Mrs George de Horne Vaizey (continued 3)

She lifted her eyes and looked at him. It seemed to him that he looked upon a new woman. Her eyes were no longer light, but dark and shining. They were bent upon him with an expression which sent the blood rushing through his veins. There was triumph in that look, and an immense, unutterable relief, but there was tenderness also, the tenderness of a mother towards a struggling child. The remembrance of that look remained with Lowther and helped him through the inevitable discomforts of the next hours. Lilith spoke but little; he was thankful to her for her silence, but once and again when his restlessness grew acute, she slipped her hand through his arm and pushed it forward, so that her fingers clasped his wrist. The little hand was warm to the touch. It was as though some vital force passed from her veins to his, calming, invigorating.

Only once did Lilith touch on the subject of politics. She asked her husband what was likely to be the predominant question of the next session. He told her that it would be the Land Bill, long deferred, but inevitable: a Bill on which the House was sharply divided, which would call forth a heat of argument. He answered curtly, with an evident distaste, and she never renewed the subject. Lowther thanked Providence for a wife with tact.

They roamed about, from one country to another—Belgium, Holland, France, Germany, Italy, the Tyrol, taking by preference untrodden paths, putting up at quiet country inns, enjoying the study of peasant life. Lilith declared that she was tired of cities, had seen enough show places to last her life; now she needed a rest. How badly Lowther himself had needed a rest was proved by his altered appearance after a few weeks of a leisurely life passed in fresh, pure air. Never again had the subject of morphia been mentioned between himself and his wife, but the doses were steadily diminishing. There had been one whole day when he had taken no injection at all! He wondered at the coincidence which had made Lilith so tender on that day! If it had not been for her tenderness, for the clasp of that small, warm hand, he doubted if he could have lasted out. He was no longer so sure that he did not love his wife. He was grateful to her for her tact and forbearance. He was beginning to look forward to her rare tenderness; as a reward for which it were worth while to endure.

Both Lowther and his wife were clever linguists, and he was amused to discover that, quiet as was her nature, she possessed the rare gift of making friends with the humble folk of the different countries through which they passed, and of drawing forth their confidence. Many an evening was spent in conversation with “mine host” as he enjoyed his leisurely smoke at the end of the day’s work, and “mine host” was an interesting talker, with his tales of the country side, from the lordly baron in his rock-bound castle, to the humblest tenant upon his land. Many talks were held also during the day-time, with the labourers in the fields, with the farmers who supplied milk and bread, and who beamed in appreciation of the largesse bestowed by the English milord and his wife. There were charming stories to be told—stories of affection and kindliness between the tenants and the lord of the soil, of a simple, feudal loyalty which sounded like a page from a fairytale of old, but there were tragedies also—stories of injustice and tyranny, of suffering and want. They were simple people, and they told their tales simply and well, delivering themselves in conclusion, of a pathetic apology. “It was a pity... Things were not as bad as they had been. In England, of course, it was different. The peasants in England had no such trials to endure!”

Lilith sat listening while her husband explained that England had her own land troubles. Her sleepy eyes expressed but little interest; but now and again she would put a searching question which cut to the very heart of the matter, and set him talking afresh. Wherever they went the same subject recurred, and fresh differences were discussed; but these conversations were but incidents in the day’s doings. From private conversation politics were banished.

At the end of the honeymoon Mr and Mrs Hereward Lowther returned to town and took up their abode in a small flat in Westminster. The choice was made by Lilith, as indeed was every choice in those days of Lowther’s weakness. She confessed to an affection for Westminster, for the quaint, old-fashioned nooks and corners which still remain, tucked behind the busy thoroughfares; for the picturesque precincts of the Abbey. Westminster was at once central, convenient, and old-world. She was eloquent on the subject of its advantages as a dwelling-place, but she never alluded to the vicinity of Saint Stephen’s.

After his return to town Lowther passed through a somewhat severe relapse. Pace to face with the old conditions he grew nervous and despondent, and had more frequent recourse to his drug, but there was this great difference between his present condition and the past, that whereas he had been indifferent, now he was penitent, remorseful, utterly ashamed. Lilith never reproached him for his lapses, she nursed him assiduously through the subsequent weakness; she checked him when he would have made faltering apologies.

“We won’t talk about it. It is not worth while. It will pass!” she said quietly, and as she spoke, her strange, expressionless eyes gazed into his, and he found himself murmuring in agreement. “Yes, it will pass!” Never once, so far as he could discover, did any doubt concerning the future enter his wife’s head. She must certainly have heard that when a man takes to drugs it is almost a miracle if he is enabled to break the habit, yet her confidence remained unshaken. Throughout the darkest day, throughout the bitterest disappointment, she remained serenely unmoved. Always, in speaking of the future, she envisaged Lowther as strong, confident, successful, until by degrees the image printed itself on his own brain, and the old distrust began to disappear.

The House opened, a week passed by, and Lowther made no sign of taking his seat. Lilith remained silent; it seemed the result of accident that engagements lessened more and more, so that he found himself unoccupied, sitting in the little flat, listening to the chimes of Big Ben, following in imagination the doings within the Second Chamber, while hour by hour, day by day, a mysterious power seemed forcing him onward, urging him to arouse himself from his stupor, and go forth once more into the arena.

One evening husband and wife sat alone together in the little drawing-room of the flat. Lowther was smoking, and making a pretence of reading a review, Lilith sat by the open window, her hands folded on her lap. She had none of the nervous, fidgety movements to which most women are subject in moments of idleness, but could remain motionless as a statue for half an hour on end, her lids drooped over her quiet eyes. It was no interruption on his wife’s part which caused Lowther’s increasing restlessness; even when the book was thrown down, and he took to pacing hurriedly up and down, she remained passive and immovable.

Suddenly Lowther drew up by her side, laid a hand on her shoulder.

“Lilith! I’m going... To the House. Would you come? I think it would help me if you would come too.”

It was the first time that he had acknowledged in words the mysterious truth that in his wife’s presence he felt stronger, freer from temptation. His hand lingered on her shoulder with a caressing touch, and Lilith turned her head so that for a fleeting moment her cheek rested against his fingers. Her assent was a matter of course; she wasted no breath on that, but, as she rose to her feet, she spoke a few words, which to Lowther’s bruised spirit, were as water to a fainting man: “I am so proud of you, Hereward!”

The session had begun, and the Land Bill was occupying the attention of the House. The two leaders had delivered themselves of strong opposing speeches, and the Bill was open for discussion. One member after another rose from the crowded benches. A few of the number spoke well and to the point, and were acclaimed with applause; but the greater number repeated old arguments, and failed to throw fresh light on the vexed problem. The House listened with resigned impatience.

In a corner of the Ladies’ Gallery sat a small figure with an aureole of flaxen hair. She leaned forward on her seat, her hands clasped together, her eyes fixed in a deep, unblinking gaze at a man on the opposite benches. He was a striking-looking man, still young, yet with an air of delicacy and strain. An onlooker observing him at this moment would have noticed that from time to time he stirred uneasily, and cast a glance upwards at the grille of the Ladies’ Gallery. As each speaker in succession finished his speech and sat down, this man stirred more forcibly, as though combating an impulse which increased in violence, and eventually he was on his feet; had caught the Speaker’s eyes.

There was a momentary silence throughout the House. Lowther! How long was it, how many years since Lowther had essayed a speech? What had happened to spur him to such an effort? This was his first appearance since the beginning of the session, and though he was obviously improved in health he had avoided private conversation, and kept shrinkingly to himself. And now—a speech! With characteristic loyalty to a man who has done good work in past days, the House prayed that Lowther knew what he was about, and was not going to make an exhibition of himself.

But now he was speaking, and the old charm was at work. The members listened with surprise to the old well-turned sentences, the old masterly style; felt again the charm of the old ingenuous manner. And he was speaking to the point, with an expert’s width of knowledge which held the House. “On this point of tenure might it not be well to take a hint from Italy?—In Italy, etc., etc.”

“In Holland there was a special exemption which was worthy of note...” “In the province of Lombardy the tenants retained the right...” The land problems of Europe seemed at his finger-ends; he handled them not as a politician informed by dry, written statements, but as living things, seen through living eyes. He had apt illustrations to present with the readiness of first-hand knowledge; he had, as a sum total, one illuminating suggestion, and the House cheered him with a ringing cheer.

That cheer sounded in Lowther’s ears like the opening of a great gate, a gate which his own hands had closed. Through its portals he beheld once more the castles of his dreams, and took heart to walk forward.

Lilith greeted him with a smile of congratulation, but the drive home was accomplished in silence. It was late when they arrived at their modest flat. The servants had retired to bed, leaving a table of refreshments drawn up before the drawing-room fire. Lilith took off her cloak and sat down, but Lowther went straight to his own room. A few minutes later he returned, and, closing the door behind him, stood silently behind her chair. She could hear the quick intake of his breath, but she waited motionless until he should speak.

At last it came.

“Lilith! I have something I want to give you. Something for you—to keep! Put out your hand.”

Still silent, still with eyes averted, she held out her hand towards him. Something cold clicked against the palm, something long and thin. She opened her fingers, and beheld a morphia syringe.

“I—I shan’t need it any more,” stammered the voice. A hand, Lowther’s hand, came over her shoulder, mutely making appeal. Lilith dropped the syringe, and caught the hand to her breast.

The next minute he was kneeling at her feet, and the two were gazing deep into each other’s eyes.

“Lilith,” cried Lowther brokenly, “it—it will be hard... I shall have a hard fight. Do you think you could love me a little, Lilith?”

“I must love you,” answered Lilith deeply, “a great deal, or it will be no use!”

It was five years later when the Opposition came into power, and it surprised nobody when Hereward Lowther was given a seat in the Cabinet. During those five years husband and wife had lived quietly in their little flat, going but little into society, affecting few of the amusements of the day. When Parliament was sitting, Lilith was a constant visitor to the Ladies’ Gallery, and it was noted that her husband never spoke when she was absent. In holiday time her chief interest lay in the study of the problems of modern life; but, as on that first tour abroad, she studied first-hand, and not through the medium of books. Lowther felt it an extraordinary coincidence that her inquiries so often proved of value to himself, and always, under every circumstance, Lilith’s immovable serenity was as a rock, against which his weaker, more excitable nature found support. Lowther questioned himself sometimes as to the explanation of his wife’s unshaken calm, and came to the conclusion that it sprang from a certain obtuseness or stupidity of brain, but he smiled as he mentally voiced the thought, and his smile was tender. He loved his wife; she was a dear girl, tactful, unassuming. He was thankful that she was not clever.

Five years spread a kindly veil over the public memory, and there were few people who troubled to recall Lowther’s temporary lapse. That was an affair of the past. What mattered now was that he was one of the most brilliant and valuable men in the House, and that the country needed his services. As a politician he was able and statesmanlike, but he was a politician second and a patriot first. The glory of office counted for nothing with him in comparison with the glory of his native land, and the country recognised his honesty and loved him for it. He was a member of the Cabinet now, but as certainly as he lived he would be Prime Minister another day. As he walked through the streets the people pointed him out to each other.

“That’s Lowther. Our best man. He’ll be Prime Minister before he’s done. The sooner the better. A straight, fair man. The man we want. What a position for a man to gain by sheer personal force—the virtual ruler over a fifth part of the world! What power, my dear fellow—what power!”

“You may say so, indeed; extraordinary power!”

Chapter Six.

The Man who Wished for Comfort.

It seemed hard to Francis Manning that he, who had asked of fate nothing more exorbitant than an easy, comfortable existence, should have been called on to endure one of the most uncomfortable of experiences—that of being jilted by the girl to whom he had believed himself engaged to be married! For years past he had intended to marry Lilith Wastneys, and when he told his love she had been everything that was sweet and complaisant, had said, in so many words, that she loved him in return. He had gone home feeling the happiest man in the world, had lain awake for a solid hour by the clock, rejoicing in his happiness, and the very next morning, behold a letter to tell him that she was engaged to another man!

Francis could not endure to recall the shock, the misery, the discomfort, of that hour. If the news had come from another source he would have refused to believe it; but it was Lilith herself who wrote, so there was no loophole of escape.

During the following days he felt stunned and wretched. His heart was wounded, but he was not sentimental by nature, and it seemed to him that he could have schooled his heart into subjection if it had not been for—for the other things! There did not seem a single interest in life which this wretched disillusionment had left untouched. To begin with, there was his work. He had worked for a home in which Lilith should live as his wife. Work seemed suddenly dull and purposeless now that the proposed home had crumbled into ruins. Then, as regards amusement—he had grown into the habit of arranging his engagements to fit in with Lilith’s own. A dinner meant the chance of Lilith for a partner; a ball, a dance or two with Lilith, and a tête-à-tête in a conservatory; a reception, the chance of edging his way towards a little white figure and keeping beside it for the rest of the evening. Amusement lost its savour, now that Lilith no more entered into the scheme. Life was dull, stale, and unprofitable. The days dragged past on leaden feet; he fell asleep with a sigh, and woke to a pang of remembrance.

For a whole month Francis was a prey to grief, and then, as he himself would have expressed it, he “bucked up.” There came an historic Saturday evening, when, in the company of a particularly fine cigar he came to the conclusion that “it was not good enough,” and that he could not “stick” it any more. He had had a whole month of being miserable, and it was the dullest time he had ever known! In self-defence he must pull himself together and face the music.

It was astonishing how many saws Francis quoted over that cigar; but he was as good as his vow, and from that hour he wasted no more regrets on Lilith Wastneys. So serene and cheerful became his demeanour that his one confidante congratulated him on having set a pattern to suffering mankind.

“I have heard many tragic stories. People always do confide in me,” she told him; “but have I met a man who has borne his trouble as you have borne yours. I feel a better woman from the experience. It has been a triumph of bravery and endurance!”

“Think so?” said Francis. He was gratified to know that he had made such a good impression, and reminded himself insistently that lookers-on saw most of the game. He did this to quieten a tiresome inner voice which insisted that his cheerful mien was the result of cowardice rather than of bravery, the cowardice which refused to endure!

“Still, you know,” he declared lugubriously, “a fellow feels lonely—”

The confidante sighed, and flicked her light eyelashes.

“I know the feeling,” she said.

When a man has made up his mind that it is time to marry, it is foolish to abandon the plan because one woman out of the teeming millions in the land refuses to become his wife. This, at least, was Francis Manning’s seasoned decision, and it was emphasised by the announcement of Lilith Wastneys’ wedding, which appeared in the newspapers exactly three months after her refusal of himself. Whatever sentimental hankerings he might have cherished for Lilith the maid, it was clearly out of place to cast another thought towards the wife of Hereward Lowther. Francis had a deep respect for the conventions, and death itself could not have removed his former love to a more impassable distance. He heaved a sigh to her memory, and buried it underground.

Within a week from that day he was engaged to the confidante. It seemed the obvious thing to do, for he knew her more intimately than any other girl of his acquaintance, and owed her a debt of gratitude for her sympathy in his former affair. She was quite a nice girl, too; not pretty, but amiable and healthy, with a small income of her own which would come in usefully towards running the house. He wished her eyelashes had not been quite so white; but one could not have everything. She was a nice, affectionate girl.

The confidante accepted Francis because she was tired of living at home with a managing mamma, and wanted to start life on her own account. She liked Francis, was proud of his fine appearance, knew him to be good-tempered and honourable, and was complacently assured that they would “get on.” Far better, she said, to begin with a sensible, open-eyed liking, than a headlong passion which would wear itself out before the honeymoon was over. It was, in short, a sensible marriage between eminently sensible contracting parties. The little God of Love had no part in the ceremony, but it is only fair to mention that nobody missed him.

Mr and Mrs Manning went to Scotland for their honeymoon, and Francis played golf every day, what time his wife read novels in the veranda of the hotel. She sped him on his way with a smile, and welcomed him back with a smile to match, and if the young girls in the hotel confided in each other that they would break their hearts if their bridegrooms neglected them in such a fashion, such a thought never entered her head. She would have been bored if Francis had stayed beside her all day long. What on earth could they have found to say?

At the end of a fortnight Mr and Mrs Manning returned to a semi-detached villa in a southern suburb, and settled down to a comfortable married life.

Mr and Mrs Francis Manning spent the next ten years in peace and comfort, and humdrum happiness. They had good health, easy means, a large number of acquaintances, and three little daughters. The daughters were plain, but sturdy, and gave a minimum of trouble in the household. Francis, indeed, insisted on this point. Early in the lifetime of Maud, the eldest daughter, he had become aware of the amazing fact that nurses occasionally wished to “go out”; that, in addition, they wished to go out on the Sabbath day. This seemed to him unreasonable, and he said as much to his wife.

“But why in the name of all that’s ridiculous, Sunday? I’m at home on Sunday. Sunday’s the day when we need nurse most of all. It’s my holiday.”

Mrs Manning represented that Sunday was also a holiday for nurse and her friends, and Francis said, very well, then, they must have two nurses. If necessary they must have three. The one thing certain was that he could not be disturbed on his day of rest, so a capable assistant was engaged forthwith, and comfort was re-established.

The Mannings took no part in the intellectual life of the neighbourhood. There, were several book clubs, lecture courses, and the like, which they were urged to join, but without success. Francis declared that he worked all day, and came home to rest, and his wife said, thank you, no; she had no wish to go back to school at her age. They went out to dinner now and then, and made a point of giving two or three dinners themselves every winter. They provided lavishly on such occasions, and were agreeably conscious that their guests were impressed. Both husband and wife enjoyed rich foods, and saw no reason for denying themselves the gratification.

As far as religion was concerned, the Mannings made a point of going to church with the children every Sunday morning when it was fine, or they were not late for breakfast, or Francis did not feel inclined for a walk. Sometimes he went off golfing for the day, and then Mrs Manning dressed Maud in her best clothes and they went to church together. She had been brought up to go to church, and thought the habit “nice.” Besides it was pleasant to see friends coming out, and walk home with Mrs Lane, her favourite neighbour. They would meet on the path outside the graveyard, and turn uphill together, and Mrs Lane would say: “What a sermon! My dear, did you see the woman in the pew before ours? She came in late, just before the psalms. She took off her coat, and, my dear, her blouse—”

She would proceed to describe the blouse in detail, and Mrs Manning would sigh and say: “It is nice to have something interesting to look at in the next pew! We have those awful Miss Newtes.”

The neighbours on both sides envied the Francis Mannings, and quoted their doings with admiration. In the matter of holidays, for instance, how sane and sensible were their arrangements! The children were sent with their nurses to the sea, the father enjoyed himself on Scottish golf links; the mother toured abroad with a woman friend. Each autumn the neighbours agreed to profit by the example of the Francis Mannings, and to do likewise the next summer; but somehow it never came off. When spring came round the wife would conscientiously remind her husband of the resolve, and urge him to keep it, while gracefully withdrawing herself. “Margot has had several of those bad chest colds,” she would explain. “I should be so anxious in case she caught a chill. It really is my duty to go with the children but you, dear, you could quite well—”

“Well! I don’t know,” the husband would reply. “What would become of you in the evenings? And I promised to teach Jack to swim. I think, on the whole, we’d better stick to the old arrangement this summer.”

So once more they would depart en famille to the seaside, and stay in lodgings, and be happy in the old domesticated fashion. But also, quite frequently, bored!

On the rare occasions when he gave himself over to thought, Francis realised that there was only one respect in which life had disappointed him, only one desire which had been withheld. He wanted a son. Each time that a child had been expected he had built his hopes upon a son; each time disappointment had been more acute. He had built up a good business by his own exertions; he wanted a son of his own name to carry it on. There were times, moreover, when the purely feminine nature of his household fretted his nerves, and he thought, with longing, of a man child; a little chappie in trousers, instead of the eternal flounces; a knickerbockered elf sitting in his dressing-room watching him shave; a tall hobbledehoy beginning to play golf, listening with interest to accounts of his father’s prowess. Later on, a man, a partner, a prop for declining years. Francis pushed the thought from him, but it recurred. Deep at his heart lay the longing for a son.

And the son came. This time he had not hoped; he had told himself steadily that it would be a girl. Better if it were a girl. No use having a boy at the end of a family of girls. He would grow up half a girl himself, and be a disappointment. He was placidly resigned to girl, and after all, behold, it was a boy! The blood raced through his veins as he heard the good news; something astonishingly like tears pricked at his eyes.

“Is he—is he all right?” he asked breathlessly, and the doctor laughed.

“Go upstairs and look at him, my dear fellow! Pine little chap as you could wish to see.”

In truth he was a healthy nine-pounder of a son, guaranteed by nurse and mother to be the finest baby ever born, and seated by his wife’s bedside, Francis gave vent to his jubilation.

“Now,” he said triumphantly, “I have everything I want. I really am a lucky fellow. Jolly little beggar, eh? Seems to me—I don’t know if I’m right—but I do think he looks different from the rest!”

The wife smiled, but Francis was right; everybody said he was right. The longed-for boy was in truth an extraordinarily comely infant, and each week of his life he blossomed into fuller charm. His well-shaped head was covered with golden curls and when he lay asleep (and he obligingly slept most of his time) it was a pleasure to observe the delicate promise of his features. He had obviously elected to resemble his handsome father, and the father was complacently grateful for the fact.—

Mrs Manning observed with amazement that Francis nursed this baby, positively nursed him in his arms, and was quite disappointed when, on returning from the city, he failed to find him awake.

“Are his eyes changing colour yet?” he would ask. “I want them to be blue. Blue eyes would look so well with his yellow hair.” But the baby’s eyes remained a dull, clouded grey. “Not blue yet!” Francis would repeat. “How long is it before they begin to change? Fine big eyes, aren’t they? I want to make the little beggar look at me, but he won’t. Why does he stare at the ceiling?”

“It’s the electric light,” said his wife; but the next morning, when the lights were turned off, the baby still stared blankly upward.

“Why the dickens does he stare at the ceiling?” Francis asked again.

Gradually, imperceptibly, a growing anxiety began to mingle with his joy, and the anxiety was connected with those staring eyes. He would not put his thoughts into words; but he watched his wife’s face, and saw in it no reflection of his own fears. Then for a time he would banish the dread; and anon it would recur.

Were the boy’s eyes all right? Was it really natural that he should be always staring up? Ridiculous nonsense! Of course it was all right. Things had come to a pretty pass when he took to worrying himself, while his wife, who knew a thousand times more about babies, remained untroubled and serene. Bother the child’s eyes! ... He would think about them no more.

All his life Francis had been a sworn opponent of worry. When anything disagreeable threatened, his mode of procedure was to shrug his shoulders, and immediately divert his thoughts. “Leave the thing alone; don’t bother about it; it will probably come all right in the end!” Such was his theory, and experience had proved that as often as not it was correct. He endeavoured to cultivate the same attitude towards his boy, but in vain. The anxiety recurred.

He told himself that he would have the eyes tested, and satisfy himself once for all; but once and again his courage failed, and the days passed on, and nothing was done. Then there came an evening when suddenly fear engulfed him, and made anything seem easier than a continuation of suspense.

He was holding the child in his arms, and he rose and carried it across the room, to where a powerful light hung from the wall. He pushed aside the shade, and held the tiny face closely approaching the glass. The eyes stared on, unblinking and still. A great cry burst from Francis’ throat:

“My God!” he cried. “The boy is blind!”

The boy was blind, and there was no hope that he would ever possess his sight. Mrs Manning wept herself ill, but even in the depths of her distress she realised that her husband’s sufferings were keener than her own. It gave an added touch of misery to those black days, to feel a strange new distance between her husband and herself. She could not comfort him; she could not understand him; after ten years of married life it appeared as if the man she had known had disappeared, and a stranger had taken his place. Yet there was nothing unmanly in his grief; he was quiet and self-restrained as she had never seen him before, gentler, and more considerate of others.

The poor woman noticed the change with awe, and wondered if Francis were going to die.

“I have never seen you feel anything as you are feeling this,” she said to him one night. They were sitting by the dying fire, and Francis raised his head and stared at her with sombre eyes.

“But I have felt nothing,” he said flatly. “I am finding that out. I did not know what it meant to feel!”

From the moment of his discovery of the blindness of his son, Francis Manning became a man possessed of but one aim—to lighten and alleviate, so far as was humanly possible, the child’s sad lot. He taught himself Braille, so that in time to come he might teach it to the boy, and be able to translate for his benefit appropriate pieces of literature. He visited every famous institute for the blind at home and abroad, and made an exhaustive study of their systems. He searched for a girl of intelligence and charm, and sent her to be trained in readiness to undertake the boy’s education; he schooled himself to be a playmate and companion; he denied himself every luxury, so that the boy’s future might be assured. As Francis the man, he ceased to exist; he lived on only as Francis the father.

During the first three years of his life the young Francis remained blissfully unconscious of his infirmity. A strong, healthy child surrounded by the tenderest of care, the sun of his happiness never set. His little feet raced up and down; his sweet, shrill voice chanted merry strains; his small, strong hands seemed gifted with sight as well as touch, so surely did they guide him to and fro. Nature, having withheld the greatest gift, had remorsefully essayed compensation in the shape of a finer touch, a finer hearing. The blind child was the sunshine of the home; but the father knew that the hour must dawn when that sunshine would be clouded. He held himself in readiness for that hour, training himself as an athlete trains for a race.

He would need courage: therefore it behoved him to be brave now, to harden himself against the ills of life, and cultivate a resolute composure. All the influences which had tended to keep him soft must be thrown aside as weights which would hinder the race. He must be wise, therefore it behoved him to think, and to train his mind. A light reason, a light excuse, would no longer be sufficient; he must learn to judge and to reflect. He must be tender; and to be tender it was necessary to bury self, and to put other interests before his own. More weights had to be thrown aside. And he must be patient! Hitherto he had considered patience a feeble, almost unmanly, virtue; but he perceived that it would be needed, and must be cultivated with the rest.

Mrs Manning confided in her neighbours that Francis had never been the same since the discovery of Baby’s blindness. He never complained, she said. Oh, no; and he was most kind—gave no trouble in the house, but—Then she sighed, and the neighbours sympathised, and prophesied that he would “come round.” In truth the good, commonplace woman was ill at ease in the rarefied atmosphere of the home, and sincerely regretted the comfortable, easy-going husband of yore.

For three whole years Frank lived untroubled, and then the questions began to come.

“Am I blind, father? Why am I blind? Is it naughty to be blind?”

The baby child was easily appeased. Later on the questions would become more insistent. Francis prepared himself for that hour. At four years fleeting shadows began to pass over the boy’s radiance. Alone with his father, his face would pucker in thought.

“Shall I always be blind, father? I don’t like to be blind. Was you blind when you was a little boy?”

The knife turned in the father’s heart at the sound of the innocent words; but always the cloud loomed darker ahead. He trained himself more zealously, in preparation for the hour when the boy would rebel!

But there were happy hours between, hours when the natural joy of childhood filled the house with laughter, and father and son were supremely happy in each other’s society. No companion of his own age was half as dear to the boy; no living creature stood for so much in the father’s heart. They read and studied together; they held long, intimate conversation. They played games from which blind people are usually debarred. Standing behind a hoop on the croquet lawn the father would cry in a brisk, staccato voice, “Prank!” and on the instant the boy’s mallet would hit the ball, and send it in the direction indicated, and proud and glad was Frankie to know that his aim was surer than that of his sighted sisters. And every hour of contentment, every added interest and occupation bestowed upon the boy, was as a salve to the sore father heart. But at six years the inevitable rebellion began.

“Is he blind?” the boy would ask of a new acquaintance. “Can he see, too? Everyone can see but me! ... I want to run about like the other fellows, and play cricket, and have some fun. It’s dull all alone in the dark. Can’t you have me made better, father?”

At times he would cry; piteous, pitiful tears, but the sensitive ear was quick to catch the distress in his father’s voice, and he would offer consolation in the midst of his grief. “Don’t be sorry, father. I don’t want you to be sorry. It doesn’t matter; really it doesn’t. I have a ripping time!”

Never for a moment did the boy hold his parents responsible for his infirmity; but there came a day when he blamed his God.

“If God can do everything He likes, He could have made me quite right, and well. Why didn’t He, father?”

“I don’t know, my son.”

“You would make me better if you could! You said yourself you’d pay the doctor all your money. You are kinder than Him. I don’t think God is kind to me, father. It would have been so easy for Him—”

The wisdom for which Francis had prayed and struggled seemed a poor thing at that moment. He was dumb, and yet he dared not be dumb.

“Frankie,” he said, “I’ll tell you a secret—a secret between you and me... God sent me a great many blessings when I was young, and they did me no good. I was selfish, and careless, and blind, too, Frankie, though my eyes could see, and then after He had tried me with happiness and it had failed, He sent me”—the man’s voice trembled ominously—“a great grief! ... Frankie, old man, when I come to die, I believe I am going to thank God for that grief, more than for all the blessings which went before.”

The child sat silent, struggling for comprehension.

“What did the great grief do to you, father?”

Francis paused for a moment, struggling for composure. Then he spoke:

“It stabbed my dead heart wide awake!”

He stooped and kissed the child’s blind eyes.

Chapter Seven.

The Girl who Asked for Happiness.

Fate is a sorry trickster, and a study of life leads one to the conclusion that the less that is asked of her the less does she bestow.

Meriel, on her part, had made few demands—riches and power had for her no allure; her highest ambition was to attain that quiet domestic happiness enjoyed by thousands of her sister women. She wanted to be loved and to love in return; to transform some trivial villa into a home, and reign therein over her little kingdom; and on her twenty-eighth birthday fate had so wrought the tangled skein that she found herself in the position of unpaid attendant to an old school friend, while her heart was racked by a hopeless passion for the same friend’s husband.

The way of it was this. Meriel and Flora had been school friends, between whom existed the affection which often develops between a strong and a weak character when they are thrown into intimate companionship. Flora was pretty and gay, qualities which in a young girl blind the eyes of beholders to many drawbacks. Meriel was quite resigned to be blinded herself, but some two or three years after the two girls had left school she heard with amazement that Flora was engaged to be married to Geoffrey Sterne, one of the most prominent litterateurs of the day.

Geoffrey Sterne and—Flora! How was it that the cleverest of men so often chose weak, clinging women as companions for life? It seemed to Meriel inconceivable that this giant among men should have given his love to an animated doll; but Flora wrote gushing accounts of her fiancé’s devotion, and declared that she was as happy as the day was long. It seemed to Meriel that she must indeed be the happiest of women!

Circumstances prevented Mend’s presence at the wedding, and for the next five years she did not see her friend. A child was born and died; rumour reported that Sterne was working incessantly at a work which was to be the magnum opus of his life; it was said also that his wife was in delicate health, and had abandoned the dissipations of town. Then at the end of the five years came an invitation in Flora’s handwriting. Meriel was not to be vexed with her for being silent for so long; she had always intended to write, simply dreadful how many things were left undone! Really and truly, she had never forgotten the dear old days. Would Meriel come down and pay her a nice long visit? Geoffrey liked to have friends staying in the house; he thought Flora was too much alone; but some visitors were such a nuisance—always poking about. Meriel was not like that—she was always a dear old thing. Would Thursday suit? The 3:13. The car should be waiting at the station. Flora sent heaps of love...

Meriel accepted the invitation without hesitation; she was without near relations, living on narrow means, and her life was so bare that she was thankful of the mere change of scene. She liked the sound of “the car”; most of all she longed to meet Geoffrey Sterne, and see him in the intimacy of his home.

Flora was waiting at the station when her friend arrived; and at the sight of her face came Meriel’s first disillusionment. This was not the companion of old; this was a strange woman with whom she had no acquaintance. The once delicate face had lost its contour, the features were blurred and coarsened: out of the blue eyes peered a furtive soul. Meriel felt a presage of trouble at the sight of that ravaged face.

A week’s stay at the house revealed two eloquent facts. Flora was afraid of her husband, but she loved him still, and craved for his approval. Out of his presence she was nervous, and irritable, possessed by a demon of restlessness which made it impossible for her to attend to the same thing for two minutes together; but let Sterne enter the room, and all the poor forces of her nature were rallied to appear calm and at ease.

Meriel saw through these efforts with a woman’s intuition; later on with a woman’s sympathy, for she knew that Geoffrey Sterne no longer loved his wife. He was kindly, chivalrous, attentive; with the utmost of his powers he fulfilled his duty, but there was no spark of that divine flame which would have turned duty into joy. To have gained the love of such a man, and then—to have lost it! Meriel found herself reversing her former decision. She had believed Flora Sterne to be the happiest of women. She now knew her to be the most unfortunate.

There was trouble in the air—a trouble nebulous and vague, yet real enough to chill the blood. The cloud of coming disaster settled down more and more heavily over the household. There came a night when the storm broke.

Sterne had been away all day, and in his absence his wife’s restlessness took an acute turn. She wandered about the house rejecting irritably all offers of help, and finally shut herself up in her own rooms, leaving Meriel a prey to anxiety. What was the reason of Flora’s strange behaviour? Was it a pure matter of nerves, or was there in truth some hidden sorrow preying upon her mind, and driving her hither and thither in search of oblivion? What sorrow could Flora have? Grief over the death of her child had long since faded into a placid conclusion that all was for the best. It had been a dear little thing, but children were a tie... She was glad there had been no other... For the rest, life had brought her the most luxurious of homes, the most attentive of husbands, and if that attention was not induced by the highest motive, Meriel doubted if the dulled mind grasped the lack. What sorrow, then, could Flora have?

The afternoon wore slowly away, until the hour approached when Sterne would return, when a feeling of responsibility drove Meriel to follow Flora to her boudoir. She did not wish Geoffrey to return to find his wife suffering and alone.

The room was darkened, so that it was impossible to see distinctly, but the sound of a low moan reached her ears, and prone on the sofa lay Flora, her face sunk deep in the piled-up cushions.

Meriel spoke, but there was no reply; she knelt down and pressed the cushion from the hidden face, but the eyes remained closed, the jaw fixed and fallen. Poor Flora! Her sufferings had been real enough, since in the end they had culminated in this heavy swoon. Meriel threw open windows, found water and smelling salts, and unloosed the clothing round the neck. In the midst of her efforts Sterne entered, and with quick glance took in the situation. He brought a flask of brandy from his room, and from time to time inserted a few drops within the parted lips. But Flora did not revive. She moaned and stirred, but her eyes remained closed. She showed no consciousness of their presence. In hot haste a doctor was summoned; he came, and stood gazing grimly down at the still figure.

“We did everything we could think of before sending for you,” Sterne explained. “Fanned her, sponged her head, gave her brandy—”

The doctor looked at him—a terrible look.

“Brandy!” he repeated deeply. “Man, have you no eyes? What have you been about to allow her to come to this pass? She is not faint. She is drunk!”

Flora’s remorse was a pitiful thing. For years she had been playing with fire, but the knowledge of the depths to which she had fallen filled her with shame and fear. For days together she refused to see her husband, but from the first moment of consciousness she clung with a childish desperation to the friend of her youth.

“Don’t leave me! Don’t go away! I can’t face it alone. Oh, Meriel, stay and help me to bear it. I’m afraid to be left alone with Geoffrey. He will say nothing—he’ll go on being kind, but it will be in his mind.—I shall see it in his eyes... I’ve disgraced him, and I’m afraid—I’m afraid of the future! ... Oh, Meriel, stay and help me!”

That night, walking in the darkening garden, Meriel told Sterne of his wife’s desire, and added a few simple words.

“If you wish it, too, I will stay,” she said. “I have no home ties, and can extend my visit as long as it suits you. But I must have your approval. If you would prefer a regular attendant—”

His face twitched with emotion.

“I should—abhor it!” he said tensely. “If you could stay, it would be a godsend, but it seems too great a sacrifice... We have no right to ask it. Why should you give up so much?”

“I have so little to give up,” Meriel said. She looked into Sterne’s face with a pathetic attempt at a smile. “I am a superfluous woman. Nobody needs me, and all my life I have longed to be needed. If I can be of use here, I’d rather stay than go anywhere on earth.”

“God bless you!” he said, and gripped her hand.

That was the signing of the agreement which resulted in four years of ceaseless service. At the beginning Meriel had contemplated a stay of a few months; but with every week that passed she seemed more firmly riveted in her post. After each breakdown, Flora’s dread of being alone with her husband increased in violence, while he shrank more sensitively from the services of a hireling. They needed her, and she stayed on and on, at first provisionally; later, as a matter of course.

From the beginning Sterne had little hope of his wife’s reformation, for he realised that her weakness was of several years’ growth, and that the inherent instability of her character unfitted her for the prolonged struggle which lay ahead. As a matter of fact, after the first passion of remorse had worn itself out, the whole of Flora’s energies were expended in the attempt to deceive her companions, and to discover secret methods of indulging her craving. The history of those four years was one of recurrent disappointment. The last remnant of beauty died out of Flora’s face; Sterne’s dark hair was streaked with grey, Mend’s features were fined to a delicate sharpness; her eyes had the pathetic wistfulness of a dumb animal. From the first moment of meeting her heart had gone out to Geoffrey Sterne; before she had been three months under his roof she loved him with an absorbing passion, and for four long years she had stood by, watching his torture, holding her love in check. Surely no man and woman were ever thrown together in more intimate relationship. Night after night they wrestled together against the demon which destroyed their peace; week after week, month after month, they planned and consulted, toiled and failed, hoped and sorrowed,—together, always together; virtually alone, yet always with that pitiful presence holding them apart.

Sterne was as chivalrous to his friend as to his wife. Never by look or deed did he pass the borders of friendship. With one part of her nature Meriel was thankful for the fact. It would have marred her admiration of the man’s character if he had made love to the woman who was ministering to his wife. With another part of her nature she longed fiercely, hungrily, to feel the touch of his lips, the grasp of his arms. There were times when she was shaken with envy of the poor creature who still claimed his tenderness and his care, but she never deluded herself that Sterne returned her love. It seemed to her that her own near association with the tragedy of his life must in itself prevent such a possibility. In years to come, when poor Flora had found her rest, Sterne might meet some sweet woman who lived in the sunshine, and find happiness with her. “He will forget, and be comforted. He will love her the more for all he has suffered.” Meriel felt an anguish of envy for that other woman who would enjoy the happiness denied to herself, a bitter rebellion against her own fate.

“I have given my youth, my strength, my soul—and what have I gained in return? Emptiness and suffering!” she cried fiercely. Then added, with a sombre triumph, “But she can never help him as I have helped! He can never need her as he has needed me!”

The end of the four years found the three embarked for India to try the effect of “suggestion” under a famous professor of the East. It was a forlorn chance, as it was doubtful if Flora retained enough brain power to respond to the treatment; but something was hoped from the change of scene and the healthful effects of the voyage.

Meriel welcomed the change with relief. Flora’s increasing disability had of late thrown her husband and friend into what was practically a prolonged tête-à-tête, and the strain of constant self-repression had grown beyond endurance. In the turmoil of travelling such close intimacy would be impossible, and her own tired nerves would be refreshed.

For the first fortnight all went well. The Bay was smooth, the Mediterranean blue and smiling; even Flora herself was roused to a feeble admiration. She was so quiet and amenable that Meriel was able to leave her for hours together in the charge of her maid, while she herself lay on a deck chair, luxuriating in the peace and beauty of the scene. Sometimes Sterne would sit by her side, and they would talk together,—brief, disconnected fragments of talk, interrupted by intervals of silence. They spoke of happier days; of their youth, their dreams and ambitions, the glowing optimism of early hopes.

Sterne had started his career with the finest ambition which a writer can know: a passing popularity would not satisfy him, money was regarded merely as a means to live; his aim was to write words which should endure after he himself was laid to rest, and to that aim he had held fast, despite all the trials and discouragements of his life. To him, as to every writer, came the realisation that his power to help and uplift was measured by his own suffering. His readers were enriched by his poverty. There were times when the knowledge soothed, times again when the natural man rose in revolt, and demanded bread for his own soul.

“You tell me that I have succeeded,” he said bitterly to Meriel; “but I have never tasted the savour of success. I have no child to inherit my name, and my wife does not care—even in the early days she cared nothing for my work. Never in her life has she read an article of mine from beginning to end. When I told her of a fresh commission she asked always—‘How much will it be?’ After the first year I never mentioned my work. The poorest clerk hurrying home to tell his wife of a ten-pound rise, feeling sure of her sympathy and understanding, is richer than I. He has his reward!”

Meriel found courage to ask a question which had long hovered on her lips.

“You were so very different. At school Flora never pretended to be intellectual. Why did you ever—”

“Marry her?” his face softened, he drew a retrospective sigh. “I loved her, Meriel! That was the reason. She was young, and sweet, and trustful, and when a pretty girl steals into a man’s heart he does not stop to inquire into her brain powers. I have reproached myself because the glamour so soon faded, but I am thankful to remember that it was an honest marriage; I loved her truly, and she loved me. My poor Flora! I believe she does still. It’s very pitiful.”

Meriel turned her head so that he should not see her face. The tenderness of his tone was painful to her, the thought of those early days of married love tortured her heart. The world seemed to her a cruel place, where men and women were tried beyond their strength.

“At least you have had something!” she told him wistfully. “Your golden time passed quickly, but you had the experience. You are a man, and to men work comes first. You can lose yourself in it, forget your disappointments, and escape to a new world. And you have made a great reputation. Men praise you, admire you, are helped by you. Doesn’t that help?”

“I wonder,” he said vaguely. “I wonder!”

They sat in silence gazing at the waste of waters sparkling in the noonday sun. When after some moments he spoke again, it was apparently to introduce a new topic.

“What do you feel about colour, Meriel? Does it speak to you? Look at those great waves today! ... The blue of them, the deepest, truest blue that it is possible to conceive, and the shafts of green, cutting across the blue, and the purple shadows, and above all, the foamy torrent of white! Things that one has done oneself are so poor, so unsatisfying; but the big things last. The sea comforts me, Meriel; the bigness of it, the beauty of it. Why should we fret, and be troubled? It will pass! Everything passes. We have only to be faithful; to stick to our posts, and look ahead!”

But Meriel was a woman, with a woman’s heart that refused to find comfort in philosophy. She looked at the changeful sea, but the very beauty of it brought a heavier weight, for she was one of the tender souls who are dependent on companionship for her joys. If Sterne had loved her, and had been free to love, she would have entered into his joy in Nature with ready understanding, but she was suffering from an intolerable loneliness of spirit, to which the glory of the scene around added the last touch of bitterness.

“It doesn’t comfort me,” she said. “I need something nearer; more personal; something of my own. You have suffered, but you have also enjoyed. It is easier to be resigned when you have possessed, even if the possessions have had to go. If you haven’t had all that you asked of life, at least you have had a great deal. Some of us have nothing!”

He looked at her as she gazed wistfully into space, a woman aged before her time, with a sweet sad face, worn with the burden of his own sorrows.

“What did you ask?” he inquired softly.

“I asked for Happiness,” Meriel said, and turned her eyes on him with a pitiful smile.

There was a long silence before he answered, but when he spoke his voice was tremulous with feeling.

“Ah, Meriel!” he cried; “and we have given you Duty! ... It’s a cold thing to fill a woman’s heart... I’ve reproached myself a thousand times.—I should not have allowed you to sacrifice yourself.—It must not go on!”

A spasm of fear ran through her veins.

“It’s the nearest approach to happiness I’ve ever known.”

“Nevertheless,” he said firmly, “it shall not go on. We have no right to murder your joy. Help me through the next few months, and then, whatever happens, we start afresh!”

“But if I want to stay?”

He shook his head with a finality from which she knew there was no appeal. What Geoffrey Sterne said he meant, to the last letter of the word, and there was no turning him from a decision. Meriel felt the terror of one who, playing among flowers, sees a sudden vision of a serpent’s head. A moment before their lives had seemed indefinitely linked, now, in a few months, must come separation, as complete as though they were at opposite ends of the world, for Sterne now lived entirely in his country home, and shunned the society of his fellows. She searched his face for some sign of grief, even of regret, but the stern features were set in a mask-like composure. The terrible suspicion stabbed her that he might be glad; that he was wearied of the burden of gratitude!

For the next few days Meriel and Sterne mutually avoided being left alone, which was the more easily accomplished, as Flora was showing signs of renewed restlessness and irritability. The novelty of the voyage had worn off, the heat of the Canal had tried her endurance, and dreaded symptoms called for renewed vigilance on the part of her attendants. Now they were out on the Indian Ocean; but for once the change brought little relief and the nerves of the travellers were tried still further by a slight accident to the engines, which involved a slackening of speed. They were within three days’ sail of Colombo when the glass fell sharply after a period of intense heat—a danger signal, which to the understanding was rendered more alarming by the sound of hammerings from below, denoting fresh mischief in the machinery. A cyclonic storm was upon them, and the boat altered her course to avoid its centre—a perilous business in face of the long chain of reefs stretching southward from the Laccadives. At nightfall there came up a grey swell accompanied by almost unbearable heat, the wind rapidly increased, and in an hour the gale burst upon them in all its fury. That night was a nightmare of horror, for although the boat was headed for the open sea, the crippled engines were unable to support the strain, and she was therefore driven back into the danger zone. The waters were lashed into a churning fury, the wind yelled with a deafening menace. Flora cowered in bed in a panic of terror, but to Meriel the tumult of the elements brought relief rather than dread. They voiced the tumult of her own mind; the shriek of the wind was as the shriek of her own tortured heart.

The dawn was breaking when the crash came, a thunderous crash of rock and steel as the great vessel struck the reef, shook herself free, and struck again, her stern grinding deep into the rock. In that moment every soul on board looked death in the face, and it seemed, indeed, as though death were inevitable. The heroic efforts of the crew succeeded in launching the boats, but several of the number were swamped before the eyes of the beholders, and for the rest the chance of survival on such a sea seemed small indeed. Even so, there was a fight for a place, for to remain on the ship meant a certainty of death, and the wildest chance is precious in such a plight, but among the men and women who fought and struggled was no member of Geoffrey Sterne’s party.

Flora’s panic of terror had been so violent that it had been necessary to drug her with a strong sleeping draught, and the faithful maid refused to leave her side. Sterne had, indeed, made an attempt to persuade Meriel to try for a place, but she had flamed into bitter anger, and he had not persisted. He saw her seated with the other waiting ones in the stern of the vessel, already tilted high above the bow, and turned in silence to make his way to his wife.

That moment for Meriel was the bitterest of all. The act of death itself had for her no terror; it was the parting from Geoffrey Sterne which wrung her heart. So inextricably had her life become woven with his that she had no wish to live in a world from which he was absent, and if she lived on, separation was bound to come. Only one unutterable regret filled her soul—she was going out into eternity a maimed, stunted thing, from whom had been withheld the meaning of life, the deepest part of whose nature had been persistently starved.

“If for even one minute I could have said, ‘I am happy!’ I could have died content. But I have never known happiness, and now death is coming, and I am waiting for it alone.”

In that last word lay the sting. She was alone; the solitary unit among the crowd who had no one to comfort her, and to comfort in return; to whose hand no one clung as to the one sure support. She was alone!

At that moment she saw him coming, edging his way along the sloping deck, with the sure foot, the calm, deliberate movements, which were so emblematic of his strength. Cautiously, slowly, as he came, there was never a moment of wavering in his course. His mind had registered her position among the crowd of waiting figures; quietly, steadily, he was making his way to her side.

Meriel looked around. Surrounded as she was, she was yet in a solitude as vast as space. To right and left the mummied figures crouched in hypnotised calm, oblivious of everything but themselves and their own peril. She was alone on the great deck,—alone, but for that other figure, climbing step by step to her side.

The early light shone on him as he came, lighting up his figure with an unearthly distinctness. She saw the grey streaks in the dark hair, the furrows which sorrow had carved upon his brow, yet despite them all there was about the whole figure an air of youth, an alertness and confidence of bearing, which she had never before beheld. He bore himself like a freed man, from whose limbs the fetters have fallen.

Another moment and he was beside her, crouched on the deck with his face close to her own. The freed look was in his eyes.

“She is still sleeping,” he said; “she will not wake. It is better so. I can do no more for her. And so—at last!—I can come to you.”

“Yes,” assented Meriel breathlessly. There was more to come, she read it in his face, in the thrilling tone of his voice. She waited, her being strung with an agony of longing.

“There are only a few minutes left, and we have waited so long! We must not waste them now that they are here... Come to me, Meriel!”

He held out his arms and she swayed into them; his lips were on hers; they clung together with the stored-up passion of years. For a minute the communion of touch brought a fullness of joy, then the craving arose to hear the wonder put into words.

“You love me? It is true? Oh, Geoffrey—how long?”

“Since the moment we met. How could I help it? It was inevitable. We belong!” He held her face between his hands, bending so close that she could feel his breath on her cheek. “You have been my star and my sun; sunshine of noon; light in the darkness. You have been comfort and rest; deliverance from despair. You have been my love, and my queen, and my inspiration; the one beautiful strong thing that stood fast among the ruins. Everything that a woman could be to a man you have been to me for four long years!”

“Thank God!” she sobbed. “Oh, thank God! It is worth it all to hear you say that. But, oh, Geoffrey, there were times—so many times! when I would have given my life a hundred times over to have lain like this, to have felt your arms. It was hard to struggle on, fighting one’s heart, and now at last when we have come together, to be obliged to part! Oh, Geoffrey, to say good-bye so soon!”

“No,” he said deeply. “Not that. We’ll say no good-bye. We have stuck to our posts, but where we are going there can be no tie but the one which binds your heart to mine. We belong! Nothing can part us. Shut your eyes, beloved! rest against me. It’s the night that is coming,—a short night, and a nightmare dream, and then, for you and me”—his voice swelled to a note of triumphant expectation—“the morning!”

“Oh, I’m so happy!” cried Meriel, trembling. “Oh, I’m so happy!”

The deck shivered and reeled. From every side rose a shrilling of voices. The great ship reared herself on end, and plunged headlong into the deep.

So the barrier fell!

Chapter Eight.

The Man who Wished for Danger.

Val Lessing’s thirtieth birthday found him strong, handsome, prosperous, and—discontented. This is unfortunately a common combination, but Val acknowledged to himself that if other men in like position had small cause to grumble, he himself had less, for while they ungraciously demanded of fate still more than they had received, his one annoyance was that he had enjoyed so much.

He had never desired to find himself at thirty a director of a prosperous City firm; the thing had come about through a succession of unforeseen events. The death of his father had made it necessary that he should take up business immediately after leaving Oxford; that was blow number one, for he had been promised a tour round the world before settling down to work, and in its place found himself obliged to look forward to yearly fortnights lengthening, as a reward of merit, to a possible three weeks.

Val hated the work, but he set himself to it with characteristic dash and energy. He possessed a bull-dog inability to let go of any scheme once undertaken, which marked him out sharply from the ordinary more or less mechanical employees, and endeared him to the principals of the firm.

The “Chief” singled him out for special service. His salary rose steadily year by year, and on the date on which this history begins, he had been formally presented with a proportion of shares, and advanced to the dignity of a Director in the Company.

“And now,” said the Chief in congratulation, “your foot is safely planted on the ladder of fortune. You can count on at least fifteen hundred a year.”

Walking towards his home that night Val grudgingly considered those words. As a sane, sensible man, he must of course rejoice that his work had brought him so good a reward, yet there was something in the wording of that sentence which chafed an old sore. Safe! That was the sting. A man of thirty years, and—safe! Secured from anxiety, lapped round with comforts—nothing to do now but keep steadily along the beaten rut. Eight-fifty Tube in the morning; six o’clock Tube at night; two-thirty Tube on Saturday afternoons, always the same black-coated, tall-hatted figure growing, with the passage of years, a thought heavier, a thought wider, but always sleek, always composed—always safe!

Val Lessing reviewed the prospect, and once again, more wildly than ever, his vagrant heart cried out in protest. Oh! it had been a different life to which he had looked forward in the days that were gone—the mad, glad, foolhardy days when all he had asked of fate was a passage through that highway of adventure, where a thrill lay behind every bush, and a danger at every turn.

Danger—danger—the very word brought exhilaration; the ring of it, the thrill of it, the wild, sweet savour which it bore! Oh, to be out on the highway, away from the treadmill of City life; oh, to wake in the morning, to pull aside a flapping canvas, inhale the clean air blowing over great plains, and across frowning ridges of mountains, to step forth on the day’s quest, sure of nothing, nothing in all the world, but of danger to overcome!

Val Lessing’s home was represented by a bachelor flat, presided over by a respectable middle-aged couple. The mother for whose sake he had resigned himself to a business career had died some years before, but he was still responsible for a young brother and sister, and obliged to make a home for them during holiday seasons. The noisy incursion was not always welcome, all the same the flat became a very dreary place when the lively pair had taken themselves schoolwards once more, and a solitary dinner was a thing to be avoided.

Lessing, as a bachelor, had grown into the habit of taking the evening meal in town, and had discovered a certain very Bohemian restaurant where most excellent cooking was supplied to as odd a looking company as ever assembled within four walls. He found a never-ending interest in watching his fellow diners and pondering over the secrets of their existence. It was at least safe to conclude that they did not share his own ground for complaint! Dinner over, Lessing frequently succumbed to an impulse which drew him towards a large corner house in a square adjoining his flat, wherein a particularly happy family party lived, and loved, and laughed, and extended the most cordial of welcomes to uninvited guests.

Mr Gordon was a business man, who, having accumulated a modest “pile,” had promptly retired from the City, and now devoted himself to the performance of good works for the benefit of others, and the collection of old china for the satisfaction of himself. Mrs Gordon was a matron of the plump and complacent order, an excellent manager, who did not know the meaning of fuss, and whose servants invariably stayed with her for years, and then departed, laden with spoils, to espouse a local baker or grocer, and live happily ever afterwards.

Delia, the daughter, was a minx. She was slim and tall, and had crinkly dark eyebrows, and an oval face, and misty grey eyes with a dreamy, faraway expression, and fringed with a double row of preposterously long eyelashes. She looked particularly dreamy and inaccessible when young men came in to call, and they mentally abased themselves before her, gazing with dazzled eyes at the pinnacle on which she stood, in maiden meditation,—exquisitely, wondrously, crystally unconscious of their own rough existence. And all the time there was not a line of their features, not a kink in their neckties, that that minx Delia did not see with the minuteness of a microscope!

Terence, the son, was walking the hospitals, kept a collection of bones in his coat pocket, and looked upon life as a huge jest organised for his special benefit; loyally returning the compliment by playing jests himself on every available opportunity. In holiday time, he was most useful as a companion to the two scholars with whom he was a prime favourite, but in term time Lessing regarded him with mitigated favour. As a conversationalist he preferred the father; as a confidante, the mother; where Delia was concerned he preferred a tête-à-tête. Terence was a very good sort, but he was apt to be decidedly de trop.

On the evening of the day on which he had been made a director of his company, Lessing took his way to the corner house, and found the amiable quartette disporting themselves after their separate ways in the comfortable sitting-room which was their favourite evening resort. Mr Gordon was reading the latest treatise on Oriental china. Mrs Gordon was knitting mufflers for deep-sea fishermen, and lending an appreciative ear to Delia, who, seated at the grand piano, was singing ballads in a very small but penetratingly sweet voice. It was part of Delia’s minxiness that she elected to sing songs intended for masculine lovers, wherein were set forth panegyrics which might most aptly be applied to herself. On this occasion she was declaiming that “My love is like a red, red rose that’s newly blown in June. Oh, my love’s like a mel-o-dy that’s sweetly played in tune”; and so sweet was the air, so sweet the rose-like bloom of her own youth, that her father’s eyes strayed continuously from his pages, and rested on her with an admiration reverent in its intensity. “She is too beautiful, too pure for this world”; his eyes seemed to say. “Can it be possible that she is really my own daughter?” The mother’s eyes strayed also, but there was no reverence in her gaze. She had been a minx herself.

Terence was reading the latest popular thriller, and from time to time diversifying the entertainment by kicking one of his patent leather pumps into the air, and adroitly fitting his toes into it on its return journey, an accomplishment on which he had wasted golden hours.

They all looked up and smiled a welcome as Val Lessing entered and went round the room greeting each member of the family in turn.

“Good evening, Mrs Gordon. Good evening, sir. Delia, please! Don’t let me interrupt.”

Delia smiled absently, and crossed the room to a deep chair which was supplied with an admirable foil for white shoulders in the shape of a black satin cushion. She had the air of being only partially aware of Lessing’s presence, but in reality she was acutely conscious of everything concerning him, even to a certain air of impatience which was due to the importance of the news which he had to communicate. Delia was in love with Val Lessing, and was uncomfortably aware of the fact. Val was in love with Delia, but remained as yet in comfortable ignorance. Delia had always planned that it should be the other way about. She had pictured herself being wooed with assiduous devotion by a lover who refused to be daunted by a dozen noes. It was ignominious to realise that she was now waiting impatiently for the chance to cry, “Yes, please!”

Val seated himself, nodding carelessly at Terence, who greeted him by a brilliant example of slipper catching, and cried genially:

“Well, old Tomkins, what’s the matter with you? You look as if something was sitting pretty heavy on your chest!”

“It is!” said Val, and Delia’s heart went a little excursion on its own accord. Was he going to say that he was engaged?

“Good news, I hope, eh, Lessing?” cried Mr Gordon, and for the fraction of a second Val hesitated.

“Er—yes. I suppose—that is, of course, it is very good indeed. I’ve been made a director.”

Everybody exclaimed, everybody enthused, everybody congratulated, with the exception of Delia, who asked lazily: “What is a director?” and yawned when she was told. Mr Gordon showed the sympathy of understanding, but after putting many questions, and listening to halfhearted replies, he frowned, and delivered himself of an honest criticism.

“You’re not half as pleased as you ought to be, Lessing! A man of your age ought to be thankful to be in such a position. A start of fifteen hundred a year—in such a firm too. Good, safe, solid people. No fear of them going in for speculation and landing you in the bankruptcy court. Humanly speaking you’re safe from anxiety for the rest of your life.”

“Er—yes. That’s just it.” Lessing said vaguely, but his friends understood. It was not the first time that he had rebelled in their hearing; not the first time by many that he had sighed for the vagrant’s lot.

“He doesn’t want to be safe, bless you! That’s just what gets him on the raw!” Terence said grinning. “He wants to be a fire-and-thunder swashbuckler, out on the pathless wilds.”

“What is a swashbuckler?” asked Delia, and Val laughed, and said:

“The very opposite to a director in a black coat and tall hat, Delia. Think it out for yourself! I only wish I had the chance.”

Delia looked thoughtful. She was apportioning fifteen hundred pounds on the upkeep of her future home. She decided on a small flat and a runabout car, and rather thought that the drawing-room should be pink. Mrs Gordon said seriously:

“Dear Val, you must get the better of these foolish ideas! They are spoiling your life. You have so much that other men want, that it seems really wicked to be discontented because you have not—trouble! Oh, my dear boy, it will come soon enough! You ought to be thankful!”

“But it’s not trouble, Mrs Gordon! I want trouble no more than any other man. It’s danger that fascinates me—adventure—the thrill of the unknown. It was born in me, I suppose. My ancestors were a race of explorers. If I had been able to have a fling in my youth, I might have been able to settle down, but I went straight from Oxford to the City, and a longing that is bottled up doesn’t diminish, it goes on growing all the time. When Mr Baron told me the news to-day, I felt—you’ll be horrified at my ingratitude!—as if a halter had been slipped round my neck.”

Mr Gordon shook his head.

“It’s a thousand pities that you could not take that trip! If you’d been my son I’d have packed you off with five pounds in your pocket, to work your own way round the world. You’d have had enough excitement to last you for the rest of your life—and danger into the bargain. You’d be thankful then to settle down to your present life.”

“Oh, I’m thankful enough now. It’s quite a good life as things go, but just a bit boring.”

Terence kicked his slipper once more.

“Well—what price the hospital ball next week? That won’t be boring, I give you my word. We’re having a party to dinner here, and going on together. If you like to chip in—”

“Terence! Don’t be cruel. We really must not add to his boredom!” cried Delia, smiling, but there was an edge in her smile.

Terence grimaced expressively at Lessing, a grimace which said, “Now you’ve done it! She’s got her knife into you for that remark!”

Kindly Mrs Gordon sensed the strain in the atmosphere, and said quickly:

“Do sing something more to us, Delia darling. You had only begun. A few more of those dear old ballads!”

Delia was like her mother, she never made a fuss, so she rose with a slow, graceful gesture, seated herself in her old place, and sang one strain after another with the utmost good humour. The last of all was that delightful ballad entitled “Phillida flouts me,” and this she delivered with much energy and verve, throwing aside her languid airs to adopt the very attitude of the damsel of the song.

Lessing loved to hear Delia sing, and to-night he laughed with the rest, at the pretty by-play of tossing head and curling lips, but he was not altogether happy in his mind. He remembered the chill of the girl’s voice a few minutes before, as she said: “We mustn’t bore him still more!” and he felt uncomfortable as if it were he himself who was being flouted.

As he walked down the quiet streets on his way home, the words repeated themselves in his brain:

“Oh, what a plague is love! I cannot bear it. Alack and well a-day. Phillida flouts me!”

It was the night after the hospital ball, and Lessing was dining at his favourite restaurant, hoping thereby to counteract a fit of unusual depression. He had not enjoyed that ball; it was borne in upon him that Delia had not intended him to enjoy it. She had deliberately filled her programme before the night, and vouchsafed him only one extra, and during the dancing thereof had stopped three times over to inquire if he were quite sure he was not bored! Delia was angry with him. Delia most pronouncedly was disposed to “flout.” There was an ache at Lessing’s heart which seemed ludicrously out of proportion with the cause.

For the first half of his meal he sat alone at his table, then the seat opposite him was taken by one of the swarthy bearded foreigners with which the place abounded. He was a man of early middle age, with a mop of black hair slightly tinged with grey, overhanging eyebrows, and a general air of poverty and Bohemianism. He ate hungrily, as though such good food did not often come his way, and as he ate his eyes roamed stealthily round the room. Lessing decided that he was in search of a confederate—the man’s appearance suggested the word—and that he was puzzled and alarmed by the absence of what he sought. He decided to dally with his own meal so as to see this thing out. Many a time he had longed for an opportunity of adventure. Now it might be at hand. If the two men met, he would leave the restaurant in their wake and track them through the narrow streets! He recalled written scenes concerning open doorways, fights on staircases, and the like, and thrilled with anticipation.

Throughout his meal the Bearded One continued his scrutiny, and Lessing noticed that his glance lingered tentatively on one or two men present as though uncertain of their identity. It was not entirely by appearance, then, that he could distinguish his confederate! There was evidently a sign which would expose one to the other, and then suddenly, with his eyes fixed on a diner at an adjacent table, the Bearded One raised his knife, and with a clean, incisive movement swept the salt from his plate on to the table.

The other diner ate on undisturbed, but an electric shock of excitement tingled through Lessing’s veins. More than once before he had observed this deliberate spilling of the salt on the round-topped tables of that restaurant, so often, indeed, that he had made sure in his own mind that it was in the nature of a signal from one member of a fraternity to another. The spilling of the salt—symbol from all ages of disaster, a meet signal indeed for these dark and dangerous men!

With an impulse which crystallised the longings of years, Lessing attracted his companion’s attention by a hasty movement, and then, lifting high his knife, swept his own salt on to the cloth so that the white dust scattered and mingled with the dust already spread.

The effect was instantaneous. The swarthy face bent forward to meet his own, the eyes gleamed, the guttural voice breathed a deep, low word:

“Brother!”

“Brother!” whispered Lessing in return. His pulses were racing, but he held himself resolutely in hand. A false move might spoil all. He must be silent, and let the other man do the talking. He sat in an attitude of attention while the Bearded One crouched over the table, speaking in baited tones. His accent was rather Jewish than foreign, a thick, ugly voice, thickened as though by some physical obstruction.

“I have been waiting. The time is short. I must be hurrying on. There are many places where I must carry the news!” His voice sank to an almost unhearable depth. “It is for to-night!”

“To-night!” gasped Lessing in return. His real dismay at the nearness of the unknown happening supplied a genuine note to his exclamation, and it appeared that surprise was expected.

“To-night! To-night! The chief has given the order. It is his way to make all ready, and at the last to give but a few hours’ notice. It is safer so. He has a wise head. All is arranged, and to-morrow, by this time to-morrow—” His lips rolled back, the large prominent teeth gleamed in a smile of diabolic delight. “London, the city of the oppressors—what will be left of the great London then? Nothing but a wilderness of fire and ruin!”

Lessing’s blood ran cold. An adventurer at heart, he yet had the true Englishman’s love of the metropolis. At the thought of danger to London he winced as at a personal wound; in his heart dawned the surprising conviction that he would risk his own life, not once, but a dozen times over, to avert the destruction of that grey old pile.

The destruction of London—mad words! Mad fancy! Was this man a maniac that he spoke of such an impossible feat? Agitated, almost gasping for breath, Lessing heard himself stammer detached words of inquiry:

“When? Where? Where—How do they start—?”

The answer came back in a low hissing whisper:

“The oil tanks on the Thames! Ah-ha, it is a great scheme, a fine scheme. The fuel is lying there, ready to our hands. Three Brothers have volunteered for the bomb throwing. They will die for a great cause. Their names will be remembered as martyrs among us. The burning oil will flare out to the Thames. Think of it! Think of it! A river of flaming oil, joined by other rivers; all the tanks exploded, one by one; the stream of fire flowing along, leaving behind burning shipping, burning banks, spreading ruin to right and left. Think of it, Brother, think of it! Think of the dark stairways and passages, where a man may creep, a man with a torch helping the work, sending the sparks to a fresh home. Who can guard miles of river bank? Who can distinguish one worker from another? Ah, it will be a brave night, a brave night. We have waited, Brother, we have appeared to submit, but now—now—”

His voice grew hoarse with excitement. Lessing pressed his knee gently beneath the table.

“Careful. Be careful. We are observed. Give me my orders!”

The Bearded One drew himself up, and made a pretence of continuing his meal. His voice sank to its old, guttural tones.

“To stay here, and pass round the word. All the Brothers to be on duty, except those watched by the police. Red Fist and Wharbuton to leave by the nine o’clock train from Charing Cross, and cross to Paris. Their departure is to be as public as possible. It would be well if they were given a send-off. If they are out of the way the watch will be relaxed. At all costs they must be found. I go on to other places, you stay here, meet other Brothers, give them all this message. Red Fist and Wharbuton to be found and sent off. All others on duty to-night. Not a moment to waste.”

“Right,” said Lessing quickly, and the Bearded One rose from his seat. Then followed a moment of tension, for suddenly, as if in default of a parting signal, the beetling brows frowned upon him, and a glance of indecision swept across the face. Lessing sensed the danger, and leaped to avert it. Touching the salt with his fingers, he said meaningly: “We are watched, Brother. We are watched!” and bent his head over his plate.

There was a breathless silence, then the thick voice bade him good night, and he knew that the danger was past. The next moment the swing doors of the restaurant opened and shut. The Bearded One had disappeared.

For an endless five minutes Lessing forced himself to sit still, then he paid his account, put on his hat, and opening the door, stood on the outer step of the restaurant looking anxiously to right and to left. He had purposely left behind his coat, since in the event of finding the Bearded One still hanging about, he could then be able to assert that he was impatiently waiting for the arrival of more Brothers. The night was chill and there were but few pedestrians in the narrow street. Running his eye to right and left he could count a dozen in all, no one of whom bore any resemblance in figure or clothing to his late companion.

A better moment for escape could not be desired, and as if sent by Providence a taxi suddenly came into sight, and the chauffeur held up an inquiring hand. In another second Lessing was seated inside, and had given an address in Mayfair. He did not risk returning for his coat, a telephone message to the manager would possibly secure it from theft, if not the coat must go. This was not a moment for considering coats.

Lessing sat motionless on his seat until the taxi had covered a couple of miles westwards, when he touched the communicating cord and startled the chauffeur by an imperative order:

“Scotland Yard. And as quick as you can go!”

Throughout the years that followed Lessing remembered his interview with the Scotland Yard officials with a smarting indignation. To his excited senses the calmness, the stolidity, the insistent incredulity which greeted his story, were exasperating to the last degree. He discovered to his dismay that the first impression left on his hearers was that he himself was drunk, but the realisation forced him to a composure which won an eventual grudging attention. The officials reiterated that the scheme propounded was impracticable, but a minute description of the Bearded One, together with the signal of the spilling of salt, made an undoubted effect. It was known to the police that such a signal did indeed exist among certain societies, and its usage on the present occasion was of evident weight. Lessing was assured that immediate steps should be taken to ensure the safety of the oil tanks. He had the satisfaction of hearing telephonic messages dispatched to various police centres, giving instructions for largely increased guard. There was nothing more to be done. He had given the alarm; had held to his point until he had succeeded in securing immediate help. Sleep was impossible for him that night, but he would return to his rooms, pass the time with a book and a pipe, until the fateful hour had passed. He passed out into the street, and looked round for the taxi which he had instructed to wait. To his annoyance it was not to be seen, but after a momentary hesitation it occurred to him that there might be some rule forbidding vehicles to remain before the entrance, as in the crowded thoroughfares of the west, and that he might find the man waiting round one of the nearest turnings. He strode on therefore, but without success, till finally he decided to take the nearest cut which should lead him to a Tube station. The cut was represented by a narrow lane, lined on either side with small shops. Lessing walked sharply, looking neither to right nor left. The interview had left him nervously exhausted, and he shivered in the chill night air; he was irritated with the recalcitrant chauffeur, irritated with himself for failing to do the one sensible thing under the circumstances—turn back into the office, and telephone for another car. To walk through the streets in the vicinity of Scotland Yard, a noticeable figure without outer coat or wrapping, was the last thing in the world which he should have done on such an occasion.

But it was too late to turn back. A few more minutes would take him to the Tube station, or better still to a thoroughfare where he could pick up another car.

By this time Lessing had reached the end of the cross-road, at which was situated an eating-house of a rough and unsavoury appearance. As he approached the door it opened, and a group of men streamed into the street, talking together in some eager unintelligible patois, at the sound of which a shiver of impending danger shot through Lessing’s veins. Instinctively he averted his head, and quickened his pace, but instinct was a true prophet, it projected the coming event upon his brain, so that he knew what was before him, before the dark, bearded face glared into his, and the thick voice hissed the eloquent word into his ear:

“Traitor!”

Lessing did not stop to think. He was one to six, and escape was the necessity of the moment. He took to his heels, ran at full speed until the narrow lane was left behind, and the lights of Trafalgar Square shone around him, when following his first impulse he leaped into a taxi, and told the man to drive to Oxford Circus.

He had behaved like a fool, and like a fool he had been trapped, but the game was not yet up. His identity was unknown, and by avoiding the neighbourhood of the restaurant he could with ease cut himself off from all likelihood of encountering the Brethren. Lessing’s blood tingled in his veins, his whole being was flooded with exhilaration. Here was life, here was excitement, here, at long last, within the confines of the grey city itself, was the thrill of pursuit! For they would be after him, following him no doubt in one of the numerous cars blocking the roads, with intent to track him to his lair, but Lessing laughed at the thought with glad youthful confidence. He was not to be caught twice over. He would give them a run—such a run as they had not known for many a long day, but he would slip them in the end!