the grove immediately after breakfast, and as Harold had almost immediately joined her, and as the

interview between them had been but short, she must have lain on the ground for more than three hours. She

rose at once, trembling in every limb. A new fear began to assail her; that she had been missed at home, and

that some one might have come to look for her. Up to now she had not been able to feel the full measure of

pain regarding what had passed, but which would, she knew, come to her in the end. It was too vague as yet;

she could not realise that it had really been. But the fear of discovery was immediate, and must be guarded

against without delay. As well as she could, she tidied herself and began to walk slowly back to the house,

hoping to gain her own room unnoticed. That her general intelligence was awake was shown by the fact that

before she left the grove she remembered that she had forgotten her sunshade. She went back and searched

Gaining her room without meeting any one, she at once change her dress, fearing that some soil or wrinkle

might betray her. Resolutely she put back from her mind all consideration of the past; there would be time for

that later on. Her nerves were already much quieter than they had been. That long faint, or lapse into

insensibility, had for the time taken the place of sleep. There would be a price to be paid for it later; but for

the present it had served its purpose. Now and again she was disturbed by one thought; she could not quite

remember what had occurred after Harold had left, and just before she became unconscious. She dared not

dwell upon it, however. It would doubtless all come back to her when she had leisure to think the whole

When the gong sounded for lunch she went down, with a calm exterior, to face the dreaded ordeal of another

Luncheon passed off without a hitch. She and her aunt talked as usual over all the small affairs of the house

and the neighbourhood, and the calm restraint was in itself soothing. Even then she could not help feeling

how much convention is to a woman's life. Had it not been for these recurring trials of set hours and duties

she could never have passed the last day and night without discovery of her condition of mind. That one

terrible, hysterical outburst was perhaps the safety valve. Had it been spread over the time occupied in

conventional duties its force even then might have betrayed her; but without the necessity of nerving herself

to conventional needs, she would have infallibly betrayed herself by her negative condition.

After lunch she went to her own boudoir where, when she had shut the inner door, no one was allowed to

disturb her without some special need in the house or on the arrival of visitors. This 'sporting oak' was the

sign of 'not at home' which she had learned in her glimpse of college life. Here in the solitude of safety, she

She had already been so often over the memory of the previous humiliating and unhappy day that she need

not revert to it at present. Since then had she not quarrelled with Harold, whom she had all her life so trusted

that her quarrel with him seemed to shake the very foundations of her existence? As yet she had not

remembered perfectly all that had gone on under the shadow of the beech grove. She dared not face it all at

once, even as yet. Time must elapse before she should dare to cry; to think of her loss of Harold was to risk

breaking down altogether. Already she felt weak. The strain of the last fortyeight hours was too much for

her physical strength. She began to feel, as she lay back in her cushioned chair, that a swoon is no worthy

substitute for sleep. Indeed it had seemed to make the need for sleep even more imperative.

It was all too humiliating! She wanted to think over what had been; to recall it as far as possible so as to fix it

in her mind, whilst it was still fresh. Later on, some action might have to be based on her recollection. And

Nature came to the poor girl's relief at last, and she fell into a heavy sleep . . .

It was like coming out of the grave to be dragged back to waking life out of such a sleep, and so soon after it

had begun. But the voice seemed to reach to her inner consciousness in some compelling way. For a second

she could not understand; but as she rose from the cushions the maid's message repeated, brought her wide

The name braced Stephen at once. Here was danger, an enemy to be encountered; all the fighting blood of

generations leaped to the occasion. The short spell of sleep had helped to restore her. There remained still

quite enough of mental and nervous excitement to make her think quickly; the words were hardly out of the

maid's mouth before her resolution was taken. It would never do to let Leonard Everard see she was diffident

about meeting him; she would go down at once. But she would take the precaution of having her aunt

present; at any rate, till she should have seen how the land lay. Her being just waked from sleep would be an

excuse for asking her aunt to see the visitor till she came down. So she said to the maid:

'I have been asleep. I must have got tired walking in the wood in the heat. Ask Auntie to kindly see Mr.

Everard in the blue drawing room till I come down. I must tidy my hair; but I will be down in a few

How she regarded Leonard Everard now was shown in her instinctive classing him amongst her enemies.

When she entered the room she seemed all aglow. She wanted not only to overcome but to punish; and all the

woman in her had risen to the effort. Never in her life had Stephen Norman looked more radiantly beautiful,

more adorable, more desirable. Even Leonard Everard felt his pulses quicken as he saw that glowing mass of

beauty standing out against the cold background of old French tapestry. All the physical side of him leaped in

answer to the call of her beauty; and even his cold heart and his selfengrossed brain followed with slower

gait. He had been sitting opposite Miss Rowly in one of the windows, twirling his hat in nervous suspense.

He jumped up, and, as she came towards him, went forward rapidly to greet her. No one could mistake the

admiration in his eyes. Ever since he had made up his mind to marry her she had assumed a new aspect in his

thoughts. But now her presence swept away all false imaginings; from the moment that her loveliness dawned

upon him something like love began to grow within his breast. Stephen saw the look and it strengthened her.

He had so grievously wounded her pride the previous day that her victory on this was a compensation which

Her greeting was all sweetness: she was charmed to see him. How was his father, and what was the news?

Miss Rowly looked on with smiling visage. She too had seen the look of admiration in his eyes, and it

pleased her. Old ladies, especially when they are maiden ladies, always like to see admiration in the eyes of

They talked for some time, keeping all the while, by Stephen's clever generalship, to the smalltalk of the

neighbourhood and the minor events of social importance. As the time wore on she could see that Leonard

was growing impatient, and evidently wanted to see her alone. She ignored, however, all his little private

signalling, and presently ordered tea to be brought. This took some little time; when it had been brought and

served and drunk, Leonard was in a smothered fume of impatience. She was glad to see that as yet her aunt

had noticed nothing, and she still hoped that she would be able to so prolong matters, that she would escape

without a private interview. She did not know the cause of Leonard's impatience: that he must see her before

the day passed. She too was an egoist, in her own way; in the flush of belief of his subjugation she did not

think of attributing to him any other motive than his desire for herself. As she had made up her mind on the

But, after all, Leonard was a man; and man's ways are more direct than woman's. Seeing that he could not

achieve his object in any other way, he said out suddenly, thinking, and rightly, that she would not wish to

'By the way, Miss Norman,' he had always called her 'Miss Norman' in her aunt's presence: 'I want to have

two minutes with you before I go. On a matter of business,' he added, noticing Miss Rowly's surprised look.

The old lady was oldfashioned even for her age; in her time no young man would have asked to see a young

lady alone on business. Except on one kind of business; and with regard to that kind of business gentlemen

had to obtain first the confidence and permission of guardians. Leonard saw the difficulty and said quickly:

Stephen was prepared for a nasty shock, but hardly for so nasty a one as this. There was an indelicacy about it

which went far beyond the bounds of thoughtless conventionality. That such an appeal should be made to her,

and in such a way, savoured of danger. Her woman's intuition gave her the guard, and at once she spoke,

smilingly and gently as one recalling a matter in which the concern is not her own:

'Of course! It was selfish of me not to have thought of it, and to have kept you so long waiting. The fact is,

Auntie, that LeonardI like to call him Leonard, since we were children together, and he is so young;

though perhaps it would be more decorous nowadays to say "Mr. Everard"has consulted me about his

debts. You know, Auntie dear, that young men will be young men in such matters; or perhaps you do not,

since the only person who ever worried you has been myself. But I stayed at Oxford and I know something of

young men's ways; and as I am necessarily more or less of a man of business, he values my help. Don't you,

Leonard?' The challenge was so direct, and the position he was in so daringly put, that he had to acquiesce.

'I know you are your own mistress, my dear. But surely it would be better if Mr. Everard would consult with

his solicitor or his father's agent, or some of his gentlemen friends, rather than with a young lady whose

relations with him, after all, are only those of a neighbour on visiting terms. For my own part, I should have

thought that Mr. Everard's best course would have been to consult his own father! But the things that

gentlemen, as well as ladies do, have been sadly changed since my time!' Then, rising in formal dignity, she

But the position of being left alone in the room with Leonard did not at all suit Stephen's plans. Rising

'Don't stir, Auntie. I dare say you are right in what you say; but I promised Mr. Everard to go into the matter.

And as I have brought the awkwardness on myself, I suppose I must bear it. If Mr. Everard wants to see me

alone, and I suppose he is diffident in speaking on such a matter before youhe didn't play with you, you

know!we can go out on the lawn. We shan't be long!' Before Leonard could recover his wits she had

Her strategy was again thoroughly good. The spot she chose, though beyond earshot, was quite in the open

and commanded by all the windows in that side of the house. A person speaking there might say what he

On the lawn Stephen tripped ahead; Leonard followed inwardly raging. By her clever use of the opening she

had put him in a difficulty from which there was no immediate means of extrication. He could not quarrel

overtly with Stephen; if he did so, how could he enter on the pressing matter of his debts? He dared not

openly proclaim his object in wishing to marry her, for had he done so her aunt might have interfered, with

what success he could not be sure. In any case it would cause delay, and delay was what he could not afford.

He felt that in mentioning his debts at just such a movement he had given Stephen the chance she had so

aptly taken. He had to be on his good behaviour, however; and with an apprehension that was new to him he

An old Roman marble seat was placed at an angle from the house so that the one of the two occupants within

its curve must almost face the house, whilst the other gave to it at least a quarterface. Stephen seated herself

on the near side, leaving to Leonard the exposed position. As soon as he was seated, she began:

'Now, Leonard, tell me all about the debts?' She spoke in tones of gay friendliness, but behind the mask of her

cheerfulness was the real face of fear. Down deep in her mind was a conviction that her letter was a pivotal

point of future sorrow. It was in the meantime quite apparent to her that Leonard kept it as his last resource;

Leonard, though inwardly weakened by qualms of growing doubt, had the animal instinct that, as he was in

opposition, his safety was in attacking where his opponent most feared. He felt that there was some subtle

change in his companion; this was never the same Stephen Norman whom only yesterday he had met upon

'You surprise me, Leonard! I thought I simply asked you to come to meet me. I know the first subject I

mentioned when we began to talk, after your grumbling about coming in the heat, was your money matters.'

'It was very good of you, Stephen; but really that is not what I came to speak of today. At first, at all events!'

he added with a sublime naivette, as the subject of his debts and his imperative want of money rose before

him. Stephen's eyes flashed; she saw more clearly than ever through his purpose. Such as admission at the

very outset of the proffer of marriage, which she felt was coming, was little short of monstrous. Her

companion did not see the look of mastery on her face; he was looking down at the moment. A true lover

'I wanted to tell you, Stephen, that I have been thinking over what you said to me in your letter, and what you

said in words; and I want to accept!' As he was speaking he was looking her straight in the face.

'Accept what I said in my letter! why, Leonard, what do you mean? That letter must have had a lot more in it

than I thought. I seem to remember that it was simply a line asking you to meet me. Just let me look at it; I

should like to be sure of what actually is!' As she spoke she held out her hand. Leonard was nonplussed; he

did not know what to say. Stephen made up her mind to have the letter back. Leonard was chafing under the

position forced upon him, and tried to divert his companion from her purpose. He knew well why she had

chosen that exposed position for their interview. Now, as her outstretched hand embarrassed him, he made

She instantly drew back her hand and put it behind her in a decided manner. She was determined that

whatever might happen she would not let any watcher at the windows, by chance or otherwise, see any sign

of tenderness on her part. Leonard, thinking that his purpose had been effected, went on, breathing more

'Your letter wasn't much. Except of course that it gave me the opportunity of listening to what you said; to all

'Yes! It must have been sweet to have any one, who was in a position to do so, offer to help you when you

knew that you were overwhelmed with debts!' The words were brutal. Stephen felt so; but she had no

alternative. Leonard had some of the hard side of human nature; but he had also some of the weak side. He

'I have been thinking ever since of what you said, and I want to tell you that I would like to do as you wish!'

As he spoke, his words seemed even to him to be out of place. He felt it would be necessary to throw more

fervour into the proceedings. The sudden outburst which followed actually amused Stephen, even in her state

'Oh, Stephen, don't you know that I love you! You are so beautiful! I love you! I love you! Won't you be my

This was getting too much to close quarters. Stephen said in a calm, businesslike way:

'My dear Leonard, one thing at a time! I came out here, you know, to speak of your debts; and until that is

done, I really won't go into any other matter. Of course if you'd rather not . . . ' Leonard really could not

afford this; matters were too pressing with him. So he tried to affect a cheery manner; but in his heart was a

'All right! Stephen. Whatever you wish I will do; you are the queen of my heart, you know!'

This was a change to the prosaic which made sentiment impossible. He gave over, for the time.

'Go on!' said Stephen, following up her advantage. 'Don't you even know how much you owe?'

'The fact is, I don't. Not exactly. I shall make up the amount as well as I can and let you know. But that's not

what I came about to day.' Stephen was going to make an angry gesture of dissent. She was not going to

have that matter opened up. She waited, however, for Leonard was going on after his momentary pause. She

breathed more freely after his first sentence. He was unable evidently to carry on a double train of thought.

'It was about that infernal moneylenders' letter that the Governor got!' Stephen got still less anxious. This

'What is the amount?' Leonard looked quickly at her; the relief of her mind made her tone seem joyful.

'A monkey! Five hundred pounds, you know. But then there's three hundred for interest that has to be paid

also. It's an awful lot of money, isn't it?' The last phrase was added on seeing Stephen's surprised look.

'Yes!' she answered quietly. 'A great deal of moneyto waste!' They were both silent for a while. Then she

'He was in an awful wax. One of these beastly duns had written to him about another account and he was in a

regular fury. When I told him I would pay it within a week, he said very little, which was suspicious; and

then, just when I was going out, he sprung this on me. Mean of him! wasn't it? I need expect no help from

him.' As he was speaking he took a mass of letters from his pocket and began to look among them for the

'Why, what a correspondence you have there. Do you keep all your letters in your pockets?' said Stephen

'All I don't tear up or burn. It wouldn't do to let the Governor into my secrets. He might know too much!'

'Mostly, but I only keep those letters I have to attend to and those I care for.'

'You know if I am to help you to get clear you must take me into your confidence. I dare say I shall have to

see a lot more letters than these before you are quite clear!' Her tone was too quiet. Knowing already the

silent antagonism between them he began to suspect her; knowing also that her own letter was not amongst

them, he used his wits and handed them over without a word. She, too, suspected him. After his tacit refusal

to give her the letter, she almost took it for granted that it was not amongst them. She gave no evidence of her

feeling, however, but opened and read the letters in due sequence; all save two, which, being in a female

hand, she gave back without a word. There was a calmness and an utter absence of concern, much less of

jealousy, about this which disconcerted him. Throughout her reading Stephen's face showed surprise now and

again; but when she came to the last, which was that of the usurers, it showed alarm. Being a woman, a legal

'What am I to do?' he answered, a weight off his mind that the fiscal matter had been practically entered on.

'I shall see that you get the money!' she said quietly. 'It will be really a gift, but I prefer it to be as a loan for

many reasons.' Leonard made no comment. He found so many reasons in his own mind that he thought it

wise to forbear from asking any of hers. Then she took the practical matter in hand:

'You must wire to these people at once to say that you will pay the amount on the day after tomorrow. If you

will come here tomorrow at four o'clock the money will be ready for you. You can go up to town by the

evening train and pay off the debt first thing in the morning. When you bring the receipt I shall speak to you

about the other debts; but you must make out a full list of them. We can't have any halfmeasure. I will not

go into the matter till I have all the details before me!' Then she stood up to go.

'By the way, don't forget to bring that letter with you. I want to see what I really did say in it!' Her tone was

quiet enough, and the wording was a request; but Leonard knew as well as if it had been spoken outright as a

threat that if he did not have the letter with him when he came things were likely to be unpleasant.

The farther he got from Normanstand on his way home the more discontented Leonard grew. Whilst he had

been in Stephen's presence she had so dominated him, not only by her personality but by her use of her

knowledge of his own circumstances, that he had not dared to make protest or opposition; but now he began

to feel how much less he was to receive than he had expected. He had come prepared to allow Stephen to fall

into his arms, fortune and all. But now, although he had practical assurance that the weight of his debts would

be taken from him, he was going away with his tail between his legs. He had not even been accepted as a

suitor, he who had himself been wooed only a day before. His proposal of marriage had not been accepted,

had not even been considered by the woman who had so lately broken ironclad convention to propose

marriage to him. He had been treated merely as a scapegrace debtor who had come to ask favours from an old

friend. He had even been treated like a bad boy; had been told that he had wasted money; had been ordered,

in no doubtful way, to bring the full schedule of his debts. And all the time he dared not say anything lest the

thing shouldn't come off at all. Stephen had such an infernally masterly way with her! It didn't matter whether

she was proposing to him, or he was proposing to her, he was made to feel small all the same. He would have

And then as to the letter. Why was she so persistent about seeing it? Did she want to get it into her hands and

then keep it, as Harold An Wolf had done? Was it possible that she suspected he would use it to coerce her;

she would call it 'blackmail,' he supposed. This being the very thing he had intended to do, and had done, he

grew very indignant at the very thought of being accused of it. It was, he felt, a very awkward thing that he

had lost possession of the letter. He might need it if Stephen got nasty. Then Harold might give it to her, as he

had threatened to do. He thought he would call round that evening by Harold's house, and see if he couldn't

get back the letter. It belonged to him; Harold had no right to keep it. He would see him before he and

Stephen got putting their heads together. So, on his way home, he turned his steps at once to Harold's house.

He did not find him in. The maid who opened the door could give him no information; all she could say was

that Mrs. Dingle the housekeeper had got a telegram from Master saying that he had been called suddenly

This was a new source of concern to Leonard. He suspected a motive of some sort; though what that motive

could be he could not hazard the wildest guess. On his way home he called at the postoffice and sent a

telegram to Cavendish and Cecil, the name of the usurers' firm, in accordance with Stephen's direction. He

When Stephen had sent off her letter to the bank she went out for a stroll; she knew it would be no use trying

to get rest before dinner. That ordeal, too, had to be gone through. She found herself unconsciously going in

the direction of the grove; but when she became aware of it a great revulsion overcame her, and she

Slowly she took her way across the hard stretch of finelykept grass which lay on the side of the house away

from the wood. The green sward lay like a sea, dotted with huge trees, singly, or in clumps as islands. In its

farstretching stateliness there was something soothing. She came back to the sound of the dressinggong

with a better strength to resist the trial before her. Well she knew her aunt would have something to say on

Her fears were justified, for when they had come into the drawing room after dinner Miss Rowly began:

'Well, my dear, the world is censorious. And when a young lady, of your position and your wealth, takes a

part in a young man's affairs tongues are apt to wag. And also, dear, debts, young men's debts, are hardly the

subjects for a girl's investigation. Remember, that we ladies live very different lives from men; from some

men, I should say, for your dear father was the best of men, and I should think that in all his life there was

nothing which he would have wished concealed. But, my dear, young men are less restrained in their ways

than we are, than we have to be for our own safety and protection.' The poor lady was greatly perturbed at

having to speak in such a way. Stephen saw her distress; coming over to her, she sat down and took her hand.

Stephen had a very tender side to her nature, and she loved very truly the dear old lady who had taken her

mother's place and had shown her all a mother's love. Now, in her loneliness and woe and fear, she clung to

her in spirit. She would have liked to have clung to her physically; to have laid her head on her bosom, and

have cried her heart out. The time for tears had not come. Hourly she felt more and more the weight that a

shameful secret is to carry. She knew, however, that she could set her aunt's mind at rest on the present

'I think you are right, Auntie dear. It would have been better if I had asked you first; but I saw that Leonard

was in distress, and wormed the cause of it from him. When I heard that it was only debt I offered to help

him. He is an old friend, you know, Auntie. We were children together; and as I have much more money than

I can ever want or spend, I thought I might help him. I am afraid I have let myself in for a bigger thing than I

intended; but as I have promised I must go on with it. I dare say, Auntie, that you are afraid that I may end by

getting in love with him, and marrying him. Don't you, dear?' This was said with a hug and a kiss which gave

the old lady delight. Her instinct told her what was coming. She nodded her head in acquiescence. Stephen

'Put any such fear out of your mind. I shall never marry him. I can never love him.' She was going to say

'Quite sure, Auntie. I know Leonard Everard; and though I have always liked him, I do not respect him. Why,

the very fact of his coming to me for money would make me reconsider any view I had formed, had nothing

else ever done so. You may take it, Auntie dear, that in the way you mean Leonard is nothing to me; can

never be anything to me!' Here a sudden inspiration took her. In its light a serious difficulty passed, and the

doing of a thing which had a fear of its own became easy. With a conviction in her tone, which in itself aided

'I shall prove it to you. That is, if you will not mind doing something which will save me an embarrassment.'

'You know I will do anything, my dearest, which an old woman can do for a young one!' Stephen squeezed

'As I said, I have promised to lend him some money. The first instalment is to be given him tomorrow; he is

'One other thing, Auntie, I want you to do for me: not to think of the amount, or to say a word to me about it.

It is a large sum, and I dare say it will frighten you a little. But I have made up my mind to it. I am learning a

great deal out of this, Auntie dear; and I am quite willing to pay for my knowledge. After all, money is the

Miss Rowly gulped down her disappointment. She felt that she ought not to say too much, now that Stephen

had set aside her graver fears. She consoled herself with the thought that even a large amount of money

would cause no inconvenience to so wealthy a woman as Stephen. Beyond this, as she would have the

handing over of the money to Leonard, she would know the amount. If advisable, she could remonstrate. She

could if necessary consult, in confidence, with Harold. Her relief from her greater fear, and her gladness at

this new proof of her niece's confidence, were manifested in the extra affection with which she bade her

Stephen did not dare to breathe freely till she was quite alone; and as she lay quiet in her bed in the dark she

Her first feeling was one of thankfulness that immediate danger was swerving from her. Things were so

shaping themselves that she need not have any fear concerning Leonard. For his own sake he would have to

keep silent. If he intended to blackmail her she would have the protection of her aunt's knowledge of the loan,

and of her participation in it. The only weapon that remained to him was her letter; and that she would get

These things out of the way, her thoughts turned to the matter of the greater dread; that of which all along she

The first reception of the idea was positive anguish. From the moment he had left her till now there had been

no time when a consideration of the matter was possible. Time pressed, or circumstances had interfered, or

her own personal condition had forbidden. Now, when she was alone, the whole awful truth burst on her like

an avalanche. Stephen felt the issue of her thinking before the thinking itself was accomplished; and it was

with a smothered groan that she, in the darkness, held up her arms with fingers linked in desperate

Oh, if she could only take back one hour of her life, well she knew what that hour would be! Even that

shameful time with Leonard on the hilltop seemed innocuous beside the degrading remembrance of her

Sadly she turned over in her bed, and with shut eyes put her burning face on the pillow, to hide, as it were,

Leonard lounged through the next morning with what patience he could. At four o'clock he was at the door of

Normanstand in his dogcart. This time he had a groom with him and a suitcase packed for a night's use, as he

was to go on to London after his interview with Stephen. He had lost sight altogether of the matter of

He was taken into the blue drawingroom, where shortly Miss Rowly joined him. He had not expected this.

His mental uneasiness manifested itself in his manner, and his fidgeting was not unobserved by the astute old

lady. He was disconcerted; 'overwhelmed' would better have described his feelings when she said:

'Miss Norman is sorry she can't see you today as she is making a visit; but she has given me a message for

you, or rather a commission to discharge. Perhaps you had better sit down at the table; there are writing

'Stephen did not say anything about a receipt!' The other smiled sweetly as she said in a calm way:

'But unfortunately Miss Norman is not here; and so I have to do the best I can. I really must have some proof

that I have fulfilled my trust. You see, Mr. Everard, though it is what lawyers call a "friendly" transaction, it

Leonard saw that he must comply, for time pressed. He sat down at the table. Taking up a pen and drawing a

'What am I to write?' The old lady took from her basket a folded sheet of notepaper, and, putting on her

'I think it would be well to say something like this"I, Leonard Everard, of Brindehow, in the Parish of

Normanstand, in the County of Norcester, hereby acknowledge the receipt from Miss Laetitia Rowly of nine

hundred pounds sterling lent to me in accordance with my request, the same being to clear me of a pressing

When he had finished writing the receipt Miss Rowly looked it over, and handing it back to him, said:

She folded the document carefully and put it in her pocket. Then taking from the little pouch which she wore

at her belt a roll of notes, she counted out on the table nine notes of one hundred pounds each. As she put

'Miss Norman asked me to say that a hundred pounds is added to the sum you specified to her, as doubtless

the usurers would, since you are actually behind the time promised for repayment, require something extra as

a solatium or to avoid legal proceedings already undertaken. In fact that they would "put more salt on your

Leonard folded up the notes, put them into his pocketbook, and walked away. He did not feel like adding

verbal thanks to the document already signed. As he got near the door the thought struck him; turning back he

'Miss Norman, I meant!' Miss Rowly's answer to this came so smartly that it left an added sting. Her arrow

was fledged with two feathers so that it must shoot true: her distrust of him and his own impotence.

'Oh no! Miss Norman knows nothing of this. She simply asked me to give you the money. This is my own

doing entirely. You see, I must exercise my judgment on my dear niece's behalf. Of course it may not be

necessary to show her the receipt; but if it should ever be advisable it is always there.'

He looked at her with anger, not unmixed with admiration, as, bowing rather lower than necessary, he went

'When my turn comes out you go! Neck and crop! Quick! Normanstand isn't big enough to hold us both!'

When Leonard tendered the eight hundred pounds in payment of his debt of five hundred, Mr. Cavendish at

first refused to take it. But when Leonard calmly but firmly refused to pay a single penny beyond the

obligations already incurred, including interest on the full sum for one day, he acquiesced. He knew the type

of man fully; and knew also that in all probability it would not be long before he would come to the Firm

again on a borrowing errand. When such time should come, he would put an extra clause into his

Memorandum of Agreement which would allow the Firm full power to make whatever extra charge they

Leonard's visits to town had not of late been many, and such as he had had were not accompanied with a

plethora of cash. He now felt that he had earned a holiday; and it was not till the third morning that he

returned to Brindehow. His father made no comment on his absence; his only allusion to the subject was:

'Back all right! Any news in town?' There was, however, an unwonted suavity in his manner which made

Leonard a little anxious. He busied himself for the balance of the morning in getting together all his unpaid

accounts and making a schedule of them. The total at first amazed almost as much as it frightened him. He

feared what Stephen would say. She had already commented unfavourably on the one amount she had seen.

When she was face to face with this she might refuse to pay altogether. It would therefore be wise to

propitiate her. What could he do in this direction? His thoughts naturally turned to the missing letter. If he

could get possession of it, it would either serve as a sop or a threat. In the one case she would be so glad to

have it back that she would not stick at a few pounds; in the other it would 'bring her to her senses' as he put

He was getting so tightened up in situation that as yet he could only do as he was told, and keep his temper as

Altogether it was in a chastened mood that he made his appearance at Normanstand later in the afternoon. He

was evidently expected, for he was shown into the study without a word. Here Miss Rowly and Stephen

joined him. Both were very kind in manner. After the usual greetings and commonplaces Stephen said in a

'Have you the papers with you?' He took the bundle of accounts from his pocket and handed them to her.

After his previous experience he would have suggested, had he dared, that he should see Stephen alone; but

'I am afraid you will find the amount very large. But I have put down everything!'

So he had; and more than everything. At the last an idea struck him that as he was getting so much he might

as well have a little more. He therefore added several goodsized amounts which he called 'debts of honour.'

This would, he thought, appeal to the feminine mind. Stephen did not look at the papers at once. She stood

'Now, if you will talk to Mr. Everard I will go over these documents quietly by myself. When I have been

through them and understand them all I shall come back; and we will see what can be done.' She moved

gracefully out of the room, closing the door behind her. As is usual with women, she had more than one

motive for her action in going away. In the first place, she wished to be alone whilst she went over the

schedule of the debts. She feared she might get angry; and in the present state of her mind towards Leonard

the expression of any feeling, even contempt, would not be wise. Her best protection from him would be a

manifest kindly negation of any special interest. In the second place, she believed that he would have her

letter with the other papers, and she did not wish her aunt to see it, lest she should recognise the writing. In

her boudoir, with a beating heart, she untied the string and looked through the papers.

For a few seconds she stood stock still, thinking. Then, with a sigh, she sat down and began to read the list of

debts, turning to the originals now and again for details. As she went on, her wonder and disgust grew; and

even a sense of fear came into her thoughts. A man who could be so wildly reckless and so selfishly

unscrupulous was to be feared. She knew his father was a comparatively poor man, who could not possibly

meet such a burden. If he were thus to his father, what might he be to her if he got a chance.

The thought of what he might have been to her, had he taken the chance she had given him, never occurred to

She made a few pencil notes on the list; and went back to the study. Her mind was made up.

She was quite businesslike and calm, did not manifest the slightest disapproval, but seemed to simply accept

everything as facts. She asked Leonard a few questions on subjects regarding which she had made notes, such

as discounts. Then she held the paper out to him and without any preliminary remark said:

'The names of the persons to whom these sums marked "debt of honour" are due.' His reply came quickly,

and was a little aggressive; he thought this might be a good time to make a bluff:

'I do not see that that is necessary. I can settle them when I have the money.' Slowly and without either pause

or flurry Stephen replied, looking him straight in the eyes as she handed him the papers:

'Of course it is not necessary! Few things in the world really are! I only wanted to help you out of your

'No! no! I only spoke of these items. You see, being "debts of honour" I ought not to give the names.'

Looking with a keen glance at her set face he saw she was obdurate; and, recognising his defeat, said as

'All right! Give me the paper!' Bending over the table he wrote. When she took the paper, a look half

surprised, half indignant, passed over her face. Her watchful aunt saw it, and bending over looked also at the

Leonard had printed in the names! The feminine keenness of both women had made his intention manifest.

He did not wish for the possibility of his handwriting being recognised. His punishment came quickly. With a

'Of course it is! Why, you silly, how is the money to be paid if there are no addresses?'

Leonard felt like a rat in a trap; but he had no alternative. So irritated was he, and so anxious to hide his

irritation that, forgetting his own caution, he wrote, not in printing characters but in his own handwriting,

addresses evolved from his own imagination. Stephen's eyes twinkled as he handed her the paper: he had

Leonard having done all that as yet had been required of him, felt that he might now ask a further favour, so

'Promised?' said Stephen with wideopened eyes. She had no idea of sparing him, she remembered the

printed names. 'Why, Leonard, I thought you said you were unable to pay any of those debts?'

Again he had put himself in a false position. He could not say that it was to his father he had made the

promise; for he had already told Stephen that he had been afraid to tell him of his debts. In his desperation,

'I thought I was justified in making the promise after what you said about the pleasure it would be to help me.

If he had wished to disconcert her he was mistaken; she had already thought over and over again of every

form of embarrassment her unhappy action might bring on her at his hands. She now said sweetly and calmly,

'But that was not a promise to pay. If you will remember it was only an offer, which is a very different thing.

You did not accept it then!' She was herself somewhat desperate, or she would not have sailed so close to the

'Ah, but I accepted later!' he said quickly, feeling in his satisfaction in an epigrammatic answer a certain

'Offers like that are not repeated. They are but phantoms, after all. They come at their own choice, when they

do come; and they stay but the measure of a breath or two. You cannot summon them!' Leonard fell into the

'I don't know that even that is impossible. There are spells which call, and recall, even phantoms!'

Leonard felt that he was getting on, that he was again acquiring the upper hand; so he pushed on the

'And it is wonderful how simple some spells, and these the most powerful, can be. A remembered phrase, the

recollection of a pleasant meeting, the smell of a forgotten flower, or the sight of a forgotten letter; any or all

of these can, through memory, bring back the past. And it is often in the past that the secret of the future lies!'

Miss Rowly felt that something was going on before her which she could not understand. Anything of this

man's saying which she could not fathom must be at least dangerous; so she determined to spoil his purpose,

'Dear me! That is charmingly poetic! Past and future; memory and the smell of flowers; meetings and letters!

It is quite philosophy. Do explain it all, Mr. Everard!' Leonard was not prepared to go on under the

circumstances. His own mention of 'letter,' although he had deliberately used it with the intention of

frightening Stephen, had frightened himself. It reminded him that he had not brought, had not got, the letter;

and that as yet he was not certain of getting the money. Stephen also had noted the word, and determined not

'If a letter is a spell, I think you have a spell of mine, which is a spell of my own weaving. You were to show

me the letter in which I asked you to come to see me. It was in that, I think you said, that I mentioned your

'That is a pity! It is always a pity to forget things in a business transaction; as this is. I think, Auntie, we must

Leonard was seriously alarmed. If the matter of the loan were not gone on with at once the jeweller's bill

could not be paid by Monday, and the result would be another scene with his father. He turned to Stephen and

'I'm awfully sorry! But these debts have been so worrying me that they put lots of things out of my head. That

bill to be paid on Monday, when I haven't a feather to fly with, is enough to drive a fellow off his chump. The

moment I lay my hands on the letter I shall keep it with me so that I can't forget it again. Won't you forgive

'Forgive!' she answered, with a laugh. 'Why it's not worth forgiveness! It is not worth a second thought! All

right! Leonard, make your mind easy; the bill will be paid on Monday!' Miss Rowly said quietly:

'I have to be in London on Monday afternoon; I can pay it for you.' This was a shock to Leonard; he said

'Oh, I say! Can't I . . . ' His words faded away as the old lady again raised her lorgnon and gazed at him

'You know, my dear, it won't be even out of my way, as I have to call at Mr. Malpas's office, and I can go

there from the hotel in Regent Street.' This was all news to Stephen. She did not know that her aunt had

intended going to London; and indeed she did not know of any business with Mr. Malpas, whose firm had

been London solicitor to the Rowlys for several generations. She had no doubt, however, as to the old lady's

intention. It was plain to her that she wanted to help. So she thanked her sweetly. Leonard could say nothing.

He seemed to he left completely out of it. When Stephen rose, as a hint to him that it was time for him to go,

'Would it be possible that I should have the receipt before Monday evening? I want to show it to my father.'

'Certainly!' said the old lady, answering him. 'I shall be back by the two o'clock train; and if you happen to be

He went away relieved, but vindictive; determined in his own mind that when he had received the money for

the rest of the debts he would see Stephen, when the old lady was not present, and have it out with her.

On Monday evening after dinner Mr. Everard and his son sat for a while in silence. They had not met since

morning; and in the presence of the servants conversation had been scrupulously polite. Now, though they

were both waiting to talk, neither liked to begin. The older man was outwardly placid, when Leonard, a little

'Have you had any more bills?' He had expected none, and thus hoped to begin by scoring against his father.

It was something of a set down when the latter, taking some papers from his breastpocket, handed them to

'Only these!' Leonard took them in silence and looked at them. All were requests for payment of debts due by

In each case the full bill was enclosed. He was silent a while; but his father spoke:

'It would almost seem as if all these people had made up their minds that you were of no further use to them.'

'Have you paid the jewellers? This is Monday!' Without speaking Leonard took leisurely from his pocket

folded paper. This he opened, and, after deliberately smoothing out the folds, handed it to his father.

Doubtless something in his manner had already convinced the latter that the debt was paid. He took the paper

in as leisurely a way as it had been given, adjusted his spectacles, and read it. Seeing that his son had scored

'Good!' For many reasons he was glad the debt was paid He was himself too poor a man to allow the constant

drain his son's debts, and too careful of his position to be willing have such exposure as would come with a

County Court action against his son. All the same, his exasperation continued. Neither was his quiver yet

'I am glad you paid off those usurers!' Leonard did not like the definite way he spoke. Still in silence, he took

from his pocket a second paper, which he handed over unfolded. Mr. Everard read it, and returned it politely,

'Those other debts, have you paid them?' With a calm deliberation so full of tacit rudeness that it made his

'Not yet, sir! But I shall think of them presently. I don't care to be bustled by them; and I don't mean to!' It

was apparent that though he spoke verbally of his creditors, his meaning was with regard to others also.

'I am alluding to those who have written to me. I take it that as my estate is not entailed, and as you have no

income except from me, the credit which has been extended to you has been rather on my account than your

own. Therefore, as the matter touches my own name, I am entitled to know something of what is going on.'

His manner as well as his words was so threatening that Leonard was a little afraid. He might imperil his

'Of course, sir, you shall know everything. After all, you know, my affairs are your affairs!'

'I know nothing of the sort. I may of course be annoyed by your affairs, even dishonoured, in a way, by them.

But I accept no responsibility whatever. As you have made your bed, so must you lie on it!'

'It's all right, sir, I assure you. All my debts, both those you know of and some you don't, I shall settle very

'In a few days. I dare say a week at furthest will see everything straightened out.'

'You will do well to tell me when the last of them is paid. There is something which I shall then want to tell

Leonard went to his room and made a systematic, though unavailing, search for Stephen's letter; thinking that

The next few days he passed in considerable suspense. He did not dare go near Normanstand until he was

When Miss Rowly returned from her visit to London she told Stephen that she had paid the bill at the

jeweller's, and had taken the precaution of getting a receipt, together with a duplicate for Mr. Everard. The

original was by her own request made out as received from Miss Laetitia Rowly in settlement of the account

of Leonard Everard, Esq.; the duplicate merely was 'recd. in settlement of the account of,' etc. Stephen's

'I had a reason, my dear; good reason! Perhaps I shall tell you all about it some day; in the meantime I want

you not to ask me anything about it. I have a reason for that too. Stephen, won't you trust me in this,

blindfold?' There was something so sweet and loving in the way she made the request that Stephen was filled

with emotion. She put her arms round her aunt's neck and hugged her tight. Then laying her head on her

'Oh, my dear, you can't know how I trust you; or how much your trust is to me. You never can know!'

The next day the two women held a long consultation over the schedule of Leonard's debts. Neither said a

word of disfavour, or even commented on the magnitude. The only remark touching on the subject was made

'We must ask for proper discounts. Oh, the villainy of those tradesmen! I do believe they charge double in the

hope of getting half. As to jewellers . . . !' Then she announced her intention of going up to town again on

Thursday, at which visit she would arrange for the payment of the various debts. Stephen tried to remonstrate,

but she was obdurate. She held Stephen's hand in hers and stroked it lovingly as she kept on repeating:

'Leave it all to me, dear! Leave it all to me! Everything shall be paid as you wish; but leave it to me!'

Stephen acquiesced. This gentle yielding was new in her; it touched the elder lady to the quick, even whilst it

pained her. Well she knew that some trouble must have gone to the smoothing of that imperious nature.

Stephen's inner life in these last few days was so bitterly sad that she kept it apart from all the routine of

social existence. Into it never came now, except as the exciting cause of all the evil, a thought of Leonard.

The saddening memory was of Harold. And of him the sadness was increased and multiplied by a haunting

fear. Since he had walked out of the grove she had not seen him nor heard from him. This was in itself

strange; for in all her life, when she was at home and he too, never a day passed without her seeing him. She

had heard her aunt say that word had come of his having made a sudden journey to London, from which he

had not yet returned. She was afraid to make inquiries. Partly lest she might hear bad newsthis was her

secret fear; partly lest she might bring some attention to herself in connection with his going. Of some things

in connection with her conduct to him she was afraid to think at all. Thought, she felt, would come in time,

One morning came an envelope directed in Harold's hand. The sight made her almost faint. She rejoiced that

she had been first down, and had opened the postbag with her own key. She took the letter to her room and

shut herself in before opening it. Within were a few lines of writing and her own letter to Leonard in its

envelope. Her head beat so hard that she could scarcely see; but gradually the writing seemed to grow out of

'The enclosed should be in your hands. It is possible that it may comfort you to know that it is safe. Whatever

For a moment joy, hot and strong, blazed through her. The last words were ringing through her brain. Then

came the cold shock, and the gloom of fear. Harold would never have written thus unless he was going away!

For a long time she stood, motionless, holding the letter in her hand. Then she said, half aloud:

'Comfort! Comfort! There is no more comfort in the world for me! Never, never again! Oh, Harold! Harold!'

She sank on her knees beside her bed, and buried her face in her cold hands, sobbing in all that saddest and

bitterest phase of sorrow which can be to a woman's heart: the sorrow that is dryeyed and without hope.

Presently the habit of caution which had governed her last days woke her to action. She bathed her eyes,

smoothed her hair, locked the letter and its enclosure in the little jewelsafe let into the wall, and came down

The sense of loss was so strong on her that she forgot herself. Habit carried her on without will or voluntary

effort, and, so faithfully worked to her good that even the loving eyes of her aunt and the eyes of love are

Not till she was alone in her room that night did Stephen dare to let her thoughts run freely. In the darkness

her mind began to work truly, so truly that she began at the first step of logical process: to study facts. And to

Why had Harold sent her the letter? His own words said that it should be in her hands. Then, again, he said it

might comfort her to know the letter was safe. How could it comfort her? How did he get possession of the

There she began to understand; her quick intuition and her old knowledge of Harold's character and her new

knowledge of Leonard's, helped her to reconstruct causes. In his interview with her he had admitted that

Leonard had told him much, all. He would no doubt have refused to believe him, and Leonard would have

shown him, as proof, her letter asking him to meet her. He would have seen then, as she did now, how much

Good God! to 'any one.' Could it have been so to Harold himself . . . that he thought to use it as an engine, to

force her to meet his wishesas Leonard had already tried to do! The mistrust, founded on her fear, was not

dead yet . . . No! no! no! Her whole being resented such a monstrous proposition! Besides, there was proof.

Thank God! there was proof. A blackmailer would have stayed close to her, and would have kept the letter;

Harold did neither. Her recognition of the truth was shown in her act, when, stretching out her arms in the

And Harold, far away where the setting sun was lying red on the rim of the western sea, could not hear her.

As, then, Harold's motive was not of the basest, it must have been of the noblest. What would be a man's

And yet there could be no doubt as to Harold's earnestness when he had told her that he loved her . . .

Here Stephen covered her face in one moment of rapture. But the gloom that followed was darker than the

night. She did not pursue the thought. That would come later when she should understand.

And yet, so little do we poor mortals know the verities of things, so blind are we to things thrust before our

eyes, that she understood more in that moment of ecstasy than in all the reasoning that preceded and followed

If he really loved, and told her so, wherein was the selfsacrifice? She had reproached him with coming to

her with his suit hotfoot upon his knowledge of her shameful proffer of herself to another man; of her refusal

by him. Could he have been so blind as not to have seen, as she did, the shameful aspect of his impulsive act?

Surely, if he had thought, he must have seen! . . . And he must have thought; there had been time for it. It was

at dinner that he had seen Leonard; it was after breakfast when he had seen her . . . And if he had seen then . .

In an instant it all burst upon her; the whole splendid truth. He had held back the expression of his long love

for her, waiting for the time when her maturity might enable her to understand truly and judge wisely; waiting

till her grief for the loss of her father had become a story of the past; waiting for God knows what a man's

mind sees of obstacles when he loves. But he had spoken it out when it was to her benefit. What, then, had

been his idea of her benefit? Was it that he wished to meet the desire that she had manifested to have some

man toto love? . . . The way she covered her face with her hands whilst she groaned aloud made her

Was it, then, to save her from the evil of marrying Leonard in case he should repent of his harshness, and

later on yield himself to her wooing? The fierce movement of her whole body, which almost threw the

clothes from her bed, as the shameful recollection rolled over her, marked the measure of her selfdisdain.

One other alternative there was; but it seemed so remote, so far fetched, so noble, so unlike what a woman

would do, that she could only regard it in a shamefaced way. She put the matter to herself questioningly, and

with a meekness which had its roots deeper than she knew. And here out of the depths of her humility came a

noble thought. A noble thought, which was a noble truth. Through the darkness of the night, through the inky

gloom of her own soul came with that thought a ray of truth which, whilst it showed her her own shrivelled

unworthiness, made the man whom she had dishonoured with insults worse than death stand out in noble

relief. In that instant she guessed at, and realised, Harold's unselfish nobility of purpose, the supreme effort of

his constant love. Knowing the humiliation she must have suffered at Leonard's hands, he had so placed

himself that even her rejection of him might be some solace to her wounded spirit, her pride.

This time she did not move. She thought and thought of that noble gentleman who had used for her sake even

In that light, which restored in her eyes and justified so fully the man whom she had always trusted, her own

shame and wrongdoing, and the perils which surrounded her, were for the time forgotten.

Miss Rowly had received a bulky letter by the morning's post. She had not opened it, but had allowed it to

rest beside her plate all breakfasttime. Then she had taken it away with her to her own sittingroom.

Stephen did not appear to take any notice of it. She knew quite well that it was from some one in London

whom her aunt had asked to pay Leonard's bills. She also knew that the old lady had some purpose in her

reticence, so she waited. She was learning to be patient in these days. Miss Rowly did say anything about it

that day, or the next, or the next. The thirdmorning, she received another letter which she had read in an

enlightening manner. She began its perusal with set brow frowning, then she nodded her head and smiled.

She put the letter back in its envelope and placed it in the little bag always carried. But she said nothing.

That night, when Stephen's maid had left her, there came a gentle tap at her door, and an instant after the door

opened. The tap had been a warning, not a request; it had in a measure prepared Stephen, who was not

surprised to see her Aunt in dressinggown, though it was many a long day since she had visited her niece's

'There is something I want to talk to you about, dearest, and I thought it would be better to do so when there

could not be any possible interruption. And besides,' here there was a little break in her voice, 'I could hardly

summon up my courage in the daylight.' She stopped, and the stopping told its own story. In an instant

Stephen's arm's were round her, all the protective instinct in her awake, at the distress of the woman she

loved. The old lady took comfort from the warmth of the embrace, and held her tight whilst she went on:

'It is about these bills, my dear. Come and sit down and put a candle near me. I want you to read something.'

'Go on, Auntie dear,' she said gravely. The old lady, after a pause, spoke with a certain timidity:

'They are all paid; at least all that can be. Perhaps I had better read you the letter I have had from my

'"Dear Madam,In accordance with your instructions we have paid all the accounts mentioned in Schedule

A (enclosed). We have placed for your convenience three columns: (1) the original amount of each account,

(2) the amount of discount we were able to arrange, and (3) the amount paid. We regret that we have been

unable to carry out your wishes with regard to the items enumerated in Schedule B (enclosed). We have, we

assure you, done all in our power to find the gentlemen whose names and addresses are therein given. These

were marked 'Debt of honour' in the list you handed to us. Not having been able to obtain any reply to our

letters, we sent one of our clerks first to the addresses in London, and afterwards to Oxford. That clerk, who

is well used to such inquiries, could not find trace of any of the gentlemen, or indeed of their existence. We

have, therefore, come to the conclusion that, either there must be some error with regard to (a) names, (b)

addresses, or (c) both; or that no such persons exist. As it would be very unlikely that such errors could occur

in all the cases, we can only conclude that there have not been any such persons. If we may hazard an

opinion: it is possible that, these debts being what young men call 'debts of honour,' the debtor, or possibly

the creditors, may not have wished the names mentioned. In such case fictitious names and addresses may

have been substituted for the real ones. If you should like any further inquiry instituted we would suggest that

you ascertain the exact names and addresses from the debtor. Or should you prefer it we would see the

gentleman on your behalf, on learning from you his name and address. We can keep, in the person of either

one of the Firm or a Confidential Clerk as you might prefer, any appointment in such behalf you may care to

'"We have already sent to you the receipted account from each of the creditors as you directed, viz. 'Received

from Miss Laetitia Rowly in full settlement to date of the account due by Mr. Leonard Everard the sum of,'

etc. etc. And also, as you further directed, a duplicate receipt of the sumtotal due in each case made out as

'Received in full settlement to date of account due by,' etc. etc. The duplicate receipt was pinned at the back

"With regard to finance we have carried out your orders, etc."' She hurried on the reading. "These sums,

together with the amounts of nine hundred pounds sterling, and seven hundred pounds sterling lodged to the

account of Miss Stephen Norman in the Norcester branch of the Bank as repayment of moneys advanced to

you as by your written instructions, have exhausted the sum, etc."' She folded up the letter with the schedules,

laying the bundle of accounts on the table. Stephen paused; she felt it necessary to collect herself before

'Auntie dear, will you let me see that letter? Oh, my dear, dear Auntie, don't think I mistrust you that I ask it. I

do because I love you, and because I want to love you more if it is possible to do so.' Miss Rowly handed her

the letter. She rose from the arm of the chair and stood beside the table as though to get better light from the

She read slowly and carefully to the end; then folded up the letter and handed it to her aunt. She came back to

her seat on the edge of the chair, and putting her arms round her companion's neck looked her straight in the

eyes. The elder woman grew embarrassed under the scrutiny; she coloured up and smiled in a deprecatory

'Don't look at me like that, darling; and don't shake your head so. It is all right! I told you I had my reasons,

'But, Auntie, you have paid away more than half your little fortune. I know all the figures. Father and uncle

told me everything. Why did you do it? Why did you do it?' The old woman held out her arms as she said:

'Come here, dear one, and sit on my knee as you used to when you were a child, and I will whisper you.'

Stephen sprang from her seat and almost threw herself into the loving arms. For a few seconds the two,

clasped tight to each other's heart, rocked gently to and fro. The elder kissed the younger and was kissed

impulsively in return. Then she stroked the beautiful bright hair with her wrinkled hand, and said admiringly:

'That is true, dear one. But it is right that I should do this. Now you must listen to me, and not speak till I

have done. Keep your thoughts on my words, so that you may follow my thoughts. You can do your own

thinking about them afterwards. And your own talking too; I shall listen as long as you like!'

'My dear, it is not right that you should appear to have paid the debts of a young man who is no relation to

you and who will, I know well, never be any closer to you than he is now.' She hurried on, as though fearing

an interruption, but Stephen felt that her clasp tightened. 'We never can tell what will happen as life goes on.

And, as the world is full of scandal, one cannot be too careful not to give the scandalmongers anything to

exercise their wicked spite upon. I don't trust that young man! he is a bad one all round, or I am very much

mistaken. And, my dear, come close to me! I cannot but see that you and he have some secret which he is

using to distress you!' She paused, and her clasp grew closer still as Stephen's head sank on her breast. 'I

know you have done something or said something foolish of which he has a knowledge. And I know my dear

one, that whatever it was, and no matter how foolish it may have been, it was not a wrong thing. God knows,

we are all apt to do wrong things as well as foolish ones; the best of us. But such is not for you! Your race,

your father and mother, your upbringing, yourself and the truth and purity which are yours would save you

from anything which was in itself wrong. That I know, my dear, as well as I know myself! Ah! better, far

better! for the gods did not think it well to dower me as they have dowered you. The God of all the gods has

given you the ten talents to guard; and He knows, as I do, that you will be faithful to your trust.'

There was a solemn ring in her voce as the words were spoken which went through the young girl's heart.

Love and confidence demanded in return that she should have at least the relief of certain acquiescence; there

is a possible note of pain in the tensity of every string! Stephen lifted her head proudly and honestly, though

her cheeks were scarlet, saying with a consciousness of integrity which spoke directly soul to soul:

'You are right, dear! I have done something very foolish; very, very foolish! But it was nothing which any

one could call wrong. Do not ask me what it was. I need only tell you this: that it was an outrage on

convention. It was so foolish, and based on such foolish misconception; it sprang from such overweening,

arrogant self opinion that it deserves the bitter punishment which will come; which is coming; which is with

me now! It was the cause of something whose blackness I can't yet realise; but of which I will tell you when I

can speak of it. But it was not wrong in itself, or in the eyes of God or man!' The old woman said not a word.

No word was needed, for had she not already expressed her belief? But Stephen felt her relief in the glad

pressure of her fingertips. In a voice less strained and tense Miss Rowly went on:

'What need have I for money, dear? Here I have all that any woman, especially at my age, can need. There is

no room even for charity; you are so good to all your people that my help is hardly required. And, my dear

one, I knowI know,' she emphasised the word as she stroked the beautiful hair, 'that when I am gone my

own poor, the few that I have looked after all my life, will, not suffer when my darling thinks of me!' Stephen

'Though it would not do for the world to know that a young maiden lady had paid the debts of a vicious

young man, it makes no matter if they be paid by an old woman, be the same maid, wife, or widow! And

really, my dear, I do not see how any money I might have could be better spent than in keeping harm away

'Perhaps not, dear! I hope not with all my heart. But I fear that young man. Just fancy him threatening you,

and in your own house; in my very presence! Oh! yes, my dear. He meant to threaten, anyhow! Though I

could not exactly understand what he was driving at, I could see that he was driving at something. And after

all that you were doing for him, and had done for him! I mean, of course, after all that I had done for him, and

was doing for him. It is mean enough, surely, for a man to beg, and from a woman; but to threaten afterwards.

Ach! But I think, my dear, it is checkmate to him this time. All along the line the only proof that is of there

being any friendliness towards him from this house points to me. And moreover, my dear, I have a little plan

in my head that will tend to show him up even better, in case he may ever try to annoy us. Look at me when

next he is here. I mean to do a little playacting which will astonish him, I can tell you, if it doesn't frighten

him out of the house altogether. But we won't talk of that yet. You will understand when you see it!' Her eyes

After a few minutes of repose, which was like a glimpse of heaven to Stephen's aching heart, she spoke

'There was something else that troubled you more than even this. You said you would tell me when you were

able to speak of it . . . Why not speak now? Oh! my dear, our hearts are close together tonight; and in all

your life, you will never have any one who will listen with greater sympathy than I will, or deal more

tenderly with your fault, whatever it may have been. Tell me, dear! Dear!' she whispered after a pause, during

which she realised the depth of the girl's emotion by her convulsive struggling to keep herself in check.

All at once the tortured girl seemed to yield herself, and slipped inertly from her grasp till kneeling down she

laid her head in the motherly lap and sobbed. Miss Rowly kept stroking her hair in silence. Presently the girl

looked up, and with a pang the aunt saw that her eyes were dry. In her pain she said:

'You sob like that, my child, and yet you are not crying; what is it, oh! my dear one? What is it that hurts you

And then the bitter sobbing broke out again, but still alas! without tears. Crouching low, and still enclosing

her aunt's waist with her outstretched arms and hiding her head in her breast; she said:

'What, my dear? What?' said the old lady astonished. 'Why, I thought there was no one in the world that you

'It is true. There wasthere is no one except you whom I trust so much. But I mistook something he said. I

was in a blind fury at the time, and I said things that I thought my father's daughter never could have said.

And she never thought them, even then! Oh, Auntie, I drove him away with all the horrible things I could say

that would wound him. And all because he acted in a way that I see now was the most noble and knightly in

which any man could act. He that my dear father had loved, and honoured, and trusted as another son. He that

was a real son to him, and not a mock sop like me. I sent him away with such fierce and bitter pain that his

poor face was ashen grey, and there was woe in his eyes that shall make woe in mine whenever I shall see

them in my mind, waking or sleeping. He, the truest friend . . . the most faithful, the most tender, the most

strong, the most unselfish! Oh! Auntie, Auntie, he just turned and bowed and went away. And he couldn't do

anything else with the way I spoke to him; and now I shall never see him again!'

The young girl's eyes ware still dry, but the old woman's were wet. For a few minutes she kept softly stroking

the bowed heat till the sobbing grew less and less, and then died away; and the girl lay still, collapsed in the

'Let me stay with you tonight, dear one? Go to sleep in my arms, as you did long ago when there was any

So Stephen lay in those loving arms till her own young breast ceased heaving, and she breathed softly. Till

Leonard was getting tired of waiting when he received his summons to Normanstand. But despite his

impatience he was ill pleased with the summons, which came in the shape of a polite note from Miss Rowly

asking him to come that afternoon at teatime. He had expected to hear from Stephen.

'Damn that old woman! You'd think she was working the whole show!' However, he turned up at a little

before five o'clock, spruce and dapper and well dressed and groomed as usual. He was shown, as before, into

the blue drawingroom. Miss Rowly, who sat there, rose as he entered, and coming across the room, greeted

him, as he thought, effusively. He actually winced when she called him 'my dear boy' before the butler.

She ordered tea to be served at once, and when it had been brought she said to the butler:

'Tell Mannerly to bring me a large thick envelope which is on the table in my room. It is marked L.E. on the

outside.' Presently an elderly maid handed her the envelope and withdrew. When tea was over she opened the

envelope, and taking from it a number of folios, looked over them carefully; holding them in her lap, she said

'You will find writing materials on the table. I am all ready now to hand you over the receipts.' His eyes

glistened. This was good news at all events; the debts were paid. In a rapid flash of thought he came to the

conclusion that if the debts were actually paid he need not be civil to the old lady. He felt that he could have

been rude to her if he had actual possession of the receipts. As it was, however, he could not yet afford to

have any unpleasantness. There was still to come that lowering interview with his father; and he could not

look towards it satisfactorily until he had the assurance of the actual documents that he was safe. Miss Rowly

was, in her own way, reading his mind in his face. Her lorgnon seemed to follow his every expression like a

searchlight. He remembered his former interview with her, and how he had been bested in it; so he made up

his mind to acquiesce in time. He went over to the table and sat down. Taking a pen he turned to Miss Rowly

'Date it, and then say, "Received from Miss Laetitia Rowly the receipts for the following amounts from the

various firms hereunder enumerated."' She then proceeded to read them, he writing and repeating as he wrote.

'"The same being the total amount of my debts which she has kindly paid for me."' He paused here; she

'I thought it was StephenMiss Norman,' he corrected, catching sight of her lorgnon, 'who was paying them.'

'Good Lord, man,' she answered, 'what does it matter who has paid them, so long as they are paid?'

'But I didn't ask you to pay them,' he went on obstinately. There was a pause, and then the old lady, with a

'It seems to me, young man, that you are rather particular as to how things are done for you. If you had begun

to be just a little bit as particular in making the debts as you are in the way of having them paid, there would

be a little less trouble and expense all round. However, the debts have been paid, and we can't unpay them.

But of course you can repay me the money if you like. It amounts in all to four thousand three hundred and

seventeen pounds, twelve shillings and sixpence, and I have paid every penny of it out of my own pocket. If

The last shot told; he went on writing: '"Kindly paid for me,"' she continued in the same even voice:

'"In remembrance of my mother, of whom she was an acquaintance." Now sign it!' He did so and handed it to

her. She read it over carefully, folded it, and put it in her pocket. She then stood. He rose also; and as he

'She is over at Heply Regis. She went there for Lady Heply's ball, and will remain for a few days. Good

afternoon!' The tone in which the last two words were spoken seemed in his ears like the crow of the victor

As he was going out of the room a thought struck her. She felt he deserved some punishment for his personal

rudeness to her. After all, she had paid half her fortune for him, though not on his account; and not only had

he given no thanks, but had not even offered the usual courtesy of saying goodbye. She had intended to

have been silent on the subject, and to have allowed him to discover it later. Now she said, as if it was an

'By the way, I did not pay those items you put down as "debts of honour"; you remember you gave the actual

'Why not?' the question came from him involuntarily. The persecuting lorgnon rose again:

He went out flaming; free from debt, money debts; all but one. And some other debtsnot financialwhose

'By the way, you said you wished to speak to me, sir.' There was something in the tone of his voice which

'Good! Now there is something which it is necessary I should call your attention to. Do you remember the

day on which I handed you that pleasing epistle from Messrs. Cavendish and Cecil?'

'I had a courteous letter from the moneylenders, thanking me for my exertions in securing the settlement of

their claim, and saying that in accordance with the request in my telegram they had held over proceedings

until the day named. I did not quite remember having sent any telegram to them, or any letter either. So,

being at a loss, I went to our excellent postmaster and requested that he would verify the sending of a

telegram to London from me. He courteously looked up the file; which was ready for transference to the

G.P.O., and showed me the form. It was in your handwriting.' He paused so long that Leonard presently said:

'It was signed Jasper Everard. Jasper Everard! my name; and yet it was sent by my son, who was christened,

if I remember rightly, Leonard!' Then he went on, only in a cold acrid manner which made his son feel as

'I think there need not have been much trouble in learning to avoid confusing our names. They are really

dissimilar. Have you any explanation to offer of thethe error, let us call it?' A bright thought struck

'Why, sir,' he said, 'I put it in your name as they had written to you. I thought it only courteous.' The elder

man winced; he had not expected the excuse. We went on speaking in the same calm way, but his tone was

'Good! of course! It was only courteous of you! Quite so! But I think it will be well in the future to let me

look after my own courtesy; as regards my signature at any rate. You see, my dear boy, a signature is queer

sort of thing, and judges and juries are apt to take a poor view of courtesy as over against the conventions

regarding a man, writing his own name. What I want to tell you is this, that on seeing that signature I made a

new will. You see, my estate is not entailed, and therefore I think it only right to see that in such a final

matter justice is done all round. I therefore made a certain provision of which I am sure you will approve.

Indeed, since I am assured of the payment of your debts, I feel justified in my action. I may say, inter alia,

that I congratulate you on either the extent of your resources or the excellence of your friendships, or both. I

confess that the amounts brought to my notice were rather large; more especially in proportion to the value of

the estate which you are some day to inherit. For you are of course to inherit some day, my dear boy. You are

my only son, and it would be hardlyhardly courteous of me not to leave it to you. But I have put a clause in

my will to the effect that the trustee's are to pay all debts of your accruing which can be proved against you,

before handing over to you either the estate itself or the remainder after its sale and the settlement of all

The day after her return from Heply Regis, Stephen was walking in the wood when she thought she heard a

slight rustling of leaves some way behind her. She looked round, expecting to see some one; but the leafy

path was quite clear. Her suspicion was confirmed; some one was secretly following her. A short process of

exclusions pointed to the personality of the some one. Tramps and poachers were unknown in Normanstand,

and there was no one else whom she could think of who had any motive in following her in such a way; it

must be Leonard Everard. She turned and walked rapidly in the opposite direction. As this would bring her to

the house Leonard had to declare his presence at once or else lose the opportunity of a private interview

'I wanted to see you alone. I could not get near you on account of that infernal old woman.' Stephen's face

'Don't you think, Mr. Everard,' she said icily, 'that it is at least an unpardonable rudeness to speak that way,

'Sorry!' he said in the offhand way of younger days, 'I apologise. Fact is, I was angry that she wouldn't let me

'Why, I haven't been able to see you alone ever since I went to meet you on Caester Hill.'

'But why should you see me alone?' she asked as if still in amazement. 'Surely you can say anything you have

to say before my aunt.' With an unwisdom for which an instant later he blamed himself he blurted out:

'Why, old girl, you yourself did not think her presence necessary when you asked me to meet you on the hill.'

'When was that?' She saw that he was angry and wanted to test him; to try how far he would venture. He was

He fell into the trap at once. His debts being paid, fear was removed, and all the hectoring side of the man

was aroused. His antagonist was a woman; and he had already had in his life so many unpleasant scenes with

women that this was no new experience. This woman had, by her own indiscretion, put a whip into his hand;

and, if necessary to secure his own way, by God! he meant to use it! These last days had made her a more

desirable possession in his eyes. The vastness of her estate had taken hold on him, and his father's

remorseless intention with regard to his will would either keep him with very limited funds, or leave him

eventually a pauper if he forestalled his inheritance. The desire of her wealth had grown daily, and it was now

the main force in bringing him here today. And to this was now added the personal desire which her

presence evoked. Stephen, at all times beautiful, had never looked more lovely. In the days since she had met

him on the hilltop, a time that to her seemed so long ago, she had grown to be a woman, and there is some

subtle inconceivable charm in completed womanhood. The reaction from her terrible fear and depression had

come, and her strong brilliant youth was manifesting itself. Her step was springy and her eyes were bright;

and the glow of fine health, accentuated by the militant humour of the present moment, seemed to light up her

beautiful skin. In herself she was desirable, very desirable; Leonard felt his pulses quicken and his blood leap

as he looked at her. Even his prejudice against her red hair had changed to something like hungry admiration.

Leonard felt for the first moment since he had known her that she was a woman; and that, with relation to her,

And at the moment all the man in him asserted itself. It was with half love, as he saw it, and half

'The day you asked me to marry you! Oh! what a fool I was not to leap at such a chance! I should have taken

you in my arms then and kissed you till I showed you how much I loved you. But that will all come yet; the

kissing is still to come! Oh! Stephen, don't you see that I love you? Won't you tell me that you love me still?

'Stop!' Her voice rang like a trumpet. She did not mean to submit to physical violence, and in the present state

of her feeling, an embrace from him would be a desecration. He was now odious to her; she positively

Before her uplifted hand and those flashing eyes, he stopped as one stricken into stone. In that instant she

knew she was safe; and with a woman's quickness of apprehension and resolve, made up her mind what

'Mr. Everard, you have followed me in secret, and without my permission. I cannot talk here with you, alone.

I absolutely refuse to do so; now or at any other time. If you have anything especial to say to me you will find

me at home at noon tomorrow. Remember, I do not ask you to come. I simply yield to the pressure of your

importunity. And remember also that I do not authorise you in any way to resume this conversation. In fact, I

Then with a stately bow, whose imperious distance inflamed him more than ever, and without once looking

Leonard came towards Normanstand next forenoon in considerable mental disturbance. In the first place he

was seriously in love with Stephen, and love is in itself a disturbing influence.

Leonard's love was all of the flesh; and as such had power at present to disturb him, as it would later have

power to torture him. Again, he was disturbed by the fear of losing Stephen, or rather of not being able to

gain her. At first, ever since she had left him on the path from the hilltop till his interview the next day, he

had looked on her possession as an 'option,' to the acceptance of which circumstances seemed to be

compelling him. But ever since, that asset seemed to have been dwindling; and now he was almost beginning

to despair. He was altogether cold at heart, and yet highly strung with apprehension, as he was shown into the

Stephen came in alone, closing the door behind her. She shook hands with him, and sat down by a

writingtable near the window, pointing to him to sit on an ottoman a little distance away. The moment he sat

down he realised that he was at a disadvantage; he was not close to her, and he could not get closer without

manifesting his intention of so doing. He wanted to be closer, both for the purpose of his suit and for his own

pleasure; the proximity of Stephen began to multiply his love for her. He thought that today she looked

better than ever, of a warm radiant beauty which touched his senses with unattainable desire. She could not

but notice the passion in his eyes, and instinctively her eyes wandered to a silver gong placed on the table

well within reach. The more he glowed, the more icily calm she sat, till the silence between them began to

grow oppressive. She waited, determined that he should be the first to speak. Recognising the helplessness of

'I came here today in the hope that you would listen to me.' Her answer, given with a conventional smile,

'I cannot tell you how sorry I am that I did not accept your offer. If I had know when I was coming that day

that you loved me . . . ' She interrupted him, calm of voice, and with uplifted hand:

'I never said so, did I? Surely I could not have said such a thing! I certainly don't remember it?' Leonard was

'You certainly made me think so. You asked me to marry you, didn't you?' Her answer came calmly, though

'Then if you didn't love me, why did you ask me to marry you?' It was his nature to be more or less satisfied

when he had put any one opposed to him proportionally in the wrong; and now his exultation at having put a

poser manifested itself in his tone. This, however, braced up Stephen to cope with a difficult and painful

situation. It was with a calm, seemingly genial frankness, that she answered, smilingly:

'Do you know, that is what has been puzzling me from that moment to this!' Her words appeared to almost

stupefy Leonard. This view of the matter had not occurred to him, and now the puzzle of it made him angry.

'Do you mean to say,' he asked hotly, 'that you asked a man to marry you when you didn't even love him?'

'That is exactly what I do mean! Why I did it is, I assure you, as much a puzzle to me as it is to you. I have

come to the conclusion that it must have been from my vanity. I suppose I wanted to dominate somebody;

'Thank you!' He was genuinely angry by this time, and, but for a wholesome fear of the consequences, would

'I don't see that I was the weakest about.' Somehow this set her on her guard. She wanted to know more, so

'Harold An Wolf! You had him on a string already!' The name came like a sword through her heart, but the

bitter comment braced her to further caution. Her voice seemed to her to sound as though far away:

'Indeed! And may I ask you how you came to know that?' Her voice seemed so cold and sneering to him that

'Simply because he told me so himself.' It pleased him to do in ill turn to Harold. He did not forget that

savage clutch at his throat; and he never would. Stephen's senses were all alert. She saw an opportunity of

'And I suppose it was that pleasing confidence which was the cause of your refusal of my offer of marriage;

of which circumstance you have so thoughtfully and so courteously reminded me.' This, somehow, seemed of

good import to Leonard. If he could show her that his intention to marry her was antecedent to Harold's

confidence, she might still go back to her old affection for him. He could not believe that it did not still exist;

his experience of other women showed him that their love outlived their anger, whether the same had been

'It had nothing in the world to do with it. He never said a word about it till he threatened to kill methe great

'Because he knew that I was going to marry you!' As he spoke he felt that he had betrayed himself; he went

'Because he knew that I loved you. Oh! Stephen, don't you know it now! Can't you see that I love you; and

'But did he threaten to kill you out of mere jealousy? Do you still go in fear of your life? Will it be necessary

to arrest him?' Leonard was chagrined at her ignoring of his lovesuit, and in his selfengrossment answered

'I'm not afraid of him! And, besides, I believe he has bolted. I called at his house yesterday, and his servant

said they hadn't heard a word from him.' Stephen's heart sank lower and lower. This was what she had

'Oh, he'll come back all right, in time. He's not going to give up the jolly good living he has here!'

'But why has he bolted? When he threatened to kill you did he give any reason?' There was too much talk

'And now,' said Stephen, having ascertained what she wanted to know, 'what is it that you want to speak to

Her words fell on Leonard like a cold douche. Here had he been talking about his love for her, and yet she

'What a queer girl you are. You don't seem to attend to what a fellow is saying. Here have I been telling you

that I love you, and asking you to marry me; and yet you don't seem to have even heard me!' She answered at

'But, Stephen,' he cried out quickly, all the alarm in him and all the earnestness of which he was capable

uniting to his strengthening, 'can't you understand that I love you, with all my heart? You are so beautiful; so

The torrent of his words left no opening for her objection; it swept all merely verbal obstacles before it. She

listened, content in a measure. So long as he sat at the distance which she had arranged before his coming she

did not fear any personal violence. Moreover, it was a satisfaction to her now to hear him, who had refused

her, pleading in vain. The more sincere his eloquence, the larger her satisfaction; she had no pity for him

'I know I was a fool, Stephen! I had my chance that day on the hilltop; and if I had felt then as I feel now, as I

have felt every moment since, I would not have been so cold. I would have taken you in my arms and held

you close and kissed you, again, and again, and again. Oh, darling! I love you! I love you! I love you!' He

He grew purple in the face; his hands were still outstretched. The few seconds seemed like hours.

'Forgive me!' she said in a polite tone, suddenly growing grave. 'But really you looked so funny, sitting there

so quietly, and speaking in such a way, that I couldn't help it. You really must forgive me! But remember, I

told you the subject was barred; and as, knowing that, you went on, you really have no one but yourself to

'That may be, now,' she went on icily. 'But it is too late. I do not love you; and I have never loved you! Of

course, had you accepted my offer of marriage you should never have known that. No matter how great had

been my shame and humiliation when I had come to a sense of what I had done, I should have honourably

kept my part of the tacit compact entered into when I made that terrible mistake. I cannot tell you how

rejoiced and thankful I am that you took my mistake in such a way. Of course, I do not give you any credit

'That is a nice sort of thing to tell a man!' he interrupted with cynical frankness.

'Oh, I do not want to hurt you unnecessarily; but I wish there to be no possible misconception in the matter.

Now that I have discovered my error I am not likely to fall into it again; and that you may not have any error

at all, I tell you now again, that I have not loved you, do not love you, and never will and never can love you.'

'For false hopes raised in my mind. If I did not love you before, the very act of proposing to me has made me

love you; and now I love you so well that I cannot live without you!' In his genuine agitation he was starting

up, when the sight of her hand laid upon the gong arrested him. She laughed as she said:

'I thought that the privilege of changing one's mind was a female prerogative! Besides, I have done already

something to make reparation to you for the wrong of . . . ofI may put it fairly, as the suggestion is your

'As you observe so gracefully, it is annoying to have one's own silly words come back at one, boomerang

fashion. I made up my mind to do something for you; to pay off your debts.' This so exasperated him that he

'No thanks to you for that! As I had to put up with the patronage and the lecturings, and the eyeglass of that

'Mr. Everard, if you do not remember that you are in my drawingroom, and speaking of my dear and

'I beg your pardon. I forgot. You make me so wild thatthat . . . ' He chewed the ends of his moustache

angrily. She resumed her seat, taking her hand from the gong. Without further pause she continued:

'Quite right! It has been Miss Rowly who paid your debts. At first I had promised myself the pleasure; but

from something in your speech and manner she thought it better that such an act should not be done by a

woman in my position to a man in yours. It might, if made public, have created quite a wrong impression in

'So she paid the money herself out of her own fortune. And, indeed, I must say that you do not seem to have

'I shall answer it frankly: It was because you manifested, several times, in a manner there was no mistaking,

both by words and deeds, an intention of levying blackmail on me by using your knowledge of my ridiculous,

unmaidenly act. No one can despise, or deplore, or condemn that act more than I do; so that rather than yield

a single point to you, I am, if necessary, ready to face the odium which the public knowledge of it might

produce. What I had intended to do for you in the way of compensation for false hopes raised to you by that

act has now been done. That it was done by my aunt on my behalf, and not by me, matters to you no more

than it did to your creditors, who, when they received the money, made no complaint of injury to their

'Now, when you think the whole matter over in quietness, you will, knowing that I am ready at any time to

face if necessary the unpleasant publicity, be able to estimate what damage you would do to yourself by any

expose. It seems to me that you would come out of it pretty badly all round. That, however, is not my affair;

it entirely rests with yourself. I think I know how women would regard it. I dare say you best know how men

Leonard knew already how the only man who knew of it had taken it, and the knowledge did not reassure

'You jade! You infernal, devilish, cruel, smoothtongued jade!' He stood as bespoke. She stood too, and

stood watching him with her hand on the gong. After a pause of a couple of seconds she said gravely:

'One other thing I should wish to say, and I mean it. Understand me clearly, that I mean it! You must not

come again into my grounds without my special permission. I shall not allow my liberty to be taken away, or

restricted, by you. If there be need at any time to come to the house, come in ceremonious fashion, by the

avenues which are used by others. You can always speak to me in public, or socially, in the most friendly

manner; as I shall hope to be able to speak to you. But you must never transgress the ordinary rules of

decorum. If you do, I shall have to take, for my own protection, another course. I know you now! I am

She stood facing him; and as he looked at her clearcut aquiline face, her steady eyes, her resolute mouth, her

carriage, masterly in its selfpossessed poise, he saw that there was no further hope for him. There was no

'Oh, is that you, Auntie? Mr. Everard has finished his business with me!' Then to the servant, who had

'Mr. Everard would like his carriage. By the way,' she added, turning to him in a friendly way as an

afterthought, 'will you not stay, Mr. Everard, and take lunch with us? My aunt has been rather moping lately;

'Yes, do stay, Mr. Everard!' added Miss Rowly placidly. 'It would make a pleasant hour for us all.'

'Thanks, awfully! But I promised my father to be home for lunch!' and he withdrew to the door which the

He went out filled with anger and despair, and, sad for him, with a fierce, overmastering desirelove he

called itfor the clever, proud, imperious beauty who had so outmatched and crushed him.

That beautiful red head, which he had at first so despised, was henceforth to blaze in his dreams.

On the Scoriac Harold An Wolf, now John Robinson, kept aloof from every one. He did not make any

acquaintances, did not try to. Some of those at table with him, being ladies and gentlemen, now and again

made a polite remark; to which he answered with equal politeness. Being what he was he could not willingly

offend any one; and there was nothing in his manner to repel any kindly overture to acquaintance. But this

was the full length his acquaintanceship went; so he gradually felt himself practically alone. This was just

what he wished; he sat all day silent and alone, or else walked up and down the great deck that ran from stem

to stern, still always alone. As there were no secondclass or steerage passengers on the Scoriac, there were

no deck restraints, and so there was ample room for individual solitude. The travellers, however, were a

sociable lot, and a general feeling of friendliness was abroad. The first four days of the journey were ideally

fine, and life was a joy. The great ship, with bilge keels, was as steady as a rock.

Among the other passengers was an American family consisting of Andrew Stonehouse, the great ironmaster

Stonehouse was a remarkable man in his way, a typical product of the AngloSaxon under American

conditions. He had started in young manhood with nothing but a good education, due in chief to his own

industry and his having taken advantage to the full of such opportunities as life had afforded to him. By

unremitting work he had at thirty achieved a great fortune, which had, however; been up to then entirely

invested and involved in his businesses. With, however, the colossal plant at his disposal, and by aid of the

fine character he had won for honesty and good work, he was able within the next ten years to pile up a

fortune vast even in a nation where multimillionaires are scattered freely. Then he had married, wisely and

happily. But no child had come to crown the happiness of the pair who so loved each other till a good many

years had come and gone. Then, when the hope of issue had almost passed away, a little daughter came.

Naturally the child was idolised by her parents, and thereafter every step taken by either was with an eye to

her good. When the rigour of winter and the heat of summer told on the child in a way which the more hardy

parents had never felt, she was whirled away to some place with more promising conditions of health and

happiness. When the doctors hinted that an ocean voyage and a winter in Italy would be good, those too were

duly undertaken. And now, the child being in perfect health, the family was returning before the weather

should get too hot to spend the summer at their chalet amongst the great pines on the slopes of Mount Ranier.

Like the others on board, Mr. and Mrs. Stonehouse had proffered travellers' civilities to the sad, lonely young

man. As to the others, he had shown thanks for their gracious courtesy; but friendship, as in other cases, did

not advance. The Stonehouses were not in any way chagrined; their lives were too happy and too full for

them to take needless offence. They respected the young man's manifest desire for privacy; and there, so far

But this did not suit the child. Pearl was a sweet little thing, a real blueeyed, goldenhaired little fairy, full

of lovingkindness. All the motherinstinct in her, and even at six a womanchild can be a

mothertheoretically, went out towards the huge, lonely, sad, silent young man. She insisted on friendship

with him; insisted shamelessly, with the natural inclination of innocence which rises high above shame. Even

the halfhearted protests of the mother, who loved to see the child happy, did not deter her; after the second

occasion of Pearl's seeking him, as she persisted, Harold could but remonstrate with the mother in turn; the

ease of the gentle lady and the happiness of her child were more or less at stake. When Mrs. Stonehouse

'There, darling! You must be careful not to annoy the gentleman,' Pearl would turn a rosy allcommanding

'But, mother, I want him to play with me. You must play with me!' Then, as the mother would look at him, he

'Oh please, madam, do let her play with me! Come, Pearl, shall you ride a cockhorse or go to market the

way the gentleman rides?' Then the child would spring on his knee with a cry of delight, and their games

The presence of the child and her loving ways were unutterably sweet to Harold; but his pleasure was always

followed by a pain that rent him as he thought of that other little one, now so far away, and of those times that

But the child never relaxed in her efforts to please; and in the long hours of the sea voyage the friendship

between her and the man grew, and grew. He was the biggest and strongest and therefore most lovely thing

on board the ship, and that sufficed her. As for him, the child manifestly loved and trusted him, and that was

The fifth day out the weather began to change; the waves grew more and more mountainous as the day wore

on and the ship advanced west. Not even the great bulk and weight of the ship, which ordinarily drove

through the seas without pitch or roll, were proof against waves so gigantic. Then the wind grew fiercer and

fiercer, coming in roaring squalls from the southwest. Most of those on board were alarmed, for the great

waves were dreadful to see, and the sound of the wind was a trumpetcall to fear.

The sick stayed in their cabins; the rest found an interest if not a pleasure on deck. Among the latter were the

Stonehouses, who were old travellers. Even Pearl had already had more seavoyages than fall to most people

in their lives. As for Harold, the storm seemed to come quite naturally to him and he paced the deck like a

It was fortunate for the passengers that most of them had at this period of the voyage got their sea legs;

otherwise walking on the slippery deck, that seemed to heave as the rolling of the vessel threw its slopes up

or down, would have been impossible. Pearl was, like most children, pretty surefooted; holding fast to

Harold's hand she managed to move about ceaselessly. She absolutely refused to go with any one else. When

'But, mother, I am quite safe with The Man!' 'The Man' was the name she had given Harold, and by which she

always now spoke of him. They had had a good many turns together, and Harold had, with the captain's

permission, taken her up on the bridge and showed her how to look out over the 'dodger' without the wind

hurting her eyes. Then came the welcome beeftea hour, and all who had come on deck were cheered and

warmed with the hot soup. Pearl went below, and Harold, in the shelter of the charthouse, together with a

Harold, despite the wild turmoil of winds and seas around him, which usually lifted his spirits, was sad,

feeling lonely and wretched; he was suffering from the recoil of his little friend's charming presence. Pearl

came on deck again looking for him. He did not see her, and the child, seeing an opening for a new game,

avoided both her father and mother, who also stood in the shelter of the charthouse, and ran round behind it

on the weather side, calling a loud 'Boo!' to attract Harold's attention as she ran.

A few seconds later the Scoriac put her nose into a coming wave at just the angle which makes for the full

exercise of the opposing forces. The great wave seemed to strike the ship on the port quarter like a giant

hammer; and for an instant she stood still, trembling. Then the top of the wave seemed to leap up and deluge

her. The wind took the flying water and threw it high in volumes of broken spray, which swept not only the

deck but the rigging as high as the top of the funnels. The child saw the mass of water coming, and shrieking

flew round the port side of the charthouse. But just as she turned down the open space between it and the

funnel the vessel rolled to starboard. At the same moment came a puff of wind of greater violence than ever.

The child, calling out, half in simulated half in real fear, flew down the slope. As she did so the gale took her,

and in an instant whirled her, almost touching her mother, over the rail into the sea.

Mrs. Stonehouse shrieked and sprang forward as though to follow her child. She was held back by the strong

arm of her husband. They both slipped on the sloping deck and fell together into the scuppers. There was a

chorus of screams from all the women present. Harold, with an instinctive understanding of the dangers yet to

be encountered, seized a red tamo'shanter from the head of a young girl who stood near.

Her exclamation of surprise was drowned in the fearful cry 'Man overboard!' and all rushed down to the rail

and saw Harold, as he emerged from the water, pull the red cap over his head and then swim desperately

The instant after Pearl's being swept overboard might be seen the splendid discipline of a wellordered ship.

Every man to his post, and every man with a knowledge of his duty. The First Officer called to the

Quartermaster at the wheel in a voice which cut through the gale like a trumpet:

The stern of the great ship swung away to port in time to clear the floating child from the whirling screw,

which would have cut her to pieces in an instant. Then the Officer after tearing the engineroom signal to

'Starboard engine full speed astern,' ran for the lifebuoy hanging at the starboard end of the bridge. This he

hurled far into the sea. As it fell the attached rope dragged with it the signal, which so soon as it reaches

water bursts into smoke and flamesignal by day and night. This done, and it had all been done in a couple

of seconds, he worked the electric switch of the syren, which screamed out quickly once, twice, thrice. This is

the dread sound which means 'man overboard,' and draws to his post every man on the ship, waking or

The Captain was now on the bridge and in command, and the First Officer, freed from his duty there, ran to

All this time, though only numbered by seconds, the Scoriac was turning hard to starboard, making a great

figure of eight; for it is quicker to turn one of these great sea monsters round than to stop her in mid career.

The aim of her Captain in such cases is to bring her back to the weather side of the floating buoy before

On deck the anguish of the child's parents was pitiable. Close to the rail, with her husband's arms holding her

tight to it, the distressed mother leaned out; but always moving so that she was at the nearest point of the ship

to her child. As the ship passed on it became more difficult to see the heads. In the greater distance they

seemed to be quite close together. All at once, just as a great wave which had hidden them in the farther

'She's sinking! she's sinking! Oh, God! Oh, God!' and she fell on her knees, her horrified eyes, set in a face of

But at the instant all eyes saw the man's figure rise in the water as he began to dive. There was a hush which

seemed deadly; the onlookers feared to draw breath. And then the mother's heart leaped and her cry rang out

'He has her! He has her! He has her! Oh, thank God! Thank God!' and for a single instant she hid her face in

Then when the fierce 'hurrah' of all on board had been hushed in expectation, the comments broke forth. Most

'See! He's putting the cap on the child's head. He's a cool one that. Fancy him thinking of a red cap at such a

'Look!' this from an old sailor standing by his boat, 'how he's raisin' in the water. He's keeping his body

between her an' the spindrift till the squall has passed. That would choke them both in a wind like this if he

didn't know how to guard against it. He's all right; he is! The little maid is safe wi' him.'

'Oh, bless you! Bless you for those words,' said the mother, turning towards him. 'At this moment the Second

Officer, who had run down from the bridge, touched Mr. Stonehouse on the shoulder.

'The captain asked me to tell you, sir, that you and Mrs. Stonehouse had better come to him on the bridge.

They both hurried up, and the mother again peered out with fixed eyes. The Captain tried to comfort her;

'There, there! Take comfort, ma'am. She is in the hands of God! All that mortal man can do is being done.

And she is safer with that gallant young giant than she could be with any other man on the ship. Look, how

he is protecting her! Why he knows that all that can be done is being done. He is waiting for us to get to him,

and is saving himself for it. Any other man who didn't know so much about swimming as he does would try

to reach the lifebuoy; and would choke the two of them with the spindrift in the trying. Mind how he took the

Presently the Captain handed Mrs. Stonehouse a pair of binoculars. For an instant she looked through them,

then handed them back and continued gazing out to where the two heads appearedwhen they did appear on

the crest of the waves like pinheads. The Captain said half to himself and half to the father:

As the ship swept back to the rescue, her funnels sending out huge volumes of smoke which the gale beat

down on the sea to leeward, the excitement grew tenser and tenser. Men dared hardly breathe; women wept

and clasped their hands convulsively as they prayed. In the emergency boat the men sat like statues, their oars

upright, ready for instant use. The officer stood with the falls in his hand ready to lower away.

When opposite the lifebuoy, and about a furlong from Harold and Pearl, the Captain gave the signal 'Stop,'

'Ready, men! Steady!' As the coming wave slipping under the ship began to rise up her side, the officer freed

Instantly the oars struck the water, and as the men bent to them a cheer rang out.

Harold and Pearl heard, and the man turning his head for a moment saw that the ship was close at hand,

gradually drifting down to the weather side of them. He raised the child in his arms, saying:

'Now, Pearl, wave your hand to mother and say, hurrah!' The child, fired into fresh hope, waved her tiny hand

and cried 'Hurrah! Hurrah!' The sound could not reach the mother's ears; but she saw, and her heart leaped.

She too waved her hand, but she uttered no sound. The sweet high voice of the child crept over the water to

the ears of the men in the boat, and seemed to fire their arms with renewed strength.

A few more strokes brought them close, Harold with a last effort raised the child in his arms as the boat drove

down on them. The boatswain leaning over the bow grabbed the child, and with one sweep of his strong arm

took her into the boat. The bow oarsman caught Harold by the wrist. The way of the boat took him for a

moment under water; but the next man; pulling his oar across the boat, stooped over and caught him by the

collar, and clung fast. A few seconds more and he was hauled abroad. A wild cheer from all on the Scoriac

When once the boat's head had been turned towards the ship, and the oars had bent again to their work, they

came soon within shelter. When they had got close enough ropes were thrown out, caught and made fast; and

then came down one of the bowlines which the seamen held ready along the rail of the lower deck. This was

seized by the boatswain, who placed it round him under his armpits. Then, standing with the child in his arms

he made ready to be pulled up. Pearl held out her arms to Harold, crying in fear:

'No, no, let The Man take me! I want to go with The Man!' He said quietly so as not to frighten her:

'No, no, dear! Go with him! He can do this better than I can!' So she clung quietly to the seaman, holding her

face pressed close against his shoulder. As the men above pulled at the rope, keeping it as far as possible

from the side of the vessel, the boatswain fended himself off with his feet. In a few seconds he was seized by

eager hands and pulled over the rail, tenderly holding and guarding the child all the while. In an instant she

was in the arms of her mother, who had thrown herself upon her knees and pressed her close to her loving

heart. The child put her little arms around her neck and clung to her. Then looking up and seeing the grey

pallor of her face, which even her great joy could not in a moment efface, she stroked it and said:

'Poor mother! Poor mother! And now I have made you all wet!' Then, feeling her father's hand on her head

Harold was the next to ascend. He came amid a regular tempest of cheers, the seamen joining with the

passengers. The officers, led by the Captain waving his cap from the bridge, joined in the paean.

The boat was cast loose. An instant after the engine bells tinkled: 'Full speed ahead.'

Mrs. Stonehouse had no eyes but for her child, except for one other. When Harold leaped down from the rail

she rushed at him, all those around instinctively making way for her. She flung her arms around him and

kissed him, and then before he could stop her sank to her knees at his feet, and taking his hand kissed it.

Harold was embarrassed beyond all thinking. He tried to take away his hand, but she clung tight to it.

Harold was a gentleman and a kindly one. He said no word till she had risen, still holding his hand, when he

'There! there! Don't cry. I was only too happy to be of service. Any other man on board would have done the

Mr. Stonehouse came to him and said as he grasped Harold's hand so hard that his fingers ached:

'I cannot thank you as I would. But you are a man and will understand. God be good to you as you have been

good to my child; and to her mother and myself!' As he turned away Pearl, who had now been holding close

to her mother's hand, sprang to him holding up her arms. He raised her up and kissed her. Then he placed her

All at once she broke down as the recollection of danger swept back upon her. 'Oh, Mother! Mother!' she

cried, with a long, low wail, which touched every one of her hearers to the heart's core.

'The hot blankets are all ready. Come, there is not a moment to be lost. I'll be with you when I have seen the

So the mother, holding her in her arms and steadied by two seamen lest she should slip on the wet and

Harold was taken by another set of men, who rubbed him down till he glowed, and poured hot brandy and

water into him till he had to almost use force against the superabundance of their friendly ministrations.

For the remainder of that day a sort of solemn gladness ruled on the Scoriac. The Stonehouse family

remained in their suite, content in glad thankfulness to be with Pearl, who lay well covered up on the sofa

sleeping off the effects of the excitement and the immersion, and the result of the potation which the Doctor

had forced upon her. Harold was simply shy, and objecting to the publicity which he felt to be his fate,

After dinner Harold went back to his cabin; locking himself in, he lay down on the sofa. The gloom of his

great sorrow was heavy on him; the reaction from the excitement of the morning had come.

He was recalled to himself by a gentle tapping. Unlocking and opening the door he saw Mr. Stonehouse, who

'I came to you on account of my little child.' There he stopped with a break in his voice. Harold, with intent to

set his mind at ease and to stave off further expressions of gratitude, replied:

'Oh, pray don't say anything. I am only too glad that I was privileged to be of service. I only trust that the dear

'That is why I am here,' said the father quickly. 'My wife and I are loth to trouble you. But the poor little thing

has worked herself into a paroxysm of fright and is calling for you. We have tried in vain to comfort or

reassure her. She will not be satisfied without you. She keeps calling on "The Man" to come and help her. I

am loth to put you to further strain after all you have gone through today; but if you would come' Harold

'Of course I'm coming. If I can in any way help it is both a pleasure and a duty to be with her.' Turning to the

'She is indeed a very sweet and good child. I shall never forget how she bore herself whilst we waited for aid

When they came close to the Stonehouses' suite of rooms they heard Pearl's voice rising with a pitiful note of

'Where is The Man? Oh! where is The Man? Why doesn't he come to me? He can save me! I want to be with

The Man!' When the door opened and she saw him she gave shriek of delight, and springing from the arms of

her mother fairly leaped into Harold's arms which were outstretched to receive her. She clung to him and

kissed him again and again, rubbing her little hands all over his face as though to prove to herself that he was

real and not a dream. Then with a sigh she laid her head on his breast, the reaction of sleep coming all at once

to her. With a gesture of silence Harold sat down, holding the child in his arms. Her mother laid a thick shawl

over and sat down close to Harold. Mr. Stonehouse stood quiet in the doorway with the child's nurse peering

After a little while, when he thought she was asleep, Harold rose and began to place her gently in the bunk.

But the moment he did so she waked with a scream. The fright in her eyes was terrible. She clung to him,

'Don't leave me! Don't leave me! Don't leave me!' Harold was much moved and held the little thing tight in

'No darling! I shan't leave you! Look in my eyes, dear, and I will promise you, and then you will be happy.

She looked quickly up in his face. Then she kissed him lovingly, and rested her head, but not sleepily this

'Yes! I'm not afraid now! I'm going to stay with The Man!' Presently Mrs. Stonehouse, who had been thinking

of ways and means, and of the comfort of the strange man who had been so good to her child, said:

'You will sleep with mother tonight, darling. Mr. . . . The Man,' she said this with an appealing look of

apology to Harold, 'The Man will stay by you till you are asleep . . . ' But she interrupted, not fretfully or

'All right, mother. He can sleep too. I'll be very good and lie quite quiet; but oh! mother, I can't sleep unless

his arms are round me. I'm afraid if they're not the sea will get me!' and she clung closer to Harold, tightening

'You will not mind?' asked Mrs. Stonehouse timidly to Harold; and, seeing acquiescence in his face, added in

'Hush!' Harold said quietly. Then he said to Pearl, in a cheerful matteroffact way which carried conviction

'Now, darling, it is time for all good little girls to be asleep, especially when they have had anan interesting

day. You wait here till I put my pyjamas on, and then I'll come back for you. And mother and father shall

'Don't be long!' the child anxiously called after him as he hurried away. Even trust can have its doubts.

In a few minutes Harold was back, in pyjamas and slipper and a dressinggown. Pearl, already wrapped in a

The Stonehouses' suite of rooms was close to the top of the companionway, and as Harold's stateroom was

on the saloon deck, the little procession had, much to the man's concern, run the gauntlet of the thong of

passengers whom the bad weather had kept indoors. When he came out of the day cabin carrying the child

there was a rush of all the women to make much of the little girl. They were all very kind and no

troublesome; their interest was natural enough, and Harold stopped whilst they petted the little thing.

The little procession followed. Mr. and Mrs. Stonehouse coming next, and last the nurse, who manifested a

phase of the anxiety of a hen who sees her foster ducklings waddling toward a pond.

When they had all gone and the cabin was dark, save for the gleam from the nightlight which the careful

mother had placed out of sight in the basin at the foot of the bunk, Harold lay a long time in a negative state,

Presently he became conscious of a movement of the child his arms; a shuddering movement, and a sort of

smothered groan. The little thing was living over again in sleep the perils and fears of the day. Instinctively

she put up her hands and felt the a round her. Then with a sigh clasped her arms round his neck, and with a

peaceful look laid her head upon his breast. Even through the gates of sleep her instinct had recognised and

And then this trust of a little child brought back the man to his nobler self. Once again came back to him that

love which he had had, and which he knew now that he had never lost, for the little child that he had seen

grow into full womanhood; whose image must dwell in his heart of hearts for evermore.

The long night's sleep quite restored Pearl. She woke fairly early and without any recurrence of fear. At first

she lay still, fearing she would wake The Man, but finding that he was awakehe had not slept a wink all

It was still early morning, but early hours rule on shipland. Harold rang for the steward, and when the man

came he told him to tell Mr. Stonehouse that the child was awake. His delight when he found the child

That day Harold passed in unutterable gloom. The reaction was strong on him; and all his woe, his bitter

remembrance of the past and his desolation for the future, were with him unceasingly.

In the dusk of the evening he wandered out to his favourite spot, the cabletank on top of the aft wheelhouse.

Here he had been all alone, and his loneliness had the added advantage that from the isolated elevation he

could see if anyone approached. He had been out there during the day, and the Captain, who had noticed his

habit had had rigged up a canvas dodger on the rail on the weather side. When he sat down on the coiled

hawsers in the tank he was both secluded and sheltered. In this peaceful corner his thoughts ran freely and in

How unfair it all was! Why had he been singled out for such misery? What gleam of hope or comfort was left

to his miserable life since he had heard the words of Stephen; those dreadful words which had shattered in an

instant all the cherished hopes of his life. Too well he remembered the tone and look of scorn with which the

horrible truths had been conveyed to him. In his inmost soul he accepted them as truths; Stephen's soul had

From his position behind the screen he did not see the approaching figure of Mr. Stonehouse, and was

astonished when he saw his head rise above the edge of the tank as he climbed the straight Jacob's ladder

behind the wheelhouse. The elder man paused as he saw him and said in an apologetic way:

'Will you forgive my intruding on your privacy? I wanted to speak to you alone; and as I saw you come here

a while ago I thought it would be a good opportunity.' Harold was rising as he spoke.

'By all means. This place is common property. But all the same I am honoured in your seeking me.' The poor

fellow wished to be genial; but despite his efforts there was a strange formality in the expression of his

words. The elder man understood, and said as he hurried forward and sank beside him:

'Pray don't stir! Why, what a cosy corner this is. I don't believe at this moment there is such peace in the ship!'

'I hope not! There is no soul on board to whom I could wish such evil!' The old man said as he laid his hand

'God help you, my poor boy, if such pain is in your heart!' Mr. Stonehouse looked out at the sea, at last

'If you feel that I intrude on you I earnestly ask you to forgive me; but I think that the years between your age

and mine as well as my feeling towards the great obligation which I owe you will plead for excuse. There is

something I would like to say to you, sir; but I suppose I must not without your permission. May I have it?'

'I could not but notice that you have some great grief bearing upon you; and from one thing or anotherI can

tell you the data if you wish me to do soI have come to the conclusion that you are leaving your native

land because of it.' Here Harold, wakened to amazement by the readiness with which his secret had been

'How on earth did you know that!' His companion, taking it as a query, answered:

'Sir, at your age and with your strength life should be a joy; and yet you are sad: Companionship should be a

pleasure; yet you prefer solitude. That you are brave and unselfish I know; I have reason, thank God! to know

it. That you are kindly and tolerant is apparent from your bearing to my little child this morning; as well as

your goodness of last night, the remembrance of which her mother and I will bear to our graves; and to me

now. I have not lived all these years without having had trouble in my own heart; and although the happiness

of late years has made it dim, my gratitude to you who are so sad brings it all back to me.' He bowed, and

'You are quite right so far as I have a sorrow; and it is because of it I have turned my back on home. Let it

'I take it that you are going to begin life afresh in the new country. In such case I have a proposition to make.

I have a large business; a business so large that I am unable to manage it all myself. I was intending that when

I arrived at home I would set about finding a partner. The man I want is not an ordinary man. He must have

brains and strength and daring.' He paused. Harold felt what was coming, but realised, as he jumped at the

conclusion, that it would not do for him to take for granted that he was the man sought. He waited; Mr.

'As to brains, I am prepared to take the existence of such on my own judgment. I have been reading men, and

in this aspect specially, all my life. The man I have thought of has brains. I am satisfied of that, without proof.

I have proof of the other qualities.' He paused again; as Harold said nothing he continued in a manner ill at

'My difficulty is to make the proposal to the man I want. It is so difficult to talk business to a man to whom

you under great obligation; to whom you owe everything. He might take a friendly overture ill.' There was

but one thing to be said and Harold said it. His heart warmed to the kindly old man and he wished to spare

'I thought so much, sir;' said Harold after a pause, 'and I thank you earnestly and honestly. But it is

'Oh, my dear sir!' said the other, chagrined as well as surprised. 'Think again! It is really worth your while to

Harold shook his head. There was a long silence. The old man wished to give his companion time to think;

and indeed he thought that Harold was weighing the proposition in his mind. As for Harold, he was thinking

how best he could make his absolute refusal inoffensive. He must, he felt, give some reason; and his thoughts

were bent on how much of the truth he could safely give without endangering his secret. Therefore he spoke

'I can only ask you, sir, to bear with me and to believe that I am very truly and sincerely grateful to you for

your trust. But the fact is, I cannot go anywhere amongst people. Of course you understand that I am

'I must be alone. I can only bear to see people on this ship because it is a necessary way to solitude.'

'You "cannot go anywhere amongst people"! Pardon me. I don't wish to be unduly inquisitive; but on my

word I fail to understand!' Harold was in a great difficulty. Common courtesy alone forbade that he should

leave the matter where it was; and in addition both the magnificently generous offer which had been made to

him, and the way in which accident had thrown him to such close intimacy with Pearl's family, required that

he should be at least fairly frank. At last in a sort of cold desperation he said:

'I cannot meet anyone . . . There it something that happened . . . Something I did . . . Nothing can make it

right . . . All I can do is to lose myself in the wildest, grimmest, wilderness in the world; and fight my pain . .

A long silence. Then the old man's voice came clear and sweet, something like music, in the shelter from the

'But perhaps time may mend things. God is very good . . . !' Harold answered out of the bitterness of his

heart. He felt that his words were laden with an anger which he did not feel, but he did not see his way to

'Nothing can mend this thing! It is at the farthest point of evil; and there is no going on or coming back.

'God can do much! Oh my dear young friend, you who have been such a friend to me and mine, think of this.'

'God Himself can do nothing here! It is done! And that is the end!' He turned his head; it was all he could do

to keep from groaning. The old man's voice vibrated with earnest conviction as he spoke:

'You are young and strong and brave! Your heart is noble! You can think quickly in moments of peril;

therefore your brain is sound and alert. Now, may I ask you a favour? it is not much. Only that you will

listen, without interruption, to what, if I have your permission, I am going to say. Do not ask me anything; do

'By all means! It is not much!' he almost felt like smiling as he spoke. Mr. Stonehouse, after a short pause, as

'Let me tell you what I am. I began life with nothing but a fair education such as all our American boys get.

But from a good mother I got an idea that to be honest was the best of all things; from a strenuous father,

who, however, could not do well for himself, I learned application to work and how best to use and exercise

such powers as were in me. From the start things prospered with me. Men who knew me trusted me; some

came with offers to share in my enterprise. Thus I had command of what capital I could use; I was able to

undertake great works and to carry them through. Fortune kept growing and growing; for as I got wealthier I

found newer and larger and more productive uses for my money. And in all my work I can say before God I

never willingly wronged any man. I am proud to be able to say that my name stands good wherever it has

been used. It may seem egotistical that I say such things of myself. It may seem bad taste; but I speak because

I have a motive in so doing. I want you to understand at the outset that in my own country, wherever I am

He paused a while. Harold sat still; he knew that such man would not, could not, speak in such a way without

'When you were in the water making what headway you could in that awful seawhen my little child's life

hung in the balance, and the anguish of my wife's heart nearly tore my heart in two, I said to myself, "If we

had a son I should wish him to be like that." I meant it then, and I mean it now! Come to me as you are!

Faults, and past, and all. Forget the past! Whatever it was we will together try to wipe it out. Much may be

done in restoring where there has been any wrongdoing. Take my name as your own. It will protect you

from the result of what ever has been, and give you an opportunity to find your place again. You are not bad

in heart I know. Whatever you have done has not been from base motives. Few of us are spotless as to facts.

You and I will show ourselvesfor unless God wills to the opposite we shall confide in none otherthat a

strong, brave man may win back all that was lost. Let me call you by my name and hold you as the son of my

As he had spoken, Harold's thought's had at first followed in some wonderment. But gradually, as his noble

purpose unfolded, based as it was on a misconception as to the misdoing of which he himself had spoken, he

had been almost stricken dumb. At the first realisation of what was intended he could not have spoken had he

tried; but at the end he had regained his thoughts and his voice. There was still wonderment in it, as realising

'If I understand aright you are offering me your name! Offering to share your honour with me. With me,

'I inferred from what you said and from your sadness, your desire to shun your kind, that there was, if not a

'But your honour, sir; your honour!' There was a proud look in the old man's eyes as he said quietly:

'It was my desire, is my desire, to share with you what I have that is best; and that, I take it, is not the least

valuable of my possessions, such as they are! And why not? You have given to me all that makes life sweet;

without which it would be unbearable. That child who came to my wife and me when I was old and she had

passed her youth is all in all to us both. Had your strength and courage been for barter in the moments when

my child was quivering between life and death, I would have cheerfully purchased them with not half but all!

Sir, I should have given my soul! I can say this now, for gratitude is above all barter; and surely it is allowed

This greathearted generosity touched Harold to the quick. He could hardly speak for a few minutes. Then

'You overwhelm me. Such noble trust and generosity as you have shown me demands a return of trust. But I

He rose quickly and slipped down the iron ladder, passing into the darkness and the mist and the flying spray.

Harold went to and fro on the deserted deck. All at once the course he had to pursue opened out before him.

He was aware that what the nobleminded old man offered him was fortune, great fortune in any part of the

world. He would have to be refused, but the refusal should be gently done. He, believing that the other had

done something very wrong, had still offered to share with him his name, his honour. Such confidence

demanded full confidence in return; the unwritten laws which governed the men amongst whom he had been

And the shape that confidence should take? He must first disabuse his new friend's mind of criminal or

unworthy cause for his going away. For the sake of his own name and that of his dead father that should be

done. Then he would have to suggest the real cause . . . He would in this have to trust Mr. Stonehouse's

honour for secrecy. But he was worthy of trust. He would, of course, give no name, no clue; but he would put

When his mind was so far made up he wanted to finish the matter, so he turned to the wheelhouse and

climbed the ladder again. It was not till he sat in the shelter by his companion that he became aware that he

had become wet with the spray. The old man wishing to help him in his embarrassment said:

'Well?' Harold began at once; the straightforward habit of his life stood to him now:

'Let me say first, sir, what will I know give you pleasure.' The old man extended his hand; he had been

hoping for acceptance, and this seemed like it. Harold laid his hand on it for an instant only, and then raised it

'You have been so good to me, so nobly generous in your wishes that I feel I owe you a certain confidence.

But as it concerns not myself alone I will ask that it be kept a secret between us two. Not to be told to any

'I will hold your secret sacred. Even from my wife; the first secret I shall have ever kept from her.'

'First, then, let me say, and this is what I know will rejoice you, that I am not leaving home and country

because of any crime I have committed; not from any offence against God or man, or law. Thank God! I am

free from such. I have always tried to live uprightly . . . ' Here a burst of pain overcame him, and with a dry

The old man laid a kindly hand on his shoulder and kept it there for a few moments.

'My poor boy! My poor boy!' was all he said. Harold shook himself as if to dislodge the bitter thoughts.

'There was a lady with whom I was very much thrown in contact since we were children. Her father was my

father's friend. My friend too, God knows; for almost with his dying breath he gave sanction to my marrying

his daughter, if it should ever be that she should care for me in that way. But he wished me to wait, and, till

she was old enough to choose, to leave her free. For she is several years younger than I am; and I am not very

old yetexcept in heart! All this, you understand, was said in private to me; none other knew it. None knew

of it even till this moment when I tell you that such a thing has been.' He paused; the other said:

'Believe me that I value your confidence, beyond all words!' Harold felt already the good effects of being able

to speak of his pentup trouble. Already this freedom from the nightmare loneliness of his own thoughts

'I honestly kept to his wishes. Before God, I did! No man who loved a woman, honoured her, worshipped her,

could have been more scrupulously careful as to leaving her free. What it was to me to so hold myself no one

knows; no one ever will know. For I loved her, do love her, with every nerve and fibre of my heart. All our

lives we had been friends; and I believed we loved and trusted each other. But . . . but then there came a day

when I found by chance that a great trouble threatened her. Not from anything wrong that she had done; but

from something perhaps foolish, harmlessly foolish except that she did not know . . . ' He stopped suddenly,

fearing he might have said overmuch of Stephen's side of the affair. 'When I came to her aid, however,

meaning the best, and as singleminded as a man can be, she misunderstood my words, my meaning, my

very coming; and she said things which cannot be unsaid. Things . . . matters were so fixed that I could not

explain; and I had to listen. She said things that I did not believe she could have said to me, to anyone. Things

that I did not think she could have thought . . . I dare say she was right in some ways. I suppose I bungled in

my desire to be unselfish. What she said came to me in new lights upon what I had done . . . But anyhow her

statements were such that I felt I could not, should not, remain. My very presence must have been a trouble to

her hereafter. There was nothing for it but to come away. There was no place for me! No hope for me! There

is none on this side of the grave! . . . For I love her still, more than ever. I honour and worship her still, and

ever will, and ever must! . . . I am content to forego my own happiness; but I feel there is a danger to her from

what has been. That there is and must be to her unhappiness even from the fact that it was I who was the

object of her wrath; and this adds to my woe. Worst of all is . . . the thought and the memory that she should

He turned away overcome and hid his face in his hands. The old man sat still; he knew that at such a moment

silence is the best form of sympathy. But his heart glowed; the wisdom of his years told him that he had heard

'I am rejoiced, my dear boy, at what you tell me of your own conduct. It would have made no difference to

me had it been otherwise. But it would have meant a harder and longer climb back to the place you should

hold. But it really seems that nothing is so hopeless as you think. Believe me, my dear young friend who are

now as a son to my heart, that there will be bright days for you yet . . . ' He paused a moment, but mastering

'I think you are wise to go away. In the solitudes and in danger things that are little in reality will find their

true perspective; and things that are worthy will appear in their constant majesty.'

'I recognise that Ithat we, for my wife and little girl would be at one with me in my wish, did they know of

it, must not keep you from your purpose of fighting out your trouble alone. Every man, as the Scotch proverb

says, must "dree his own weird." I shall not, I must not, ask you for any promise; but I trust that if ever you

do come back you will make us all glad by seeing you. And remember that what I said of myself and of all I

During the rest of the voyage, with the exception of one occasion, he did not allude to the subject again by

On the night before Fire Island should be sighted Harold was in the bow of the great ship looking out with

eyes in which gleamed no hope. To him came through the darkness Mr. Stonehouse. He heard the footsteps

and knew them; so with the instinct of courtesy, knowing that his friend would not intrude on his solitude

without purpose, he turned and met him. When the American stood beside him he said, studiously avoiding

'This is the last night we shall be together, and, if I may, there is one thing I would like to say to you.'

'Say all you like, sir,' said Harold as heartily as he could, 'I am sure it is well meant; and for that at any rate I

'You will yet be grateful, I think!' he answered gravely. 'When it comes back to you in loneliness and solitude

you will, I believe, think it worth being grateful for. I don't mean that you will be grateful to me, but for the

thing itself. I speak out of the wisdom of many years. At your time of life the knowledge cannot come from

observation. It may my poor boy, come through pain; and if what I think is correct you will even in due time

be grateful to the pain which left such golden residuum.' He paused, and Harold grew interested. There was

something in the old man's manner which presaged a truth; he, at least, believed it. So the young man listened

'Young men are apt to think somewhat wrongly of women they love and respect. We are apt to think that

such women are of a different clay from ourselves. Nay! that they are not compact of clay at all, but of some

faultless, flawless material which the Almighty keeps for such fine work. It is only in middle age that

menexcept scamps, who learn this bad side of knowledge youngrealise that women are human beings

like themselves. It may be, you know, that you may have misjudged this young lady! That you have not made

sufficient allowance for her youth, her nature, even the circumstances under which she spoke. You have told

me that she was in some deep grief or trouble. May it not have been that this in itself unnerved her, distorted

her views, aroused her passion till all within and around was tinged with the jaundice of her concern, her

humiliation whatever it was that destroyed for the time that normal self which you had known so long.

May it not have been that her bitterest memory even since may be of the speaking of these very words which

sent you out into the wide world to hide yourself from men. I have thought, waking and sleeping, of your

position ever since you honoured me with your confidence; and with every hour the conviction has

strengthened in me that there is a way out of this situation which sends a man like you into solitude with a

heart hopeless and full of pain; and which leaves her perhaps in greater pain, for she has not like you the

complete sense of innocence. But at present there is no way out but through time and thought. Whatever may

be her ideas or wishes she is powerless. She does not know your thoughts, no matter how she may guess at

them. She does not know where you are or how to reach you, no matter how complete her penitence may be.

And oh! my dear young friend, remember that you are a strong man, and she is a woman. Only a woman in

her passion and her weakness after all. Think this all over, my poor boy! You will have time and opportunity

where you are going. God help you to judge wisely!' After a pause of a few seconds he said abruptly: 'Good

When the time for parting came Pearl was inconsolable. Not knowing any reason why The Man should not do

as she wished she was persistent in her petitions to Harold that he should come with her, and to her father and

mother that they should induce him to do so. Mrs. Stonehouse would have wished him to join them if only for

a time. Her husband, unable to give any hint without betraying confidence, had to content himself with trying

to appease his little daughter by vague hopes rather than promises that her friend would join them at some

When the Scoriac was warped at the pier there was a tendency on the part of the passengers to give Harold a

sort of public sendoff; but becoming aware of it he hurried down the gangway without waiting. Having only

hand luggage, for he was to get his equipment in New York, he had cleared and passed the ring of customs

officers before the most expeditious of the other passengers had collected their baggage. He had said

goodbye to the Stonehouses in their own cabin. Pearl had been so much affected at saying goodbye, and

'Don't cry, darling. If I am spared I shall come back to you within three years. Perhaps I will write before

Children are easily satisfied. Their trust makes a promise a real thing; and its acceptance is the beginning of

satisfaction. But for weeks after the parting she had often fits of deep depression, and at such times her tears

always flowed. She took note of the date, and there was never a day that she did not think of and sigh for The

And The Man, away in the wilds of Alaska, was feeling, day by day and hour by hour, the chastening and

purifying influences of the wilderness. Hot passions cooled before the breath of the snowfield and the glacier.

The moaning of a tortured spirit was lost in the roar of the avalanche and the scream of the cyclone. Pale

sorrow and cold despair were warmed and quickened by the fierce sunlight which came suddenly and stayed

Not much to look back upon, but a world to look forward to. To Stephen, dowered though she was with rare

personal gifts and with wealth and position accorded to but few, the hours of waiting were longer than the

years that were past. Yet the time had new and startling incidents for her. Towards Christmas in the second

year the Boer war had reached its climax of evil. As the news of disaster after disaster was flashed through

the cable she like others felt appalled at the sacrifices that were being exacted by the God of War.

One day she casually read in The Times that the Earl de Lannoy had died in his London mansion, and further

learned that he had never recovered from the shock of hearing that his two sons and his nephew had been

killed. The paragraph concluded: "By his death the title passes to a distant relative. The new Lord de Lannoy

is at present in India with his regiment, the 35th or 'Grey' Hussars, of which he is Colonel." She gave the

matter a more than passing thought, for it was sad to find a whole family thus wiped out at a blow.

Early in February she received a telegram from her London solicitor saying that he wished to see her on an

important matter. Her answer was: "Come at once"; and at teatime Mr. Copleston arrived. He was an old

friend and she greeted him warmly. She was a little chilled when he answered with what seemed unusual

'I thank your Ladyship for your kindness!' She raised her eyebrows but made no comment: she was learning

to be silent under surprise. When she had handed the old gentleman his tea she said:

'My aunt has chosen to remain away, thinking that you might wish to see me privately. But I take it that there

'Not at all; not at all! I should like her to be present. It will, I am sure, be a delight to us all.'

Again raised eyebrows; again silence on the subject. When a servant answered her bell she told him to ask

Aunt Laetitia and the solicitor were old cronies, and their greeting was most friendly. When the old

gentlewoman had seated herself and taken her cup of tea, Mr. Copleston said to Stephen, with a sort of

Stephen sat quite still. She knew the news was true; Mr. Copleston was not one who would jest on a business

subject, and too accurate a lawyer to make an error in a matter of fact. But the fact did not seem to touch her.

It was not that she was indifferent to it; few women could hear such news without a thrill. Mr. Copleston

seemed at a loss. Miss Rowly rose and quietly kissed her, and saying simply, 'God bless you, my dear!' went

Realising that Mr. Copleston expected some acknowledgment, Stephen held out her hand to him and said

'Now, won't you tell us about it? I am in absolute ignorance; and don't understand.'

'I had better not burden you, at first, with too many details, which can come later; but give you a rough survey

'Your title of Countess de Lannoy comes to you through your ancestor Isobel, third and youngest daughter of

the sixth Earl; Messrs Collinbrae and Jackson, knowing that my firm acted for your family, communicated

with us. Lest there should be any error we followed most carefully every descendant and every branch of the

family, for we thought it best not to communicate with you till your right of inheritance was beyond dispute.

We arrived independently at the same result as Messrs. Collinbrae and Jackson. There is absolutely no doubt

whatever of your claim. You will petition the Crown, and on reference to the House of Lords the Committee

for Privileges will admit your right. May I offer my congratulations, Lady de Lannoy on your acquisition? By

the way, I may say that all the estates of the Earldom, which have been from the first kept in strict entail, go

During the recital Stephen was conscious of a sort of bitter comment on the tendencies of good fortune.

'Too late! too late!' something seemed to whisper, 'what delight it would have been had Father inherited . . . If

Harold had not gone . . . !' All the natural joy seemed to vanish, as bubbles break into empty air.

To Aunt Laetitia the new title was a source of pride and joy, far greater than would have been the case had it

come to herself. She had for so many years longed for new honours for Stephen that she had almost come to

regard them as a right whose coming should not be too long delayed. Miss Rowly had never been to Lannoy;

and, indeed, she knew personally nothing of the county Angleshire in which it was situated. She was

naturally anxious to see the new domain; but kept her feeling concealed during the months that elapsed until

Stephen's right had been conceded by the Committee for Privileges. But after that her impatience became

manifest to Stephen, who said one day in a teasing, caressing way, as was sometimes her wont:

'Oh, my dear,' she replied, shaking her head, 'I can understand your own reticence, for you don't want to seem

greedy and in a hurry about your new possessions. But when people come to my age there's no time to waste.

I feel I would not have complete material for happiness in the Worldtocome, if there were not a

'We shall go tomorrow, Auntie. No! Let us go today. You shall not wait an hour that I can help!' She ran to

'Not yet! Stephen dear. It would flurry me to start all at once; tomorrow will be time enough. And that will

How often do we look for that tomorrow which never comes? How often do we find that its lookedfor rosy

Before the morrow's sun was high in the heavens Stephen was hurriedly summoned to her aunt's bedside. She

lay calm and peaceful; but one side of her face was alive and the other seemingly dead. In the night a

paralytic stroke had seized her. The doctors said she might in time recover a little, but she would never be her

old active self again. She herself, with much painful effort, managed to convey to Stephen that she knew the

end was near. Stephen, knowing the wish of her heart and thinking that it might do her good to gratify her

wish, asked if she should arrange that she be brought to Lannoy. Feebly and slowly, word by word, she

'Not now, dear one. I shall see it all in time!Soon! And I shall understand and rejoice!' For a long time she

lay still, holding with her right hand, which was not paralysed, the other's hand. Then she murmured:

Stephen was brokenhearted. Now, indeed, she felt alone and desolate. All were gone. Father, uncle,

aunt!And Harold. The kingdoms of the Earth which lay at her feet were of no account. One hour of the

Normanstand was now too utterly lonely to be endurable; so Stephen determined to go, for a time at any rate,

to Lannoy. She was becoming accustomed to be called 'my lady' and 'your ladyship,' and the new loneness

In addition, there was another spur to her going. Leonard Everard, knowing of her absolute loneliness, and

feeling that in it was a possibility of renewing his old status, was beginning to make himself apparent. He had

learned by experience a certain wisdom, and did not put himself forward obtrusively. But whenever they met

he looked at her so meekly and so lovingly that it brought remembrances which came with blushes. So, all at

once, without giving time for the news to permeate through the neighbourhood, she took her way to Lannoy

Stephen's life had hitherto been spent inland. She had of course now and again been for short periods to

various places; but the wonder of the sea as a constant companion had been practically unknown to her.

Now at her new home its full splendour burst upon her; and so impressed itself upon her that new life seemed

Lannoy was on the northeastern coast, the castle standing at the base of a wide promontory stretching far

into the North Sea. From the coast the land sloped upward to a great rolling ridge. The outlook seaward was

over a mighty expanse of green sward, dotted here and there with woods and isolated clumps of trees which

grew fewer and smaller as the rigour of the northern sea was borne upon them by the easterly gales.

The coast was a wild and lonely one. No habitation other than an isolated fisher's cottage was to be seen

between the little fishing port at the northern curve away to the south, where beyond a waste of sandhills

and strand another tiny fishingvillage nestled under a high cliff, sheltering it from northerly wind. For

centuries the lords of Lannoy had kept their magnificent prospect to themselves; and though they had treated

their farmers and cottagers well, none had ever been allowed to settle in the great park to seaward of the

From the terrace of the castle only than one building, other than the cottage on the headland, could be seen.

When it was known that Lady de Lannoy had come to Lannoy there was a prompt rush of such callers as the

county afforded. Stephen, however, did not wish to see anyone just at present. Partly to avoid the chance

meeting with strangers, and partly because she enjoyed and benefited by the exercise, she was much away

from home every day. Sometimes, attended only by a groom, she rode long distances north or south along the

coast; or up over the ridge behind the castle and far inland along the shaded roads through the woods; or over

bleak wind swept stretches of moorland. Sometimes she would walk, all alone, far down to the searoad,

and would sit for hours on the shore or high up on some little rocky headland where she could enjoy the

Now and again in her journeyings she made friends, most of them humble ones. She was so great a lady in

her station that she could be familiar without seeming to condescend. The fishermen of the little ports to

north and south came to know her, and to look gladly for her coming. Their goodwives had for her always a

willing curtsy and a ready smile. As for the children, they looked on her with admiration and love, tempered

with awe. She was so gentle with them, so ready to share their pleasures and interests, that after a while they

came to regard her as some strange embodiment of Fairydom and Dreamland. Many a little heart was made

glad by the arrival of some item of delight from the Castle; and the hearts of the sick seemed never to hope,

One friend she made who became very dear and of great import. Often she had looked up at the old windmill

on the crest of the ridge and wondered who inhabited it; for that some one lived in it, or close by, was shown

at times by the drifting smoke. One day she made up her mind to go and see for herself. She had a fancy not

to ask anyone about it. The place was a little item of mystery; and as such to be treasured and exploited, and

in due course explored. The mill itself was picturesque, and the detail at closer acquaintance sustained the

faroff impression. The roadway forked on the near side of the mill, reuniting again the further side, so that

the place made a sort of islandmill, outoffices and garden. As the mill was on the very top of the ridge the

garden which lay seawards was sheltered by the building from the west, and from the east by a thick hedge of

thorn and privet, which quite hid it from the roadway. Stephen took the lower road. Finding no entrance save

a locked wooden door she followed round to the western side, where the business side of the mill had been. It

was all still now and silent, and that it had long fallen into disuse was shown by the grey faded look of

everything. Grass, green and luxuriant, grew untrodden between the cobblestones with which the yard was

paved. There was a sort of oldworld quietude about everything which greatly appealed to Stephen.

Stephen dismounted and walked round the yard admiring everything. She did not feel as if intruding; for the

A low door in the base of the mill tower opened, and a maid appeared, a demure pretty little thing of sixteen

or seventeen years, dressed in a prim strait dress and an oldfashioned Puritan cap. Seeing a stranger, she

'Don't be afraid, little girl! Will you kindly tell me who lives here?' The answer came with some hesitation:

'And who is Sister Ruth?' The question came instinctively and without premeditation. The maid, embarrassed,

'I don't know!' she said at last. 'Only Sister Ruth, I suppose!' It was manifest that the matter had never

afforded her anything in the nature of a problem. There was an embarrassing silence. Stephen did not wish to

seem, or even to be, prying; but her curiosity was aroused. What manner of woman was this who lived so

manifestly alone, and who had but a Christian name! Stephen, however, had all her life been accustomed to

dominance, and at Normanstand and Norwood had made many acquaintances amongst her poorer

neighbours. She was just about to ask if she might see Sister Ruth, when behind the maid in the dark of the

low passageway appeared the tall, slim figure of a silver woman. Truly a silver woman! The first flash of

Stephen's thought was correct. Whitehaired, whitefaced, whitecapped, white kerchiefed; in a plaincut

dress of lightgrey silk, without adornment of any kind. The whole ensemble was as a piece of old silver. The

lines of her face were very dignified, very sweet, very beautiful. Stephen felt at once that she was in the

presence of no common woman. She looked an admiration which all her Quaker garments could not forbid

the other to feel. She was not the first to speak; in such a noble presence the dignity of Stephen's youth

imperatively demanded silence, if not humility. So she waited. The Silver Lady, for so Stephen ever after

'I should like to come in; if you will not think me rude. The fact is, I was struck when riding by with the

beautiful situation of the mill. I thought it was only an old mill till I saw the garden hedges; and I came round

to ask if I might go in.' The Silver Lady came forward at a pace that by itself expressed warmth as she said

'Indeed thou mayest. Stay! it is teatime. Let us put thy horse in one of the sheds; there is no man here at

present to do it. Then thou shalt come with me and see my beautiful view!' She was about to take the horse

herself, but Stephen forestalled her with a quick: 'No, no! pray let me. I am quite accustomed.' She led the

horse to a shed, and having looped the rein over a hook, patted him and ran back. The Silver Lady gave her a

Stephen was thinking if she ought to begin by telling her name. But the Haroun al Raschid feeling for

adventure incognito is an innate principle of the sons of men. It was seldom indeed that her life had afforded

The Silver Lady on her own part also wished for silence, as she looked for the effect on her companion when

the glory of the view should break upon her. When they had climbed the winding stone stair, which led up

some twenty feet, there was a low wide landing with the remains of the main shaft of the mill machinery

running through it. From one side rose a stone stair curving with the outer wall of the mill tower and guarded

by a heavy iron rail. A dozen steps there were, and then a landing a couple of yards square; then a deep

doorway cut in the thickness of the wall, round which the winding stair continued.

The Silver Lady, who had led the way, threw open the door, and motioned to her guest to enter. Stephen

stood for a few moments, surprised as well as delighted, for the room before her as not like anything which

It was a section of almost the whole tower, and was of considerable size, for the machinery and even the

inner shaft had been removed. East and south and west the wall had been partially cut away so that great wide

windows nearly the full height of the room showed the magnificent panorama. In the depths of the ample

windows were little cloistered nooks where one might with a feeling of supersolitude be away from and

The room was beautifully furnished and everywhere were flowers, with leaves and sprays and branches

Even from where she stood in the doorway Stephen had a bird'seye view of the whole countryside; not only

of the coast, with which she was already familiar, and on which her windows at the Castle looked, but to the

south and west, which the hill rising steep behind the castle and to southward shut out.

'Thou likest my room and my view. There is no use asking thee, I see thou dost!' Stephen answered with a

'I am so glad thou likest it. I have lived here for nearly forty years; and they have been years of unutterable

Stephen left the mill that afternoon with a warmth of heart that she had been a stranger to for many a day. The

two women had accepted each other simply. 'I am called Ruth,' said the Silver Lady. 'And I am Stephen,' said

the Countess de Lannoy in reply. And that was all; neither had any clue to the other's identity. Stephen felt

that some story lay behind that calm, sweet personality; much sorrow goes to the making of fearless quietude.

The Quaker lady moved so little out of her own environment that she did not even suspect the identity of her

visitor. All that she knew of change was a notice from the solicitor to the estate that, as the headship had

lapsed into another branch of the possessing family, she must be prepared, if necessary, to vacate her tenancy,

It was not long before Stephen availed herself of the permission to come again. This time she made up her

mind to tell who she was, lest the concealment of her identity might lead to awkwardness. At that meeting

The natures of the two women expanded to each other; and after a very few meetings there was established

between them a rare confidence. Even the personal austerity of Quakerdom, or the state and estate of the

peeress, could not come between. Their friendship seemed to be for the life of one. To the other it would be a

The Silver Lady never left the chosen routine of her own life. Whatever was the reason of her giving up the

world, she kept it to herself; and Stephen respected her reticence as much as she did her confidence.

It had become a habit, early in their friendship, for Stephen to ride or walk over to the windmill in the dusk of

the evening when she felt especially lonely. On one such occasion she pushed open the outer door, which was

never shut, and took her way up the stone stair. She knew she would find her friend seated in the window

with hands folded on lap, looking out into the silent dusk with that absorbed understanding of things which is

With a glad exclamation, which coming through her habitual sedateness showed how much she loved the

young girl, Sister Ruth started to her feet. There was something of such truth in the note she had sounded,

that the lonely girl's heart went out to her in abandoned fulness. She held out her arms; and, as she came close

to the other, fell rather than sank at her feet. The elder woman recognised, and knew. She made no effort to

restrain her; but sinking back into her own seat laid the girl's head in her lap, and held her hands close against

'Tell me,' she whispered. 'Won't you tell me, dear child, what troubles you? Tell me! dear. It may bring

'Oh, I am miserable, miserable, miserable!' moaned Stephen in a low voice whose despair made the other's

heart grow cold. The Silver Lady knew that here golden silence was the best of help; holding close the other's

hands, she waited. Stephen's breast began to heave; with an impulsive motion she drew away her hands and

put them before her burning face, which she pressed lower still on the other's lap. Sister Ruth knew that the

trouble, whatever it was, was about to find a voice. And then came in a low shuddering whisper a voice

In all her life the Silver Lady had never been so startled or so shocked. She had grown so to love the bright,

brilliant young girl that the whispered confession cut through the silence of the dusk as a shriek of murder

goes through the silent gloom of night. Her hands flew wide from her breast, and the convulsive shudder

which shook her all in an instant woke Stephen through all her own deep emotion to the instinct of protection

of the other. The girl looked up, shaking her head, and said with a sadness which stilled all the other's fear:

'Ah! Don't be frightened! It is not murder that I tell you of. Perhaps if it were, the thought would be easier to

bear! He would have been hurt less if it had been only his body that I slew. Well I know now that his life

would have been freely given if I wished it; if it had been for my good. But it was the best of him that I

killed; his soul. His noble, loving, trusting, unselfish soul. The bravest and truest soul that ever had place in a

Sister Ruth's heart began to beat more freely. She understood now, and all the womanhood, all the wifehood,

motherhood suppressed for a lifetime, awoke to the woman's need. Gently she stroked the beautiful head that

lay so meekly on her lap; and as the girl sobbed with but little appearance of abatement, she said to her softly:

'Tell me, dear child. Tell me all about it! See! we are alone together. Thou and I; and God! In God's dusk;

with only the silent land and sea before us! Won't thou trust me, dear one, and speak!'

And then, as the shadows fell, and faroff lights at sea began to twinkle over the waste of waters, Stephen

At last, when her broken voice had trailed away into gentle catchings of the breath, the older woman,

knowing that the time come for comfort, took her in her strong arms, holding her face wet against her own,

'Cry on, dear heart!' she said as she kissed her. 'Cry on! It will do thee good!' She was startled once again as

the other seemed for an instant to grow rigid in her arms, and raising her hands cried out in a burst of almost

'Cry! cry! Oh my God! my God!' Then becoming conscious of her wet face she seemed to become in an

instant all limp, and sank on her knees again. There was so different a note in her voice that the other's heart

'God be thanked for these tears! Oh, thank God! Thank God!' Looking up she saw through the gloom the

'Oh! you don't know! You can't know what it is to me! I have not cried since last I saw him pass from me in

That time of confession seemed to have in some way cleared, purified and satisfied Stephen's soul. Life was

now easier to bear. She was able to adapt herself, justifiably to the needs of her position; and all around her

and dependent on her began to realise that amongst them was a controlling force, farreaching sympathy, and

She began to shake off the gloom of her sorrows and to take her place in her new high station. Friends there

were in many, and quondam lovers by the score. Lovers of all sorts. Fortunehunters there were be sure, not

a few. But no need was there for baseness when the lady herself was so desirable; so young, so fair, so

lovable. That she was of great estate and 'richly left' made all things possible to any man who had sufficient

acquisitiveness, or a good conceit of himself. In a wide circle of country were many truelovers who would

And so in the East the passing of the two years of silence and gloom seemed to be the winning of something

In the West the two years flew. Time seemed to go faster there, because life was more strenuous. Harold,

being mainly alone, found endless work always before him. From daylight to dark labour never ceased; and

for his own part he never wished that it should. In the wilderness, and especially under such conditions as

held in Northern Alaska, labour is not merely mechanical. Every hour of the day is fraught with danger in

some new form, and the head has to play its part in the strife against nature. In such a life there is not much

At first, when the work and his surroundings were strange to him, Harold did many useless things and ran

many unnecessary risks. But his knowledge grew with experience. Privations he had in plenty; and all the

fibre of his body and the strength of his resolution and endurance were now and again taxed to their utmost.

But with a man of his nature and race the breaking strain is high; and endurance and resolution are qualities

Gradually his mind came back to normal level; he had won seemingly through the pain that shadowed him.

Without anguish he could now think, remember, look forward. Then it was that the kindly wisdom of the

American came back to him, and came to stay. He began to examine himself as to his own part of the

unhappy transaction; and stray moments of wonderment came as to whether the fault may not, at the very

base, have his own. He began to realise that it is insufficient in this strenuous world to watch and wait; to

suppress one's self; to put aside, in the wish to benefit others, all the hopes, ambitions, cravings which make

Thus it was that Harold's thoughts, ever circling round Stephen, came back with increasing insistence to his

duty towards her. He often thought, and with a bitter feeling against himself that it came too late, of the dying

'Guard her and cherish her, as if you were indeed my son and she your sister . . . If it should be that you and

Stephen should find that there is another affection between you remember I sanction it. But give her time! I

trust that to you! She is young, and the world is all before her. Let her choose . . . And be loyal to her, if it is

Here he would groan, as all the anguish of the past would rush back upon him; and keenest of all would be

the fear, suspicion, thought which grew towards belief, that he may have betrayed that trust. . . .

At first the side of this memory personal to his own happiness was faintly emphasised; the important side was

of the duty to Stephen. But as time went on the other thought became a sort of corollary; a timid, halting,

blushing thought which followed sheepishly, borne down by trembling hope. No matter what adventure came

to him, the thought of neglected duty returned ever afresh. Once, when he lay sick for weeks in an Indian

wigwam, the idea so grew with each day of the monotony, that when he was able to crawl out by himself into

Luck is a strange thing. It seems in some mysterious way to be the divine machinery for adjusting averages.

Whatever may be the measure of happiness or unhappiness, good or evil, allotted to anyone, luck is the cause

From the time of Harold's illness Dame Fortune seemed to change her attitude to him. The fierce frown, nay!

the malignant scowl, to which he had become accustomed, changed to a smile. Hitherto everything seemed to

have gone wrong with him; but now all at once all seemed to go right. He grew strong and hardy again.

Indeed, he seemed by contrast to his late helplessness to be so strong and hard that it looked as if that very

illness had done him good instead of harm. Game was plentiful, and he never seemed to want. Everywhere he

went there were traces of gold, as though by some instinct he was tracking it to its home. He did not value

gold for its own sake; but he did for the ardour of the search. Harold was essentially a man, and as a man an

adventurer. To such a man of such a race adventure is the very salt of existence.

The adventurer's instinct took with it the adventurer's judgment; Harold was not content with small results.

Amidst the vast primeval forces there were, he felt, vast results of their prehistoric working; and he

determined to find some of them. In such a quest, purpose is much. It was hardly any wonder, then, that in

time Harold found himself alone in the midst of one of the great treasureplaces of the world. Only labour

was needed to take from the earth riches beyond the dreams of avarice. But that labour was no easy problem;

great and difficult distance had to be overcome; secrecy must be observed, for even a whisper of the existence

of such a place would bring a horde of desperadoes. But all these difficulties were at least sources of interest,

if not in themselves pleasures. The new Harold, seemingly freshly created by a year of danger and strenuous

toil, of selfexamining and humiliation, of the realisation of duty, andthough he knew it not as yetof the

dawning of hope, found delight in the thought of dangers and difficulties to be overcome. Having taken his

bearings exactly so as to be safe in finding the place again, he took his specimens with him and set out to find

At length he came to the port and set quietly about finding men. This he did very carefully and very

systematically. Finally, with the full complement, and with ample supply of stores, he started on his

It is not purposed to set out here the extraordinary growth of Robinson City, for thus the mining camp soon

became. Its history has long ago been told for all the world. In the early days, when everything had to be

organised and protected, Harold worked like a giant, and with a system and energy which from the first

established him as a master. But when the second year of his exile was coming to a close, and Robinson City

was teeming with life and commerce, when banks and police and soldiers made life and property

comparatively safe, he began to be restless again. This was not the life to which he had set himself. He had

gone into the wilderness to be away from cities and from men; and here a city had sprung up around him and

men claimed him as their chief. Moreover, with the restless feeling there began to come back to him the old

But he felt strong enough by this time to look forward in life as well as backward. With him now to think was

to act; so much at least he had gained from his position of dominance in an upspringing city. He quietly

consolidated such outlying interests as he had, placed the management of his great estate in the hands of a

man he had learned to trust, and giving out that he was going to San Francisco to arrange some business, left

Robinson City. He had already accumulated such a fortune that the world was before him in any way he

Knowing that at San Francisco, to which he had booked, he would have to run the gauntlet of certain of his

friends and business connections, he made haste to leave the ship quietly at Portland, the first point she

touched on her southern journey. Thence he got on the Canadian Pacific Line and took his way to Montreal.

What most arrested his attention, and in a very disconcerting way, were the glimpses of English life one sees

reproduced so faithfully here and there in Canada. The whole of the past rushed back on him so

overpoweringly that he was for the moment unnerved. The acute feeling of course soon became mitigated;

but it was the beginning of a rerealisation of what had been, and which grew stronger with each mile as the

At first he tried to fight it; tried with all the resources of his strong nature. His mind was made up, he assured

himself over and over again. The past was past, and what had been was no more to him than to any of the

other passengers of the train. Destiny had long ago fulfilled itself. Stephen no doubt had by now found some

one worthy of her and had married. In no dream, sleeping or waking, could he ever admit that she had

married Leonard; that was the only gleam of comfort in what had grown to be remorse for his neglected duty.

And so it was that Harold An Wolf slowly drifted, though he knew it not, into something of the same

intellectual position which had dominated him when he had started on his journeying and the sunset fell

nightly on his despairing face. The life in the wilderness, and then in the dominance and masterdom of

enterprise, had hardened and strengthened him into more selfreliant manhood, giving him greater

When he took ship in the Dominion, a large cargoboat with some passengers running to London, he had a

vague purpose of visiting in secret Norcester, whence he could manage to find out how matters were at

Normanstand. He would then, he felt, be in a better position to regulate his further movements. He knew that

he had already a sufficient disguise in his great beard. He had nothing to fear from the tracing of him on his

journey from Alaska or the interest of his fellowpassengers. He had all along been so fortunate as to be able

to keep his identity concealed. The name John Robinson told nothing in itself, and the width of a whole great

continent lay between him and the place of his fame. He was able to take his part freely amongst both the

passengers and the officers. Even amongst the crew he soon came to be known; the men liked his geniality,

and instinctively respected his enormous strength and his manifest force of character. Men who work and

who know danger soon learn to recognise the forces which overcome both. And as sufficient time had not

elapsed to impair his hardihood or lower his vast strength he was facile princeps. And so the crew

acknowledged him; to them he was a born Captain whom to obey would be a natural duty.

After some days the weather changed. The great ship, which usually rested evenkeeled on two waves, and

whose bilge keels under normal conditions rendered rolling impossible, began to pitch and roll like a

leviathan at play. The decks, swept by gigantic seas, were injured wherever was anything to injure. Bulwarks

were torn away as though they had been compact of paper. More than once the double doors at the head of

the companion stairs had been driven in. The bull's eye glasses of some of the ports were beaten from their

brazen sockets. Nearly all the boats had been wrecked, broken or torn from their cranes as the great ship

rolled heavily in the trough, or giant waves had struck her till she quivered like a frightened horse.

At that season she sailed on the far northern course. Driven still farther north by the gales, she came within a

short way of south of Greenland. Then avoiding Moville, which should have been her place of call, she ran

On the coast of Angleshire the weather in the early days of September had been stormy. With the southwest

wind had come deluges of rain, not a common thing for the time of year on the east coast. Stephen, whose

spirits always rose with high wind, was in a condition of prolonged excitement. She could not keep still;

every day she rode long distances, and found a wonderful satisfaction in facing the strong winds. Like a true

horsewoman she did not mind the wet, and had glorious gallops over the grassy ridge and down the slopes on

the farther side, out on the open road or through the endless grass rides amid the pine woods.

On the Tuesday morning the storm was in full sweep, and Stephen was in wild spirits. Nothing would do her

but to go out on the tower of the castle where she could walk about, and leaning on the crenellated parapet

look over all the coast stretching far in front and sweeping away to the left and right. The prospect so

enchanted her, and the fierce sweep of the wind so suited her exalted mood, that she remained there all the

morning. The whole coast was a mass of leaping foam and flying spray, and far away to the horizon white

topped waves rolled endlessly. That day she did not even ride out, but contented herself with watching the sea

and the storm from the tower. After lunch she went to her tower again; and again after tea. The storm was

now furious. She made up her mind that after dinner she would ride down and see its happenings close at

When she had finished dinner she went to her room to dress for her ride. The rush and roar of the storm were

in her ears, and she was in wild tumultuous spirits. All her youth seemed to sweep back on her; or perhaps it

was that the sickness of the last two years was swept away. Somewhere deep down in Stephen's heart, below

her intention or even her consciousness, was a desire to be her old self if only for an hour. And to this end

externals were of help. Without weighing the matter in her mind, and acting entirely on impulse, she told her

maid to get the red habit she had not worn for years. When she was dressed she sent round to have out her

white Arab; while it was getting ready she went once more to the tower to see the stormeffect in the

darkening twilight. As she looked, her heart for an instant stood still. Halfway to the horizon a great ship,

ablaze in the bows, was driving through the waves with all her speed. She was heading towards the little port,

Stephen tore down the turret stair, and gave hurried directions to have beds prepared in a number of rooms,

fires everywhere, and plenty of provisions. She also ordered that carriages should be sent at once to the

fishing port with clothing and restoratives. There would, she felt, be need for such help before a time to be

measured by minutes should have passed; and as some of her servants were as yet strange to her ways she did

not leave anything to chance. One carriage was to go for the doctor who lived at Lannoy, the village over the

hill, whence nothing could be seen of what was happening. She knew that others within sight or hailing

would be already on their way. Work was afoot, and had she time, or thought of it, she would have chosen a

In a few seconds she was in the saddle, tearing at full speed down the road that led to the port. The wind was

blowing so strongly in her face that only in the lulls could she hear the hoofstrokes of the groom's horse

At first the height of the road allowed her to see the ship and the port towards which she was making. But

presently the road dipped, and the curving of the hill shut both from her sight; it was only when she came

Now the great ship was close at hand. The flames had gained terribly, and it was a race for life or death.

There was no time do more than run her aground if life was to be saved at all. The captain, who in the gaps of

the smoke could be seen upon the bridge, knew his work well. As he came near the shoal he ran a little north,

and then turned sharply so as to throw the boat's head to the south of the shoal. Thus the wind would drive

The shock of her striking the sand was terrific, though the tinkle of the bell borne in on the gale showed that

the engines had been slowed down. The funnels were shaken down, and the masts broke off, falling forward.

A wild shriek from a hundred throats cleft the roaring of wind and wave. The mast fell, the foremast, with all

its cumbering tophamper on the bridge, which was in an instant blotted out of existence, together with the

little band of gallant men who stood on it, true to their last duty. As the wind took the smoke south a man was

seen to climb on the wreck of the mast aft and make fast the end of a great coil of rope which he carried. He

was a huge man with a full dark beard. Two sailors working with furious haste helped him with the rope. The

waves kept raising the ship a little, each time bumping her on the sand with a shock. The people on deck held

Then the bearded man, stripping to his waist and cutting off his trousers above the knee, fastened an end of

the rope round his waist. The sailors stood ready one behind the other to pay it out. As a great wave rolled

In the meantime the coastguard had fixed Board of Trade rocket apparatus, and in a few seconds the

prolonged roar of a rocket was heard. It flew straight towards the ship, rising at a high angle so as to fall

beyond it. But the force of the wind took it up as it rose, and the gale increased so that it rose nearly

vertically; and in this position the wind threw it south of its objective, and short of it. Another rocket was got

ready at once, and blue lights were burned so that the course of the venturous swimmer might be noted. He

swam strongly; but the great weight of the rope behind kept pulling him back, and the southern trend of the

tide current and the force of the wind kept dragging him from the pier. Within the bar the waves were much

less than without; but they were still so unruly that no boat in the harbourwhich was not a lifeboat

stationcould venture out. Indeed, in the teeth of the storm it would have been a physical impossibility to

As the gathered crowd saw Stephen approach they made way for her. She had left her horse with the groom,

and despite the drenching spray fought a way against the wind out on the pier. As in the glare of the blue

light, which brought many things into harsh unnatural perspective, she caught sight of the set face of the

swimmer rising and falling with the waves, her heart leaped. This was indeed a man! a brave man; and all the

woman in her went out to him. For him, and to aid him and his work, she would have given everything, done

anything; and in her heart, which beat in an ecstasy of anxiety, she prayed with that desperate conviction of

But it soon became apparent that no landing could be effected. The force of the current and the wind were

taking the man too far southward for him ever to win a way back. Then one of coastguards took the

leadtopped cane which they use for throwing practice, and, after carefully coiling the line attached it so that

it would run free, managed with a desperate effort to fling it far out. The swimmer, to whom it fell close,

fought towards it frantically; and as the cord began to run through the water, managed to grasp it. A wild

cheer rose from the shore and the ship. A stout line was fastened to the shore end of the cord, and the

swimmer drew it out to him. He bent it on the rope which trailed behind him; then, seeing that he was himself

a drag on it, with the knife which he drew from the sheath at the back of his waist, he cut himself free. One of

the coastguards on the pier, helped by a host of willing hands, began drawing the end of the rope on shore.

The swimmer still held the line thrown to him, and several men on the pier began to draw on it. Unhappily

the thin cord broke under the strain, and within a few seconds the swimmer had drifted out of possible help.

Seeing that only wild rocks lay south of the seawall, and that on them seas beat furiously, he turned and

made out for sea. In the light beyond the glare he could see vaguely the shore bending away to the west in a

deep curve of unbroken white leaping foam. There was no hope of landing there. To the south was the

headland, perhaps two miles away as the crow flies. Here was the only chance for him. If he could round the

headland, he might find shelter beyond; or somewhere along the farther shore some opening might present

itself. Whilst the light from the blue fires still reached him he turned and made for the headland.

In the meantime on ship and on shore men worked desperately. Before long the end of the hawser was carried

round on the high cliff, and pulled as taut as the force at hand could manage, and made fast. Soon endless

ropes were bringing in passengers and crew as fast as place could be found for them. It became simply a race

for time. If the fire, working against the wind, did not reach the hawser, and if the ship lasted the furious

bumping on the sandbank, which threatened to shake her to pieces each moment, all on board might yet be

Stephen's concern was now for the swimmer alone. Such a gallant soul should not perish without help, if help

could be on this side of heaven. She asked the harbourmaster, an old fisherman who knew every inch of the

coast for miles, if anything could be done. He shook his head sadly as he answered:

'I fear no, my lady. The lifeboat from Granport is up north, no boat from here could get outside the harbour.

There's never a spot in the bay where he could land, even in a less troubled sea than this. Wi' the wind ashore,

there's no hope for ship or man here that cannot round the point. And a stranger is no like to do that.'

'Because, my lady, there's a wheen o' sunken rocks beyond the Head. No one that didn't know would ever

think to keep out beyond them, for the cliff itself goes down sheer. He's a gallant soul yon; an' it's a sore pity

he's goin' to his death. But it must be! God can save him if He wishes; but I fear none other!'

Even as he spoke rose to Stephen's mind a memory of an old churchyard with great trees and the scent of

many flowers, and a child's voice that sounded harsh through the monotonous hum of bees:

Oh; to be God, if but an hour; and able to do things! To do anything to help a brave man! A wild prayer

'Oh! God, give me this man's life! Give it to me to atone for the other I destroyed! Let me but help him, and

The passion of her prayer seemed to help her, and her brain cleared. Surely something could be done! She

would do what she could; but first she must understand the situation. She turned again to the old

'How long would it take him to reach the headland, if he can swim so far?' The answer came with a settled

'The wind and tide are wi' him, an' he's a strong swimmer. Perhaps half an hour will take him there. He's all

right in himself. He can swim it, sure. But alack! it's when he gets there his trouble will be, when none can

warn him. Look how the waves are lashing the cliff; and mark the white water beyond! What voice can sound

Here was a hope at any rate. Light and sound were the factors of safety. Some good might be effected if she

could get a trumpet; and there were trumpets in the rocketcart. Light could be hadmust be had if all the

fences round the headland had to be gathered for a bonfire! There was not a moment to be lost. She ran to the

rocket cart, and got a trumpet from the man in charge. Then she ran to where she had left her horse. She had

plenty of escort, for by this time many gentlemen had arrived on horseback from outlying distances, and all

'You may be useful here. When all these are ashore send on the rocketcart, and come yourselves to the

headland as quick as you can. Tell the coastguards that all those saved are to be taken to the castle. In the

rocketcart bring pitch and tar and oil, and anything that will flame. Stay!' she cried to the chief boatman.

'I'm sorry, my lady, but they are all used. There are the last of them burning now. We have burned them ever

'Then hurry on the rocketcart!' she said as she sprang to the saddle, and swept out on the rough track that ran

by the cliffs, following in bold curves the windings of the shore. The white Arab seemed to know that his

speed was making for life. As he swept along, far outdistancing the groom, Stephen's heart went out in silent

'Oh, to be God, and be able to do things! Give me this man's life, oh, God! Give me this man's life, to atone

Faster and faster, over rough road, cattle track, and grassy sward; over rising and falling ground; now and

again so close to the edge of the high cliff that the spume swept up the gulleys in the rocks like a snowstorm,

the white Arab swept round the curve of the bay, and came out on the high headland where stood the fisher's

house. On the very brink of the cliff all the fisher folk, men, women and children, stood looking at the faroff

So intent were all on the cliff that they did not notice her coming; as the roar of the wind came from them to

her, they could not hear her voice when she spoke from a distance. She had drawn quite close, having

dismounted and hung her rein over the post of the garden paling, when one of the children saw her, and cried

'The lady! the lady! an' she's all in red!' The men were so intent on something that they did not seem to hear.

They were peering out to the north, and were arguing in dumb show as though on something regarding which

they did not agree. She drew closer, and touching the old fisherman on the shoulder, called out at his ear:

'_I_ say it's a man swimmin'. Joe and Garge here say as it's only a piece o' wood or seawrack. But I know

I'm right. That's a man swimmin', or my old eyes have lost their power!' His words carried conviction; the

'It IS a man. I saw him swim off towards here when he had taken the rope on shore. Do not turn round. Keep

your eyes on him so that you may not lose sight of him in the darkness!' The old man chuckled.

'This darkness! Hee! hee! There be no differ to me between light and dark. But I'll watch him! It's you, my

lady! I shan't turn round to do my reverence as you tell me to watch. But, poor soul, it'll not be for long to

'We can warn him!' she said, 'when he comes close enough. I have a trumpet here!' He shook his head

'Ah! my lady, what trumpet could sound against that storm an' from this height?' Stephen's heart sank. But

there was still hope. If the swimmer's ears could not be reached, his eyes might. Eagerly she looked back for

the coming of the rocketcart. Far off across the deep bay she could see its lamp sway as it passed over the

rough ground; but alas! it would never arrive in time. With a note of despair in her voice she asked:

'How long before he reaches the rocks?' Still without turning the old man answered:

'At the rate he's going he will be in the sweep of the current through the rocks within three minutes. If he's to

For an instant a black film of despair seemed to fall on her. The surging of the blood in her head made her

On the instant an inspiration flashed through her. She, too could do things in a humble way. She could do

something at any rate. If there was no time to build a fire, there was a fire already built.

The two feet deep of old thatch held down with nets and battened with wreck timber would flare like a

'Good people, this noble man who has saved a whole shipload of others must not die without an effort. There

must be light so that he can see our warning to pass beyond the rocks! The only light can be from the house. I

buy it of you. It is mine; but I shall pay you for it and build you such another as you never thought of. But it

must be fired at once. You have one minute to clear out all you want. In, quick and take all can. Quick!

The men and women without a word rushed into the house. They too knew the danger, and the only hope

there was for a life. The assurance of the Countess took the sting from the present loss. Before the minute,

which she timed watch in hand, was over, all came forth bearing armloads of their lares and penates. Then

one of the younger men ran in again and out bearing a flaming stick from the fire. Stephen nodded, he held it

to the northern edge of the thatch. The straw caught in a flash and the flame ran up the slope and along the

edge of the roof like a quick match. The squeaking of many rats was heard and their brown bodies streamed

over the roof. Before another minute had passed a great mass of flame towered into the sky and shed a red

It lit up the wilderness of white water where the sea churned savagely amongst the sunken rocks; and it lit too

the white face of a swimmer, now nearly spent, who rising and falling with each wave, drifted in the sea

When the swimmer saw the light he looked up; even at the distance they could see the lift of his face; but he

did not seem to realise that there was any intention in the lighting, or that it was created for his benefit. He

was manifestly spent with his tremendous exertions, and with his long heavy swim in the turbulent sea.

Stephen's heart went out to him in a wave of infinite pity. She tried to use the trumpet. But simple as it is, a

trumpet needs skill or at least practice in its use; she could only make an unintelligible sound, and not much

'Let me try it, my lady!' She handed him the trumpet and he in turn used with a will. But it was of no avail;

even his strong lungs and lusty manhood availed nothing in the teeth of that furious gale. The roof and the

whole house was now well alight, and the flame roared and leapt. Stephen began to make gestures bidding

the swimmer, in case he might see her and understand, move round the rocks. But he made no change in his

direction, and was fast approaching a point in the tiderace whence to avoid the sunken rocks would be an

impossibility. The old whaler, accustomed to use all his wits in times of difficulty, said suddenly:

'How can he understand when we're all between him and the light. We are only black shadows to him; all he

can see are waving arms!' His sons caught his meaning and were already dashing towards the burning house.

They came back with piles of blazing wood and threw them down on the very edge of the cliff; brought more

and piled them up, flinging heaps of straw on the bonfire and pouring on oil and pitch till the flames rose

high. Stephen saw what was necessary and stood out of the way, but close to the old whaler, where the light

fell on both of their faces as they looked in the direction of the swimmer. Stephen's red dress itself stood out

like a flame. The gale tearing up the front of the cliff had whirled away her hat; in the stress of the wind her

Her gestures as she swept her right arm round, as though demonstrating the outward curve of a circle, or

raising the hand above her head motioned with wide palm and spread fingers 'back! back!' seemed to have

reached the swimmer's intelligence. He half rose in the water and looked about. As if seeing something that

he realised, he sank back again and began swim frantically out to sea. A great throb of joy made Stephen

almost faint. At last she had been able to do something to help this gallant man. In half a minute his efforts

seemed to tell in his race for life. He drew sufficiently far from dangerous current for there to be a hope that

The fishermen kept watch in silent eagerness; and in their presence Stephen felt a comfort, though, like her,

When the swimmer had passed sufficiently far out to be clear of the rocks, the fire began to lose its flame,

though not its intensity. It would be fiery still for hours to come, and of great heat; but the flames ceased to

leap, and in the moderated light Stephen only saw the white face for one more instant ere it faded out of her

ken, when, turning, the man looked towards the light and made a gesture which she did not understand: for he

Just then there was a wild noise on the cliff. The rocketcart drawn by sixteen splendid horses, some of them

hunters, came tearing up the slope, and with it many men on horseback afoot. Many of the runners were the

As the coastguards jumped from the cart, and began to get out the rocket stand, the old whaler pointed out the

direction where the swimmer's head could still be seen. Some of the sailors could see it too; though to

'No use throwing a line there! Even if he got it we could never drag him alive through these rocks. He would

be pounded to death before twenty fathom!' Stephen's heart grew cold as she listened. Was this the end? Then

'Oh! can nothing be done? Can nothing be done? Can no boat come from the other side of the point? Must

One of the young men who had just arrived, a neighbouring squire, a proved wastrel but a fine horseman,

who had already regarded Stephen at the few occasions of their meeting with eyes of manifest admiration,

'Don't cry, Lady de Lannoy. There's a chance for him yet. I'll see what I can do.'

'Bless you! oh! bless you!' she cried impulsively as she caught his hand. Then came the chill of doubt. 'But

'Hector and I may be able to do something together.' Turning to one of the fishermen he asked:

'Ay! ay! sir,' came the ready answer. 'There's the path as we get down by to our boats.'

'Come on, then!' he said. 'Some of you chaps show us a light on the way down. If Hector can manage the

scramble there's a chance. You see,' he said, turning again to Stephen, 'Hector can swim like a fish. When he

was a racer I trained him in the sea so that none of the touts could spy out his form. Many's the swim we've

'But it is a desperate chance for you!' said Stephen, womanlike drawing somewhat back from a danger she

'What of that! I may do one good thing before I die. That fine fellow's life is worth a hundred of my wasted

one! Here! some of you fellows help me with Hector. We must take him from the cart and get a girth on him

instead of the saddle. We shall want something to hold on to without pulling his head down by using the

He, followed by some others, ran to the rocketcart where the horses stood panting, their steam rising in a

white cloud in the glow of the burning house. In an incredibly short time the horse was ready with only the

girth. The young squire took him by the mane and he followed eagerly; he had memories of his own. As they

'Goodbye! Wish me luck; and give us light!' Tears were in her eyes and a flush on her cheek as she took his

'Oh, you brave man! God bless you!' He stooped suddenly and impulsively kissed the back of her hand lightly

and was gone. For a fleeting moment she was angry. No man had kissed her hand before; but the thought of

It was a sight to see that man and horse, surrounded by an eager crowd of helpers, scrambling down the rough

zigzag, cut and worn in the very face of the cliff. They stumbled, and slipped; pebbles and broken rock fell

away under their feet. Alone close to the bonfire stood Stephen, following every movement with racing blood

and beating heart. The bonfire was glowing; a constant stream of men and women were dragging and hauling

all sorts of material for its increase. The head of the swimmer could be seen, rising and falling amid the

When about twenty feet from the waterlevel the path jutted out to one side left of the little beach whereon

the sea now broke fiercely. This was a place where men watched, and whence at times they fished with rods;

the broad rock overhung the water. The fire above, though it threw shadows, made light enough for

'Good!' He motioned to them all to keep back. Then threw off all his clothes except shirt and trousers. For an

instant he patted Hector and then sprang upon his back. Holding him by the mane he urged him forward with

a cry. The noble animal did not hesitate an instant. He knew that grasp of the mane; that cry; that dig of the

spurless heels. He sprang forward with wide dilated nostrils, and from the edge of the jutting rock jumped far

out into the sea. Man and horse disappeared for a few seconds, but rose safely. The man slid from the horse's

back; and, holding by the girth with one hand, swam beside him out to sea in the direction the swimmer must

A wild cheer broke from all on the cliff above and those already scrambling back up the zigzag. Stephen kept

'Bring everything you can find; the carts, the palings, the roofs, the corn, the dried fish; anything and

everything that will burn. We must have light; plenty of light! Two brave men's lives are at stake now!'

The whole place was a scene of activity. Stephen stood on the edge of the cliff with the old whaler and the

chief boatman and some of the women. The rest of the coastguards were by orders of their chief rigging up a

whip which they thought might be necessary to hoist the men up from the water, if they could ever get close

enough. One of the young men who had ridden with the rocketcart kept tight hold of Hector's bridle; he

When Harold turned away from the dazzling blue lights on the pier, and saw the far white line of the cliffs

beyond the bay, his heart sank within him. Even his great strength and hardihood, won by work and privation

in the far NorthWest, had been already taxed in the many days of the battling with the gale when all on

board who could lend a hand were taken into service. Again by the frantic struggle of the last hour or two,

when the ship ran shoreward at the utmost of her speed in the last hope of beaching in time to save life.

Finally in that grim struggle to draw the lifeline shoreward. The cold and then the great heat, and on top of it

the chill of the long swim, seemed to have struck at him. Alone on the dark sea, for soon the current and his

own exertions were taking him away from the rocks, the light of the burning ship was ceasing to be effective.

It was just enough to hinder his vision; looking from the patch of light which bathed the light and him he

could just see far off the white water which marked the cliff fronts, and on the edge of his horizon the grim

On and on he toiled. His limbs were becoming more cramped with the cold and the terrible strain of

swimming in such waves. But still the brave heart bore him up; and resolutely, sternly he forced himself

afresh to the effort before him. He reasoned that where there was such a headland standing out so stark into

the sea there ought to be some shelter in its lee. If he could pass it he might find calmer water and even a

Here at least was hope. He would try to round the point at any rate. Now he drew so close that the great rocks

seemed to tower vast above him. He was not yet close enough to feel as though lapped in their shadow; but

even the overcast sky seemed full of light above the line of the cliff. There was a strange roaring, rushing

sound around him. He thought that it was not merely the waves dashing on the rocks, but that partly it came

from his own ears; that his ebbing strength was feeling the frantic struggle which he was making. The end

was coming, he thought; but still he kept valiantly on, set and silent, as is the way with brave men.

Suddenly from the top of the cliff a bright light flashed. He looked at it sideways as he fought his way on, and

saw the light rise and fall and flicker as the flames leaped. High over him he saw fantastic figures which

seemed to dance on the edge of the high cliff. They had evidently noticed him, and were making signals of

some sort; but what the motions were he could not see or understand, for they were but dark silhouettes,

edged with light, against the background of fire. The only thing he could think was that they meant to

encourage him, and so he urged himself to further effort. It might be that help was at hand!

Several times as he turned his head sideways he saw the figures and the light, but not so clearly; it was as

though the light was lessening in power. When again he looked he saw a new fire leap out on the edge of the

cliff, and some figures to the right of it. They were signalling in some way. So, pausing in his swimming, he

A thrill shot through him, and a paralysing thought that he must have gone mad. With his wet hand he cleared

his eyes, though the touching them pained him terribly, and for an instant saw clearly:

There on the edge of the cliff, standing beside some men and waving her arms in a wild sweep as though

motioning frantically 'Keep out! keep out!' was a woman. Instinctively he glanced to his left and saw a white

waste of leaping water, through which sharp rocks rose like monstrous teeth. On the instant he saw the

danger, and made out seaward, swimming frantically to clear the dangerous spot before the current would

But the woman! As one remembers the last sight when the lightning has banished sight, so that vision seemed

burned into his brain. A woman with a scarlet ridinghabit and masses of long red hair blowing in the gale

like leaping flame! Could there be two such persons in the world? No! no! It was a vision! A vision of the

His heart beat with new hope; only the blackness of the stormy sea was before him as he strove frantically on.

Presently when he felt the current slacken, for he had been swimming across it and could feel its power, he

'A dream! A vision! She came to warn me!' For as he looked all had disappeared. Cliff and coastline, dark

rocks and leaping seas, blazing fire, and the warning vision of the woman he loved.

Again he looked where the waste of sea churning amongst the sunken rocks had been. He could hear the

roaring of waters, the thunder of great waves beating on the ironbound coast; but nothing could he see. He

'Blind Blind!' he moaned, and for the moment, stricken with despair, sank into the trough of the waves. But

the instinctive desire for life recalled him. Once more he fought his way up to the surface, and swam blindly,

desperately on. Seeing nothing, he did not know which way he was going. He might have heard better had his

eyes been able to help his ears; but in the sudden strange darkness all the senses were astray. In the agony of

his mind he could not even feel the pain of his burnt face; the torture of his eyes had passed. But with the

It seemed as if ages of untold agony had gone by, when he heard a voice seemingly beside him:

'Lay hold here! Catch the girth!' The voice came muffled by wind and wave. His strength was now nearly at

The shock of his blindness and the agony of the moments that had passed had finished his exhaustion. But a

little longer and he must have sunk into his rest. But the voice and the help it promised rallied him for a

'Where? where? Help me! I am blind!' A hand took his and guided it to a tightened girth. Instinctively his

fingers closed round it, and he hung on grimly. His senses were going fast. He felt as if it was all a strange

dream. A voice here in the sea! A girth! A horse; he could hear its hard breathing.

'Steady! Hold on! My God! he's fainted! I must tie him on!' He heard a tearing sound, and something was

wound round his wrists. Then his nerveless fingers relaxed their hold; and all passed into oblivion.

To Stephen all that now happened seemed like a dream. She saw Hector and his gallant young master forge

across the smoother water of the current whose boisterous stream had been somewhat stilled in the churning

amongst the rocks, and then go north in the direction of the swimmer who, strange to say, was drifting in

again towards the sunken rocks. Then she saw the swimmer's head sink under the water; and her heart grew

cold. Was this to be the end! Was such a brave man to be lost after such gallant effort as he had made, and

The few seconds seemed ages. Instinctively she shut her eyes and prayed again. 'Oh! God. Give me this man's

God seemed to have heard her prayer. Nay, more! He had mercifully allowed her to be the means of averting

great danger. She would never, could never, forget the look on the man's face when he saw, by the flame that

she had kindled, ahead of him the danger from the sunken rocks. She had exulted at the thought. And now . . .

She was recalled by a wild cheer beside her. Opening her eyes she saw that the man's head had risen again

from the water. He was swimming furiously, this time seaward. But close at hand were the heads of the

And then the rush of her tears blinded her. When she could see again the horse had turned and was making

back again to the shelter of the point. The squire had his arm stretched across the horse's back; he was

holding up the sailor's head, which seemed to roll helplessly with every motion of the cumbering sea.

For a little she thought he was dead, but the voice of the old whaler reassured her:

'He was just in time! The poor chap was done!' And so with beating heart and eyes that did not flinch now she

watched the slow progress to the shelter of the point. The coastguards and fishermen had made up their minds

where the landing could be made, and were ready; on the rocky shelf, whence Hector had at jumped, they

stood by with lines. When the squire had steered and encouraged the horse, whose snorting could be heard

from the sheltered water, till he was just below the rocks, they lowered a noosed rope. This he fastened round

the senseless man below his shoulders. One strong, careful pull, and he was safe on land; and soon was being

In the meantime other ropes were passed down to the squire. One he placed round his own waist; two others

he fastened one on each side of the horse's girth. Then his friend lowered the bridle, and he managed to put it

on the horse and attached a rope to it. The fishermen took the lines, and, paying out as they went so as to

leave plenty of slack line, got on the rocks just above the little beach whereon, sheltered though it was, the

seas broke heavily. There they waited, ready to pull the horse through the surf when he should have come

Stephen did not see the rescue of the horse; for just then a tall grave man spoke to her:

'Pardon me, Lady de Lannoy, but is the man to be brought up to the Castle? I am told you have given orders

'Certainly! I gave orders before coming out that preparation was to be made for them.'

'I am Mr. Hilton. I have just come down to do lacum tenens for Dr. Winter at Lannoch Port. I rode over on

hearing there was a wreck, and came here with the rocketcart. I shall take charge of the man and bring him

'If you will be so good!' she answered, feeling a diffidence which was new to her. At that moment the crowd

carrying the senseless man began to appear over the cliff, coming up the zigzag. The Doctor hurried towards

him; she followed at a little distance, fearing lest she should hamper him. Under his orders they laid the

patient on the weather side of the bonfire so that the smoke would not reach him. The Doctor knelt by his

'He is alive; his heart is beating, though faintly. He had better be taken away at once. There is no means here

'Bring him in the rocketcart; it is the only conveyance here,' cried Stephen. 'And bring Mr. Hepburn too. He

also will need some care after his gallant service. I shall ride on and advise my household of your coming.

And you good people come all to the Castle. You are to be my guests if you will so honour me. No! No!

She said this impulsively, seeing that several of the gentlemen were running for their horses to accompany

her. 'I shall not wait to thank that valiant young gentleman. I shall see him at Lannoy.'

As she was speaking she had taken the bridle of her horse. One of the young men stooped and held his hand;

she bowed, put her foot in it and sprang to the saddle. In an instant she was flying across country at full

speed, in the dark. A wild mood was on her, reaction from the prolonged agony of apprehension. There was

The gale whistled round her and now and again she shouted with pure joy. It seemed as if God Himself had

By the time she had reached the Castle the wild ride had done its soothing work. She was calm again,

There was plenty to keep her occupied, mind and body. The train of persons saved from the wreck were

arriving in all sorts of vehicles, and as clothes had to be found for them as well as food and shelter there was

no end to the exertions necessary. She felt as though the world were not wide enough for the welcome she

wished to extend. Its exercise was a sort of reward of her exertions; a thankoffering for the response to her

prayer. She moved amongst her guests, forgetful of herself; of her strange attire; of the state of dishevelment

and grime in which she was, the result of the storm, her long ride over rough ground with its share of marshes

and pools, and the smoke from the bonfire and the blazing house. The strangers wondered at first, till they

came to understand that she was the Lady Bountiful who had stretched her helpful hands to them. Those who

could, made themselves useful with the new batches of arrivals. The whole Castle was lit from cellar to

tower. The kitchens were making lordly provision, the servants were carrying piles of clothes of all sorts, and

helping to fit those who came still wet from their passage through or over the heavy sea.

In the general disposition of chambers Stephen ordered to be set apart for the rescued swimmer the Royal

Chamber where Queen Elizabeth had lain; and for Mr. Hepburn that which had been occupied by the Second

George. She had a sort of idea that the stranger was God's guest who was coming to her house; and that

nothing could be too good for him. As she waited for his coming, even though she swept to and fro in her

ministrations to others, she felt as though she trod on air. Some great weight seemed to have been removed

At last the rocketcart arrived, and with it many horsemen and such men and women as could run across

The rescued man was still senseless, but that alone did not seem to cause anxiety to the Doctor, who hurried

him at once into the prepared room. When, assisted by some of the other men, he had undressed him, rubbed

him down and put him to bed, and had seen some of the others who had been rescued from the wreck, he

sought out Lady de Lannoy. He told her that his anxiety was for the man's sight; an announcement which

blanched his hearer's cheeks. She had so made up her mind as to his perfect safety that the knowledge of any

kind of ill came like a cruel shock. She questioned Mr. Hilton closely; so closely that he thought it well to tell

'That fine young fellow who swam out with his horse to him, tells me that when he neared him he cried out

that he was blind. I have made some inquiries from those on the ship, and they tell me that he was a

passenger, named Robinson. Not only was he not blind then, but he was the strongest and most alert man on

the ship. If it be blindness it must have come on during that long swim. It may be that before leaving the ship

he received some special injuryindeed he has several cuts and burns and bruisesand that the irritation of

the seawater increased it. I can do nothing till he wakes. At present he is in such a state that nothing can be

done for him. Later I shall if necessary give him a hypodermic to ensure sleep. In the morning when I come

'But you are not going away tonight!' said Stephen in dismay. 'Can't you manage to stay here? Indeed you

must! Look at all these people, some of whom may need special attention or perhaps treatment. We do not

'Of course I shall stay if you wish it. But there are two other doctors here already. I must go over to my own

place to get some necessary instruments for the examination of this special patient. But that I can do in the

'Can I not send for what you want; the whole household are at your service. All that can be done for that

gallant man must be done. You can send to London for special help if you wish. If that man is blind, or in

'All shall be done that is possible,' said he earnestly. 'But till I examine him in the morning we can do

nothing. I am myself an oculist; that is my department in St. Stephen's Hospital. I have an idea of what is

wrong, but I cannot diagnose exactly until I can use the ophthalmoscope.' His words gave Stephen

confidence. Laying her hand on his arm unconsciously in the extremity of pity she said earnestly:

'Oh, do what you can for him. He must be a noble creature; and all that is possible must be done. I shall never

'I shall do all I can,' he said with equal earnestness, touched with her eager pity. 'And I shall not trust myself

alone, if any other can be of service. Depend upon it, Lady de Lannoy, all shall be as you wish.'

There was little sleep in the Castle that night till late. Mr. Hilton slept on a sofa in the Queen's Room after he

As soon as the eastern sky began to quicken, he rode, as he had arranged during the evening, to Dr. Winter's

house at Lannoch Port where he was staying. After selecting such instruments and drugs as he required, he

It was still early morning when he regained the Castle. He found Lady de Lannoy up and looking anxiously

for him. Her concern was somewhat abated when he was able to tell her that his patient still slept.

It was a painful scene for Mr. Hilton when his patient woke. Fortunately some of the aftereffects of the

narcotic remained, for his despair at realising that he was blind was terrible. It was not that he was violent; to

be so under his present circumstances would have been foreign to Harold's nature. But there was a despair

which was infinitely more sad to witness than passion. He simply moaned to himself:

'Blind! Blind!' and again in every phase of horrified amazement, as though he could not realise the truth:

'My poor fellow, it is a dreadful thing to face, to think of. But as yet I have not been able to come to any

conclusion; unable even to examine you. I do not wish to encourage hopes that may be false, but there are

cases when injury is not vital and perhaps only temporary. In such case your best chance, indeed your only

chance, is to keep quiet. You must not even think if possible of anything that may excite you. I am now about

to examine you with the ophthalmoscope. You are a man; none of us who saw your splendid feat last night

can doubt your pluck. Now I want you to use some of it to help us both. You, for your recovery, if such is

possible; me, to help me in my work. I have asked some of your late companions who tell me that on

shipboard you were not only well and of good sight, but that you were remarkable even amongst strong men.

Whatever it is you suffer from must have come on quickly. Tell me all you can remember of it.'

The Doctor listened attentively whilst Harold told all he could remember of his sufferings. When he spoke of

the return of old rheumatic pains his hearer said involuntarily: 'Good!' Harold paused; but went on at once.

The Doctor recognised that he had rightly appraised his remark, and by it judged that he was a well

educated man. Something in the method of speaking struck him, and he said, as nonchalantly as he could:

'Cambridge. Trinity.' He spoke without thinking, and the instant he had done so stopped. The sense of his

blindness rushed back on him. He could not see; and his ears were not yet trained to take the place of his

eyes. He must guard himself. Thenceforward he was so cautious in his replies that Mr. Hilton felt convinced

there was some purpose in his reticence. He therefore stopped asking questions, and began to examine him.

He was unable to come to much result; his opinion was shown in his report to Lady de Lannoy:

'I am unable to say anything definite as yet. The case is a most interesting one; as a case and quite apart from

the splendid fellow who is the subject of it. I have hopes that within a few days I may be able to know more. I

need not trouble you with surgical terms; but later on if the diagnosis supports the supposition at present in

my mind I shall be able to speak more fully. In the meantime I shall, with your permission, wait here so that I

'Oh you are good. Thank you! Thank you!' said Stephen. She had so taken the man under her own care that

'Not at all'' said Mr. Hilton. 'Any man who behaved as that fellow did has a claim on any of us who may help

When he went back to the patient's room he entered softly, for he thought he might be asleep. The room was,

according to his instructions, quite dark, and as it was unfamiliar to him he felt his way cautiously. Harold,

'Look round the room and see. Then lock the door and come and talk to me if you will. You will pity a poor

blind fellow, I know. The darkness has come down upon me so quickly that I am not accustomed to it!' There

was a break in his voice which moved the other. He lit a candle, feeling that the doing so would impress his

patient, and went round the room; not with catlike movement this timehe wanted the other to hear him.

When he had turned the key in the lock, as sharply as he could, he came to the bedside and sat down. Harold

'If you don't mind! Again I say pity me and pardon me. But I want to ask you something privately, between

our two selves; and I will feel more of equality than if you were looking at me, whilst I cannot see you.' Mr

'When a man becomes suddenly blind is there usually, or even occasionally, any sort of odd sight? . . . Does

'Not that I know of. I have never heard of such a case. As a rule people struck blind by lightning, which is the

most common cause, sometimes remember with extraordinary accuracy the last thing they have seen. Just as

'Thank you! Is such usually the recurrence of any old dream or anything they have much thought of?'

'Not that I know of. It would be unusual!' Harold waited a long time before he spoke again. When he did so it

was in a different voice; a constrained voice. The Doctor, accustomed to take enlightenment from trivial

'Lady de Lannoy. The Countess de Lannoy; they tell me she is a Countess in her own right.'

'She is young, a little over twenty. Tall and of a very fine figure. She has eyes like black diamonds, and hair

'Tell me all you know or have learned of this whole affair. How was I rescued, and by whom?' So the Doctor

proceeded to give him every detail he knew of. When he was quite through, the other again lay still for a long

time. The silence was broken by a gentle tap at the door. The Doctor lit a candle. He turned the key softly, so

that no one would notice that the door was locked. Something was said in a low whisper. Then the door was

'Lady Lannoy wants, if it will not disturb you, to ask how you are. Ordinarily I should not let anyone see you.

But she is not only your hostess, but, as I have just told you, it was her ride to the headland, where she burned

the house to give you light, which was the beginning of your rescue. Still if you think it better not . . . !'

'I hardly like anybody to see me like this!' said Harold, feebly seeking an excuse.

'My dear man,' said the other, 'you may be easy in your mind, she won't see much of you. You are all

'Not she! Whilst we were trying to restore you she was rushing back to the Castle to see that all was ready for

If his surmise was correct, and if she had not seen him then, it was well that he was bandaged now. He felt

that it would not do to refuse to let her see him; it might look suspicious. So after pausing a short while he

'I suppose she had better come now. We must not keep her waiting!' When the Doctor brought her to his

bedside Stephen felt in a measure awed. His bandaged face and head and his great beard, singed in patches,

looked to her in the dim light rather awesome. In a very gentle voice she said kind things to the sick man,

who acknowledged them in a feeble whisper. The Doctor, a keen observer, noticed the change in his voice,

and determined to understand more. Stephen spoke of his bravery, and of how it was due to him that all on

the ship were saved; and as she spoke her emotion moved her so much that her sweet voice shook and

quivered. To the ears of the man who had now only sound to guide him, it was music of the sweetest he had

ever heard. Fearing lest his voice should betray him, he whispered his own thanks feebly and in few words.

When Stephen went away the Doctor went with her; it was more than an hour before he returned. He found

his patient in what he considered a state of suppressed excitement; for, though his thoughts were manifestly

collected and his words were calm, he was restless and excited in other ways. He had evidently been thinking

'My dear sir! Don't handicap me, and yourself, with such a restriction. It is for your own good that you should

'But I don't wish it. Not for the present at all events. I am not accustomed to a nurse, and shall not feel

comfortable. In a few days perhaps . . . ' The decided tone of his voice struck the other. Keeping his own

'Thanks!' There was relief in the tone which seemed undue, and Mr. Hilton again took mental note. Presently

he asked a question, but in such a tone that the Doctor pricked up his ears. There was a premeditated

selfsuppression, a gravity of restraint, which implied some falsity; some intention other than the words

'It must have been a job to carry me up those stairs.' The Doctor was doubting everything, but as the safest

'How did he know there were stairs? He cannot know it; he was senseless! Therefore he must be guessing or

'I suppose the Castle is on high ground. Can you see far from the windows? I suppose we are up a good

'From the windows you can see all round the promontory. But we are not high up; that is, the room is not high

from the ground, though the Castle is from the sea.' Harold asked again, his voice vibrating in the note of

'Yes.' The answer was given quickly, for a thought was floating through him: Why did this strong brave man,

suddenly stricken blind, wish to know whether his windows were at a height? He was not surprised when his

'It should be moonlight; full moon two nights ago. Won't you pull up the blind and describe to me all you

'Suicide! But I must convey the inutility of such effort by inference, not falsity.'

Accordingly he began to describe the scene, from the very base of the wall, where below the balcony the

great border was glorious with a mass of foliage plants, away to the distant sea, now bathed in the flood of

moonlight. Harold asked question after question; the Doctor replying accurately till he felt that the patient

was building up a concrete idea of his surroundings near and far. Then he left him. He stood for a long time

'The poor fellow has some grim intention in his mind. I must not let him know that I suspect; but tonight I

Mr. Hilton telegraphed at once countermanding, for the present, the nurse for whom he had sent.

That night, when the household had all retired, he came quietly to his patient's room, and entering noiselessly,

sat silent in a far corner. There was no artificial right; the patient had to be kept in darkness. There was,

however, a bright moonlight; sufficient light stole in through the edges of the blinds to allow him, when his

Harold lay quite still till the house was quiet. He had been thinking, ever since he had ascertained the identity

of Stephen. In his weakness and the paralysing despair of his blindness all his former grief and apprehension

had come bank upon him in a great wave; veritably the tide of circumstances seemed to run hard against him.

He had had no idea of forcing himself upon Stephen; and yet here he was a guest in her house, without her

knowledge or his own. She had saved his life by her energy and resource. Fortunately she did not as yet know

him; the bandages, and his act in suppressing his voice, had so far protected him. But such could not last for

long. He could not see to protect himself, and take precautions as need arose. And he knew well that

Stephen's nature would not allow her to be satisfied without doing all that was possible to help one who had

under her eyes made a great effort on behalf of others, and to whom there was the added bond that his life

What then would happen? Her kindness was such that when she realised the blindness of her old friend she

might so pity him that out of the depths of her pity she would forgive. She would take back all the past; and

now that she knew of his old love for her, would perhaps be willing to marry him. Back flooded the old

memory of her independence and her theory of sexual equality. If out of any selfish or mistaken idea she did

not hesitate to ask a man to marry her, would it be likely that when the nobler and more heroic side of her

nature spoke she would hesitate to a similar act in pursuance of her selfsacrifice?

So it might be that she would either find herself once again flouted, or else married to a man she did not love.

Such a catastrophe should not happen, whatever the cost to him. He would, blind as he was, steal away in the

night and take himself out of her life; this time for ever. Better the ingratitude of an unknown man, the saving

of whose life was due to her, than the long dull routine of a spoiled life, which would otherwise be her

When once this idea had taken root in his mind he had taken such steps as had been open to him without

endangering the secrecy of his motive. Thanks to his subtle questioning of the Doctor, he now knew that his

room was close to the ground, so that he would easily drop from the window and steal away with out

immediate danger of any restraining accident. If he could once get away he would be all right. There was a

large sum to his credit in each of two London banks. He would manage somehow to find his way to London;

He felt that now in the silence of the night the time had come. Quietly he rose and felt his way to the door,

now and again stumbling and knocking against unknown obstacles in the manner of the recently blind. After

each such noise he paused and listened. He felt as if the very walls had ears. When he reached the door he

turned the key softly. Then he breathed more freely. He felt that he was at last alone and free to move without

Then began a great and arduous search; one that was infinitely difficult and exasperating; and full of pathos

to the sympathetic man who watched him in silence. Mr. Hilton could not understand his movements as he

felt his way about the room, opening drawers and armoires, now and again stooping down and feeling along

the floor. He did not betray his presence, however, but moved noiselessly away as the other approached. It

was a hideously real game of blindman's buff, with perhaps a life as the forfeit.

Harold went all over the room, and at last sat down on the edge of his bed with a hollow suppressed groan

that was full of pain. He had found his clothes, but realised that they were now but rags. He put on the

clothes, and then for a long time sat quiet, rocking gently to and fro as one in pain, a figure of infinite woe. At

last he roused himself. His mind was made up; the time for action had come. He groped his way towards the

window looking south. The Doctor, who had taken off his shoes, followed him with catlike stealthiness.

He easily threw open the window, for it was already partly open for ventilation.

When Mr. Hilton saw him sit on the rail of the balcony and begin to raise his feet, getting ready to drop over,

he rushed forward and seized him. Harold instinctively grappled with him; the habit of his Alaskan life

amidst continual danger made in such a case action swift as thought. Mr. Hilton, with the single desire to

prevent him from killing himself, threw himself backward and pulled Harold with him to the stone floor.

Harold, as he held him in a grip of iron, thundered out, forgetful in the excitement of the moment the hushed

'Hsssh! I am Mr. Hilton.' Harold relaxed the rigour of his grasp but still held him firmly:

'I have been in the room a long time. I suspected something, and came to watch; to prevent your rash act.'

'There are other dangers for a man whoa man in your sad state. And, besides, have I no duty to prevent a

suicide!' Here a brilliant idea struck Harold. This man had evidently got some wrong impression; but it would

serve to shield his real purpose. He would therefore encourage it. For the moment, of course, his purpose to

escape unnoticed was foiled; but he would wait, and in due time seize another opportunity. In a harder and

'Not whilst you are in my care!' This was spoken with a resolution equal to his own. Then Mr. Hilton went

on, more softly and with infinite compassion: 'Moreover, I want to have a talk with you which may alter your

'You are injuring yourself even now by standing in the draught of that open window. Your eyes will feel it

Harold felt a prick like a pin in his neck; and turned to seize his companion. He could not find him, and for a

It seemed a long time before he remembered anything. He had a sense of time lapsed; of dreamland thoughts

and visions. Then gradually recollection came back. He tried to move; but found it impossible. His arms and

legs were extended wide and were tied; he could feel the cord hurting his wrists and ankles as he moved. To

him it was awful to be thus blind and helpless; and anger began to surge up. He heard the voice of Mr. Hilton

'My poor fellow, I hated to take such a step; but it was really necessary for your own safety. You are a man,

and a brave one. Won't you listen to me for a few minutes? When you have heard what I have to say I shall

release you. In the meantime I apologise for the outrage, as I dare say you consider it!' Harold was

reasonable; and he was now blind and helpless. Moreover, there was something in the Doctor's voice that

'Go on! I shall listen!' He compelled himself to quietude. The Doctor saw, and realised that he was master of

'My poor fellow, I want you to understand that I wish to help you, to do all in my power to restore to you that

which you seem to have lost! I can sympathise with your desire to quit life altogether now that the best part of

it, sight, seems gone. I do not pretend to judge the actions of my fellows; and if you determine to carry out

your purpose I shall not be able to prevent you for ever. I shall not try to. But you certainly shall not do so till

you know what I know! I had wished to wait till I could be a little more certain before I took you into

confidence with regard to my guessing as to the future. But your desire to destroy yourself forces my hand.

Now let me tell you that there is a possibility of the removal of the cause of your purpose.'

'What do you mean?' gasped Harold. He was afraid to think outright and to the full what the other's words

'I mean,' said the other solemnly, 'that there is a possibility, more than a possibility, that you may recover

your sight!' As he spoke there was a little break in his voice. He too was somewhat unnerved at the situation.

Harold lay still. The whole universe seemed to sway, and then whirl round him in chaotic mass. Through it at

'At first I could not be sure of my surmise, for when I used the ophthalmoscope your suffering was too recent

to disclose the cause I looked for. Now I am fairly sure of it. What I have since heard from you has convinced

me; your having suffered from rheumatic fever, and the recrudescence of the rheumatic pain after your

terrible experience of the fire and that long chilling swim with so seemingly hopeless an end to it; the

symptoms which I have since noticed, though they have not been as enlightening to me as they might be.

Your disease, as I have diagnosed it, is an obscure one and not common. I have not before been able to study

'Thank God! say I too. This that you suffer from is an acute form of inflammation of the optic nerve. It may

of course end badly; in permanent loss of sight. But I hopeI believe, that in your case it will not be so. You

are young, and you are immensely strong; not merely muscularly, but in constitution. I can see that you have

been an athlete, and no mean one either. All this will stand to you. But it will take time. It will need all your

own help; all the calm restraint of your body and your mind. I am doing all that science knows; you must do

the rest!' He waited, giving time to the other to realise his ideas. Harold lay still for a long time before he

'Doctor.' The voice was so strangely different that the other was more hopeful at once. He had feared

'You are a good fellow; and I am grateful to you, both for what you have done and what you have told me. I

cannot say how grateful just yet; hope unmans me at present. But I think you deserve that I should tell you

'I was not intending to commit suicide. Such an idea didn't even enter my head. To me, suicide is the resource

'In your shirt and trousers; and they are not over much! Without even slippers!' A faint smile curled round the

'But man alive! you were going to your death. How could you expect to get away in such an outfit without

being discovered? When you were missed the whole countryside would have been up, and even before the

'I know! I know! I had thought of it all. But I was willing to chance it. I had my own reasons!' He was silent a

while. The Doctor was silent too. Each man was thinking in his own way. Presently the Doctor spoke:

'Look here, old chap! I don't want to pry into your secrets; but, won't you let me help you? I can hold my

tongue. I want to help you. You have earned that wish from any man, and woman too, who saw the burning

ship and what you did to save those on board. There is nothing I would not do for you. Nothing! I don't ask

you to tell me all; only enough for me to understand and help. I can see that you have some overpowering

wish to get away. Some reason that I cannot fathom, certainly without a clue. You may trust me, I assure you.

If you could look into my face, my eyes, you would understand. But There! take my hand. It may tell you

Harold took the hand placed in his, and held it close. He pressed his other hand over it also, as though the

effect of the two hands would bring him double knowledge. It was infinitely pathetic to see him trying to

make his untrained fingers do the duty of his trained eyes. But, trained or not, his hands had their instinct.

Laying down gently the hand he held he said, turning his bandaged eyes in the direction of his companion:

'Have I your solemn promise that anything I say shall never go beyond yourself?'

'What do you hold most sacred in the world?' Harold had an odd thought; his question was its result.

'All told, I should think my profession! Perhaps it doesn't seem to you much to swear by; but it is all my

world! But I have been brought up in honour, and you may trust my promiseas much as anything I could

'All right! My reason for wanting to get away was because I knew Lady de Lannoy!'

'What!' Then after a pause: 'I should have thought that was a reason for wanting to stay. She seems not only

'I cannot tell you all; but you must take it that my need to get away is imperative.' After pondering a while

'I must ask your pardon again. Are you sure there is no mistake. Lady de Lannoy is not married; has not been.

She is Countess in her own right. It is quite a romance. She inherited from some old branch of more than

three hundred years ago.' Again Harold smiled; he quite saw what the other meant.

'I understand. But it does not alter my opinion; my purpose. It is needfulabsolutely and imperatively

'That is why I hoped to get away in time; before she should recognise me. If I stay quiet and do all you wish,

'When I am well, if it should be so, I shall steal away, this time clothed, and disappear out of her life without

her knowing. She may think it ungrateful that one whom she has treated so well should behave so badly. But

'And I must abet you? All right! I will do it; though you must forgive me if you should ever hear that I have

abused you and said bad things of you. It will have to be all in the day's work if I am not ultimately to give

you away. I must take steps at once to keep her from seeing you. I shall have to invent some story; some new

kind of dangerous disease, perhaps. I shall stay here and nurse you myself!' Harold spoke in joyful gratitude:

'Some weeks! Perhaps!' He paused as if thinking. 'Perhaps in a month's time I shall unbandage your eyes.

In the morning Mr. Hilton in reporting to Lady de Lannoy told her that he considered it would be necessary to

keep his patient very quiet, both in mind and body. In the course of the conversation he said:

'Anything which might upset him must be studiously avoided. He is not an easy patient to deal with; he

doesn't like people to go near him. I think, therefore, it will be well if even you do not see him. He seems to

have an odd distrust of people, especially of women. It may be that he is fretful in his blindness, which is in

itself so trying to a strong man. But besides, the treatment is not calculated to have a very buoyant effect. It is

apt to make a man fretful to lie in the dark, and know that he has to do so for indefinite weeks. Pilocarpin,

and salicylate of soda, and mercury do not tend towards cheerfulness. Nor do blisters on the forehead add to

'I quite understand,' said Stephen, 'and I will be careful not to go near him till he is well. Please God! it may

bring him back his sight. Thank you a thousand times for your determination to stay with him.'

So it was that for more than two weeks Harold was kept all alone. No one attended him but the Doctor. He

slept in the patient's room for the whole of the first week, and never had him out of sight for more than a few

minutes at a time. He was then able to leave him alone for longer periods, and settled himself in the bedroom

next to him. Every hour or two he would visit him. Occasionally he would be away for half a day, but never

for more. Stephen rigidly observed the Doctor's advice herself, and gave strict orders that his instructions

Harold himself went through a period of mental suffering. It was agony to him to think of Stephen being so

near at hand, and yet not to be able to see her, or even to hear her voice. All the pain of his loss of her

affection seemed to crowd back on him, and with it the new need of escaping from her unknown. More than

ever he felt it would not do that she should ever learn his identity. Her pity for him, and possibly her woman's

regard for a man's effort in time of stress, might lead through the gates of her own selfsacrifice to his

restoration to his old place in her affections. Nay! it could not be his old place; for at the close of those days

The third week had nearly elapsed, and as yet no one was allowed to see the patient.

For a time Stephen was inclined to be chagrined. It is not pleasant to have even the most generous and

benevolent intentions thwarted; and she had set her mind on making much of this man whom fate and his

own bravery had thrown athwart her life. But in these days Stephen was in some ways a changed woman. She

had so much that she wished to forget and that she would have given worlds to recall, that she could not bear

even to think of any militant or even questioning attitude. She even began to take herself to task more

seriously than she had ever done with regard to social and conventional duties. When she found her house full

of so many and so varied guests, it was borne in upon her that such a position as her own, with such

consequent duties, called for the presence of some elder person of her own sex and of her own class.

No better proof of Stephen's intellectual process and its result could be adduced than her first act of

recognition: she summoned an elderly lady to live with her and matronise her house. This lady, the widow of

a distant relation, complied with all the charted requirements of respectability, and had what to Stephen's eyes

was a positive gift: that of minding her own business and not interfering in any matter whatever. Lady de

Lannoy, she felt, was her own master and quite able to take care of herself. Her own presence was all that

convention required. So she limited herself to this duty, with admirable result to all, herself included. After a

Mr. Hilton kept bravely to his undertaking. He never gave even a hint of his hopes of the restoration of sight;

and he was so assiduous in his attention that there arose no opportunity of accidental discovery of the secret.

He knew that when the time did come he would find himself in a very unpleasant situation. Want of

confidence, and even of intentional deceit, might be attributed to him; and he would not be able to deny nor

explain. He was, however; determined to stick to his word. If he could but save his patient's sight he would be

But to Stephen all the mystery seemed to grow out of its first shadowy importance into something real. There

was coming to her a vague idea that she would do well not to manifest any concern, any anxiety, any

One forenoon she received by messenger a letter which interested her much. So much that at first she was

unwilling to show it to anyone, and took it to her own boudoir to read over again in privacy. She had a sort of

feeling of expectancy with regard to it; such as sensitive natures feel before a thunderstorm. The letter was

natural enough in itself. It was dated that morning from Varilands, a neighbouring estate which marched with

'My Dear Madam,Will you pardon me a great liberty, and allow my little girl and me to come to see you

today? I shall explain when we meet. When I say that we are Americans and have come seven thousand

miles for the purpose, you will, I am sure, understand that it is no common interest which has brought us, and

it will be the excuse for our eagerness. I should write you more fully, but as the matter is a confidential one I

thought it would be better to speak. We shall be doubly grateful if you will have the kindness to see us alone.

I write as a mother in making this appeal to your kindness; for my childshe is only a little over eight years

oldhas the matter so deeply in her heart that any disappointment or undue delay would I fear affect her

health. We presume to take your kindness for granted and will call a little before twelve o'clock.

'I may perhaps say (in case you should feel any hesitation as to my bona fides) that my husband purchased

some years ago this estate. We were to have come here to live in the early summer, but were kept in the West

Stephen had, of course, no hesitation as to receiving the lady. Even had there been objection, the curiosity she

had in common with her kind would have swept difficulties aside. She gave orders that when Mrs.

Stonehouse arrived with her daughter they were to be shown at once into the Mandarin drawingroom. That

A little before twelve o'clock Mrs. Stonehouse and Pearl arrived, and were shown into the room where Lady

de Lannoy awaited them. The high sun, streaming in from the side, shone on her beautiful hair, making it

look like living gold. When the Americans came in they were for an instant entranced by her beauty. One

glance at Mrs. Stonehouse's sweet sympathetic face was enough to establish her in Stephen's good graces

forever. As for Pearl, she was like one who has unexpectedly seen a fairy or a goddess. She had been keeping

guardedly behind her mother, but on the instant she came out fearlessly into the open.

'Thank you so much, Lady de Lannoy. I felt that you would not mind, especially when you know why we

came. Indeed I had no choice. Pearl insisted on it; and when Pearl is urgentwe who love her have all to

The red rosebud of a mouth was raised to her kiss, and the little arms went lovingly round her neck and clung

to her. As the mother looked on delighted she thought she had never seen a more beautiful sight. The two

faces so different, and yet with so much in common. The red hair and the flaxen, both tints of gold. The fine

colour of each heightened to a bright flush in their eagerness. Stephen was so little used to children, and yet

loved them so, that all the womanhood in her, which is possible motherhood, went out in an instant to the

lovely eager child. She felt the keenest pleasure when the little thing, having rubbed her silkgloved palms

over her face, and then holding her away so that she could see her many beauties, whispered in her ear:

'You darling!' whispered Stephen in reply. 'We must love each other very much, you and I!'

When the two ladies had sat down, Stephen holding Pearl in her lap, Mrs. Stonehouse said:

'Then I had better tell you all from the beginning so that you may understand.' She proceeded to give the

details of the meeting with Mr. Robinson on the Scoriac. Of how Pearl took to him and insisted on making

him her special friend; of the terrible incident of her being swept overboard, and of the gallant rescue. Mrs.

Stonehouse was much moved as she spoke. All that fearful time, of which the minutes had seemed years of

agony, came back to her so vividly at times that she could hardly speak. Pearl listened too; all eagerness, but

without fear. Stephen was greatly moved and held Pearl close to her all the time, as though protecting her.

When the mother spoke of her feeling when she saw the brave man struggling up and down the giant waves,

and now and again losing sight of him in the trough of the sea, she put out one hand and held the mother's

with a grasp which vibrated in sympathy, whilst the great tears welled over in her eyes and ran down her

cheeks. Pearl, watching her keenly, said nothing, but taking her tiny cambric handkerchief from her pocket

silently wiped the tears away, and clung all the tighter. It was her turn to protect now!

Pearl's own time for tears came when her mother began to tell this new and sympathetic friend of how she

became so much attached to her rescuer that when she knew he would not be coming to the West with them,

but going off to the wildest region of the far North, her health became impaired; and that it was only when

Mr. Robinson promised to come back to see her within three years that she was at all comforted. And how,

ever since, she had held the man in her heart and thought of him every day; sleeping as well as waking, for he

Stephen was more than ever moved, for the child's constancy touched her as well as her grief. She strained

the little thing in her strong young arms, as though the fervency of her grasp would bring belief and comfort;

as it did. She in her turn dried the others' eyes. Then Mrs. Stonehouse went on with her story:

'We were at Banff, high up in the Rockies, when we read of the burning and wrecking of the Dominion. It is,

as you know, a Montreal boat of the Allan Line; so that naturally there was a full telegraphic report in all the

Canadian papers. When we read of the brave man who swam ashore with the line and who was unable to

reach the port but swam out across the bay, Pearl took it for granted that it must have been "The Man," as she

always called Mr. Robinson. When by the next paper we learned that the man's name WAS Robinson nothing

would convince her that it was not HER Mr. Robinson. My husband, I may tell you, had firmly come to the

same conclusion. He had ever since the rescue of our child always looked for any news from Alaska, whither

he knew Mr. Robinson had gone. He learned that up away in the very far North a new goldfield had been

discovered by a man of the same name; and that a new town, Robinson City, began to grow up in the

wilderness, where the condition of life from the cold was a new experience to even the most hardy gold

miners. Then we began to think that the young hero who had so gallantly saved our darling was meeting

She paused, her voice breaking. Stephen was in a glow of holy feeling. Gladness, joy, gratitude, enthusiasm;

she knew not which. It all seemed like a noble dream which was coming true. Mrs. Stonehouse went on:

'From Californian papers of last month we learned that Robinson, of Robinson City, had sailed for San

Francisco, but had disappeared when the ship touched at Portland; and then the whole chain of his identity

seemed complete. Nothing would satisfy Pearl but that we should come at once to England and see "The

Man," who was wounded and blind, and do what we could for him. Her father could not then come himself;

he had important work on hand which he could not leave without some preparation. But he is following us

'And now, we want you to help us, Lady de Lannoy. We are not sure yet of the identity of Mr. Robinson, but

we shall know the instant we see him, or hear his voice. We have learned that he is still here. Won't you let

us? Do let us see him as soon as ever you can!' There was a pleading tone in her voice which alone would

have moved Stephen, even had she not been wrought up already by the glowing fervour of her new friend.

But she paused. She did not know what to say; how to tell them that as yet she herself knew nothing. She,

too, in the depths of her own heart knewKNEWthat it was the same Robinson. And she also knew that

both identities were one with another. The beating of her heart and the wild surging of her blood told her all.

Mrs. Stonehouse, with the wisdom and power of age, waited, suspending judgment. But Pearl was in a fever

of anxiety; she could imagine nothing which could keep her away from The Man. But she saw that there was

some difficulty, some cause of delay. So she too added her pleading. Putting her mouth close to Lady de

'Oh, won't you let us see The Man, Stephen; dear Stephen! I love him so; and I do SO want to see him. It is

ages till I see him! Won't you let me? I shall be so goodStephen!' And she strained her closer in her little

arms and kissed her all over face, cheeks and forehead and eyes and mouth wooingly. Stephen returned the

embrace and the kisses, but remained silent a little longer. Then she found voice:

'I hardly know what to say. Believe me, I shouldI shall, do all I can; but the fact is that I am not in

authority. The Doctor has taken him in charge and will not let anyone go near him: He will not even have a

nurse, but watches and attends to him himself. He says it might be fatal if anything should occur to agitate

'Haven't you seen him yet at all; ever, ever, Stephen?' asked Pearl, all her timidity gone. Stephen smileda

'I saw him in the water, but it was too far away to distinguish. And it was only by firelight.'

'Oh yes, I know,' said Pearl; 'Mother and Daddy told me how you had burned the house down to give him

light. Didn't you want to see him more after that? I should!' Stephen drew the impulsive child closer as she

'Indeed I did, dear. But I had to think of what was good for him. I went to his room the next day when he was

'Well! What did you see. Didn't you know him?' She forgot that the other did not know him from her point of

view. But the question went through Stephen's heart like a sword. What would she not have given to have

known him! What would she not give to know him now! . . . She spoke mechanically:

'The room was quite dark. It is necessary, the Doctor says, that he be kept in the dark. I saw only a big beard,

partly burned away by the fire; and a great bandage which covered his eyes!' Pearl's hold relaxed, she slipped

like an eel to the floor and ran over to her mother. Her new friend was all very well, but no one would do as

'Oh mother, mother! My Robinson had no beard!' Her mother stroked her face comfortingly as she answered:

'But, my dear, it is more than two years since you saw him. Two years and three months, for it was in June

'His beard would have grown. Men wear beards up in the cold place where he was.' Pearl kissed her; there

was no need for words. Throwing herself again on Stephen's knees she went on with her questioning:

'I heard very little, darling. He was very weak. It was only the morning after the wreck, and he spoke in a

whisper!' Then with an instinct of selfpreservation she added: 'But how could I learn anything by hearing

As she was speaking she found her own ideas, the proofs of her own conviction growing. This was surely

another link in the chain of proving that all three men were but one. But in such case Harold must know; must

She feared, with keen eyes upon her, to pursue the thought. But her blood began to grow cold and her brain to

'Even since then I have not been allowed to go near him. Of course I must obey orders. I am waiting as

patiently as I can. But we must ask the Doctor if he thinks his patient will see youwill let you see

himthough he will not let me.' This she added with a touch of what she felt: regret rather than bitter ness.

'Will you ask the Doctor now?' Pearl did not let grass grow under her feet. For answer Stephen rang the bell,

'I think not, your Ladyship. He said he was going over to Port Lannoch. Shall I inquire if he left word at what

'Mr. Hilton said, your Ladyship, that he expected to be back by one o'clock at latest.'

'Please ask him on his arrival if he will kindly come here at once. Do not let us be disturbed until then.' The

'Now,' said Stephen, 'as we have to wait till our tyrant comes, won't you tell me all that went on after The

Man had left you?' Pearl brightened up at once. Stephen would have given anything to get away even for a

while. Beliefs and hopes and fears were surging up, till she felt choking. But the habit of her life, especially

her life of the last two years, gave her selfcontrol. And so she waited, trying with all her might to follow the

After a long wait Pearl exclaimed: 'Oh! I do wish that Doctor would come. I want to see The Man!' She was

'Would you like to go out on the balcony, darling; of course if Mother will let you? It is quite safe, I assure

you, Mrs. Stonehouse. It is wide and open and is just above the flower borders, with a stone tail. You can

see the road from it by which Mr. Hilton comes from Port Lannoch. He will be riding.' Pearl yielded at once

to the diversion. It would at any rate be something to do, to watch. Stephen opened the French window and

'I am glad she is away for a few minutes. She has been over wrought, and I am always afraid for her. She is

'She is a darling!' said Stephen impulsively; and she meant it. Mrs. Stonehouse smiled gratefully as she went

'I suppose you noticed what a hold on her imagination that episode of Mollie Watford at the bank had. Mr.

Stonehouse is, as perhaps you know, a very rich man. He has made his fortune himself, and most honourably;

and we are all very proud of him, and of it. So Pearl does not think of the money for itself. But the feeling

was everything; she really loves Mr. Robinson; as indeed she ought! He has done so much for us that it

would be a pride and a privilege for us to show our gratitude. My husband, between ourselves, wanted to

make him his partner. He tells me that, quite independent of our feeling towards him, he is just the man he

wanted. And if indeed it was he who discovered the Alaskan goldfield and organised and ruled Robinson

City, it is a proof that Mr. Stonehouse's judgment was sound. Now he is injured, and blind; and our little Pearl

loves him. If indeed he be the man we believe he is, then we may be able to do something which all his

millions cannot buy. He will come to us, and be as a son to us, and a brother to Pearl. We will be his eyes;

and nothing but love and patience will guide his footsteps!' She paused, her mouth quivering; then she went

'If it is not our Mr. Robinson, then it will be our pleasure to do all that is necessary for his comfort. If he is a

poor man he will never want . . . It will be a privilege to save so gallant a man from hardship . . . ' Here she

Stephen too was glad of the pause, for the emotion which the words and their remembrances evoked was

choking her. Had not Harold been as her own father's son. As her own brother! . . . She turned away, fearing

All at once Mrs. Stonehouse started to her feet, her face suddenly white with fear; for a cry had come to their

'Help there! Help, I say! The child has fainted. Is there no one there? And I am blind!'

Harold had been in a state of increasing restlessness. The month of waiting which Dr. Hilton had laid down

for him seemed to wear away with extraordinary slowness; this was increased by the lack of companionship,

and further by the cutting off of even the little episodes usual to daily life. His patience, great as it was

naturally and trained as it had been by the years of selfrepression, was beginning to give way. Often and

often there came over him a wild desire to tear off the irksome bandages and try for himself whether the

hopes held out to him were being even partially justified. He was restrained only by the fear of perpetual

blindness, which came over him in a sort of cold wave at each reaction. Time, too, added to his fear of

discovery; but he could not but think that his selfsought isolation must be a challenge to the curiosity of

each and all who knew of it. And with all these disturbing causes came the main one, which never lessened

but always grew: that whatever might happen Stephen would be further from him than ever. Look at the

matter how he would; turn it round in whatsoever possible or impossible way, he could see no relief to this

For it is in the nature of love that it creates or enlarges its own pain. If troubles or difficulties there be from

natural causes, then it will exaggerate them into nightmare proportions. But if there be none, it will create

them. Love is in fact the most serious thing that comes to man; where it exists all else seem as phantoms, or

at best as actualities of lesser degree. During the better part of two years his troubles had but slept; and as

nothing wakes the pangs of old love better than the sound of a voice, all the old acute pain of love and the

agony that followed its denial were back with him. Surely he could never, never believe that Stephen did not

mean what she had said to him that morning in the beech grove. All his new resolution not to hamper her

In such mood had he been that morning. He was additionally disturbed because the Doctor had gone early to

Port Lannoch; and as he was the only person with whom he could talk, he clung to him with something of the

The day being full of sunshine the window was open, and only the darkgreen blind which crackled and

rustled with every passing breeze made the darkness of the room. Harold was dressed and lay on a sofa

placed back in the room, where the few rays of light thus entering could not reach him. His eyes and forehead

were bandaged as ever. For some days the Doctor, who had his own reasons and his own purpose, had not

taken them off; so the feeling of blind helplessness was doubly upon him. He knew he was blind; and he

All at once he started up awake. His hearing had in the weeks of darkness grown abnormally acute, and some

trifling sound had recalled him to himself. It might have been inspiration, but he seemed to be conscious of

As he rose from the sofa, with the violent motion of a strong man startled into unconscious activity, he sent a

shock of fear to the eager child who had strayed into the room through the open window. Had he presented a

normal appearance, she would not have been frightened. She would have recognised his identity despite the

changes, and have sprung to him so impulsively that she would have been in his arms before she had time to

think. But now all she saw was a great beard topped with a mass of linen and lint, which obscured all the rest

In her fright she screamed out. He in turn, forgetful for the moment of his intention of silence, called aloud:

'Who is that?' Pearl, who had been instinctively backing towards the window by which she had entered, and

whose thoughts in her fright had gone back to her motherrefuge in time of dangercried out:

'Mother, Mother! It is him! It is The Man!' She would have run towards him in spite of his forbidding

appearance; but the shock had been too much for her. The little knees trembled and gave way; the brain

Harold knew the voice the instant she spoke; there was no need for the enlightening words

'Pearl! Pearl!' he cried. 'Come to me, darling!' But as he spoke he heard her moan, and the soft thud of her

little body on the thick carpet. He guessed the truth and groped his way towards where the sound had been,

for he feared lest he might trample upon her in too great eagerness. Kneeling by her he touched her little feet,

and then felt his way to her face. And as he did so, such is the double action of the mind, even in the midst of

his care the remembrance swept across his mind of how he had once knelt in just such manner in an old

church by another little senseless form. In his confusion of mind he lost the direction of the door, and coming

to the window pushed forward the flapping blind and went out on the balcony. He knew from the freshness of

the air and the distant sounds that he was in the open. This disturbed him, as he wished to find someone who

could attend to the fainting child. But as he had lost the way back to the room now, he groped along the wall

of the Castle with one hand, whilst he held Pearl securely in the other. As he went he called out for help.

When he came opposite the window of the Mandarin room Mrs. Stonehouse saw him; she ran to him and

caught Pearl in her arms. She was so agitated, so lost in concern for the child that she never even thought to

'Pearl! Pearl! What is it, darling? It is Mother!' She laid the girl on the sofa, and taking the flowers out of a

glass began to sprinkle water on the child's face. Harold knew her voice and waited in patience. Presently the

child sighed; the mother, relieved, thought of other things at last and looked around her.

There was yet another trouble. There on the floor, where she had slipped down, lay Lady de Lannoy in a

swoon. She called out instinctively, forgetting for the moment that the man was blind, but feeling all the old

'Oh! Mr. Robinson, help me! Lady de Lannoy has fainted too, and I do not know what to do!' As she spoke

she looked up at him and remembered his blindness. But she had no time to alter her words; the instant she

had spoken Harold, who had been leaning against the windowsash, and whose mind was calmer since with

It gave her a pang to hear him and to see him turn helplessly with his arms and hands outstretched as though

Without pause, and under an instinctive and uncontrollable impulse, he tore the bandages from his eyes. The

sun was streaming in. As he met it his eyes blinked and a cry burst from him; a wild cry whose joy and

surprise pierced even through the shut portals of the swooning woman's brain. Not for worlds would she ever

'Where is she? Where is she? I cannot see her! Stephen! Stephen! where are you?' Mrs. Stonehouse,

bewildered, pointed where Stephen's snowwhite face and brilliant hair seemed in the streaming sunlight like

'There! There!' He caught her arm mechanically, and putting his eyes to her wrist, tried to look along her

'I cannot see her! What is it that is over me? This is worse than to be blind!' He covered his face with his

He felt light strong fingers on his forehead and hands; fingers whose touch he would have known had they

been laid on him were he no longer quick. A voice whose music he had heard in his dreams for two long

'I am here, Harold! I am here! Oh! do not sob like that; it breaks my heart to hear you!' He took his hands

from his face and held hers in them, staring intently at her as though his passionate gaze would win through

That moment he never forgot. Never could forget! He saw the room all rich in yellow. He saw Pearl, pale but

gladeyed, lying on a sofa holding the hand of her mother, who stood beside her. He saw the great high

window open, the lines of the covered stone balcony without, the stretch of green sward all vivid in the

sunshine, and beyond it the blue quivering sea. He saw all but that for which his very soul longed; without to

see which sight itself was valueless . . . But still he looked, and looked; and Stephen saw in his dark eyes,

though he could not see her, that which made her own eyes fill and the warm red glow on her face again . . .

Then she raised her eyes again, and the gladness of her beating heart seemed the answer to his own.

For as he looked he saw, as though emerging from a mist whose obscurity melted with each instant, what was

to him the one face in all the world. He did not think then of its beautythat would come later; and besides

no beauty of one born of woman could outmatch the memorised beauty which had so long held his heart. But

that he had so schooled himself in long months of gloomy despair, he would have taken her in his arms there

and then; and, heedless of the presence of others, have poured out his full heart to her.

Mrs. Stonehouse saw and understood. So too Pearl, who though a child was a womanchild; softly they rose

up to steal away. But Stephen saw them; her own instincts, too, told her that her hour had not come. What she

'Don't go! Don't go, Mrs. Stonehouse. You know now that Harold and I are old friends, though neither of us

knew ittill this moment. We were brought up as . . . almost as brother and sister. Pearl, isn't it lovely to see

She was so happy that she could only express herself, with dignity, through the happiness of others.

Pearl actually shrieked with joy as she rushed across the room and flung herself into Harold's arms as he

stooped to her. He raised her; and she kissed him again and again, and put her little hands all over his face

'Oh, I am so glad! And so glad your poor eyes are unbind again! May I call you Harold, too?'

'You darling!' was all he could say as he kissed her, and holding her in one arm went across and shook hands

There was a little awkwardness in the group, for none of them knew what would be best to do next. In the

midst of it there came a light knock at the door, and Mr. Hilton entered saying:

'They told me you wished to see me at onceHulloa!' He rushed across the room and took Harold by the

shoulders, turning his face to the light. He looked in his eyes long and earnestly, the others holding their

'Yes! How did you know? Why, I couldn't see'see pointing to Stephen'Lady de Lannoy; though her face

Dr. Hilton took his hands from his patient's shoulders and shook him warmly by both hands:

'I am glad, old fellow! It was worth waiting for, wasn't it? But I say, it was a dangerous thing to take off those

bandages before I permitted. However, it has done no harm! But it was lucky that I mistrusted your patience

and put the time for the experiment a week later than I thought necessary . . . What is it?' He turned from one

to the other questioningly; there was a look on Harold's face that he did not quite comprehend.

'I must kiss you, you know. It was you who saved The Man's eyes. Stephen has told me how you watched

him!' The Doctor was somewhat taken aback; as yet he was ignorant of Pearl's existence. However, he raised

'Thank you, my dear! I did all I could. But he helped much himself; except at the very last. Don't you ever go

and take off bandages, if you should ever have the misfortune to have them on, without the doctor's

permission!' Pearl nodded her head wisely and then wriggled out of his arms and came again to Harold,

The Man lifted her up and kissed her again. When he set her down she came over to Lady de Lannoy and

'And I must kiss you again too, Stephen!' If Lady de Lannoy hadn't loved the sweet little thing already she

After a few days Harold went over to Varilands to stay for a while with the Stonehouses. Mr. Stonehouse had

arrived, and both men were rejoiced to meet again. The elder never betrayed by word or sign that he

recognised the identity of the other person of the drama of whom he had told him and who had come so

accidentally into his life; and the younger was grateful to him for it. Harold went almost every day to Lannoy,

and sometimes the Stonehouses went with him; at other times Stephen paid flying visits to Varilands. She did

not make any effort to detain Harold; she would not for worlds have made a sign which might influence him.

She was full now of that diffidence which every woman has who loves. She felt that she must wait; must wait

even if the waiting lasted to her grave. She felt, as every woman does who really loves, that she had found her

And Harold, to whom something of the same diffidence was an old story, got the idea that her reticence was a

part of the same feeling whose violent expression had sent him out into the wilderness. And with the thought

came the idea of his duty, implied in her father's dying trust: 'Give her time! . . . Let her choose!' For him the

clock seemed to have stopped for two whole years, and he was back at the time when the guardianship of his

boy life was beginning to yield to the larger and more selfish guardianship of manhood.

Stephen, noticing that he did not come near her as closely as she felt he might, and not realising his true

reasonfor when did love ever realise the true reason of the bashfulness of love?felt a chillness which in

And so these two ardent souls, who yearned for each other's love and the full expression of it, seemed as if

they might end after all in drifting apart. Each thought that their secret was concealed. But both secrets were

already known to Mrs. Stonehouse, who knew nothing; and to Mr. Stonehouse, who knew everything. Even

Pearl had her own ideas, as was once shown in a confidence when they were alone in Stephen's bedroom after

helping her to finish her dressing, just as Stephen herself had at a similar age helped her Uncle Gilbert. After

some coy leading up to the subject of pretty dresses, the child putting her little mouth to the other's ear

'May I be your bridesmaid, Stephen?' The woman was taken aback; but she had to speak at once, for the

'You! You must! I know someone who will make you!' Stephen's heart beat hard and rapidly. The child's talk,

though sweet and dear, was more than embarrassing. With, however, the desire to play with fire, which is a

'Oh! he never told me. But I know it all the same! And you know it too, Stephen!' This was getting too close

'My darling, you may guess about other people, though I don't say you ought; but you must not guess about

'All right!' then she held up her arms to be lifted on the other's knee and said:

'I want to whisper to you!' Her voice and manner were so full of feeling that somehow the other was moved.

'I thought, oh! long ago, that I would marry him myself. But you knew him first . . . And he only saved me . .

. But you saved him!' . . . And then she laid her head down on the throbbing bosom, and sobbed . . .

Before they left the room, Stephen said to her, very gravely, for the issue might be one of great concern:

'Of course, Pearl dear, our secrets are all between ourselves!' Pearl crossed her two forefingers and kissed

'And, darling, you will remember too that one must never speak or even think if they can help it about

anyone's marrying anyone else till they say so themselves! What is it, dear, that you are smiling at?'

Stephen smiled and kissed her. Hand in hand, Pearl chattering merrily, they went down to the drawingroom.

Each day that passed seemed to add to the trouble in the heart of these young people; to widen the difficulty

of expressing themselves. To Stephen, who had accepted the new condition of things and whose whole nature

had bloomed again under the sunshine of hope, it was the less intolerable. She had set herself to wait, as had

countless thousands of women before her; and as due proportion will, till the final cataclysm abolishes earthly

unions. But Harold felt the growth, both positive and negative, as a new torture; and he began to feel that he

would be unable to go through with it. In his heart was the constant struggle of hope; and in opposition to it

the seeming realisation of every new fancy of evil. That bitter hour, when the whole of creation was for him

turned upside down, was having its sad effect at last. Had it not been for that horrid remembrance he would

have come to believe enough in himself to put his future to the test. He would have made an opportunity at

which Stephen and himself would have with the fires of their mutual love burned away the encircling mist.

There are times when a single minute of commonsense would turn sorrow into joy; and yet that minute, our

Those who loved these young people were much concerned about them. Mrs. Stonehouse took their trouble

so much to heart that she spoke to her husband about it, seriously advising that one or other of them should

make an effort to bring things in the right way for their happiness. The woman was sure of the woman's

feeling. It is from men, not women, that women hide their love. By sideglances and unthinking moments

women note and learn. The man knew already, from his own lips, of the man's passion. But his lips were

'My dear, we must not interfere. Not now, at any rate; we might cause them great trouble. I am as sure as you

are that they really love each other. But they must win happiness by themselves and through themselves

alone. Otherwise it would never be to them what it ought to be; what it might be; what it will be!'

So these friends were silent, and the little tragedy developed. Harold's patience began to give way under the

constant strain of selfsuppression. Stephen tried to hide her love and fear, under the mask of a gracious

At last there came an hour which was full of new, hopeless agony to Stephen. She heard Harold, in a

fragment of conversation, speak to Mr. Stonehouse of the need of returning to Alaska. That sounded like a

word of doom. In her inmost heart she knew that Harold loved her; and had she been free she would have

herself spoken the words which would have drawn the full truth to them both. But how could she do so,

having the remembrance of that other episode; when, without the reality of love, she had declared herself? . . .

Oh! the shame of it . . . The folly! . . . And Harold knew it all! How could he ever believe that it was real this

By the exercise of that selfrestraint which long suffering had taught her, Stephen so managed to control

herself that none of her guests realised what a blow she had received from a casual word. She bore herself

gallantly till the last moment. After the old fashion of her youth, she had from the Castle steps seen their

departure. Then she took her way to her own room, and locked herself in. She did not often, in these days,

give way to tears; when she did cry it was as a luxury, and not from poignant cause. Her deep emotion was

dryeyed as of old. Now, she did not cry, she sat still, her hands clasped below her knees, with set white face

gazing out on the far off sea. For hours she sat there lonely; staring fixedly all the time, though her thoughts

were whirling wildly. At first she had some vague purpose, which she hoped might eventually work out into a

plan. But thought would not come. Everywhere there was the same beginning: a wild, burning desire to let

Harold understand her feeling towards him; to blot out, with the conviction of trust and love, those bitter

moments when in the madness of her overstrung passion she had heaped such insult upon him. Everywhere

the same end: an impasse. He seemingly could not, would not, understand. She knew now that the man had

diffidences, forbearances, self judgments and selfdenials which made for the suppression, in what he

considered to be her interest, of his own desires. This was tragedy indeed! Again and again came back the

remembrance of that bitter regret of her Aunt Laetitia, which no happiness and no pain of her own had ever

'To love; and be helpless! To wait, and wait, and wait; with heart all aflame! To hope, and hope; till time

seemed to have passed away, and all the world to stand still on your hopeless misery! To know that a word

might open up Heaven; and yet to have to remain mute! To keep back the glances that could enlighten, to

modulate the tones that might betray! To see all you hoped for passing away . . . !'

At last she seemed to understand the true force of pride; which has in it a thousand forces of its own, positive,

negative, restrainful. Oh! how blind she had been! How little she had learned from the miseries that the other

woman whom she loved had suffered! How unsympathetic she had been; how selfengrossed; how callous to

the sensibilities of others! And now to her, in her turn, had come the same suffering; the same galling of the

iron fetters of pride, and of convention which is its original expression! Must it be that the very salt of youth

must lose its savour, before the joys of youth could be won! What, after all, was youth if out of its own

inherent power it must work its own destruction! If youth was so, why not then trust the wisdom of age? If

Here the rudiment of a thought struck her and changed the current of her reason. A thought so winged with

hope that she dared not even try to complete it! . . . She thought, and thought till the long autumn shadows

After dinner she went up alone to the mill. It was late for a visit, for the Silver Lady kept early hours. But she

found her friend as usual in her room, whose windows swept the course of the sun. Seeing that her visitor was

in a state of mental disturbance such as she had once before exhibited, she blew out the candles and took the

same seat in the eastern window she had occupied on the night which they both so well remembered.

Stephen understood both acts, and was grateful afresh. The darkness would be a help to her in what she had

to say; and the resumption of the old seat and attitude did away with the awkwardness of new confidence.

During the weeks that had passed Stephen had kept her friend informed of the rescue and progress of the

injured man. Since the discovery of Harold's identity she had allowed her to infer her feeling towards him.

Shyly she had conveyed her hopes that all the bitter part of the past might be wiped out. To the woman who

already knew of the love that had always been, but had only awakened to consciousness in the absence of its

object, a hint was sufficient to build upon. She had noticed the gloom that had of late been creeping over the

girl's happiness; and she had been much troubled about it. But she had thought it wiser to be silent; she well

knew that should unhappily the time for comfort come, it must be precluded by new and more explicit

confidence. So she too had been anxiously waiting the progress of events. Now; as she put her arms round the

girl she said softly; not in the whisper which implies doubt of some kind, but in the soft voices which

And then in broken words shyly spoken, and spoken in such a way that the silences were more eloquent than

the words, the girl conveyed what was in her heart. The other listened, now and again stroking the beautiful

hair. When all was said, there was a brief pause. The Silver Lady spoke no word; but the pressure of her

In but a halfconscious way, in words that came so shrinkingly through the darkness that they hardly reached

'Oh, if he only knew! And I can't tell him; I can't! dare not! I must not. How could I dishonour him by bearing

myself towards him as to that other . . . worthless . . . ! Oh! the happy, happy girls, who have mothers . . . !'

All the muscles of her body seemed to shrink and collapse, till she was like an inert mass at the Silver Lady's

After a long, long pause; when Stephen's sobbing had died away; when each muscle of her body had become

rigid on its return to normal calm; the Silver Lady began to talk of other matters, and conversation became

normal. Stephen's courage seemed somehow to be restored, and she talked brightly.

Before they parted the Silver Lady made a request. She said in her natural voice:

'Couldst thou bring that gallant man who saved so many lives, and to whom the Lord was so good in the

restoration of his sight, to see me? Thou knowest I have made a resolution not to go forth from this calm

place whilst I may remain. But I should like to see him before he returns to that far North where he has done

such wonders. He is evidently a man of kind heart; perhaps he will not mind coming to see a lonely woman

who is no longer young. There is much I should like to ask him of that land of which nothing was known in

my own youth. Perhaps he will not mind seeing me alone.' Stephen's heart beat furiously. She felt suffocating

with new hope, for what could be but good from Harold's meeting with that sweet woman who had already

brought so much comfort into her own life? She was abashed, and yet radiant; she seemed to tread on air as

she stood beside her friend saying farewell. She did not wish to speak. So the two women kissed and parted.

It had been arranged that two days hence the Stonehouse party were to spend the day at Lannoy, coming

before lunch and staying the night, as they wanted in the afternoon to return a visit at some distance to the

When the Varilands party arrived, Stephen told them of Sister Ruth's wish to see Harold. Pearl at once

proffered a request that she also should be taken at some other time to see the Silver Lady. Harold acquiesced

heartily; and it was agreed that some time in the late afternoon he should pay the visit. Stephen would bring

Strangely enough, she felt no awkwardness, no trepidation, as they rode up the steep road to the Mill.

When the introduction had been effected, and half an hour had been consumed in conventional small talk,

Stephen, obedience to a look from the Silver Lady, rose. She said in they most natural way she could:

'Now Sister Ruth, I will leave you two alone, if you do not mind. Harold can tell you all you want to know

about Alaska; and perhaps, if you are very good, he will tell some of his adventures! Good afternoon, dear. I

wish you were to be with us tonight; but I know your rule. I go for my ride. Sultan has had no exercise for

five days; and he looked at me quite reproachfully when we met this morning. Au revoir, Harold. We shall

When she had gone Harold came back from the door, and stood in the window looking east. The Silver Lady

came and stood beside him. She did not seem to notice his face, but in the mysterious way of women she

watched him keenly. She wished to satisfy her own mind before she undertook her selfappointed task.

Her eyes were turned towards the headland towards which Stephen on her white Arab was galloping at

breakneck speed. He was too good a horseman himself, and he knew her prowess on horseback too well to

have any anxiety regarding such a rider at Stephen. It was not fear, then, that made his face so white, and his

The Silver Lady made up her mind. All her instincts were to trust him. She recognised a noble nature, with

'Come,' she said, 'sit here, friend; where another friend has often sat with me. From this you can see all the

coastline, and all that thou wilt!' Harold put a chair beside the one she pointed out; and when she was seated

'I have wanted much to see thee. I have heard much of thee, before thy coming.' There was something in the

tone of her voice which arrested his attention, and he looked keenly at her. Here, in the full light, her face

looked sadly white and he noticed that her lips trembled. He said with all the kindliness of his nature, for

from the first moment he had seen her he had taken to her, her purity and earnestness and sweetness

'You are pale! I fear you are not well! May I call your maid? Can I do anything for you?' She waved her hand

'Nay! It is nothing. It is but the result of a sleepless night and much thought.'

'Oh! I wish I had known! I could have put off my visit; and I could have come any other time to suit you.' She

'I fear that would have availed but little. It was of thy coming that I was concerned.' Seeing his look of

amazement' she went on quickly, her voice becoming more steady as she lost sight of herself in her task:

'Be patient a little with me. I am an old woman; and until recently it has been many and many years since the

calm which I sought here has been ruffled. I had come to believe that for me earthly troubles were no more.

But there has come into my life a new concern. I have heard so much of thee, and before thy coming.' The

recurrence of the phrase struck him. He would have asked how such could be, but he deemed it better to wait.

'I have been wishful to ask thy advice. But why should not I tell thee outright that which troubles me? I am

not used, at least for these many years, to dissemble. I can but trust thee in all; and lean on thy man's mercy to

'I shall do all in my power, believe me!' said Harold simply. 'Speak freely!' She pointed out of the window,

where Stephen's white horse seemed on the mighty sweep of green sward like a little dot.

'It is of her that I would speak to thee!' Harold's heart began to beat hard; he felt that something was coming.

'Why thinkest thou that she rideth at such speed? It is her habit!' He waited. She continued:

'Doth it not seem to thee that such reckless movement is the result of much trouble; that she seeketh

forgetfulness?' He knew that she was speaking truly; and somehow the conviction was borne upon him that

she knew his secret heart, and was appealing to it. If it was about Stephen! If her disquiet was about her; then

God bless her! He would be patient and grateful. The Quaker's voice seemed to come through his thought, as

'We have all our own secrets. I have had mine; and I doubt not that thou hast had, may still have, thine own.

'I shall be proud! Oh! madam, I thank you with all my heart for your sweet kindness to her. I cannot say what

I feel; for she has always been very dear to me!' In the pause before she spoke again the beating of his own

heart seemed to reecho the quick sounds of Stephen's galloping horse. He was surprised at the method of her

speech when it did come; for she forgot her Quaker idiom, and spoke in the phrasing of her youth:

'Then, God be thanked; for it is in your power to do much good. To rescue a poor, human, grieving soul from

despair!' Her words conveyed joy greater than she knew. Harold did not himself know why the air seemed

filled with sounds that seemed to answer every doubt of his life. He felt, understood, with that understanding

'See, I have trusted you indeed! I have given away another woman's secret; but I do it without fear. I can see

that you also are troubled; and when I look back on my own life and remember the trouble that sent me out of

the world; a lonely recluse here in this spot far from the stress of life, I rejoice that any act of mine can save

such another tragedy as my own. I see that I need not go into detail. You know that I am speaking truth. It

was before you came so heroically on this new scene that she told me her secret. At a time when nothing was

known of you except that you had disappeared. When she laid bare her poor bleeding heart to me, she did it

in such wise that for an instant I feared that it was a murder which she had committed. Indeed, she called it

so! You understand that I know all your secret; all her part in it at least. And I know that you understand what

loving duty lies before you. I see it in your eyes; your brave, true eyes! Go! and the Lord be with thee!' Her

accustomed idiom had returned with prayer. She turned her head away, and, standing up, leaned against the

'God bless you! I shall come back to thank you either tonight or tomorrow; and I hope that she will be with

He went quickly out of the room. The woman stood for long looking out of the window, and following with

teardimmed eyes the movement of his great black horse as he swept across country straight as the crow

Stephen passed over the wide expanse without thought; certainly without memory of it. Never in her

afterlife could she recall any thought that had passed through her mind from the time she left the open gate

of the windmill yard till she pulled up her smoking, panting horse beside the ruin of the fisher's house.

Stephen was not unhappy! She was not happy in any conscious form. She was satisfied rather than

For a while she stood at the edge of the cliff, and looked at the turmoil of the tide churning on the rocks

below. Her heart went out in a great burst of thankfulness that it was her hand which had been privileged to

aid in rescuing so dear a life. Then she looked around her. Ostensibly it was to survey the ruined house; but in

reality to search, even then under her lashes, the whole green expanse sloping up to the windmill for some

moving figure. She saw that which made her throat swell and her ears to hear celestial music. But she would

not allow herself to think, of that at all events. She was all woman now; allpatient, and allsubmissive. She

For a few minutes she walked round the house as though looking at it critically for some afterpurpose. After

the wreck Stephen had suggested to Trinity House that there should be a lighthouse on the point; and offered

to bear the expense of building it. She was awaiting the answer of the Brethren; and of course nothing would

be done in clearing the ground for any purpose till the answer had come. She felt now that if that reply was

Then she went to the edge of the cliff, and went down the zigzag by which the man and horse had gone to

And through all her thoughts passed the rider who even now was thundering over the green sward on his way

to her. In her fancy at first, and later in her ears, she could hear the sound of his sweeping gallop.

The sound stopped. With all her ears she listened, her heart now beginning to beat furiously. The sea before

her, all lines and furrows with the passing tide, was dark under the shadow of the cliff; and the edge of the

And then she saw suddenly a pillar of shadow beyond the line of the cliff. It rested but a moment, moved

But to another sense there was greater comfort: she heard the clatter of rolling pebbles and the scramble of

Oh! the music of that sound! It woke all the finer instincts of the woman. All the dross and thought of self

passed away. Nature, sweet and simple and true, reigned alone. Instinctively she rose and came towards him.

In the simple nobility of her selfsurrender and her purpose, which were at one with the grandeur of nature

Since he had spoken with the Silver Lady Harold had swept through the air; the rush of his foaming horse

over the sward had been but a slow physical progress, which mocked the onsweep of his mind. In is rapid

ride he too had been finding himself. By the reading of his own soul he knew now that love needs a voice;

that a man's love, to be welcomed to the full, should be dominant and selfbelieving.

When the two saw each other's eyes there was no need for words. Harold came close, opening wide his arms,

In that divine moment, when their mouths met, both knew that their souls were one.