Mrs George de Horne Vaizey (continued 2)

The butler stared, the footman stared. Raising her eyes as she passed under the great well of the staircase, Juliet caught the flash of a white cap hurriedly withdrawn. A baize door, obviously leading into the servants’ quarters, creaked eloquently upon its hinges. The back of Antony’s neck grew ever redder and redder as he led the way onwards; finally the drawing-room door was flung open, and across a space of chintz, and tapestry, and massed-up roses, Juliet beheld two figures rise hurriedly in welcome.

The aunt’s thin locks were parted in the middle, and surmounted by a lace cap with a lavender bow. She wore a douce black silk dress, with a douce lace collar. She looked Victorian, and downtrodden, and meek, and Juliet dismissed her in half a dozen words.

“She’ll swallow anything!”

The Squire had a short neck, a red face, steel blue eyes, and a white waistcoat. He stood about five feet four in his boots and bore himself with the air of a giant.

“He’ll swallow nothing!” was Juliet’s second diagnosis, and she braced herself for the fray. The introduction was simple in the extreme.

“This is Clare!” said Antony, whereupon Mrs Maplestone said hurriedly: “How d’you do. So pleased! You must have tea!” and the Squire said nothing at all, but cleared his throat, and pulled forward a chair. Then they all sat down, and Mrs Maplestone busied herself over the tea-tray, while her husband took his turn to stare.

He began at Juliet’s feet, and considered them judiciously. Large, but well shaped, wore a good boot. Next he studied her hands, cocking a jealous eye at the emerald ring. Large again, but white; good fingers; manicured nails. Thirdly he considered her figure, and was pleased to approve. Pine girl, some flesh on her bones, none of your modern skeletons. Last of all he looked at her face. “Humph! not so bad. Points; distinctly points! Antony was not such a fool as he looked!” In five minutes’ time the Squire could have passed an examination on the subject of Juliet’s appearance, and she realised as much, and felt correspondingly elated when the hard eyes softened, and an offer of hot scones was prefaced by, “My dear.” My dear had been examined and found correct. My dear was approved. By the time that cups were filled for the second time, the Squire had thawed to the point of jocularity.

“Well, Miss Clare, and what tales has this fine fellow been telling you about me? Wicked uncle, eh? Cruel ogre. Gouty old tartar, who insists upon having his own way, and bullies his unfortunate nephew till he is obliged to give in for the sake of peace? That’s it, eh? That’s what he told you.”

Juliet looked across at Antony, discovered him flushed, frowning, supremely uncomfortable, and tilted her head with a charming audacity.

“Does that mean that he was bullied into having Me? It wouldn’t be exactly ‘peaceful’ for him, if I believed that! He certainly would not dare to tell me anything so unflattering.”

The Squire hastened to eat his words. The girl was a nice girl; frank, friendly, with a touch of the devil which was entirely to his taste. Not for the world would he prejudice her against the boy.

“No, no; not at all, not at all. Precious little notice he took of my wishes, until it suited himself to follow my advice. Obstinate fellow, you know; obstinate as a mule. Wouldn’t think it to see him sitting there, looking as if he couldn’t say boo to a goose; but it’s a fact. You’ll find it out another day!”

“I like a man to have a strong will,” Juliet said with the air of a meek, gentle, little fiancée, and the Squire laughed loudly, and made a characteristic change of front.

“Glad to hear it! Glad you don’t go in for any of this fashionable nonsense about independence and equality. You obey your husband, my dear, and stay quietly in your home, and content yourself with your house duties, as your mother did before you. What has she got to say about this precious engagement?”

“Mother thinks of me. She is glad of anything that makes me happy,” Juliet said, and flattered herself that she had rounded the corner rather neatly. Antony looked at her quickly, and as quickly looked away. Little Mrs Maplestone gave a soft murmur of approval.

“She must be, dear! I am sure she must be and I’m sure she’ll like Antony when she knows him better. I hope we shall soon meet your parents. It was through your brother that you met, was it not? An old school friend. At Henley?”

“Yes, Henley. Yes, Phil! Please don’t ask me about it! The whole thing was such a rush. Only three days! It seems like a dream. I—I forget everything but the one great fact!” cried Juliet, taking refuge in truth, and thereby winning smiles of approval from her old-fashioned hearers, who considered such confusion suitable and becoming. They beamed upon her, and Juliet began to feel the dawnings of pride in her own diplomacy. She was getting on well; surprisingly well! She allowed herself to believe that Alice White could have done no better.

“Three days, eh?” repeated the Squire complacently. “Bowled him over in three days, did you, after being bullet-proof all these years! How in the world did you manage to do it?”

“I can’t think!” declared Juliet, truthfully again, but she smiled as she spoke, and showed a dimple, and dropped her eyelids, so that the dark lashes rested on the pink of her cheeks, whereat the young man looked more embarrassed than ever, and the old one laughed till he choked, and offered her more cake, and called her “my dear” twice over in a single sentence, and delivered himself of the opinion that Antony was a lucky dog.

“Doesn’t deserve it, after all his slackness and procrastination! Let’s hope he’ll appreciate his good luck. But what’s this nonsense about waiting two years? What’s this nonsense about not going back with him at once?”

Juliet looked as she felt, flustered, and taken aback.

“It’s so—sudden!” she pleaded, and blushed as she said the word. “I—I don’t approve of marrying in a rush. Only two months before he sails. Suppose he regretted it? S-suppose he changed his mind?”

“It’s for him to answer that question! Speak up, Antony! Are you likely to change your mind? Do you feel any inclination to give up Miss Clare now that you have got her to promise to take you for better for worse?”

“I’m not given to changing my mind, sir,” Antony said, discreetly answering the last question but one. He rose hastily as he spoke, evidently afraid lest his turn of cross-questioning was about to begin, and said hurriedly: “Clare is tired, Uncle. She’ll answer all your questions later on. I’m going to take her into the garden for a little fresh air, and then send her upstairs to rest.”

So for the next half-hour Antony Maplestone and Juliet, alias Alice, Clare, sat in a rose-shaded arbour, and discussed the plan of attack. There was so much to be settled. It was like making up a play, and coaching each other in the leading parts. Juliet was inclined to give herself airs on the success of her first scene, and discovered with surprise that her companion vouchsafed only a mitigated admiration.

“You must be very used to it!” he said grudgingly whereupon Juliet bridled, and declared:

“I’m not! It’s the very first case I’ve had, when—All my experiences so far, have been strictly business-like. I think you might give me some encouragement. I thought I was so clever!”

“You were, you were! Uncommonly clever, and I felt all sorts of a fool. I’m not used to playing a part, and it comes harder than I expected. It’s a comfort to escape and feel that we can talk openly together!” He stretched his arms, and drew a big sigh of relief. Juliet sighed too, but not for the same reason.

“I think it might be a wise precaution,” she said presently, “if I sent my parents abroad to travel for several months! Mrs Maplestone spoke of wishing to see them, and it would be awkward to produce a suitable pair at a moment’s notice. And dangerous! Think of the pitfalls that would yawn before us over reminiscences of childhood? Perhaps they’d better go for health! That would explain their leaving home just at this time. We must send them to a foreign spa for a six-weeks’ course. Where shall they go?”

“Marienbad,” Antony said promptly, whereon Juliet drew herself up haughtily, and put on an air of offence.

“No aspersions, if you please. My parents are thin! It shall be rheumatism, I think. That’s quite ordinary and eminently respectable. They might both have it, if it comes to that.”

But Antony objected.

“No. Not both! That’s too drastic. My uncle would certainly object that you would inherit a tendency. Only your father! A recent attack...”

“Just so; and they are anxious to take it in time. Mother goes with him, as they are a devoted couple and couldn’t endure to be parted for six weeks. Mud baths, I think. There’s such a sound of verisimilitude about mud baths! I think we must really decide on mud baths.”

“Poor beggar, yes! I’m afraid there’s no help for him. Where are they, by the way? I’ve no idea. Have you?”

“Oh, yes. They are in Germany somewhere. Or is it Italy? Somewhere about that part of the world,” Juliet said vaguely, whereupon Antony took out his pocket-book and wrote down a memorandum.

“A dutiful daughter ought to have her parents’ address! I’ll find that out before dinner. As a matter of fact, I don’t think my uncle will trouble his head about your relations. There would have been the dickens to pay if he had not approved of you, but he was quite unusually amiable, took to you at first sight, and the aunt too. It went off far better than I expected.”

“Just let me be quite clear on one point,” Juliet demanded. “Am I nice, and amiable, and meek, or am I dashing and sportive?”

“Neither one nor the other, a useful blend. Don’t worry about that. You are perfectly all right as you are.”

“And—just as a guide for moments of expansion—might it be ‘Tony’?”

“Tony it must be. Most decidedly Tony.” His voice was brisk with decision. The brown eyes brightened in anticipation. “Perhaps even occasionally, ‘Dear.’”

“Oh, no!” Juliet shook her head obstinately. “No ‘dears’! I’ve been strictly brought up. I’m shy. No demonstrations in public. I’ve no brothers, you see, and have led a secluded life.”

“Yes, yes, there’s Phil; you must remember Phil. It was your brother Phil who introduced us at Henley. You were staying with friends.”

“I have friends near Henley. Their name is Jones. Can you remember Jones? Mr Jones, solicitor; Mrs Jones; Miss Jones; Miss Florence Jones; Mr Reginald Jones, son, junior partner.”

“Just so. Reginald, of course, is Philip’s friend. Phil is, like myself, home on leave. That simplifies things for you. By the by, he is in China, in the Customs.”

“Poor dear Philip; with all these horrid riots. I do feel anxious about him!” sighed naughty Juliet in response; then, suddenly, “I wonder,” she had cried soberly, “if I ought! I hate to deceive people, even for their own good. I wonder if I ought to go on.”

“But surely”—he stared at her in amazement—“it’s your profession! It would be impossible to do inquiry work if people knew from the beginning what you were about. Why did you—excuse me—choose such a profession if your conscience is so tender?”

“I—I didn’t realise. It was arranged in a hurry. I don’t think I shall take any more cases.”

“No, don’t!” Antony cried eagerly. “It’s all right this time, for you have fallen among people who will treat you properly, but it might be so different. Haven’t you a home where you can live safely and comfortably?”

“Very comfortably indeed, but I happen to be one of the horde of superfluous women who need something more than comfort.”

Antony looked at her curiously at that, but he had asked no questions. Juliet was thankful for his silence; for the absence of obvious compliments. The situation would be intolerable with a man of another type. With Maplestone one had a comfortable feeling of security—a very comfortable feeling. Juliet fell asleep that night with a smile on her lips.

For three days all went well, the Squire approving, his wife motherly, Antony chivalrous and attentive. Whatever the real experience might be, Juliet was satisfied that pretending to be engaged was an agreeable sensation. Morning and afternoon Antony drove her abroad, sat with her in the rose garden, or escorted her on long walks over the countryside, and soon, wonderfully soon, there was no further need of coaching between them, for the lives of each, and the experiences thereof, the hopes, aspirations, and rebuffs, had been spread as in an opened book before the eyes of the other, with just one reservation on Juliet’s side, the disclosure of her own identity!

“I have had an adventurous life. The one thing I have not had to complain of is monotony,” said Antony.

“And I have had nothing else. Until recently I have gone on, year after year, existing, not living, in the same little rut.”

“No wonder you broke loose. A girl like you was never made for stagnation. You ought to travel: to see the world. I never met a woman with so keen an appreciation of beauty. Gad! how you would enjoy India, and the scenery we have over there. Last year we were stationed in the north, above Darjeeling. I’d like to blindfold you, and take you to a spot I know, and then take off the bandage, and show you—the snows! That would be a moment worth living for.”

“Ah, yes. Unfortunately, however, the climate of India is prejudicial to my health,” Juliet reminded him primly.

“Oh, hang the climate of India!” cried Antony Maplestone.

The Squire also was inclined to “hang” the Indian climate in its bearing upon the health of his guest. He cross-questioned his prospective niece upon the subject with increasing irritability.

“What’s the matter with your health? You look strong enough. Can’t have a liver with that complexion. Can’t have a heart, rushing about all day long. Given it away, eh, what? Antony, what’s wrong with her heart?”

“Nothing, sir. It’s a tip-top heart; in first-class working condition.”

“What’s wrong, then—what’s wrong? Nothing but nerves and nonsense. If I were a young man and my fiancée didn’t care enough about me to face a bit of discomfort, I’d—I’d comfort myself with the first nice girl that would! If you let him go off to India alone, young lady, you’ll have yourself to thank if you are left in the lurch.”

Juliet took out her handkerchief and pretended to cry. It was a comfort to be able to hide one’s face, and besides, just between herself and the handkerchief there was a tear. She would be left in the lurch, and, oh, my goodness, how dull it would be!

From the end of the room sounded three separate gasps of consternation.

“Leave heroine, uncle! It’s my affair. Clare, don’t cry!”

“He doesn’t mean it, dear; he doesn’t mean it. Antony never would.”

“Kiss her, you stupid fellow, kiss her! What’s the use of glowering there?”

Then, in the midst of a thrilling silence, Juliet felt strong arms enfold her, felt the sweep of a moustache against her cheek. It was the first, the very first time in the course of her twenty-six years that any man but a blood relation had offered her a caress, and—she liked the sensation! She felt a horrible, horrible inclination to abandon herself to that strong support; to lift her own lips to meet his. The rebound from the temptation gave energy to the gesture with which she pushed him away and leaped, flaming, to her feet.

“It’s my own heart, and I know best what it can stand! And—and—there are snakes—and rats—and insects, crawly-creepy things dropping from the ceilings! He can have anyone he likes... I don’t care... I don’t want him. I’ll stay at home!” She dashed wildly from the room.

Antony and his aunt stared blankly at each other. The Squire chuckled complacently and rubbed his hands.

“That’s all right,” he cried cheerily. “That’s done it. She’ll go with you, my boy. She’ll go all right. Book a second passage to-morrow, and I’ll stand the risk.”

At dinner that night there was an air of festival. The feast was sumptuous, the table was decorated with exquisite hothouse flowers, purely, spotlessly white—a bridal white, unmistakable in its significance. Juliet blushed as she beheld that table, and blushed again looking down on her own white robe. Upstairs in her own room she had cried, and stormed, and blushed, and trembled, and vowed fiercely to leave the house by the first train on the following morning, and sobbed again at the thought of departure. Also, she had vowed with fervour to be cold as ice to Antony Maplestone, and to prove to him by the haughtiness of her demeanour that his caress was unpardonable, without excuse. And then, being a woman, and a particularly feminine one at that, she had naturally selected her very best dress, and had arrayed herself therein for his delectation.

Now what bad luck that the dress happened to be white!

The Squire over-ate himself recklessly. “Hang it all, my dear,” he informed his protesting wife, “a man can’t always be thinking of diet. There are occasions—” He nodded meaningly towards his guest, and quaffed a bumper of champagne.

After dinner, when the pseudo-lovers were left alone for the nightly tête-à-tête, the subject of the Squire’s indiscretion was eagerly seized upon as a subject for conversation, to lessen the embarrassment from which both were suffering.

Said Antony, “It’s madness. He has not yet recovered from the last attack. One would think that a man who has suffered such agonies would have learned wisdom!”

Said Juliet gloomily, “Who does? Nobody does! It certainly doesn’t become us to—er—”

“Oh, well,” he interrupted quickly, “let’s hope he escapes this time. It’s hard on a man to be everlastingly prudent. I’m not at all sure that the greatest wisdom does not exist in occasionally breaking loose!”

Juliet faced him, erect and dignified. She had scented a personal application in his words, and was determined to stand no nonsense.

“Mr Maplestone, I have been here four days; it seems to me inadvisable to stay any longer. To-morrow morning I propose to receive a telegram summoning me home. I should be obliged if you could make it convenient to be out after eleven o’clock. It would make it easier for me to get away.”

There was consternation in his glance; more than consternation—dismay.

“Go! Why on earth should you go? Is it the office! Do they want you back at the office? Let me write. Surely if I write and say—”

“As a matter of fact there is no office. It’s a mistake. I—I am not what I seem!” cried Juliet, with a touch of melodrama, born of desperation. Not another moment could she stand the deception; not another moment could she masquerade under another woman’s name. “I am not an inquiry agent. Never was. Never will be. It was just—just—”

“Sit down. Sit down. Take your own time. Tell me all about it.” Antony pushed a deep-cushioned chair towards her, seated himself near at hand, leaned forward, gazing into her eyes. There was no consternation on his face this time; no dismay; nothing but happiest relief. “If you only knew how thankful I am! I hated the thought of such work for you. Now—tell me!”

And Juliet told him. Told him how, among a party of friends, she had avowed her yearning for adventure, and had been bidden to hold fast to the thought, and await an opportunity. All things, she was told, come in good time to those who wait. And she had waited; through long, monotonous, uneventful months she had waited, and waited in vain. And then, suddenly, a chance, an opening—a possibility which must be taken, or left, while a moment ticked away its course! She told of the dead girl whose place she had taken, honestly determining to do her best, and allow no one to suffer through the exchange.

“If it had been work of which I was incapable I should have left at once. You believe it, don’t you? You do believe it?”

Antony seemed to ignore the question as beneath his notice. Something infinitely more important was occupying his mind.

“Then, what is your real name?”

“Juliet! All that I have told you of my people is true. Everything is true, but the name and the work. Perhaps, in time to come, you might explain to your uncle that Clare Lawson was just a professional name which I adopted when I tried to take up work. It is quite usual. Many women do it.”

“Juliet!” he repeated softly. From his manner he appeared to have heard only her name. “Juliet! It’s perfect. A name that suits you above all others. Of course you are Juliet. I was a fool not to know that before. Juliet, I am so glad you are not Clare!”

“I’m not Clare, and I’m not Alice. It’s a—a joke in two moves, but it is time it should come to an end. To-morrow I must go.”

“You must not go. It’s madness! Is it because of—of what happened to-day? It need never happen again. I was dreadfully sorry. I would not for the world—”

“Of course, of course. I quite understand. You were driven to it. It was as disagreeable to you as to me,” Juliet said sourly. She felt sour; more ruffled by the explanation than she had been by the offence itself.

What would have happened next there is no saying, but at that moment the door opened, and Mrs Maplestone appeared on the threshold. Uncle Godfrey was in pain. He wished to go to bed. Would Tony come and give him an arm?

Retribution sure and swift fell upon the Squire. All night long he tossed in pain, and in the early morn the doctor was summoned, who delivered himself of a gloomy verdict: Serious. One bad attack following hard on the top of another. The patient had been warned, and the patient had transgressed. The patient’s heart was not in a condition to stand these repeated strains. The patient must have a nurse. Must be kept quiet. The patient must be safeguarded against irritation and strain. Excitement at this juncture might have serious effects.

Then the doctor drove away, and the patient, who was to be kept quiet, proceeded to work himself into a condition of fuss and antagonism against every separate member of the household, and in especial against Antony, his heir. It was Antony’s fault that he was laid low; the contrariety of Antony which had ruined his health; and now he lay at death’s door (he was at death’s door; he chose to lie at death’s door! It was his own business, he supposed, at whose door he should lie?); now, even at this last moment, Antony delayed, prevaricated, shilly-shallied, talked calmly of waiting a couple of years! It was not the girl’s fault. The girl was willing enough. She was making a pretence of unwillingness. All girls made a pretence. Let Antony stand up to her like a man, and she would give in; be glad to give in. Summon Antony! Summon the girl! Let them be brought before him. Let this matter be settled once for all!

Trembling, Mrs Maplestone obeyed his orders. Trembling, Juliet obeyed, and stood beside the patient’s bed. Antony was not trembling, but his cheek was pale. Crimson cheeked, bright of eye, the patient made his pronouncement: He had waited long enough; he could wait no longer; within the next few days he intended to die—probably to-morrow, or the day after; but before he died he wished to see his heir married to the woman of his choice. Send instantly for a priest!

“My dear uncle,” Antony protested, “the thing’s impossible. Even if—even if—There are preliminaries. Banns. Licences. It is a case of weeks; of several weeks—”

But the Squire knew better. There were such things as special licences. When money was no object, when life and death hung in the balance, mountains had been, mountains could again be, removed. With a shaking hand he beckoned Juliet to his side, and levied a shocking question:

“Girl, do you wish to kill me?”

“You don’t understand, you don’t understand!” wailed the unhappy girl. “Dear Mr Maplestone, try to be quiet; try not to worry about us. Only get better, and then—then—”

“I shall never get better,” reiterated the Squire. His small bright eyes glittered with a sudden suspicion. “Is he playing with you? Playing fast and loose, to suit his own convenience? Has he been unkind to you, cold, disappointing? Are you tired already of the fellow?”

“Oh, no, oh, no, you don’t understand! Dear Mr Maplestone, do leave it until you are stronger.”

The crimson of the Squire’s cheeks turned to a deeper hue, a spasm of pain contorted his lips, his eyes rolled, closed, opened again, and turned with a dreadful intensity upon his nephew.

“I’m dying!” he cried. “You are killing me between you. Antony!”

Then Antony stepped forward and took Juliet by the hands. White to the lips was he, but there was no flinching in his eyes, no tremor in the tone of his strong voice.

“My darling,” said Antony, “will you marry me this week? As God is my witness, it is my dearest wish. As God is my witness, I will make you happy.”

At the opposite side of the bed Mrs Maplestone subsided helplessly into tears. Writhing, gasping in pain, the Squire muttered to himself, “What a fuss to make! What a fuss about nothing!”

To Juliet, as to Antony, they might have been at the other side of the world. They had ceased to exist. He stood, drawn up to his full height, gazing down into her face. She looked up, looked deep, deep into the steady brown eyes, and read therein what she most longed to see.

“Yes, Tony, I will. The sooner the better,” answered Juliet. And, so saying, started trustfully upon life’s greatest adventure.

Chapter Four.

The Man Who Waited for Love.

Behind his tired eyes and general affectation of indifference Rupert Dempster hid an overwhelming ambition. He longed for love—not for the ordinary springtide passion experienced by ninety-nine men out of a hundred; nor for the ordinary “living-prosaically-ever-after” which is the ultimate sequel to such affairs. The desire of his heart was for the experience of the hundredth man,—an experience as far distinguished from the amours of the ninety-nine, as is the romance of the suburban Algernon and Angelina, from the historic passion of a Dante and Beatrice. Rupert searched not so much for a wife as for a mate, a woman who should be so completely the complement of himself that to meet would be to recognise, and after recognition life apart would become an impossibility and a farce. In his own mind the conviction remained unshaken that the day would dawn when he should meet this dearer self, and enter into a completeness of joy which would end but with life itself. Yet the years passed by, and his thirty-fifth birthday came and went, and found him no nearer his goal. Once and again as the years passed by, Rupert awoke, breathless and panting, from a dream, the same dream, wherein he had met his love, and they had spoken together. The details of the dream seemed instantly to fade from his mind, leaving behind an impression of mingled joy and pain. She had been beautiful and sweet; he had been proud and glad, yet there had been a shadow. It had not been all joy that he had felt as he had welcomed the well-beloved; his emotion on awaking had been tinged with something strangely resembling fear. But the dream-face had been fair. His longing to meet it was but whetted by the consciousness of mystery.

He met her at last at a garden-party and gained an introduction by accident. “Do find Lady Belcher, and bring her to have some tea,” his hostess bade him, and supplemented her request with a brief description: “A tall, dark woman, dressed in yellow. She was on that bench a few minutes ago. Anyone will tell you...”

Rupert crossed the lawn in the direction indicated; he was in the mood of resigned boredom which possesses most men at a garden-party, and for the moment the Dream Woman had no place in his thoughts. Lady Belcher was plainly a guest of importance, for whose refreshment the hostess felt herself responsible. She was probably elderly, and, as such, uninteresting from a young man’s standpoint. He looked for the gleam of a yellow dress, caught it defined sharply among the surrounding blues and pinks, and drew up in front of the seat.

“Lady Belcher, I think? Mrs Melhuish has sent me to ask you if you will have some tea?”

Lady Belcher was talking volubly to an acquaintance on the subject of the shortcomings of her friends, and was much bored by the interruption. She lifted a face like an elderly rocking-horse, and made short work of the invitation.

“Thanks! Couldn’t possibly. I abhor tea,” she said curtly, and immediately resumed the interrupted conversation.

Dempster turned, faintly smiling. He was accustomed to the rudeness of the modern society woman, and it had no power to hurt him. On the contrary, he congratulated himself on having escaped an unwelcome task. He turned aside with a sigh of relief, and even as he turned, the ordered beating of his heart seemed for a moment to cease, and leave his being suspended in space. Cut sharply in twain, as by the sweep of a scythe, the old life fell from him and the new life began, for there, but a couple of yards away, stood the Dream Woman, her eyes gazing steadily into his!

She was a tall, slim woman, no longer in her first youth, but her face had a strange, arresting beauty. Hair and eyes were dark, and there was something curiously un-English in the modelling of the features, something subtly suggestive of a fiercer, more primal race. So might a woman have looked whose far-off ancestor had been an Indian brave, bequeathing to future generations some spark of his own wild vigour. The lips were scarlet, a thin, curved line in the pallor of her face; her eyes were fringed with black, straight lashes. She wore a gown of cloudy black, and there came to Rupert, with a cramping of the heart, the swift conviction that she was unhappy.

She was looking at him, half frowning, half smiling, having, it would appear, overheard his invitation and its rebuff; but as his face came more clearly into view a look of bewilderment overspread her features. She started, and involuntarily bent her head in salutation.

The next moment Rupert was by her side, and her hand lay in his. He had extended his own, and hers had come to meet it without hesitation. For a long moment they looked at one another in silence, then he spoke in commonplace greeting:

“Good afternoon. Can I get you some tea?”

She shook her head, but at the same time took a slow step forward, which had the effect of turning the refusal into an invitation.

“I’m so tired; I don’t want anything, but a seat; away from that band!”

“Come this way. There’s a summer-house at the end of the shrubbery that is probably empty. No one knows of it but the intimates. You can rest there quietly.”

He spoke eagerly, walking beside her, eager to lead her away from the crowd, and have her to himself. The group of visitors among whom she had been standing stared after them curiously, and one elderly, stout woman took a tentative step forward, as if about to follow, thought better of it, and stood aside. Dempster had a fleeting suspicion of sharp eyes scanning his face; then he forgot everything but his companion. He was conscious of every movement, of every curve of the slim, graceful figure, but no word was spoken until they seated themselves within the shelter of the arbour, and faced each other across its narrow span. Was it the shadow of the trailing branches which made her face so white? She narrowed her eyes, as if searching in the store-room of memory, and a faint smile curved her lips. Once again the pain cramped Rupert’s heart as he realised that smiles came but hardly to her lips. A note of interrogation quickened her voice:

“I know you so well... We have met before?”

He leaned forward, elbows on knees, chin cupped between finger and thumb, tired eyes aglow with life.

“Yes!”

“When? Where?”

“Always!” he told her. “In our dreams.”

She shrank at that, edging back into her corner, holding out a quick, protesting hand. “No! Please! Don’t make fun... We have met on more substantial ground. I know your face. I knew it the moment you turned. We have met years ago, and have forgotten—”

Rupert sat motionless, his eyes riveted upon her face. “Think!” he urged softly. “Think! Ask your own heart, and let it answer. It spoke clearly enough a minute ago. You have always known me! You have been waiting, as I have been waiting. It has been long, and we are both tired, but now it is over, and we can forget. Our summer has begun!” He stretched out his hand towards her.

“I’ve been keeping myself for you. From this moment I am yours, and all that I have. The world would call me crazy to make such a vow to a woman I have known in the flesh for only a few minutes, but you understand! You know that it is the simple, absolute truth. Give me your hand!”

Like a homing-bird the small hand fluttered and fell, nestling softly against his own. He pressed his lips to it in a long, sacramental kiss, then raised himself to look into her eyes. “What is your name?”

“Eve. And yours?”

“Rupert. I am glad that you are Eve. The first woman; the only woman. No other name could have fitted you so well. Eve! look in my eyes, and answer what I ask. Do you trust me, Eve? Do you believe that I am speaking the truth?”

White as a dead woman, she faced him across the shadow; the scarlet of her lips was like a stain of blood, but as she gazed her face quivered into an inexpressible tenderness, for on Rupert Dempster’s features nature had printed the hall-mark of truth, and no one had yet looked into his eyes and doubted his word. The Dream Woman accepted it so simply that she did not trouble to answer his question. “I am not worth it,” she said instead; “I am too old; too sad. It ought to have been a lovely, radiant girl who could have given you her youth.”

“I have thought of her like that,” he answered simply, “but I see now that it could not have been. I needed more. She could not have satisfied me, if she had not suffered. I should have missed the greatest joy of all, if she had not needed my comfort.”

“I wish I were beautiful!” she sighed again. “She should have been beautiful to be worthy of you. I wish I were beautiful!”

“Are you not beautiful?” he asked her. “It is strange; I had thought so much of how you would look, but when our eyes met I forgot all that. We belong; that is everything. The beginning and the end. You are Eve.”

“Ah, you are good!” she sighed. “You are good! I did not know there were such men in the world... It is true, Rupert. You must have been with me in my dreams, for there is nothing new about you, nothing strange. I know your face as I know my own, and it is rest to be with you—rest and peace. It must have been meant that we should meet to-day, for it is the first time for—oh, so long, that I have been to any public place!” She cast a quick glance at her black dress, and an involuntary shudder shook her frame. “But to-day I felt better, and it was so bright, and they persuaded me. I have dreaded meeting people, but to-day I didn’t mind. I think I wanted to come. And then I saw you, and your face was so familiar that I thought I had met you long ago and had forgotten.”

“You had not forgotten. You had never remembered anything so well. In that first moment you knew that I was different from the rest. It was written on your face, dear; there was no need for words! There is something else written there which hurts me to see. I think you have needed me, Eve!”

She drew her hand from his and pressed it to her head with a gesture more eloquent than words. Rupert’s presentiment of trouble had been true; it now remained to discover the nature of her grief.

He was conscious of steadying himself mentally and morally, before he possessed himself of the disengaged left hand, which lay on her lap. Deftly, tenderly, his fingers felt hers, moving tentatively upwards over the joints, feeling with trembling anxiety for the presence of rings, of the ring! The shock at finding the tell-tale third finger bare was almost as largely compounded of surprise as of joy, so strong had been the presentiment of a husband in the background. The eyes which he raised to hers were radiant with joy, but there was no answering gleam in the depths into which he gazed. Their sombre gloom chilled him in the midst of his ecstasy.

“Eve,” he cried softly, “smile at me! I was wrong to conjure up dead ghosts to-day when we ought to think of nothing but the happiness of meeting. Eve! I have been preparing for you all these years; now I am free to do as you will. It is for you to order, and I shall obey. We will go where you will, live where you choose—”

“You will take me away?” She bent forward, her eyes peering into his, so that he saw more closely than he had done before the beautiful, ravaged face, with its slumbering passion, its deep, overmastering gloom. There shrilled through her voice an almost incredible joy. “You—will—take—me away?”

Dempster laughed happily. Ay, indeed, he would take her away. She was free, there was no barrier between them; openly, honourably, before all the world he could claim her as his own—could make her his wife with all the stately ritual of the Church.

“Of course I will take you away! Do you imagine, after all these years, I will wait a day longer than I can help? Now that I have found you, I shan’t easily let you go.” And, with his whole being thrilling in answer to her appeal, “You want to come to me, Eve?” he asked her.

“Yes,” she sighed softly, “yes!” Her lips parted in a long-drawn sigh of content. “You are so good. Your goodness rests me. That’s what I need more than anything else—rest!” With the same tragic gesture she pressed her fingers against her brow, then, with a sudden impulse, sweet, and girlish, and unexpected, clasped his hand in hers, and repeated the gesture, bending her head to meet the healing touch.

There was no need of words to explain the meaning of the action, the message flashed from eye to eye with silent eloquence. For the moment the shadow lifted, and Dempster gazed into a face illumined by love and tenderness. Only for a moment; then suddenly came the sound of unwelcome footsteps, and peering through the trailing branches Rupert beheld a middle-aged couple pacing slowly by, glancing curiously to right and left, yet remaining happily unconscious of the arbour behind the trees. He recognised the woman as the one who had been standing by Eve’s side in the garden, and wondered with a passing amusement if curiosity had sent her to see what had become of her companion. How far she was from guessing the high happenings of those short moments!

In the midst of his amusement he felt Eve grasp his arm, and draw him back into the shadow. It was joy to feel that her dread of interruption was as keen as his own, and he turned to her a look of glad understanding, but the tragic misery on her face chilled him once more.

It was inconceivable that the annoyance of a temporary interruption could call forth such intensity of feeling, and Dempster, regarding her, felt his own nerves thrill with a kindred fear. For one glad moment he had believed that his happiness was assured; now he realised that he had rejoiced too soon. There were barriers to be overcome—mysterious barriers which loomed before him, dark and lowering. He caught the slight form in his arms, cradling it with pitiful tenderness.

“My darling! My darling! You are afraid. Of what are you afraid? I am here—no one can harm you. Give me your dear hands! Lean against me! The whole world cannot separate us, Eve, if we choose to be together. Why are you afraid?”

He felt the shudder that ran through her limbs. Close against his ear her lips trembled over the words:

“I am afraid of losing you; of being left alone! They will try to separate us. If they knew what we had been planning, they would plot together so that we might not meet. You are strong, but they are stronger, and I am in their power... Take me away, Rupert, take me now, or it will be too late!”

He took her hand, and raised it solemnly to his lips.

“I swear to you,” he said, “that I will take you. I swear that I will be the truest and most faithful of husbands so long as God gives me life!”

“I swear to you,” she cried in response, “that I will be a true wife. Whatever has happened, whatever may come, I swear that you shall never regret it. I will love you; I will be your slave. Nothing, nothing can be too much!”

They clung together in silence. The nearness, the stillness, the deep welling of joy in the sweet human contact, were all-engrossing. Rupert would fain have banished all difficulties into the future, and given himself up to untrammelled enjoyment of the hour, but the urgency of Eve’s appeal forbade postponement.

He raised himself, supporting her in his arms.

“Eve! from this moment you and I are one. What belongs to one, belongs to the other; we can have no secrets, no concealments. If there are difficulties in our way, I must be prepared to meet them. Who is this woman? What right has she or anyone else to dictate what you should or should not do?”

Her eyes gazed back into his with a deep, unseeing gaze, the delicate eyebrows creased as if in an effort of thought; then once again she lifted her hand and pressed it against her brow. Poignantly beautiful, poignantly sad, she sat and gave him her answer.

“I live with them,” she said quietly. “They take care of me. I think—I think I am mad!”

Rupert Dempster lost no time in questioning his hostess as to the history of the Dream Woman who had come to fill such a real place in his life. As soon as the guests had departed he put in a plea for a private conversation, whereupon Mrs Melhuish seated herself on a chair at the farther side of the lawn, and drew a long breath of mingled fatigue, and relief.

“That’s over, thank goodness! This annual garden-party to the neighbourhood looms over me like a nightmare. I feel ten years younger when the last carriage has driven away from the door. Now! what can I do for you? But I know, of course. You’ve fallen a victim to Eve Bisdee and her beaux yeux. They are beautiful! It’s about once in a lifetime that one meets an Englishwoman with such eyes as hers. It seems superfluous to have a tongue, when all that one feels can be expressed so eloquently in a glance. Even now her eyes are wonderful; but if you’d seen her as a girl, before—”

“Before what? That’s what I am waiting to hear. What happened to her? Some tragedy, of course. Tell me about it.”

Mrs Melhuish gave him a searching glance.

“You realised that—that she is not—like other people?”

Rupert’s smile was half sad, half triumphant.

“Not in the least like other people. But we can discuss that later on. I am waiting for your story.”

Mrs Melhuish leaned her head on her hand and her face fell into thoughtful lines.

“I’ve known Eve since she was a girl of eighteen—the loveliest thing!—and as gay and sweet as she was lovely. She was an only child, and her parents adored her, and—what is by no means so usual!—she adored them in return. They were not rich—quite poor, in fact; but the family was exceptional, and everyone visited them. When Eve came out, Mrs Bisdee used to give charming little evenings, so simple and unpretentious, but so well done. Eve was so different, too, from the ordinary fair, placid English girl that she made quite a sensation in the county. We expected her to make a great match. Then one day they were all travelling together to Burnham to attend a hunt ball, and the train they were in—” Mrs Melhuish shuddered, as at a terrible remembrance. “You will remember it—the Tunford accident—a terrible affair! Over sixty passengers killed in the most appalling circumstances. Eve escaped. She was travelling with a friend in the rear part of the train. They were pulled out and carried up the bank, and there that poor child stood and looked on, helpless, maddened, while her parents and the other poor wretches in the wrecked carriages lay pinned down, devoured by the names. Oh, my dear man, we read of such things, we agonise over them, or we think we agonise, but imagine the real thing! Seeing, hearing, within a few yards, yet as powerless to help as though one were at the other side of the world... Well! Eve went through that torture, and it wrecked her life. She had brain fever, and when that passed, her mind remained—what shall I say?—clouded. Yes, that’s the right word. It expresses exactly the truth. There is a cloud hanging over her, shutting out the sun. Her memory is impaired, so that she does not remember any actual event; but there is an impression of horror and dread. It is ten years since the accident, and the cloud has not lifted. She lives with our doctor and his wife; they are good, honest people, and do their best; but I wish sometimes she could have a change. At the best of times they are not her type, and after ten years together—”

“You say that the cloud has not lifted. Is she no better than at the beginning of the time?”

“Oh, yes! When one looks back over the years one can see that there is improvement. Her health is better, and she has lost her dread of society. At times, as you saw her to-day, one would hardly realise that she was not normal. But the cloud falls. She is always sweet, always gentle, but terrible, terribly sad.”

“But she is better,” Rupert insisted. “She is going to get quite well. I am going to make her well... Mrs Melhuish”—he leaned forward, his hand on the arm of her chair—“you are my very kind friend. It is only right that I should tell you at once.—I am going to marry Eve Bisdée!”

“My dear Rupert!” cried Mrs Melhuish deeply. Her face flushed, her mild eye showed a flash of anger. She was shocked—more than shocked, outraged. Her voice took an edge of coldness. “Really, this is too much. Eve is a most appealing creature, and it is natural that a man should feel chivalrous and protective when he hears her history. But marriage! That’s unthinkable! It offends me. Please think of what you are saying!”

Rupert lifted his hand and laid it gently on hers. They were old friends, these two, and for years back had been able to speak together frankly without fear of offence.

“Wait!” he said. “Listen to what I have to say before you give your verdict. What I propose to do may be unusual, but it is eminently sane. I propose to change places with that doctor, and to see what I can do towards removing that cloud. There is only one way in which I can gain the right, and that is by going through a form of marriage. Therefore a form of marriage it must be. Don’t look at me in that commiserating manner, dear lady! This is not philanthropy, it’s not pity. I am going to undertake this thing because I want to do it more than anything on earth! Now do you understand? You know my ideas about love. We have talked of them together, and you know for what I have been waiting. It came to me this afternoon, at the moment when Eve’s eyes looked into mine. From that moment there was no going back.”

“My dear Rupert!” cried Mrs Melhuish again. The anger had faded from her face, but she looked infinitely distressed. With all her heart she wished that this meeting had never taken place. “My dear Rupert, to have waited so long, and then to rush into folly like this! I do know your ideas, and very beautiful they are; all the more reason why you should make no mistake. There is always the reverse side of the picture, and as you can love more keenly than other men, so of a certainty can you suffer more. You may feel powerfully attracted to poor Eve, but you have no idea of the strain and weariness of battling with a mind diseased. It’s hard enough when such a task comes to one as an obvious duty, but to choose it!”

“I did not choose it,” Rupert said quietly. “There is no question of choice. It has to be. Don’t make it harder for me by misunderstanding. For a moment I thought my kingdom had come, but that was a mistake. I have met my Queen, but I shall have to serve for her before she is really mine. Seven years I may have to serve—perhaps for twice seven years. Do you think a man would deliberately choose such a fate? It’s something stronger than choice between Eve and me. The simple truth is that I have no object in life but to help her to get back to the light. I’ll tell you something else, too—I’m the only man who can do ill. I possess a power over her which no doctor or nurse could obtain. Good heavens! Haven’t they had ten years for their experiments? How much longer would you have me content to stand by and wait? If she has any relations, they must be thankful to give her a chance of being cared for, for love instead of money. I’ll find her a nurse, the best nurse that can be had. We’ll take her abroad to live in the sun, away from all her old associations. She is afraid of those people—did you know that? She is not afraid of me. She wants to come. My dear lady, this thing is going to be! The question is—am I to have your help?” Mrs Melhuish was not easily convinced, but she was conquered in the end, as were, in turns, the few relatives whom Eve possessed. All had been conscious that the time had come to make a change, and no more promising change could be imagined than the one proposed. From Eve’s own point of view, that was to say! For Dempster it was a different matter. The relations felt it their duty to argue with him, to point out that he was recklessly shattering his life. But Dempster smiled, and persisted.

Very well, then! let him have his way. So Rupert and Eve were married, and immediately after set sail for Egypt.

One midsummer afternoon two years later, Rupert Dempster walked along an exquisite stretch of road in North Wales which divides the rocky course of the river Dee from a sleepy canal with fern-covered banks, and an overhanging arch of green. After the blazing Eastern lands in which the past years had been spent, the dewy loveliness of the scene was a delight to the senses. On every side rose the crests of green, smiling hills; the river broke into ripples of foam round the scattered rocks which strewed its bed. Along the still stream to the left floated a miniature barge, carrying a gay awning overhead. This was the omnibus of the neighbourhood, plying up and down the stream several times a day, and even as Rupert watched, its slow course was stayed, and one of the passengers alighted and walked slowly towards him.

She was a slightly-made girl with a noticeable daintiness of movement. Under her wide-brimmed hat her face showed small and pale, and her hair was of a light flaxen hue. Rupert knitted his brow, and his pace quickened instinctively. The girl walked with her eyes on the ground, oblivious of his approach. Another moment and they were side by side, and Rupert gave a cry of recognition.

“Lilith! It is Lilith! What an extraordinary chance, to meet you here! My dear Lilith, I am so pleased to see you.”

And indeed there was unmistakable pleasure in his voice; the somewhat worn face lightened with animation. He gripped the girl’s hand with eager fingers, and she smiled back at him, a calm, unperturbed smile, as though she had parted from him but an hour before.

“How do you do, Rupert? Are you staying down here? Is Mrs Dempster with you?”

“Yes. We have taken the house just behind those trees. Do you know it? You cross the next bridge, and follow the lane to the left.”

“Yes, I know it. I’m staying at the Inn.”

Lilith walked by his side, her eyes quietly searching his face, but having vouchsafed these bare words of information, she added nothing more. The silence lasted for several minutes, nevertheless it was with an overwhelming impression of answering a question, that Rupert spoke again, saying slowly:

“She is better, but she is not cured. The attacks of depression come on less frequently, but they still come. We are tring to ward off another at this moment. She grew tired of the East. For a time she delighted in it, and the novelty took her out of herself; but it became wearisome—the eternal glare, the absence of green, the medley of tongues. She wanted to come home. We’ve been wandering about for the last four months, and landed here last week. It’s a charming spot, and peaceful. It ought to do her good!”

There was an appeal in his voice which a woman’s ear should have been quick to read, but Lilith made no response. She turned her strange, expressionless eyes first on the silent, shaded canal, then on the river, sparkling in the sun, its waters beating against the jagged rocks. Until that moment Rupert had regarded the two streams from an artistic standpoint only, now of a sudden they seemed charged with a spiritual meaning. Peace and storm, stagnation and action, life and death,—he saw them all in the contrast between those two streams, and for the first time a doubt crept into his mind whether he had done well for Eve in shielding her from the great current of life, and lapping her round with eternal calm. He turned abruptly to the girl and put another question:

“Will you come with me now and see her? I think perhaps you might do her good.”

“Yes, I will come,” Lilith answered, with a courteous indifference at which Rupert smiled with grim amusement. For two long years he had guarded his treasure with never-ceasing vigilance, finding for her the most secluded retreats, where no alien eye should disturb her repose; avoiding the society of his fellow-creatures as if it had been the plague. And now at last he had invited an outsider to disturb that calm, and she had received the honour with the indifference accorded to the most ordinary of invitations! But, after all, what had he expected? Who had ever yet seen Lilith moved out of her colossal calm!

Rupert led the way towards his temporary home, opened the gate, and escorted Lilith through a brilliant tangle of garden to the front of the house, where several long chairs were ranged along a shaded veranda. On one of these lay Eve, in a reverie so deep that the new-comers had time to take in the details of her appearance before she was aware of their approach.

She wore a white dress, the skirt of which was scattered with the petals of crimson roses, which her restless hands had pulled asunder. Her head was tilted back on the cushion, showing the beautiful line of the throat; her face was ivory white, and the curved bow of her lips showed vividly, startlingly red. Even that first glance brought an impression of strain and unrest; and as her ear at last caught the sound of the approaching footsteps, she leaped upward with a gesture of alarm. Her eyes fell upon Lilith’s figure and distended in wild distress, but the next moment she beheld Rupert, and in a flash the fear disappeared and was replaced by the most melting tenderness. She came forward with the shy grace of a child, slipped her hand into his, and stood passively waiting for what it should please him to do next. Anyone who doubted if Rupert Dempster’s love had stood the strain of those two long years of waiting would have found his answer in one glimpse at the man’s face as he stood holding that little hand in his.

“Eve! this is an old friend. I met her walking by the river, and asked her to come and see you. Her name is Lilith Wastneys. You remember it, don’t you? I have spoken to you about her.”

“Yes, I remember,” Eve said. She took her hand from her husband’s, and held it out towards Lilith with a graceful gesture of greeting. Her eyes dwelt on the small, composed face with an expression of incredulous surprise. “You wished for Power! That seemed strange to me when I heard it, and now that I have seen you it seems stranger still. You look so small and gentle. I wonder what made you wish for Power!”

Lilith’s smile was as inscrutable as her eyes. She answered simply by making another statement:

“And Rupert wished for love.”

“He has got it!” said Eve deeply. She gave one glance at her husband—a wonderful, liquid glance, then turned back to her guest. “Won’t you sit down? I sit in the veranda to be out of the sun. I am so tired of the sun. In the East it is cruel, blazing down day after day, mocking at the shadows. But the shadows are there—it cannot chase them away.” She leaned back on her cushions. “Here all is so cool and calm, and the rain falls. That feels like nature weeping with us. I like to watch the rain. Have you a pretty garden to sit in?”

“I am staying at the Inn. I don’t want a garden. I can have that at home. When I want to rest I walk over the stepping-stones into the middle of the river. There is a big rock there which forms a kind of natural arm-chair. I can sit on it, looking down the stream, and no one can see me from the bank, for the rock rises up like a wall nearly all the way round. To sit there is like a peep into another life; a mermaid’s life, all grey rock, and splashing foam, and soft, ceaseless roar. When you listen to that roar from the bank it sounds harsh and monotonous. You are on another element, you see, so it is alien to you, and has no meaning, but on the rock you are part of the river itself. It tells you its secrets. You can understand!”

As she finished speaking, Lilith’s heavy lids lifted, and her eyes flashed with a sudden light. There was a moment’s silence; then Eve bent forward on her seat, while a wave of colour flamed into her pale cheeks.

“Will you take me with you?” she cried breathlessly. “Will you take me now? There is something I am always trying to hear—a secret which I am always trying to find out, and no one can help me. Perhaps the river will tell me my secret... Take me with you, and let me try!”

Eve was fascinated with the rocky seat, and spent hours of each day ensconced thereon. The river was so low that it was easy to step from one rock to another, and Rupert would see her comfortably settled, and then leave her to take the brisk walk over the hills which was his usual exercise. Eve preferred to be alone for part of the day, and he had no fear of leaving her. There had never been any suicidal tendency in her derangement; rather did she cling to life, and shrink from the thought of death. And the river soothed her, she said; the murmuring voice seemed to whisper of happiness and peace, but as yet it was only a murmur. In vain she strained her ears; the message eluded her, and floated vaguely into space. “Louder!” she would cry. “Louder!” But the river floated sleepily on its course, and refused to be aroused.

A week passed by, and Rupert grew restless and uneasy. Eve was still obsessed with love of her river seat, but the strain of listening for the message which never came added to her depression, and it irked him to feel that she was deliberately courting a disappointment which he was powerless to relieve.

“It can do no good,” he told Lilith impatiently, “and it may do great harm. I have been so careful to screen her from every kind of excitement or strain, so that the brain should have time to rest.”

“Or stagnate?” suggested Lilith coldly. “She has had—how many years is it—ten or twelve?—of this wrapping in cotton wool, and she has progressed—how far should you call it—one inch, or two? How much longer shall you be content with inches? If she were in my charge—”

Rupert stopped and faced her in the narrow path. There was a hint of roughness in his manner. When a man is strung to the finest point of tension it is not always easy to preserve the conventions. “It is easy to boast when one has had no experience! What would you do if she were in your charge?”

“Neglect her, ignore her, leave her to fend for herself! You and that drudge of a nurse imagine that you are helping by waiting on her hand and foot. What if instead you are sapping her vitality, and stealing her chance of life? What do you leave for her to do, except to breathe? If you could breathe for her, you would relieve her of that also! You make her into a doll, and expect the doll to live! She is asleep, and you feed her with drugs. Better a thousand times to waken her out of her sleep, even if it be to suffer. It was a shock which deadened the brain; it may be that only a shock can rouse it to life again!”

“Ah!” cried Rupert bitterly. “I have heard that theory before. It’s a devilish theory! My poor Eve! She has been tortured enough; she shall be tortured no more. It was the horror of what she saw and heard which caused the mischief in the beginning. The one thing I am thankful for in this loss of memory is that that honour has faded.”

Lilith looked at him with her steady eyes.

“Have you ever been delirious?” she asked him. “Not for an odd hour here and there, but for days together, stretching out into weeks? I have; and I know. Nothing real can approach the horror of the unknown. There is no beginning to it, and no end. It’s a great cloud darkening the sky; it presses lower, lower, strangling the breath. There is no hope in it, no appeal. Your wife saw her parents killed before her eyes. I tell you the memory of the truth would be peaceful, compared with this struggle in the darkness. She would realise that it was over, that they were at rest; that it would pain them if she went mourning all her life. I tell you, Rupert, the only chance of Eve’s recovery is to shock her into remembrance!”

“And if it were, if it were?”—he turned upon her fiercely as though battling against an inner conviction. “A shock strong enough to revolutionise the brain lies in the hands of Providence, to give or to retain. What man dare meddle with such a cure? I love my wife; she is my world. Am I to risk her life for a possible relief? To deliberately court danger that she—she—” He threw out his arms with a gesture of intolerable impatience. “Oh, it is unthinkable! You don’t know what you are talking about. It is easy for you to talk. You have no heart. You cannot feel—”

He strode away up the road leading to the hills, and Lilith stood and watched him go, and picked a leaf of sorrel from the bank by her side and rubbed it daintily between her small teeth, enjoying the sharp, pungent taste. Rupert’s anger had no power to ruffle her calm.

By and by she also started on her morning promenade, passing by the gate of Dempster’s house, and catching a glimpse of Eve upon the veranda. There had been thunder-storms in the neighbourhood during the last few days, and though the actual storms had not yet reached their little retreat, the atmosphere was heavy and breathless. That morning Eve had complained of a headache, and had seemed content to remain in the garden. As she passed by, Lilith saw the nurse come out of the gate, basket in hand, and turn in the direction of the canal bank. Evidently she was bound for the barge-omnibus, which should convey her to the nearest township. Lilith repaired to her own room in the Inn, and set about the task of answering a pile of letters.

Two hours passed quickly. Then gradually into her preoccupation stole the sense of something unusual and disturbing. She raised her head, and sat quietly considering its cause. The little room seemed filled with a rushing noise; it was not a new noise, but rather an exaggeration of the one to which she had been accustomed for weeks past—the swirling of the river.

Lilith rose, and crossed the room to the latticed window. The Inn stood on the bisecting road between canal and river, within but a few yards’ distance of each; but this morning a strange transformation had passed over the accustomed scene. The waters of the river were no longer crystal clear, but of a thick muddy brown; their course was no longer smiling and leisurely, but rapid and threatening. Upon the surface floated broken branches and boughs of trees.

Lilith turned instantly and descended the stairs. A sense of happenings was upon her; there was no time to waste.

At the door of the Inn stood the landlord, his broad face lit by a smile of satisfaction. Life was sleepy in this quiet vale; he welcomed a passing excitement.

“The river is in flood, miss!” he cried genially. “Yes, indeed, we shall have a big flood! There were bad thunder-storms this last week up in the hills in Merioneth, where the river rises, and all the streams will be swollen, and pouring down into the lake. It was the same in the spring five years ago, when my Willie was born. Yes, indeed, the roar of it woke us in the middle of the night. Look at the colour of it now, miss, and the speed! Soon there will not be a rock to be seen. Yes, indeed, it will be a fine sight, the river, when it will be in flood!”

He was beaming with innocent enjoyment. His face fell like that of a thwarted child when the visitor turned, without as much as a word, and walked down the path; he stared after her blankly, then shrugged his shoulders, and ambled heavily back inside the Inn.

Lilith walked with rapid footsteps; her lips were set, but her eyes roamed. They turned upward towards the house among the trees where she had left Eve seated on the veranda. Assuredly Eve was there still; she had a headache, and had announced her decision to remain at home. This morning, for once, the river seat had lost its allure. Of a certainty Eve was still on her veranda. Nevertheless Lilith’s footsteps grew quicker; straight as a die she made for the point on the bank opposite to the chain of stepping-stones.

No trace of an occupant was to be seen on the central islet, but a stronger sense than that of sight was at work in Lilith’s brain. All the arguments in the world were powerless to deceive her. Eve was on the rock! She knew it. It was the truth.

On the edge of the road stood the stump of an old tree, the nearest fork of which stood four or five feet from the ground. Lilith grasped it with both hands, and with an agile movement drew her knees up to the level. The rest was easy; she took another grasp of the trunk, drew up her feet and stood, supporting herself on either side, gazing over the stream.

Yes! the inner certitude had been correct. Against the dull grey of the rock lay the folds of a white dress, the gleam of scarlet from a folded parasol, a dark head lay tilted backward towards the sky. Eve was there, asleep, or wrapped in one of her trance-like reveries in which she was unconscious of passing events. She would see nothing, hear nothing, until the mood passed and she became conscious of a desire for movement. For half an hour to come, perhaps for an hour, she would remain oblivious, and, meanwhile, with every moment the stream was rising and gaining more deadly swiftness.

Lilith crooked one arm round the bough of the tree and raised bent hands to her mouth. The stepping-stones were still well above water. She would send her piercing “coo-ee” across the stream and continue to send it, until the unusual character of the sound attracted Eve’s attention, then she would go to meet her, and help her to the bank. There would be no danger, only a spice of excitement; a thrilling realisation of what might have been. No more.

Lilith pursed her lips to give the signal, but the signal did not come. Poised in the very attitude of preparation, a sudden change of expression showed in her still eyes, or rather an arrestment of expression; the features remained fixed and immovable, while the brain worked.

For one long minute she stood motionless, then, slowly, her hands fell to her sides; she bent downwards until once more her knees rested on the fork of the tree, from hence she let herself gently to the ground. No one had seen her. The Innkeeper was busy; the road stretched ahead bare and empty. No one would interfere.

Lilith walked to the nearest bridge, crossed it and seated herself on a sloping bank. The ground was raised above the level of the canal, and by raising her head she could see the chain of stepping-stones leading to the rocky islet. She folded her hands in her lap and watched. The sun shone out from behind a leaden bank of clouds, and beat on her face. What was the expression of Lilith’s face? There was strength on it, an immense, all-conquering strength; there was the mark of strain, in deepened line and close-set lip; but there was something else—something dominating, overriding. It shone in the eyes; the pose of the head showed it, the beating pulse in the throat. It was joy—primitive, triumphant joy!

The stepping-stones grew small and smaller; above the dark swirl of the river their grey surfaces caught the sun and gleamed into silver. Once and anon branches of a tree borne down by the flood were caught by one of these islets and for a moment held bound, then the swirl and the rush overcame, and they were swept relentlessly onward. Lilith’s lips tightened as she watched them pass.

Ten minutes passed; twenty minutes; the silver gleams made but tiny spaces above the flood. Lilith rose to her feet and stood poised for flight.

Another five minutes and the waters lapped over the surface of the smallest stone. Like an arrow from the bow, Lilith flew across the bridge, down the path to the little Inn.

“Help! Help! The ropes! ... A lady is on one of the rocks. The lady from Plas Glynn. The ropes! Quick! Quick!”

The ropes hung coiled in the entrance of the Inn. It was not the river which was the danger, but the shaded, sleeping canal. Many a pedestrian had taken a false step off that fern-bordered bank, and had had a sore struggle for his life. The Innkeeper’s own son had had this struggle. The ropes were ready, noosed at the end—long, stout ropes, for use, not play. The Innkeeper seized them from their pegs and followed Lilith down the path. Afterwards he recalled that it was she who issued orders, and he who obeyed. He lashed the end of the ropes round the stump of the old tree. One noose was put round his own waist, the other he carried in his hand. The young lady stood by to let out their length, but before he could start, a cry sounded from behind, a terrible cry from the depths of a tortured heart, and Rupert Dempster fell upon him, and wrenched the ropes from his hand.

They lifted their voices, the two men and the girl, and sent forth a ringing cry of alarm; once, twice, they sent it forth, while Rupert felt his way to the first wave-lashed stone, and at the third cry Eve’s white figure appeared in the aperture between the rocks.

The sight on which she looked was enough to turn the strongest head—the waste of waters where there had been a bubbling stream, the swirling current covering the way of retreat; yet to the onlookers there appeared no sign of distress in Eve’s attitude. The lurid sun still shown down, shaftlike through the clouds, and showed her white figure in vivid distinctness. She was bending forward, gazing, not at the shore, but upward across the flood. Her ear was bent low, as though listening to its voice...

Rupert turned back from the first stone, threw off his shoes, and started afresh. Once and again his foot slipped, and he swayed perilously to right and left, but always he recovered himself, and pressed on steadfastly towards the rock where stood his wife, motionless, bending forward towards the stream.

He was by her side, standing on the same foothold, before she was conscious of his presence; then he spoke her name, and she turned her eyes upon him. Oh, God in heaven, they were sane eyes! Clear, straight-glancing eyes. Sane eyes, full of thankfulness and peace!

“I remember!” she cried loudly. “I remember! The river has told me. Oh, Rupert I am free—”

“Come!” he said simply, and took her hand. There was no time to waste, for the flood was rushing on its way, and the perilous passage had still to be made; but there was no fear in either heart. Nothing on earth or sea could mar the rapture of that moment. After long waiting and heart-sickness the cloud had lifted, and the shadows had taken wing. He read the change in her eyes, the very touch of her hand within his told the same tale. It was no longer weak and helpless; her fingers clasped his with a strong, resolute grasp, giving help as well as receiving. The Dream Woman had come to life!

From the bank the stepping-stones had disappeared from sight, and to the dazzled eyes of the onlookers it seemed as though two disembodied spirits came walking towards them across the waters, their faces lit with an unearthly radiance.

When the bank was reached, they turned, and made their way towards the house, unconscious of the existence of the watchers. Hand in hand they crossed the bridge and mounted the sloping path...

The Innkeeper hitched his shoulders and drew a trembling breath.

“It was a near thing, look you! As near a shave as ever I seen... That was a good thing, missy, that you caught sight of her just at the right moment!”

Lilith’s heavy eyelids drooped over her eyes.

“Yes,” she said sleepily, “the very right moment!”

Chapter Five.

The Girl who Wished for Power.

Two men proposed to Lilith Wastneys at the same ball and in the same palm-shaded retreat. She was not surprised, because she had willed that they should speak, and people had a habit of doing as Lilith willed. Very early in her life she had discovered that if she said nothing, and thought hard, that thought had a power to mould others to her will.

It was not often that she put forth her power, for her attitude towards her fellows was one of lofty detachment. They were commonplace creatures—weak, vacillating creatures, swayed to and fro by the emotions of the hour. Lilith had never in her life been swayed; never for the fraction of a second had she been uncertain of her own mind; all the temptations in the world could not lure her a step from a premeditated path, but because Nature had cast her in a fragile mould, and given her flaxen hair and a baby skin, and minute morsels of hands and feet, the world adopted protective airs towards her and spoke of her approvingly as “sweet and gentle.”

Francis Manning, the first of the two men to make a declaration of love, was a big giant of a man with a handsome face, an amiable disposition, and a supreme concern for his own well-being. He had reached the age and position when it seemed desirable to marry, and, that being the case, there was no doubt upon whom his choice would fall.

For years past Lilith Wastneys had stood to Francis as a type of all that was sweet and desirable in women. In his eyes she was beautiful, though in reality she had no claim to the title. The love-light in his eyes transformed her pale locks into gold, her colourless eyes into deepest blue; her height was to him “just as high as my heart”; her low voice, her drooping lids, her noiseless movements—each and all appeared to him the perfection of their kind.

Francis was whole-heartedly in love, but it was not in his nature to be otherwise than leisurely. While a more impetuous lover would have hastened to put his fate to the test, he was content to continue the even tenor of his way, indulge in confident dreams of the future, and leave it to fate to decide the moment of avowal. Nothing on earth was farther from his suspicions than the fact that it was Lilith herself, who, in the ultimate moment, played the part of fate.

She wore a white dress. Lilith invariably wore white in the evening,—simple, little white satin frocks devoid of ornament, save for a soft swathing of tulle, from which her shoulders arose, fair and rounded. Whatever might be the fashion of the day, that soft swathe of tulle was in its place; however puffed and waved might be the coiffure of the other women in the room, Lilith’s flaxen locks were always smooth and demure. There was a distinction in such simplicity. People looked at her and questioned. They watched her with puzzled eyes. Was she pretty? Certainly not pretty. Did they admire her? They were not at all sure that they did. But there was something about her!

It was Lilith who led the way into the palm-shaded retreat, and chose the most secluded corner. She and Francis were engaged to dance the next number together, but she pleaded fatigue, and they sat alone in the dimness.

“Who was that dissipated-looking fellow who took you in to supper? I wanted to take you myself, but he was too quick for me. Rather a striking-looking head, if he were not such a terrible waster!”

“His name is Lowther.”

Francis straightened himself, startled into vivid attention.

“Lowther! Hereward Lowther—that’s how I knew his face! I’ve seen it in caricatures. The idea of meeting Lowther here! I should not have thought dances were in his line.”

“He does not dance.”

“Then why on earth does he trouble to come?”

Lilith did not answer. She knew; but had no intention of sharing her knowledge, and Francis was too much engrossed in his own reflections to pursue the question.

“So that is Lowther! Good heavens, how excited I should have been two or three years ago at the idea of meeting him in the same room! Sad how that man has fizzled out! He promised such big things, bigger things than any other man of his day. I’ve heard him singled out a score of times as the man who was going to save England, and now”—he shrugged, and flicked his large fingers—“it’s all over; nothing left but the wreck of a man. Drugs, they say. Something of the sort evidently; he carries it in his face. Not the sort of man for you to have anything to do with, little girl!”

Francis’s voice dropped to a tender note as he spoke the last words, and Lilith lifted her heavy lids and smiled at him with gentle sweetness. It was seldom that he had obtained more than a glimpse of those downcast eyes, but now they met his and held them in a lingering look which sent the blood racing through his veins. Suddenly, imperatively, the patience of years was broken, and hot words flowed from his lips. He loved her; she was the sweetest, the dearest of women. For years he had loved her; he would love her all his life; would live only to serve her. It was his own feelings on which he enlarged; his own feelings, which were obviously of the first importance. In his ardour there was no hint of anxiety. He was in love, but confidently in love. He had but to speak, and she would come fluttering to his arms.

But he wooed her well, denying her no tittle of her woman’s kingdom. He held her hands in his, and his big voice softened tenderly as he made his vows.

“I will take care of you,—such care as was never taken of a woman before! You are not fit to stand alone; you are too gentle and fragile. You want a big fellow like me to stand between you and the world. It shall be my work in life to shield you, and keep you sheltered and safe. Only trust yourself to me, and you will see. You will trust yourself, won’t you, darling? I’m not rich, but we should be comfortable enough. You are not the sort of girl to be ambitious, and, you do love me, Lilith!”

Lilith smiled, but she left her hand in his, and a tinge of colour showed in the pale cheeks.

“I think I do love you, Francis!” she said slowly.

Francis pressed her hand in acknowledgment. Unbroken confidence had deprived him of the great thrill which comes to most men at the knowledge that they are beloved; but one cannot have everything in this world, and if the choice had been his, he would unhesitatingly have plumped for the greater ease. He pressed her hand, and bent over her tenderly.

“My darling girl! You make me very happy. You shall never regret it, I’ll promise you that... Look at your little mite of a hand lying in mine!—I could crush it to pieces with one clutch from my big paw. They are a type of the difference between us—those two hands—I so big, and strong, and you such a little slip of a weak, helpless thing.”

Lilith bent her head on one side, and looked down with a smile. She lifted her tiny fingers and softly stroked the giant hand.

“Why do you love me, Francis?”

“Because I can’t help it!” returned Francis promptly. “Good heavens, Lilith, if you knew how thankful a fellow is to meet a good old-fashioned girl! I’m fed up with these modern specimens, who set themselves up to be equal with men, and push and drive to force themselves to the front, instead of being content with the place which Nature has given them. I couldn’t stick a modern woman. I want a wife who will let me judge for her, and be thankful to have my protection—like you, you little darling! You are everything that a woman ought to be... And why do you love me?”

“Because you are so big, and so handsome, and so”—Lilith laughed, a tinkling, girlish laugh, which took the sting from the word—“stupid!” She bent nearer to him, with a caressing gesture, and Francis slipped his arm round her waist, and laughed in sympathy. The dear, wee mite! What nonsense she did talk!

“I don’t care what is your reason, so long as you do love me. And how soon will you be ready to marry your stupid man?”

“Do people always marry the people they love?” Lilith asked innocently; and Francis said they did; of course they did. What else was there for them to do?

He remembered afterwards that though the conversation which followed was entirely agreeable to his feelings, Lilith had persistently avoided a definite promise.

The next morning a letter was handed in at the door of his chambers. It was in Lilith’s writing, and ran as follows:

“Dear Francis—

“I want you to know that I am engaged to be married to Hereward Lowther. He asked me last night, just after you, and I said ‘Yes.’ Thank you so much for all your kindness. It would have been very nice, but I feel sure that we should not have suited.

“Yours affectionately,

“Lilith Wastneys.”

The engagement of Hereward Lowther caused some excitement in the political world, across which he had made so meteoric a flight. Of no one of the younger men in the House had so much been hoped. His first speech was still quoted as the most brilliant effort of the kind within the memory of the present generation, while his tact and his charm had seemed little inferior to his ability. Poor, brilliant, unhappy Lowther, his was but another name added to the list of the men of genius who have been their own worst enemies! So rapid had been his downfall, so flagrant his avoidance of duty, that his friends were convinced that his constituency would not return him a second time.

And now, with the shock of the unexpected, came the news of his matrimonial engagement. The chorus of disapproval was loud, but the Chief frowned thoughtfully, and reserved his opinion.

“If she is the right woman, it may be the saving of him yet. Who is she? Does anyone know?”

“Her name is Wastneys; daughter of a country squire down in Cornwall. Good enough family, so far as that goes.”

“And the girl herself?”

“Oh, a doll! Insignificant creature, with washed-out colouring. Not even good looking. Heavy and dull; not a word to say.”

The Chief sighed.

“That,” he said slowly, “is the end of Lowther! The man is doomed.”

During the weeks of the honeymoon Hereward Lowther’s thoughts were exercised with a problem which, it is to be hoped, presents no difficulty to the average bridegroom.

“Why had he married his wife?”

During the few months which had elapsed since his introduction to Lilith Wastneys, Lowther had been conscious of a reluctant admiration, which was strangely akin to antipathy. There had been occasions when he had definitely decided that he disliked the girl, yet the decision had no mitigating effect on his desire to see her again at the earliest possible moment. But he was certain, looking back over the time from the first meeting on the golf links, to that last evening in the palm-shaded retreat at the ball, he was definitely, absolutely, certain that the idea of marriage had never entered his head.

How, then, had he become engaged? How had it happened that he left that ball pledged to live side by side with this strange, silent girl, till death did them part? Honestly, Hereward did not know. There had been a flirtation, of course, if such a demure, well-conducted affair could be called a flirtation. The girl had looked unusually feminine and attractive in the dim light, and, this was the crux!—she had seemed to expect it. Some power of expectancy had driven him on until he had spoken the fateful words, for in these days of languor and depression, Lowther had lost the power of resistance, and the easiest course seemed invariably the best. He was conscious of his own demoralisation, but the misery of the consciousness had no vivifying effect; it rather drove him back to his drugs. So in this instance he had drifted on, and in a moment’s weakness had sacrificed his freedom.

Yes! that was what it came to; that was the disgraceful fact. He had married this girl because she had desired it, and he was too lazy to resist. Lowther acknowledged the fact with a shrug, but immediately afterwards arose a second problem, hardly less incomprehensible than the first.

Why had Lilith married him?

She did not love him. The man had soon recognised that fact, and it had brought an unexpected stab of pain. If she had loved him, as some women can love, she might have—helped! But she was cold as ice. Even his own lukewarm endearments had proved unacceptable; there was evidently no personal attraction to explain the mystery of her marriage with a man who was an historic failure.

They had been married a week, and were sitting in the garden of a foreign hotel, discussing a possible excursion, when Lilith startled her husband by a sudden question. Her voice, as she spoke, was low and unperturbed; her face showed a gentle smile, nevertheless that question smote upon Lowther’s ears like the crack of a whip.

“At what time,” asked Lilith calmly, “do you next take your morphia?”

He turned upon her, furious, ashamed, stammering the inevitable pitiful denial.

“Wh-at do you mean? Morphia—I! Who says I take morphia?”

“Everybody says it. Everybody knows. Don’t distress yourself, Hereward. I only wished to know your hours. It is better, isn’t it, that we should plan our expeditions for the times when you are most—most—”

“Most what?”

“Normal! The morphia naturally is soothing, but while it is working would it not be better if you were—alone?”

“You are talking nonsense. You don’t know what you are talking about. If you understood anything about the working of morphia, you would realise that after a dose one feels stimulated, refreshed. I am never so well as immediately after—”

“I’m sorry. I am ignorant, as you say. Then we had better start our excursion immediately after an injection. That is, if we can manage to do it in the time. How long is it before the—er—other stage comes on?”

“What other stage?”

“The—drunken stage!” Lilith answered.

He hated her at that moment. A fury of anger rushed through his veins. He leaped from his seat and paced the path with impetuous steps. With the cane in his hand he smote fiercely at the encircling shrubs. All the lethargy of the past months disappeared; he was alive again, smartingly alive, face to face with his shame.

“Who dares to say that I am drunk? It is a lie! When have you seen me drunk?”

“Should I have said ‘drugged’? I’m sorry. I’m so ignorant, you see. I didn’t know. Of course, if you say so, there is a difference.”

He swung away from her, and entering the hotel mounted the stairs to his own room. In his present condition of mind he dared not—literally dared not—trust himself within sight of his fellows. Up and down the quiet room he paced, like a wild animal in its cage, his mind seething with rage and indignation against his wife, against the world, against himself. It was as though a bandage had fallen, and his sleep-ridden eyes were suddenly galvanised into life. He looked back along the sloping path and perceived how far he had fallen...

It was nearing the time for his next injection. Automatically he took the tabloids from the bottle, and carried them across the room to dissolve them in a glass of water. As he did so, he passed the window and caught sight of his wife’s figure seated in the same position as that in which he had left her ten minutes before. How young she looked! Almost a child in her simple white frock. The sun shone down on her flaxen locks, on one tiny hand extended on the seat by her side. Something gripped at the man’s heart at the sight of that hand; it looked so small, so helpless, so appealing. The poor girl! On her honeymoon! What a bitter disillusionment must be hers! With a sudden sweeping movement his hand flew outward, and the tabloids hurled through the air and buried themselves in the grass below. The next moment Lowther himself descended to the garden, and seated himself by his wife’s side.

“Lilith,” he said humbly, “I’m sorry! I was a beast to speak to you as I did, but you know a man doesn’t like interference. Forgive me, like a good girl, and—I’ll tell you something in return! It was time for my morphia, but I’ve not taken it. I’m going out with you instead... Shall we start?”