TABLE of CONTENTS

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

CHAPTER XII.

CHAPTER XIII.

CHAPTER XIV.

CHAPTER XV.

CHAPTER XVI.

CHAPTER XVII.

CHAPTER XVIII.

CHAPTER XIX.

CHAPTER XX.

CHAPTER XX.

CHAPTER XXII.

CHAPTER XXIII.

CHAPTER XXIV.

CHAPTER XXV.

CHAPTER XXVI.

CHAPTER XXVII.

CHAPTER XXIX.

CHAPTER XXX.

CHAPTER XXXI.

CHAPTER I.

“The Castle, ma’am?” said the man with the car, when the second portmanteau had been artfully tied to the elementary ironwork of the driver’s seat by the aid of the ravellings of the lash of his whip: all the cordage in his possession had been previously used up in making secure —moderately secure—the two trunks which he had built up on the foundation of the “well” of his car, so that he had been compelled to tie on the whipcord of the lash to the depending strands to meet the emergency of the unstable portmanteau on the footboard. “The Castle, ma’am, were you saying?”

“The Castle,” repeated Mrs. La Roache in a tone that ts lacking in the assertiveness of an order. This decency had not been lacking in a previous announcement of her destination. She had then felt that a chatelaine might without reproach adopt a tone of self-assertion. During the few minutes that slipped by, however, she had modified her views in this particular: she had noticed a peculiar blankness in the look of the car driver as he repeated her words, “The Castle,” and then the binding cordage had to be eked out by the ravelled whipcord. She began to feel uneasy.

Her daughter Claire, on whom she turned a quick eye, laughed pleasantly, reassuringly; but this suggestion of a need for reassurance increased her mother’s misgivings.

“We cannot by some evil Irish chance have come to the wrong station,” said the elder lady, seeing that the blank look on the man’s face—the very negation of intelligence—had not disappeared. He had removed his battered grey hat—Claire knew that its local name was a caubeen; the lilt of the song of “The Old Caubeen,” which her father had been in the habit of singing with a lyrical tumbler in front of him, came back to her, but the crows flapping overhead—the more distant ones like fluttering autumnal leaves against the grey sky—made a mockery of the chorus.

“The Castle, your ladyship?” said the driver, passing a meditative forefinger crooked like a note of interrogation through a tangled forelock. “And which castle is it that your ladyship would be after wanting?”

“Heavens!” cried Mrs. La Roache, lifting up hands of astonishment before her daughter, “are there more castles than ours in this region? The place doesn’t look as if it were capable of supporting more than one.”

“Perhaps it is the Castle that was meant to support the place,” suggested Claire.

“Have you never heard of Castle Finnbar, my good man?” said Mrs. La Roache.

“By the powers, I’ve heard of Castle Finnbar, but what’s the name of the castle that your ladyship’s in search of?” said the man.

The lady concealed her despair by an exclamation of casual impatience.

“Was there ever such stupidity?” she muttered through her set teeth, shaking her head at her daughter. “Oh, I give the man up. Try to make him understand, Claire.”

“We are going to Castle Finnbar, Denis,” said the girl, taking a step forward. (She had seen the name “Denis O’Keefe” painted on one of the shafts—the one that was spliced with waxed cord-—of the car.) “We are going to Castle Finnbar. We are the La Roaches, so that it is our castle now that Colonel La Roache—my father— is dead. Take us there as soon as you can, only don't beat your horse.”

“I wouldn’t waste the leather on the baste now that the whipcord is put to better employment, miss,” said the man, with a broadish smile, which, however, he checked with the suddenness of a camera shutter—Claire fancied that she could hear the click that terminated the exposure of the smile. He was grave as basalt. “And why shouldn’t I have known the looks of you and her ladyship, your mother, considering that you both is as like the Colonel, rest his sowl, as one bit of blue sky is like another? And ’twas myself druv him to the railway station long years before it was built, so I did, when that was the last we saw of the good ould family, and, more by token, says he, ‘Denis,’ says he——”

“He said all that when he was sitting on the car,” said Claire, “and that’s why I think we had better sit on the car, too, so that it may all be brought more home to us. How on earth are we to reach the step—the foot of the stirrup is gone?”

“ Castle ‘Finnbar is a goodish way off, miss,” said the man, “and ’tis barely safe on the glen road at night.”

“At night! but it is not night yet—nor within two hours of night,” cried Claire. “We’re not afraid. Hasn’t everyone heard of the name of La Roache in this country?”

“Sorra a one that hasn’t heard of the name of Roache, anyway,” said the man. “And the Colonel, before he was the Colonel, was the heart’s core of all for miles round; but you’d do best to let me carry on the thrunks while you stay the night at Cahill’s Hotel in the town. The town’s only six miles from here; only six miles with a good horse—of course, ’tis a bit longer with a bare-ribbed skeleton like himself.”

He pointed derisively at the outlined animal that the shafts upheld.

“Nothing of the sort,” cried Mrs. La Roache, with a vehement shrillness over which the lazy flapping crows became sarcastic. “I tell you, my man, we are expected at the Castle, and to the Castle we shall go.”

At the stamp of one of her feet the driver turned upon her with a look that was certainly not deficient in intelligence—an intelligible intelligence, and that of disaster.

“Mount the car in God’s name, but don’t blame me afterwards,” said he in definite tones, and then turned quickly away with an instinct of tact, while the ladies prepared to mount the high step of the car—it was like climbing over a stile with no stepping-stone. By kneeling on the footboard Claire made some progress in the ascent to the seat, and when there she stretched down a helping hand to her mother. After an effort they were side by side.

“Heavens!” sighed the elder lady when her panting became articulate. “Heavens! how is it expected that we shall get down now that we have perched ourselves'up here?”

“ Let us pray that the descent be not sooner than we expect,” said her daughter.

“I’ve a biscuit-box in the well to do duty as a step for them that’s a bit short o’ limb, but I wouldn’t insult a lady at all by putting it before her,” said the car driver, looking with respectful admiration at the mother and daughter. He then clambered up to his own seat at the horse’s tail, and without showing that he was appreciably hampered by the portmanteau which he was forced to bestride, he put his horse to the rickety shamble that seemed to be its normal gait on the road from the wayside station of Mullacahir.

“Heaven be praised! we are within measurable distance of rest,” said Mrs. La Roache.

“Home! We shall soon know the meaning of the word: it will be for the first time in my life,” said her daughter.

Denis O’Keefe gave a startling laugh.

The crows were annoyingly sarcastic.

The road was not a bad one for the first mile or two. It was unpicturesque. When it became picturesque it became bad. The exclamation that came from Mrs. La Roache when a sudden turn on the brink of the hill gave a glimpse of the half-gloom of Glentorc, was forced from her not solely by reason of her appreciation of the grandeur of the scene. She was not quite unseated, however: Claire had maintained a firm grasp on the ironwork of the seat with one hand and her mother with the other.

There it stretched—a mighty cleft in the landscape, full of fantastic rock-shapes, sombre depths of darkness, dwindling distances of larch and pine, here and there a boss of vivid green—a fairy carpet flung at random among the trees—and at irregular intervals, a sash of silver quivering in its windings, as it enwove itself among brown mosses and green, to join the mackerel hues of the stream in the very depths of the glen.

And the silence and solemn loneliness of it all! The many streams were whispering “Hush.” There was no sound, no sign, of anything of life in the glen. It was as silent as a monochrome.

“Indeed,” said Claire, “I have often imagined such an Irish glen.”

“Gloomy,” said her mother with a shiver. “I can understand people in such a region finding it past endurance and flying from it for ever as your father did. Oh, what gloom! It is no wonder that the Irish are gloomy by nature.”

“My father never ceased to love the land,” said the daughter.

“He took very good care to cease to live in it,” said the mother, with an attempted shrug—the lurching of the car was prejudicial to the nuances of a shrug. One does not attempt shades of expression when crying out on the edge of a precipice, and driving for the first time on an Irish car gave Mrs. La Roache the sensation of a succession of hairbreadth escapes.

“But after all one cannot see Ireland to judge of it in a single afternoon,” said Claire cheerfully.

“English statesmen differ from you,” said her mother.

Claire knew better than to fancy that her mother was acquiring an interest in Ireland. The remark was one which her father had made more than once in her hearing—mostly on the receipt of an English mail.

“Government by patent medicines,” Colonel La Roache had termed the Irish legislation of both Radicals and Conservatives. “Do they expect to build up a lasting constitution by an apothecary’s prescriptions—and a quack at that?” Claire had heard him say more than once. When he had found what he considered to be an apt phrase he did not let it go at once.

“Poor father!” said Claire as the glen folded its sides together, the car passing beyond the line of its furthest ridges. “Poor father!”

Her mother sighed.

“Poor father, indeed,” she said. “Poor father, poorer mother, poorest child! You should have married Guzman, Claire—indeed you should. Don’t you think so, now that you have seen an Irish glen?”

“I am glad that I did not, now that I have seen an Irish glen,” replied Claire.

Her mother was impatient—in Bulgarian—and then she sighed in English. Bulgarian is the language of impatience. English is the language of resignation. No one can be effectively resigned except in English.

And then the landscape changed once more. The road curved boldly round the lower slope of a hill and entered a long pass, a mountain of purple heather on one hand, grey cliffs with the sparkle of crystal on the other, darkness at the dwindling of the two hills in the distance.

“Romantic,” said Claire, greatly interested.

“As the scene of an opera,” said her mother. “Why has Ireland never produced a poet, a musician, a painter?”

“It has produced nothing else, alas and alas!” said Claire.

“Your father?”

“All three. That is what they meant when they called him an Irish adventurer.”

“He was an adventurer.”

“That is only another way of saying that he was a man of imagination.”

"Adventures do not pay, my child.”

"On the contrary, they have to be paid for. My father paid his debts in this respect in full, and retained his receipts; we are his receipts, mother—you and I.”

Her mother turned a drab eye upon her. She failed to understand her daughter at least once in every conversation, and misunderstood her at all other times.

"Would to Heaven we were comfortably in bed,” she said. "Surely we should be near the Castle by this time. Driver, are we near the Castle?”

"Tis a bit further on, your ladyship,” he replied. "But don’t fear, we’ll be there soon enough.”

“It cannot be too soon,” said the lady, giving the phrase the quality of a moan. “I wonder what a bit further means, Claire?”

"It means just the distance you would like it to be,” said Claire, whose heritage was a knowledge of what it meant to be Irish.

At this moment the car shook itself free from the gloom of the pass, and in a second the grandeur of the landscape to which it led rolled upon the travellers. Lough Garry stretched itself out before their eyes like a sheet of gauze floating in the breeze—on it stretched into the hazy distance, the hundred islands seeming on its surface like the green thread embroidery of spots on a fabric of film. On the island that seemed largest because it was separated from the roadway by no more than a rippling riband of water, there were the ruins of a round tower and several tiny churches, with Celtic crosses among the long grasses, and on another there still stood the square battlement of a castle tower.

The shore to the left of the lough seemed low, but that toward which the car was slowly moving was bold, with grey cliffs and slope rising above slope billowy with heather, and far away a brown forest.

“Ireland—Ireland!” cried Claire, drinking in of the beauty of all that was before her eyes.

“Ireland—a land of ruins!” said her mother, pointing to the island below the road. “And no sign of our destination. Shall we ever reach it, I wonder. Driver, how soon shall we be there?”

“Oh, soon enough—soon enough indeed; ’tis not long that well be on the road now,” he replied in the soft tones of the one who evades.

“But how long—how long exactly?” insisted the lady in the tone of one dissatisfied with the abstract.

“Soon enough—oh, not far now—by no manner o’ manes, my lady,” said the man.

And no more could either Mrs. La Roache or her daughter get from him. He was the survivor of a race who saved their skins by evasion.

The afternoon dimmed into evening and onward still the car lurched—slowly—painfully—along the road—up the lower slopes for long miles, and the evening was darkling into night before it turned aside from the lake and began to thread its way through a forest of firs where night reigned supreme. For an hour the travellers went through the Valley of the Shadow. Gloom enclosed them and silence on every hand save for the alternate threats and persuasions that came from the driver to his horse. Mrs. La Roache and her daughter had settled down into that indifference which is worse than despair itself. Seven hours in a train, following a night on a choppy Channel, three hours at wayside stations waiting for absurd “connections,” then three more hours on the solid seat of a jolting car that might have been travelling through a jungle, had made them think of Agag, except in the matter of gait: they did not go delicately, but they felt that surely the bitterness of death was past.

They emerged from the wood scarcely knowing of it, but by the slope of the car they knew but too well that they were on a descent, and then there was a spark of light Denis O'Keefe became exultant in the Irish tongue, but checked himself with great tact.

“That’s the Castle itself, praise the Powers!” he cried in his English, but though Claire tried to say something cheerful to her mother, the attempt was gloomy.

“I want te go to bed,” murmured her mother.

“And you shall—I promise you that you shall,” cried the girl, groping for her hand. “Think of it, dearest— we are at home. Home, mind you, home! Hasn’t it been our home for hundreds of years—ever since the days of Black Hugh? You remember all that my father told us about Black Hugh, and now we are at his Castle —if we have not gone hopelessly astray among those terrible roads.”

There was a derisive hooting of owls around them and a strange, terrifying whirring of wings about them when the car came to a standstill.

Claire threw aside the rugs and forced herself to stand upright on the step of the car to recover from her cramped position. But she dared not jump to the ground. She had no confidence in her power to judge of the distance. She thought it prudent to kneel on the step and so lower herself gently.

“We have stopped in the middle of long grass,” she cried when she had reached the ground. “Surely there must be a carriage-drive, Denis.”

“Yourself is upon it, miss,” said he. “’Twas a grand carriage-drive that it was entirely, and it only needs the swish of a scythe to resthore it.”

“What can Mr. Sullivan have been thinking about?” said Claire.

She groped her way round the car, and found herself at the foot of a high flight of steps in front of a great building, the outline of which she could just perceive by the aid of a feeble light that came from a low window.

At that moment there was the sound of a heavy foot walking across hollow boards, a door at the head of the steps opened, and a mistily mysterious light pervaded the doorway. It was enough to show faintly the figure of a man standing in its midst; and a voice cried—

“Welcome to the last of the Roaches—a hundred thousand welcomes this night from Castle Finnbar.”

“’Tis ould Timmy himself,” said the driver. “This must be one of his good days.”

CHAPTER II.

Claire, standing at the bottom of the steps, called up to him—

“You are Mr. Sullivan? We are half dead with fatigue after our long journey. We had no idea that the Castle was so inaccessible. Will you kindly send out a couple of the servants for our luggage? We have not brought much with us—only a few trunks.”

“I’ll have two of the rascals with you in a jiffy,” said he. “And then I hope to have the honour of shaking by the hand the widow of my old friend, Garrett Roache— aye, and his charming daughter.”

He tramped back to the hall, and his voice could be heard shouting for Thomas and James, and abusing them for idle rascals.

Denis O’Keefe, busy unfastening the cordage of the trunks, gave a laugh. He had wheeled his horse so as to bring the side on which Mrs. La Roache was sitting close to the steps. This manoeuvre had enabled her to dismount with a minimum of risk. She was complaining of cramp, and Claire suggested that she should go to her room without delay. Before she had reached the top of the steps, however, Mr. Sullivan returned from his summoning of the servants.

“Not one of them to be found high or low,” he cried in a tone of abject despair. “I’ll give them notice tomorrow, so I will. I’ll learn them a lesson that’ll do them for the rest of their life, the skulking hounds! I wouldn’t for a hundred guineas that such a thing had occurred on this particular night, my dear Mrs. Roache. I give you my word that I wouldn’t, my dear young lady. Pray step inside, and I promise you that Denis and I will manage the luggage between us. I give you my word that I look on it as a privilege to be able to serve you in any capacity.” “I will pay Denis first,” said Claire. “How much have I to give you for that long drive, Denis?”

“We won’t talk of it now, miss; I’ll drop in for it tomorrow,” said the driver. “’Twould be nothing short of a disgrace to ask the Roaches to pay ready money for anything. You’ll be in need of a rest, miss, and you’ve had troubles enough for one day.”

Claire laughed. She had never heard that such a form of evasion as this was an Irish characteristic. She followed her mother into the broad hall of the Castle, the sentiment of home being ever present with her. They had been wanderers, but they were now at home.

Her mother was standing in the centre of the hall, gazing around her, holding a lighted candle above her head.

“Merciful Heaven! what is this place we have come to?” she cried. “Tell me, Claire, if you can, what is the meaning of this. All that we have passed through to-day has been like a strange dream. Is this part of a horrible dream?”

Claire was dumb. She was ready to burst into tears. After the weariness and the dreariness of the day through which she had passed, the disappointment of the moment when she looked around her was too much for her.

The hall was a ruin. At one time it had been lined with oak, but now the panelling had been allowed to become rotten in all but a few places. A great portion of it had actually broken away from the walls, disclosing patches of the original mortar lining, covered with a thick fungus. The roof was groined, but the central cross-beam was broken, and the parted ends hung halfway down the walls. In every corner of the rafters that remained the candlelight showed the projecting straw and twigs of birds’ nests, and the bare and shaky planks of the floor were strewn here and there with the debris of a nesting season, for scarcely a pane of glass remained in the high narrow windows on each side of the door, so that birds had no trouble as to their entrances or exits. Through one of these broken panes a branch of ivy from the wall without had insinuated itself, and after years of clambering had enwound several of the rafters, and dropped in heavy festoons where the rotten wood had given way under the stress of its weight The hall at least was a ruin.

But still Claire bore up.

“It is very bad just here—it is really ludicrously bad just here—it would make one laugh, only . . . but it cannot be anything like this upstairs,” she said, putting an arm about her mother. “Let us make our way to our rooms, and by the time we are ready for supper the servants will be found.”

“Were there ever such victims of misfortune?” moaned the mother, going to where a flight of shallow steps was dimly visible at the end of the hall, the shadows of herself and Claire flying fantastically in the candlelight over the fantastic things of the walls and roof.

The stairs shrieked beneath their cautiously treading feet, but Claire perceived with great relief that the staircase was sound. She had great hopes for the rooms to which it led. Even though she did stumble over a great heap of fallen plaster at the beginning of the corridor, she had some hopes for the rooms.

She was not so hopeful when the candle which she held was extinguished by a bat Her mother shrieked and made a convulsive grasp for her arm in the blackness of the darkness, and Claire herself was trembling, though she affected to treat the incident as ridiculous.

“Birds I suspected; I never thought of bats,” said she. “Let me hold your hand. I know our bearings. We can easily find our way down the stairs again.”

“Bats! There is no hope for us—no hope!” wailed her mother.

“Hope—there is plenty of hope: we have come through the worst,” said Claire.

She groped her way along the wall, taking doubtful steps backward. And all the time there was the sound of the scurrying of rats or some mysterious creatures of the night along the corridor; and she was conscious of a leathern wing making a current of air as it flittered past her face. She heard the banging of a door in the distance, and she fancied that it was followed by a hooting laugh.

At last her hand was on the banisters, and the descent of the stairs was easy. The old man whose name was Sullivan was seated on one of the trunks that had been carried by Denis into the hall. He was nursing a candle lantern, and the effect of the light shining upward upon his face was that of an old Dutch picture of light and gloom. The shadow on the wall behind him was awful.

He got upon his feet, and then Claire saw that he was wearing a dress-coat of obsolete shape and pantaloons that clung to his shanks. He was a little old man with a white face shrunken small, and long, thin hair. But his eyes—the girl saw the gleam within them when he turned them upon her. She caught her breath.

“Welcome, ladies!” he began, with a bow and a wave of his hand. He wore the tattered cuffs of his shirt turned over the cuffs of his old coat. He was unreal. The girl felt herself to be in the presence of a ghost—a feeble phantom of the past haunting the ruin of a noble house. There was nothing lacking from the illusion of the picture before her eyes.

“Welcome,” he cried again. “If I had known for sure that you would be here this night I would have thought it my duty to fill the Castle with guests to do you honour. We have pretty bobbish parties in the Castle now and again—ah, yes, pretty bobbish, all things considered. We are sad rakes, I promise you, at times, but as it is——”

“Mr. Sullivan,” said Claire, “will you ring—call for a servant with a light to show us to our rooms—our room? We have had a terrible journey across the mountains and we are starving. For pity’s sake, tell us how we are to reach our room and see that something to eat is prepared for us.”

“Madam, ’pon my life, I shall discharge my groom of the chambers. Such neglect is insufferable,” cried the old man. “Effecks, my pretty one, I shall make an example of the rascal. And as for the footmen—if my cane were but handy I should give them a rap over the shoulders that would do them good. I was not on the Committee of Crockford’s for nothing, egad. I flatter myself that I can keep servants up to their work; though in these days the lower orders—”

“Call for the servants, man, if you have any,” cried Mrs. La Roache. “Cannot you see that we are at the point of fainting?”

“Sink me, madam, for an old fool with nothing at his back but flummery,” cried the man, taking some mincing steps across the floor. “Pray make your minds easy, you dear creatures. Now would you like to be attended by Thomas—Thomas il magnifico, I call him—badinage, only badinage—or there is Jeames—Jeames the Immortal is my name for him. He might have stepped out of the pages of young Mr. Thackeray, who thinks to be a rival to our own Coningsby—our dear Alroy. I knew him, our glossy Disraeli the Younger. I was younger—still younger than Alroy, and it may be that I modelled my fashion on him. Thus, dear creatures, we preserve an unbroken chain from the Regency days, and I am the last link—the last——”

Mrs. La Roache threw herself on one of the portmanteaus and wept hysterically.

Claire was not quite in despair, although she now perceived clearly what she had been suspecting for some time—the man was crazy. She retained her presence of mind, and went to where he was standing with the lantern swinging from one finger by its ring while he leant against the wall with one thin leg crossed over the other. The attitude was the easy negligent one of an old beau— Claire recognised it, having seen some of Maclise’s drawings. And now she perceived that he wore a stock: she had previously believed it to be a comforter.

“Dear Mr. Sullivan,” she said, “you are, I know, the inheritor of the manners of the days when there were manners; and I ask you if you think that Beau Brummel or Count D’Orsay would have kept two tired ladies waiting when they were anxious to make themselves worthy of sitting down to dinner with them. We throw ourselves on your mercy, sir, and we are sure that we shall not appeal to you in vain when we beg of you to let us be shown to our room.”

“Sweet one, you have touched me on a tender point,” said the old man. “I was bom an Irishman, and to be born an Irishman is to be bom a gentleman. In the absence of the menials it devolves on me to show you to the suite of apartments which I would suggest that you occupy. This way, ladies—this way to Sir Hugo’s Tower. The best we have, but the best is none too good for such guests. Mine are the privileges of a cicerone, you dear creatures.”

He went mincing forward to the girl, and, bowing elaborately with a sideling jerk, raised her hand to his lips.

“Nectar and ambrosia, I vow,” he cried in an ecstatic falsetto, striking an attitude with a stiffness that suggested rheumatism. “’Tis like living among the lilies. I could linger with—”

“Ah, sir, you are a sad flatterer, I fear,” said Claire.

“I have another hand for your lips when you show us to our room.”

“You hold out to me a prospect that is celestial— positively celestial,” he cried. “Follow me, ladies; follow me, most charming of your sex. ‘To the Tower—take them to the Towerryou have seen Mr. Kean in the part of the Duke of Gloster? ‘The Tower—aye, the Tower I’ They say that Mr. Kean and I have much in common. You shall be the judges. After supper I shall venture to declaim the soliloquy from Hamlet ”

“You offer us an incentive to haste, dear sir,” said Claire. “Every moment we tarry here is wasted. Oh, Mr. Sullivan, do not be so cruel as to linger when we are dying to be in a position to hear you and Mr. Kean at the same moment. Our rooms, sir, our rooms.”

“Sad flatterer, this way,” he simpered, when she had all but forced him towards the staircase.

He hobbled on, swinging his lantern with a movement that somehow suggested to the girl the clouded cane with the double tassels; and all the time that he was ascending the staircase he maintained a toothless mumbling that cracked into the falsetto of a jödel singer, waking weird unearthly echoes from the walls—the frolicsome jeering of the wicked little sprites that peeped out between the decayed panels of the oak. Claire felt sure that she saw their beady eyes gleaming among the enormous uncouth shadows that leapt about the walls and ceiling while the old man swung his lantern.

He led her and her mother down the corridor for some distance and then through an arched stone passage, at the end of which there was a door. This he pushed open with difficulty, and Claire saw that there was a large room beyond—she caught a glimpse of the canopy of a great bedstead.

“This is Sir Hugo's Tower, and it is sacred to your repose,” said Mr. Sullivan. “'Tis not for such as I to cross the threshold,” he added, with a leer which the lantern's light made more grotesque. With a whispered phrase of Regency gallantry, he allowed Claire to light her candle, and shuffled away, singing in a quivering treble, “When other lips and other hearts.”

The light danced down the corridor, and the sound of the creaking boards became less and less, but every now and again a high shaky note quavered out of the distance, while Claire stood at the door of the room which her mother had entered. She was fascinated by the situation, and there was ever present with her a sense of its unreality. She felt that she was realising a chapter of vivid descriptiveness in some book that had stimulated her imagination. Oh, yes; she had surely read all this years ago, only never before had she so realised the details of the description.

A moan from her mother brought her into the room. Mrs. La Roache was standing in a corner protecting the candle with her body with a solicitude that was quite maternal. Her attitude was pathetic.

“Worse than ever!” she moaned. “Oh, to think that we were coming home! Home! such a home! Claire, for Heaven's sake, say what we are to do.”

Claire was dumb.

The room was an immense one, and it contained a large amount of furniture in addition to the canopied bedstead, but the condition of everything was that of the furnishing of the palace of the Sleeping Princess. The appearance of all suggested that the room had not been occupied by human beings for half a century. The silken fabrics that drooped from the crown of the canopy of the bedstead were in tatters, and the bed coverings had crumbled like toadstools. To tread on the carpet was like treading on mushrooms. The foot went through it and touched the floor under it Curtains that had dropped from the windows remained in grotesque heaps of rags beneath—one had caught on a hook in its fall, and remained suspended by a single shred. The chairs seemed to be intact, but one that stood close to a window was enchained with ivy. There was a scratching and a scurrying behind the wainscot, and a mysterious rustling in one comer of the heavily moulded ceiling.

Claire was dumb, breathing the vault-like air of the room, and she saw that her mother was protecting the candle from the enormous moths which were assailing the light. Moths! She had never seen moths like these. They were monstrous things that whirred like bats. Some of them had fantastic bodies, and on one which settled on a piece of the silk that dropped from a panel of the wall, Claire distinctly saw the death’s head before it began to crawl up the moulding.

“Speak, for Heaven’s sake, speak, Claire,” moaned Mrs. La Roache. “What are we to do? Oh, what are we to do? The man is a lunatic—a raving lunatic. We are shut up in this horrible house with a lunatic. What a nightmare! I laid my hand on the bed—it sank into it as though it were flour. And these moths! . . . what are we to to, Claire?”

“There is nothing to fear,” said the girl stoutly. “The poor old man is crazy, but he is harmless. We must get through the night somehow. I feel that I could sleep anywhere. But we cannot go on without something to eat. There must be something to eat in the place. He cannot subsist on nothing. I can understand the force of Denis O’Keefe’s advice to go to the hotel in the village. It must be well known throughout the country that Sullivan is crazy. Here are two armchairs; they seem sound, and we can surely sleep in them for one night But we must have something to eat”

“Where can we find anything?” wailed the mother. “Who could have fancied from that old wretch’s letters that the place was in such a shocking condition? Every letter he wrote dwelt upon the beauties of the Castle and the neighbourhood, and referred to the splendid furnishing of the rooms. We would find that he had not abused the trust your father had placed him in—all that stuff. Crazy! he is worse than crazy. A lunatic! he may murder us while we sleep—he may indeed! Who can say that he is not homicidal?”

“Don’t think of that for a moment,” said Claire, with a laugh. “Anyone can see that he is quite harmless. Good gracious! I don’t wonder at his becoming crazy, living for over thirty years in this crazy place.”

“Why did we not make inquiries?” said Mrs. La Roache. “Why did we not ask someone to find out all about the place?”

“Whom could we ask? We know no one in Ireland,” replied Claire. “But in any case it is no use being wise after the event. We must only make the best of a bad matter. I feel as if I were shipwrecked on a desert island; I have no thought for anything only how we are going to get something to eat. Even Mr. Sullivan must eat, though I should not say from his appearance that he is accustomed to ample meals. Let me have the candle. Are we to pass the night wandering like unquiet spirits from stair to stair?”

She led the way to the staircase, and descended with her mother once more to the hall. The old man and his lantern were no longer there, but Claire caught sight of a glimmer of light beneath a door in the distance. She went to the door, opened it, and found herself at the entrance to a spacious room blazing with light that came from many candles in brass sconces around the wall. But the wax of the candles was not white, but black, and not a single candle stood upright. In an instant Claire perceived that the candles had remained in the sconces for years. A fire was smouldering in the grate, and the pungent smell that came from it she knew to be of burning peat. The room had more than a trace of the smoke of cooking; but Claire was not in a mood to be fastidious, and in spite of the mixture of odious odours in the air and the blackened walls, the room seemed to the girl the most grateful that she had ever entered. Even her mother gave a sigh of satisfaction.

The old man was in the act of getting into his coat, doubling back the tattered cuffs of his shirt at the entrance of Mrs. La Roache and her daughter. He appeared to be somewhat abashed at being caught when not en grande tenue. But he quickly recovered himself and laid a blackened hand on the region of his heart. Claire liked to see the soiled patches on his fingers; they told her that he had been cooking.

“Dear creatures,” he cried, "with what words can I apologise for the mishaps of this night? The servants are not to be found, search as one may for them, and those rascally tradesmen—the salmon has not appeared, and the haunch of venison must have gone astray. I vow that I am chagrined to the death, for Alphonse—my chef, madam—has no equal in the cooking of a pasty. I could expire for very shame to have to offer you such plough-boy's fare as you see before you, but——”

He waved his hand and gave a shrug.

“Could anything be daintier than—than—” Claire looked at the dish at the head of the table; but she had no need to do so to learn what were the contents. Among the odours of the room the most overwhelming was that of fried bacon.

“Bacon, you dear thing, and let me tell you that when la haute cuisine is applied to Irish bacon the result is not to be despised,” said Mr. Sullivan. “Egad, my dear, in the old days we young bucks at Crockford’s did not despise a rasher when we were making a night of it The climate of Ireland is singularly favourable to the cooking of a rasher, as I flatter myself you will perceive. Madam, my arm; you will sit at my right, Miss La Roache will have to be content with the left—but nearest the heart, my dear—that will be your consolation.”

He offered his arm to Mrs. La Roache, ogling her daughter over his shoulder, while delivering himself of his Regency badinage.

The table was rickety, and the chairs were on the verge of decrepitude; but when Claire perceived that there was half a loaf of bread beside the dish that contained scraps of bacon, she became less fastidious than ever.

When she had tasted the bacon she found that all she needed for her supper was bread. The scraps that Mr. Sullivan had fried were execrable.

And there was no tea!

When she ventured upon an inquiry respecting tea, Mr. Sullivan was hurt—almost indignant Never should it be said, he declared, that he offered his honoured guests such stuff as tea. No, he flattered himself that they would find his cellar choice. The whisky to which he begged to call their attention was such as could not be surpassed in the world.

But when they declined the poteen he showed no greater disappointment than he had betrayed when they shrank from the bacon. Their refusal meant the solution of a rather nice question; for only two tumblers were on the table. He chose Claire’s—with a compliment about her lips and the retention of its impressions by the edge of the glass—and filling it to the brim, made a florid speech, the tendency of which was to propose the toast of the health of his two charming guests.

His two charming guests became impatient They had only bread and butter to eat; they had not washed their faces after their journey, and their eyes were smarting from the pungency of the atmosphere of the room. Claire was beginning to lose her interest in the Regency and its representative; but there was a fire in the room, and this meant some measure of comfort for the night.

She took another slice of bread, and ventured to throw another sod of peat on the fire.

When he had filled out a second tumbler for himself, the old man moved the plates and the tattered cloth to the further end of the table, and from a drawer produced a pack of cards of unspeakable griminess. In his eyes Claire saw the light of the born gamester. There was no artificiality in his manner now. In a moment the interest that is attached to an antiquity dropped from him. He became the meanly cunning gamester, hungering for a victim. Claire had seen enough of gamesters during the lifetime of her father to be able to diagnose the disease of the wretched old man before her.

“Nominal stakes; we never play high at the Castle,” said he, beginning to shuffle the pack with eager fingers that hooked themselves like the talons of a bird of prey. “Just enough to give an interest to the game.”

“Mr. Sullivan,” said she, “my mother and I have just passed through the most fatiguing day of our lives. We are going to make ourselves comfortable for the night in front of this fire. We must ask you to retire to your bedroom and leave us here alone. Put your cards back into the drawer.”

She spoke firmly, standing up at the side of the table —firmly as an educated mother speaks to a child that has set its heart upon something opposed to the ethics of the nursery.

The old man acted the part of the child to perfection. He became indignant at first, then petulant, then he began to whimper. Had this blow come upon him in his old age, he inquired, his childish treble trembling from sob to sob as a canoe floats from wave to wave. He had met with trouble in the course of his life; but this was the crowning crushing rebuff—to be so treated by the daughter of the man who had trusted him all his life. One game—would she not play one game with him!— she should name the stakes—he was a man of honour.

Claire felt infinitely sad to see the miserable old sinner clutching the cards and holding them close to his bosom, hugging them with maniacal fierceness, as though he fancied she had set her heart upon tearing them from him; but when he threw the pack upon the table and clasped his hands trembling in front of her, beseeching her to have pity upon him—when he fell upon his knees and implored her to let him deal just one round—for' anything she pleased—for love, if she wished it—she saw no pathos in the situation. She had to help him to regain his feet, and she did so without a word.

He bowed his head down to the table and whimpered.

Claire was firm. She went to where the pack of cards lay on the table, thinking that if she were to put them back into the drawer he might be less excited. But the moment she put out a hand for the cards he gave a cry —a snarl of a dog when someone approaches his bone. He snatched up the cards with one hand, and with the other he caught up one of the knives and raised it threateningly. There he stood, his head craned toward her, his eyes fierce and watchful, his mouth tight shut, the pack of cards in his left hand, held almost behind him, his right hand grasping the knife, and his miserable frame quivering with excitement.

Mrs. La Roche gave a shriek at the glint of the steel, and sprang to her feet, but the old man never took his eyes off Claire, and Claire had not retreated an inch.

“You would take them from me, would you?” he said in a whisper. “Touch them and I will kill you where you stand. You hear?”

“Come, Mr. Sullivan,” said Claire, “take yourself and your cards into your room as quickly as possible, and no one will seek to deprive you of them. I promise you that if they are within my reach I shall burn them. If you wish to save them put them under your pillow. Now please go away.”

She turned from him and went to her mother, who was still on her feet, apprehension in her face.

“Now, Mr. Sullivan,” Claire resumed.

The old man pushed the pack into his bosom, and clutched them there under his waistcoat Then he poured out another tumbler of poteen, and, without a word, stole out of the room through a door at the further end. Only at the moment of his disappearance he turned his head slowly round and cast a look of maniacal cunning at the mother and daughter. He gave a little laugh as he crept into the darkness beyond.

CHAPTER III.

“A lunatic—and homicidal—I feared as much. Oh, what a place for us to come to!” cried Mrs. La Roache.

“Our dream was a foolish one,” said Claire. “But the thought of owning an Irish castle when we were living en pension at Nice was too much for us. An Irish castle!”

“How on earth could we have been such fools?” cried the mother. “What a day! what a disillusioning! I thought for the moment that the wretched old dotard meant to murder you, Claire.”

“That was absurd,” said Claire. “He is too weak to be able to do more than use his knife on a loaf of bread. Poor old wretch! You saw the way he clutched the cards. The passion of his life—the ruin of his life. But now he has gone, and we must try to make ourselves comfortable for the night—only one night—surely we can bear up for one night, and nothing else is likely to happen. I will put on some more turf, and we can sleep in our chairs.”

“I am dying for want of sleep, but my nerves are too much shaken for me to have a chance of even a doze,” said Mrs. La Roache, with a shudder and a glance in the direction of the door through which Mr. Sullivan had gone.

“There is nothing to be nervous about,” said Claire reassuringly. “I will take very good care to prevent our being disturbed in that direction,” she added, seeing her mother’s glance toward the door. “Help me to drag the table across the room; the door opens inward.”

The table was a very heavy one, but they managed to drag it in front of the door, and they knew that all the strength which remained with the old man would be insufficient to disturb such a barrier. The door leading to the hall Claire managed to make secure by a method taught to her by her father when they had been living in doubtful rooms. She forced the blade of a knife—the knife with which Mr. Sullivan had threatened her—into one of the joints of the door jamb, thereby making an effective bolt of it Then she threw on a few pieces of fuel—there was a great pile of the peat “sods” in a corner.

“Now, my dear mother, you may go asleep with a light heart beneath our ancestral roof. I wonder, by the way, if anything of the roof remains,” said Claire.

“You are never going to extinguish the candles?” cried her mother, seeing her make a movement in the direction of one of the sconces.

“Why not? We shall not be able to go asleep if this blaze of light continues,” said Claire.

“Don’t think of putting out a single candle,” said her mother. “If it had not been for all these lights, I should have fainted an hour ago. Even with them burning I fancied more than once that I heard—h’sh—the place is full of strange sounds—but—voices—even now —listen, Claire.”

They both listened breathlessly—the velvety sound of *he dropping peat ash was distinct, and then—beyond doubt people were conversing in the next room. Sullivan was not alone there.

“Servants—there may be servants in the house, after all,” whispered Claire.

She crept to the door and put her ear to the side.

Sounds of converse came to her, but there was no change of voice.

“Egad, Sir Dick, we had the cards all our own way last time,” she heard the old man say, with a chuckle. “Three thousand guineas in the pool—by the Lord Harry, there must be more than three thousand. I’ll wager any gentleman in the company a cool thousand even that diamonds are the next turn up. Nay, gentlemen, don't all speak at once. Colonel, did I hear you say ‘done'? Good—done to you, sir; and done to you, Jeff, say I. On with the deal, my Lord Marquis. Ha! what, the ten— diamonds—that makes us even, Marquis, but you owe me a thousand guineas, Jeff—I’m mortal concerned to bother you, Colonel, but your pile of gold is quite too high for a simple soldier of fortune, sir. I dare swear that we'll be even with Buck Forrest before the morning—I cut, do I not? Ah, so. . . . Diamonds again. That is clear your suit, Monsieur le Marquis!”

The old man was playing a game of cards with his companions of fifty or sixty years before. He was dealing to the ghosts of the past He was winning or losing phantom gold.

But Mrs. La Roache, standing eagerly listening at the other end of the room, affirmed that now and again she heard the sound of other voices mingling with the voice of Sullivan. Claire shook her head returning from the door.

“I will make you comfortable for the night,” she said, placing the chairs so that her mother might have some chance of sleep.

“It would be impossible for me to close my eyes,” Mrs. La Roache protested. “All my recollections of the legends of this place which were told to me by your father keep crowding upon my mind. How I used to listen to all that he had to tell me in the early years of our married life! I thought them so quaint—some of them I thought actually amusing in those days. There was the story of the strange little man who stole all the garters—no woman could sleep in that particular room of the Castle without losing her garters. I thought that amusing! And about some of the most tragic there was also a quaint touch— so I thought then. But now there is horror only in the recollection of them. You heard some of them, Claire.”

“I laughed at them all when he told them to me, and I can laugh now, knowing how absurd they are,” said Claire. “Now you must go asleep if you would not have yourself laid up in this dreadful place.”

Her mother, who had lain down on the chairs, once more started into a sitting attitude.

“Listen, listen,” she whispered. “You must have heard the second voices in the room just now. I tell you I heard them clearly. I could almost make out the words.”

Claire humoured her and went again to the door of the room, putting her head down in the attitude of the eager listener. The old man’s babble was becoming shriller and louder: he was plainly engaged in an altercation with some of his unseen visitants. He was stamping about the room calling one of them names—declaring that he should demand satisfaction. To accuse a Sullivan of the Glens of cheating was an affront that only the effusion of blood could wipe out.

Gradually, however, he became more quiet. Claire heard the tinkle of glass, and after a short period of silence there came the sound, of his feeble piping of a song—a thing from an opera by Vincent Wallace.

She glanced at her mother. Her mother was fast asleep.

Claire looked at her in envy, knowing well that she herself would not find sleeping so easy.

Her imagination was much more vivid than her mother’s. She had inherited something of her father’s Irish temperament, but her mother was altogether English. Listening to Mr. Sullivan’s crazy soliloquising in the next room, Claire could see vividly the men whom he was addressing. She pictured the young rakes sitting round the card-table with their thick hair and their satin stocks, wonderfully straight and dignified at times, but fiery of temper and ready to take affront All the time she had been sitting at the table she had had before her eyes pictures of the roisterers who had in the old days made the blackened rafters ring with their songs and their jests. It was in this very room—over that very table—that the celebrated duel had been fought between the French officer who had landed in the year of the Great Rebellion and young FitzGibbon, whose sweetheart the Frenchman had captivated. It must have been in this room also that that strange quarrel had taken place in the dark, the four men searching each for the other with naked swords. . . . She could hear the stealthy heavy breathing of every man searching for his invisible antagonist, terribly alert—every muscle strained—every nerve. She heard the quick sob of the man who had been run through the lungs—the gurgle of blood of the one who had stooped to avoid an imaginary thrust, and had thus received the point in his throat.

She looked about the room, she gazed at the floor, as if expecting to see the stains of that fight still on the boards.

And now, seated with her eyes upon the red eyes of the peat fire, she began to think of the legends of the family, the Roaches of Castle Finnbar, which her father had so carefully engrafted on her. She was the sole survivor of the Roaches, and their traditions were her heritage. She had ever been intensely interested in all that her father had told her concerning their family and the part that its members had played in the history of Ireland. But the actual history interested her much less than did the legendary. Her English mother had at that time seen the absurdity of some of the legends which enter so largely into the construction of many of the Irish stories of fairies and phantoms; but to Claire they were all real, their grotesqueness only impressing her the more.

Now, sitting in front of the fire, the legends of the Castle came crowding to her memory. There was the story of the Black Ryan Roache, who had disappeared from his home on one wild night when he had returned from a horrible orgy in the West. He had disappeared when the storm was at its height, and no trace of him had ever been found; only on a plank of the floor just in front of the fireplace there was found the impression as of a red-hot horseshoe, and on the side of the window, burnt into the woodwork, of four long skinny fingers.

It was in this very room that Black Ryan had sat on that awful night. It was before such a fire of peat Claire looked searchingly at the floor beside her. No doubt if it had not been so begrimed the board would have revealed to her eyes that horrible footprint And then she recalled the legend—this was one that her mother had classed among the ludicrous stories—of the human skull that had come down the chimney, and opening its bleached jaws, told Hugo Roache that Cromwell and his troopers were on their way to besiege the Castle, thereby enabling him to raise a force to defend it There was a rattling in the chimney as she thought upon the descent of the skull, and it made her start, for the warning of Hugo was not the solitary occasion of its appearance.

She started from her chair. Close beside her she heard a moan. She waited breathlessly listening, thinking of the Banshee which had ever wailed through the night preceding the death of a member of the family.

It came a second time, and a third, only fainter. She did not think of the probability that the sounds came from one of the night birds which had taken possession of the hall. She had had no experience of such things, and only the legend of the Banshee was in her mind.

Then there came to her ears a mysterious shuffling just outside the door—or was it on the nearer side of the door? Was it due to the presence of some of those invisible beings of which her father and an old Irish nurse had talked to her long ago—creatures which played an important part in the demonology of the country?

She listened fearfully, waiting for something—she knew not what. And yet there her mother lay sleeping soundly beside the fire, and from the other room came the sound of old Sullivan’s quavering of a song.

Claire lay down once more, for she was overwhelmed by the fatigues of the day, and had eaten nothing but bread for fifteen hours. She felt herself dropping off to sleep, and she was not sure that she had not actually passed the borderland between sleeping and waking when she became conscious of a sound that it seemed impossible that she should hear in the place where she was, the sound of horses tramping upon the ground.

The room was silent. The old man at the other side of the wall sang no longer. Claire listened, holding her breath. There could be no doubt about it The sound that came to her from without was the sound of horses.

In an instant she recalled the legend of the midnight coach—the strange black vehicle drawn by eight coal-black horses which was said to drive up to the gate of the Roaches’ Castle upon the midnight preceding the day of a death under its roof, and from the coach two men were said to descend and enter the Castle without asking that a door should be opened to them: their feet were heard tramping through the corridors backward and forward outside the room of the person for whom they had come.

She recalled the legend as it had been told to her by her father. The sound of horses had come to her. Would the sound of the tramping feet of the midnight visitors follow?

She waited, listening with painful intensity.

It came to her ears. There was the noise of a footstep in the outer hall and it was followed by a tramping as of several feet, coming nearer and nearer—gradually increasing in distinctness with every step, until it seemed that they were just outside the door of the room.

And now there were the voices of men apparently talking together—a loud laugh echoed down the empty hall.

With the recollection of the legend of the black coach in her mind, she was paralysed with fear. She had the impression of being under the influence of a dreadful nightmare that forced her to sit where she was and await the entering of the visitors. She felt powerless to make any move to resist them. She could only sit there, a hand grasping each arm of the chair, her eyes fixed eagerly upon the door.

She heard the passing of a hand down the side of the door—a hand that was clumsily feeling for the handle— more voices—the door was pushed at—pushed at again. The knife blade which she had used as a latch cracked like glass, and was jerked into the middle of the room. The door opened and two men appeared.

They blinked—facing the light of the room—one of them had taken a step within, but with an exclamation he went back.

“My aunt!” he said in a whisper to his companion. “My aunt! The room is occupied—ladies!”

Mrs. La Roache had awakened and was staring at the men with precisely the same expression as her daughter wore.

“Great Scot!” said the other man. “Human—human females!—not ghostly!”

He gave a furtive glance into the room, then jerked back his head, whispering, “Good Lord!”

Claire saw the two putting their heads together, and then the first took off his cap, looking into the room, and said—

“Pray pardon us; we really had no idea that the place was inhabited; we believed that old Sullivan was alone. I do hope that we haven’t frightened you. I should be so sorry.”

Claire drew a long breath.

"I don’t think you frightened me very much,” she said. "Should we apologise for frightening you?”

The man laughed.

"We were only startled,” he said. "We are the intruders. Really we took it for granted that the place was uninhabitable except for rats, owls, and old Sullivan. But, perhaps, like ourselves, you are here through having met with an accident”

"A terrible accident,” said Claire. "We are the owners of the Castle.”

“You cannot have been here long or we should have heard of it,” said the man.

"We arrived early in the night, believing that the Castle was habitable,” said Claire. “We had letters from Mr. Sullivan telling us that the place would be ready for our reception. We had no one to let us know that he was crazy.”

"Such a time as we have passed through!” moaned Mrs. La Roache. "Oh, such a time! Nothing to eat— prison fare—bread and water—after a journey from Paris and a drive across the mountains! I am sure that we both look like chiffonnières”

"Heavens above! What an adventure! Awful! And now, to crown all, here we come frightening the life out of you. Oh, if we had but known!” said the man. "This is rather an unconventional visit of ours, but, after all— well, it is rather an awkward position for you to be in, and we must see what can be done to relieve it in the morning. I do hope that you will be able to snatch some sleep. You must need it”

He showed signs of departing, but Mrs. La Roache seemed reluctant to get out of touch of civilisation. She pushed away one of the chairs on which she had been lying and sat upright. She did not know that the movement had dislodged a strand of her hair. It fell on her shoulder, and Claire made an effort to tidy it up while her mother spoke eagerly to the visitors—the second man had come an inch or two out from his seclusion, being clearly interested in the situation and its develoI’ment.

“Sleep is out of the question—think of it, sir—a lunatic,” she said, her voice sinking to a whisper while she gave a fearful glance toward the table piled up against the door leading to the room beyond. “Think of it! We travel night and day—across Ireland—across the mountains on a jolting car, and then—how could we tell that he was a lunatic! And he had written such letters!”

She became aware of the fact that her daughter was trying to arrange her hair. She tucked in the disordered tress—it was black and of a fine silken texture: everyone said that Mrs. La Roache had beautiful hair.

“Shocking,” said the man sympathetically. “I have heard it said that only lunatics write long letters. Poor old Sullivan!”

“I never heard that; if I had I might have suspected,” said the lady.

“It is safe to suspect anyone who writes long letter— especially with promises in them,” said the man, shaking his head with sympathetic gravity. “But in the morning —I think you will find the situation easier in the morning. I hope that you will forgive us for intruding.”

He was looking toward Claire—indeed, all the time he had been looking more at her than at her mother.

Mrs. La Roache followed the direction of his eyes. She saw that a long tress had unwound itself from the knot at the back of Claire’s head, and she stretched forth a hand to tuck it in among the other coils. But Claire saved her the trouble.

"There is no danger; he is quite safe in his room,” said the girl. "Thank you so much for your—your inquiries. But I suppose—I think I have heard it somewhere—people are fond of visiting ruins by night?”

Both men laughed lightly, glancing at each other.

"Our visit was an accident,” said the man who had kept in the shadow. "A happy accident,” he added, “since—but we will look you up in the morning, if we may. I think you will find that things are not nearly so bad as they seem. You will find Mrs. Archie Browne most sympathetic, and her mother, Lady Innisfail.”

“That is what we want!” cried Mrs. La Roache, almost jumping from her chair in eagerness. “A woman— a civilised woman. She wil understand.”

"I think you may depend on that at least,” said the same man. "Queer things happen in Ireland, but—well, there are women. Oh, we are becoming intolerable. How can we ever apologise? Good night”

He had already turned, and was once more among the black shadows of the hall.

“Yes, that's just it,” said the other. "The sooner we go—we have really bothered you too long. Good night.”

“We are so glad that you came. Everything seemed so hopeless—so ghastly. You can see the condition we are in. Good night,” said Claire.

"Nothing to speak of. Try to get a few hours' sleep,” said he. His hand was on the door.

"But if you go, if—” began Mrs. La Roache.

Claire laid a hand upon her arm, interrupting her, and the man closed the door softly.

The sound of footsteps went echoing hollowly down the hall.

“What a relief!” said Claire. “I feel as if all our troubles were at an end.”

And she did. Such is the effect of the appearance of a sudden but opportune man when femininity is at the end of its resources.

“A weight does seem lifted from my mind. He promised that we should see a woman,” said her mother. She had been married to a man for twenty-four years.

CHAPTER IV.

They did not make an attempt to go asleep at once. The mother looked at the daughter, and the daughter eyed the mother. “I wish I had allowed you to put out some of those ridiculous candles,” said the elder lady.

“I daresay we looked shocking guys; but no matter,” said the younger. “I have always laughed at the girl in a play who expects sympathy for her starving condition, while all the time her hair is done up in a most becoming fashion.”

“You mean that—”

Her mother wore a puzzled expression. She felt that her daughter was unkind. To ask for a solution of a difficult riddle of a poor woman who is wondering whether or not she has quite awakened from a strange dream, is cruelty itself.

“You mean that—but we do not know who they are. They did not mention a name. What did they come here for? Who are they? What will they do?”

“They mentioned two names—the names of women, so that’s all right,” said Claire, with a laugh. “I saw you brighten up at the sound of the names of women. But I thought, ‘What are we to wear, and how are we to get it on?’”

“Of course I thought of that also,” said her mother. “The question is, should the toilette be in sympathy with the sentiment of the ruin or in contrast to it?”

“Just now we are too much in sympathy with the sentiment of the ruin in which we were discovered,” said Claire. “Yes, up to the very hair of our heads. When he saw us—the one that spoke most—I could perceive in a moment that his first thought was Meg Merrilies—yes, duplicated. I unhesitatingly give my vote in favour of the toilette of contrast.”

“I daresay you are right, my dear, though the other might be made picturesquely effective. Still, English ladies are never too ready to understand the language of the toilette in its nuances. Most of them seem to dress to the music of a brass band.”

“But they go to Paris for their frocks,” said Claire.

“That is only another way of saying that a good number of Paris frocks are wasted,” remarked her mother. “What do you say to your cream serge?”

“How am I to get it on?” asked Claire, looking wistfully into the fire.

‘ There will be no trouble. I saw an undamaged mirror in the bedroom,” said her mother reassuringly.

“Psha! What fools we are to be discussing the nuances of toilette when we should be thinking only of soap and water!” said Claire. “Mother, mother, how about the soap and water?”

But her plaint was unnecessary. Her mother had the soap in her dressing-bag, and she had heard the sound of running water just before the car had pulled up.

They threw themselves across their chairs, and in five minutes they were both sound asleep. They had nothing on their minds. The future seemed assured.

They awoke early in the morning, feeling greatly refreshed. Claire was in time to intercept a dark-eyed, barelegged girl carrying a can of milk through the hall. The child gazed at her. After a wide-mouthed pause of wonder, she said that she was Eiley O’Leary, and that she brought Mr. Sullivan milk and bread every day—he would not trust her with the bacon. No, Mr. Sullivan never drank tea, but her own mother did, and there were two teapots and a kettle in the house. Sure, it was only a step or two away—the cabin—and her mother would be proud to make the lady a cup of tea. Oh yes, there was a basin and jug in the cabin, only the jug was borrowed by Mrs. Murphy and not returned, but the basin was there sure and certain, because her mother mixed the flour for the potato bread in it.

Claire thought she had never seen so pretty or so intelligent a child. She went forth by her side and found the O’Learys’ cabin on the hillside not half a mile away. A potato patch was beside it, and a goat was nibbling at the already well nibbled leaves of an unheroic group of cabbages huddled away among the stacks of brown peat sods.

Mrs. O’Leary was a motherly woman, who lifted up her hands and voice when Claire had told her story.

"Was there ever anything seen or heard like this since the world was a world?” she cried. “Oh, the poor diminted ould gentleman! What could such a crowl as that know about the wants of ladies? But sure it isn’t his fault, poor craytur’! Tis mad in the mind that he has been for the past twenty years, through living alone in the Castle with no one to look after him. Sure if I didn’t send Eiley, the bit of a slip of a child, with milk and bread and maybe a dab of butter three times a week, the poor gentleman would be starved to death entirely.”

So the good woman ran on, all the time that she was blowing up the peat fire beneath the little black kettle. "Himself” liked a cup of tea after his stirabout in the morning, she explained to Claire, and Claire knew that she meant not Mr. Sullivan, but her husband, for her father had kept her instructed in the matter of such idioms; but he had been away the best part of an hour, or the kettle wouldn’t be off the boil. And did the lady like it best "wake” or "sthrong”?

Claire drank a cup of the fruitiest tea she had ever tasted, and felt more than refreshed. Eiley’s memory had not deceived her in regard to the possibilities of a washing basin. It was cleared of flour and filled with soft water, and in its limpid depths Claire felt the last trace of her long journey pass from her.

Mrs. O’Leary knew much more of the Castle than Claire did; and she was thus prepared to state for certain that there was plenty of china and glass in some of the cupboards, and there was even a room which only needed a bit of dusting to make it fit for a queen to dress in; but Miss La Roache’s impression that Mr. Sullivan’s bed —if he had one—was the only one in the place that could be slept in was, Mrs. O’Leary assured her, correct. She went back with her to the Castle, bearing under her arm a towel, and over her shoulder a stout broom; the child carrying the teapot carefully enwrapped in an old blanket; and all the time they were walking from the cabin to the Castle the good woman was narrating the leading incidents in the life of Mr. Sullivan—how it was known that he belonged to the great family of Sullivan, and had lost by gambling every acre of land that he had ever owned; and how Colonel Roache had taken pity on him and had brought him to live at Castle Finnbar long ago, leaving him to take care of the place when he, Miss Roache*s father, had gone off to make his fortune in foreign parts, which she hoped the noble gentleman—rest his soul!—had done. But poor Mr. Sullivan had gone from bad to worse after the departure of his friend and patron. He was ready to gamble the very ears off his face, Mrs. O’Leary affirmed; but the gentry around humoured him, and now and again let him win a pound or two of their money to keep him from starvation. There could be no doubt, however, that he was a bit soft and lightheaded, and he gave himself great airs. Oh, the sorra word he had said about the coming of the ladies, poor things; and here they were at the Castle, and wasn’t it a grand-intentioned place entirely?

Claire felt that as a ruin the Castle would bear to be spoken of enthusiastically. It surely would take high rank among the ruins of Ireland. With the glint of the morning sun on the ivy of the walls, she could see how melancholy was the appearance of the great fabric that had once been noted throughout the country for the splendour and originality of its entertainments. There it stood, grey and grim against its sloping green background of trees— so it had stood when Cromwell’s soldiers had set themselves to beat down its walls; so it had stood when those same men—all that was left of them—had wheeled away their demi-cannons and two sakers, having failed to do more than dislodge the stones of the northern tower.

Claire felt sad when brought face to face in the morning with the desolation which was everywhere apparent about this once stately home of her house. She saw that the roof had fallen in all along the place between the two towers, and that there was scarcely a whole pane of glass in any of the windows in the front of the building. The birds were flying in and out of the windows—in and out of the hall, and the garden grounds which had been laid out in the Italian style in the eighteenth century, were barely discernible, for a tangle of briar roses writhed through a jungle of weeds upon all the terraces. The gardens had mingled with the broad carriage space in front of the great porch with its barbed double oak door —one of the sides had fallen from its hinges.

And this was the place to which she and her mother had come in order to enjoy the privilege of living rent-free! Claire remembered how they had talked together of the enormous economy of living in a house of their own, and she knew that her mother appreciated the prospect still more highly, since the house was an historic castle— the fact that it was in the history of Ireland that the Castle had been famous was not regarded by her as important. Who is there that will differentiate between the importance of the history of one place and that of another place? She knew that her mother had had visions of herself as châtelaine, and that—wherever the Castle might be situated —she would be a more imposing figure in that connection than she was as a tenant, en troisème, of a Paris lodging-house, or even en pension at an establishment on the Rue Victor Hugo at Nice, leaving the villa at Sofia out of the question altogether.

This was why she had written to Mr. Sullivan, who, her husband had told her, was good enough to discharge the duties of caretaker of Castle Finnbar, telling him that she had made up her mind to take up her residence at the Castle with her daughter, and asking him to see that the rooms which they would occupy were properly aired.

Properly aired! Well, they had come and found the rooms by no means deficient in ventilation. Poor Mr. Sullivan had written most beautiful letters. “Ah, people nowadays do not write such beautiful letters,” her mother had remarked after reading aloud to her one of Mr. Sullivan’s gorgeous effusions, full of Regency compliments and Restoration anticipations, but all in perfect taste. “Undoubtedly a charming man—an Irish gentleman of the old school, my dear!” her mother had gone on to say, while she folded up the flowing pages that informed her that the writer was counting the moments—every moment would be an eternity—until he would be able to welcome the wife and the child of his old friend beneath the roof of the Roaches.

Claire had no idea how far this was a figure of speech until now, when she stood for a few thoughtful moments by the side of the Irish peasant woman looking up to the dilapidated building. The roof of the Roaches! She had never been under the roof of the Roaches, for reasons that were obvious to her now.

Alas! Alas! She and her mother had set out from Paris to take up the position of the mistresses of an historic house, but instead of realising their intention in this respect, they were in the position of dependence upon the good nature of one of the cabin-dwellers for the loan of a clean patched towel to wipe the stains of travel from their faces.

But the delight of her mother to receive that towel— to be shown into a room containing a looking-glass and a basin of water, was something to be thankful for. The previous night she thought that nothing could make her mother smile again; but now she had opened her trunks in a room with a looking-glass.

“An angel, truly an angel,” cried Mrs. La Roache— in fawn-grey—to her daughter—in cream serge—when they stood together over the breakfast-table that Mrs. O'Leary had laid out for them. Such tea—dark, strenuous, mysterious! and fresh-baked bread, with a flavour of potatoes and peat, and satin bands of bacon.

“A breakfast for a gourmet—too choice for starving derelicts such as we are. But Mrs. O'Leary is an angel all the same.”

Mrs. O'Leary rattled the frying-pan as she whisked it from the hob to the fender, and laughed—she became voluble in her laughter, and every laugh was a protestation against the flattery of her ladyship. Sure, if she wouldn't work her arms down to the size of knitting-needles for anyone of the name of Roache, she would be the poorest craytur' alive in Connaught.

And then Mr. Sullivan was permitted to come forth from his room, wherein he had been imprisoned all the morning. He was dignified almost to the exclusion of dandyism. He bowed to the ladies and invited them to breakfast. He called Mrs. O'Leary “Good soul!” and put himself painfully into an attitude of chucking her under the chin. He even got the length of the falsetto chuckle which seems to have been the inevitable accompaniment to Regency gallantries; but still they all treated him with courtesy.

He complimented the ladies on their toilettes, and said that his father had been a personal friend of a gentleman who had spoken to the Pompadour.

Claire laughed, and so did her mother. The airs of the little old man now seemed comically ludicrous to them: the previous night they had only been tragically ludicrous. But Mrs. O'Leary treated him with an affable contempt that was an exaggerated form of toleration, for toleration is only another form of contempt.

She shook her head at Claire, glancing up from the frying-pan in which she was stirring eggs, and said in a pitying whisper.

“Oh, the poor ould craythur'!”

After breakfast Mrs. La Roache and her daughter could only wait to see what would happen. They scarcely knew what it was they looked for—what it was they hoped for. But they were both vaguely hopeful. The men who had visited them so strangely at midnight remained in their minds as figures that tended to make lone women confident in the correct ordering of things in general. They were tall, fair-haired young men, with brown faces and good-sized hands—Claire had noticed the size and speculated upon the gripping power of their hands. That was how she felt that they should inspire confidence within her. The easy but not ostentatious frankness with which they had accepted the strange situation of the hour struck her as being quite admirable, and the tinge of shyness that pervaded their manner of speaking she had somehow come to think of as being inseparable from Achievement. These were men who did things —good things or bad things—for trust-inspiring purposes: it is all the same to a woman whether a man does bad or good; the Potent is what appeals to her imagination, and Claire had lived long enough in the world to be come aware of the fact that the Potent is rarely self-assertive; that in the presence of women it is usually shy—sometimes apologetic.

“Who are they, I wonder?” said her mother, when she was strolling with her daughter—daintily as regards the lifting of their skirts—among the ruins of some of the great rooms. “Who are they, and why did they come here?”

Claire made no disguise of the fact that her thoughts were running in the same direction as those of her mother.

“I have been wondering,” she said. “It was part of the queemess of everything that they should appear when they did. I wonder what it is we are waiting for now. We have not begun to talk about our future—you and I. We have not asked each other where we shall sleep tonight. We have ceased to care. And yet—I cannot remember a sentence that came from them. But they made us feel at ease.”

“That is what it is to be an Englishman,” said her mother. “Now if they had been Frenchmen we should have felt annoyed; if they had been Germans we should have felt angry; if they had been Italians we should have felt for the fire-irons.”

“But being Englishmen, we felt at ease,” said Claire, with a laugh. “We take no thought for the future. We know that the future is in the hands of Englishmen. Is it worth considering where we are to sleep to-night? I think not”

“They mentioned the names of some women—I have actually forgotten the names—Lady Something, and—it seems ridiculous—but I am under the impression that one was Mrs. Browne. Was it Browne—not Robinson?” asked her mother.

Claire laid her hand upon her mother’s arm, her head inclined somewhat toward the window. There was the sound of wheels on the rough ground that had once been a carriage-drive.

“Listen!” said Claire. “That is Mrs. Browne now— or is it Mrs. Robinson?—and it is necessary for us to go downstairs to receive them. An Englishman’s home is his castle, and an Irishwoman’s castle is her home, even though it has no roof. We must receive our visitors— outside.”

CHAPTER V.

It was a coach that was standing at the entrance to the Castle when Mrs. La Roache and her daughter descended the staircase. A groom was at the head of the leaders, and another at the foot of the ladder on which two women were poising themselves. They had both shapely feet, Claire perceived, and both were dressed in white serge. They were clearly sisters, and of about the same age—something about thirty. Two men were swinging themselves to the ground on the off-side of the coach, and two others remained on the top. Claire saw that the two men who dismounted were those who had visited the Castle at midnight.

One of the ladies hastened to Mrs. La Roache and Claire, crying—

“How do you do? I am Lady Innisfail, and this is my daughter, Mrs. Archie Browne. Major Clifton and Lord Medway told us about you and your awful plight How funny it was! No, I mean the opposite; how romantic! We do hope that you slept well. But what a dreadful position! Mr. Sullivan is hopeless—still, if you had only had a fourth you might have had a good bridge party. I believe that Mr. Sullivan knows something of bridge. I suppose you play bridge, Mrs. La Roache?”

The other lady had come forward; she was grave and her manner somehow gave Mrs. La Roache the impression that she was reproving her mother.

“We were shocked to hear of your contretemps, Mrs. La Roache,” said she, “and we do hope that you will come to us until you get settled. We live quite at hand, only six miles away—Suanamara. You will like it.”

Then one of the men approached—the more voluble, He was much more shy now. But to Claire he seemed like an old friend.

“We got some sleep,” she said. “Really we awoke refreshed, with an appetite for breakfast.”

“And did the breakfast respond? I am afraid not,” he said, with some concern.

“An excellent breakfast,” she cried. “We discovered an angel, Mrs. O’Leary, she brought about a miraculous change in our fortunes.”

The man’s face brightened. Claire thought for a moment that he was going to say something about Elijah the Tishbite, who also found his angel to feed him. A glance at him reassured her, however. He was not the man to drag in Elijah.

“So glad,” he said. “We were afraid that you would be knocked up. We hurried. The whole thing was ghastly. Poor old Sullivan! A curiosity! But one only wants that sort of thing in a museum—not after a long journey. You are sure to like the Archie Brownes’ place.”

Lady Innisfail was talking.

“I never heard of anything so dreadful! My dear Mrs. La Roache, only for the accident of Tommy and Dick wanting a drink badly in the middle of the night you might both have been found dead in the ruins—you might, indeed. There was an old hag once—I honestly believe that she was a bona-fide hag—not so far away— Clonagilly—she lived for years among the ruins of the Abbey—we used to visit her when I was a girl—the queerest old thing—and one morning she was found dead in the midst of her ruins. It created quite a fuss in our neighbourhood, I can assure you. When Tommy told us how you looked—I mean, how that horrid old man had treated you, I said, ‘They may have died during the night, just like—like—’ I really quite forget what the old woman’s name was. Don’t you think that we might just have a peep inside the Castle while the men are putting your trunks in the coach? Mr. Urquhart is immensely interested in ruins. This is Mr. Urquhart. Mr. Stephen Urquhart, Mrs. La Roache, Miss La Roache.”

Mr. Urquhart was one of the men who had remained on the top of the coach when the other two had dismounted. He was, without being a small man, a good deal under the height of the other two. He was very dark as regards his complexion, and there was a curious curl in his hair that was apparent when he took off his hat. His face was smooth, and he conveyed to one the idea of being well polished—his best enemies said he was a patent-leather sort of man.

“He is fond of ruins—it is hereditary: your father was concerned in sugar-growing somewhere, was he not, Mr. Urquhart?” said Lady Innisfail, with a laugh that somehow prevented her remark from having the least taint of bad taste.

Mr. Urquhart responded to her laugh.

“I am not specially interested in ruins, but I am in certain epochs—certain incidents in certain epochs of history,” said he.

“Cromwell,” cried Lady Innisfail. “I remember now. You told me it was Cromwell you were interested in.”

“And it was Cromwell who did more than any man to make Ireland picturesque—with ruins,” said he.

“He failed here,” said Claire. “He was beaten back from our house; and yet it is a ruin to-day.”

“Unlike most châtelaines, you know the history of your own house, Miss La Roache,” said he.

“Would you care to look into some of the rooms?” said Claire.

“It would be so good of you to allow us, for five minutes,” said Mrs. Archie Browne.

“Oh, it is not necessary to ask for permission to inspect a ruin: it becomes public property,” said Claire. “Luckily for us,” she added, for she was quick to notice a troubled look that came to the face of Lord Medway— she had found out that the name of the more shy of the visitors of the night was Lord Medway. The troubled look passed away from Lord Medway’s face.

But all the same, he would not pass through the door of the Castle now. He said that ruins were not in his line—they made him think of the Horse Guards Parade.

Major Clifton—Claire had found out that the name of the other man was Major Clifton—rather thought that he would stay outside also. He said that the Castle made him think of Buckingham Palace. He wondered what sort of a ruin Buckingham Palace would make. He thought that he would rather like to wait and see.

The others followed Lady Innisfail into the Castle, Claire saying—

“We are rather proud to flaunt our tatters; but if we do it badly you will pardon us; you know that we haven’t yet got used to our ruin.”

“Mr. Urquhart will keep you straight: you may depend on his preventing your making any gross guide-book mistakes in your history. Will you not, Mr. Urquhart?” said Lady Innisfail. “He will tell you all about your own house, Mrs. La Roache. Will you not, Mr. Urquhart?”

“This is an incident from which I shrink,” said Mr. Urquhart as Sullivan appeared at the other end of the hall. He bade the party welcome.

There was some very dainty gathering up of skirts, with consequent surprises of embroidered insteps and the right sort of low heels—Lady Innisfail knew what a stroll through ruins entailed. Therein lay the social value of ruins, in her eyes. But Major Clifton had stayed outside.

“Oh, the pity of it!” standing in the midst of the débris of a fallen ceiling that had been designed by a great artist. “Oh, the pity of it! I am so sorry for you, Mrs. La Roache. If we could have done anything—living so close as we were it would have been easy; but we heard nothing about Colonel La Roache, only that he was dead. I never thought even of inquiring if he was married. Tim Sullivan is to blame. But why on earth did your husband let him remain here all these years? A proper caretaker would have prevented all this.”

“My husband was an Irishman: doesn’t that explain everything?” said Mrs. La Roache.

Lady Innisfail held up her hands and heaved a sigh —a minim sigh that made a smile a necessity.

“Mr. Sullivan wrote us such nice letters,” said Mrs. La Roache. “We put so many questions to him, and he seemed to answer them all, though in rather a roundabout way sometimes.”

“That’s the way nice letter-writers have,” said Lady Innisfail.

“We thought that we were coming home—servants and supper and all,” said Mrs. La Roache.

“And so you are, you poor soul!” cried Lady Innisfail. “Come along. We have seen enough of your ruins. It is time that you were introduced to ours. Come along. Have you anything to say, Mr. Urquhart?”

Mr. Urquhart said that he had been greatly interested. Devastation had always interested him.

“That is one of his dark sayings,” said Lady Innisfail apologetically to Claire. “He does not mean to be rude —only dark. Mr. Urquhart possesses every qualification of a teacher except intelligibility. But you will get accustomed to him. We all understand him thoroughly on account of his unintelligibility. It is only when he tries to explain himself that he really mystifies us.”

But Claire, who sat beside Mr. Urquhart on the top of the coach, did not find him perplexing. He had not the shyness of the two other men, nor had he the exuberant manner of Lady Innisfail, who talked to strangers as if she had known them all her life. And yet Mr. Urquhart gave Claire the impression that he had known her all her life, without being in any way voluble, and when they reached Suanamara, the Archie Brownes’ place, and she was alone with her mother, she told her that this was how she felt in regard to Mr. Urquhart “How could he do that? Did he talk to you about Paris or Vienna or Sofia? Did he try to get you to tell him anything about your father? I know that the people here are simply dying to hear about your father,” said Mrs. La Roache.

“He never mentioned the name of any place, and he never even suggested that I had any father,” replied Claire.

“Then how—”

“I don’t know, I’m sure, but he did, all the same. It may only have been fancy on my part, because he did not ask me any questions about where we had lived or how we had lived; all the strangers we have met have set themselves about finding out everything—you heard Mrs. Archie Browne throwing out a casual inquiry more than once. She sat on my other side driving here—you must have heard her from behind.”

“I heard; you were discreet. But Mr. Urquhart——”

“He did not seem to want to know anything.”

“But from where I sat I thought that you had interested him.”

“I don’t think that I did. Perhaps what you noticed was that I was interested in him. Is that the same thing?”

“It amounts to the same thing if you let him see that you were interested in him. That is about the only thing that awakens a man’s interest in a young woman—or an old woman, for that matter—seeing that she is interested in him.”

“That is one of your axioms of life, dear mother. You impressed it upon me long ago. I wish I could think of axioms of life at the right moment. I don’t suppose that anyone worth talking about ever does think of axioms of life at the right moment. People are too busy living.”

“But Mr. Urquhart——

Claire burst out laughing, pointing a mocking forefinger at her mother—they were both lying back in the easiest of chairs in a charming dressing-room.

“But Mr. Urquhart—but Mr. Urquhart!” she cried. “Now you are acting in sympathy with another of your most precious axioms, sweet mother. I will hear nothing more about this Mr. Urquhart. If you had known me all your life as he has, you would not make such a mistake as to talk to me about the last man whom I have spoken to. Talk to me about Lord Medway; I am more interested in him than in this Mr. Urquhart”

“I am glad to hear that,” said her mother. “Mr. Urquhart, I find, is only a private secretary. You have heard of Mr. Philip Trent?”

“Philip Trent? Never. What of Mr. Philip Trent?” “He is a man who invented—something or other—I cannot remember its name, but he has made a huge fortune out of it. He is a Member of Parliament, and Mr. Urquhart is only his private secretary.”

“I am beginning to be intensely interested in Mr. Urquhart. If you continue telling me things to his disadvantage, you may depend on my falling in love with him.” “Claire, I am ashamed——”

“Do you retain the least memory of my father’s lecture to me when our funds were too low for us to keep on Mademoiselle Lejeune? You recollect that there was a formula for falling bodies?”

“What nonsense! What do you mean, Claire?”

“The rapidity of the descent of a falling body increases in an inverse ratio to the square of the distance. That is to say, if it falls four feet in the first second, it will fall sixteen in the second, and—what is the square of sixteen? —in the third.”

“What on earth—? Claire, my dear, you are becoming more mysterious than ever. What do you mean by this nonsense?”

“I want to remind you that the same sort of formula applies to falling in love, dear mother. Four feet in the first second—sixteen in the second, until, after a second or two—precipitancy.”

“And what has this got to do with—with—anything in the wide world?”

“Not much. Only the laws of nature that govern the falling of a body through space apply also to the falling in love. So—”

Mrs. La Roache looked carefully at her daughter for some silent moments. Then she said—

“And Mr. Philip Trent is coming here to-morrow.”

Miss La Roache looked carefully at her mother. Then she said—

“Now that I come to think of it, a body falls sixteen feet in the first second. Anyhow, I think that I will put on another pair of shoes before lunch.”

CHAPTER VI.

Suanamara was a delightful house in a delightful situation. People who saw it for the first time said so, and on learning that the owner was Archie Browne, laughed pleasantly. When they remembered that Archie Browne had married the daughter of Lord Innisfail and Beatrice his wife, they laughed again and said, “Of course—a delightful house and a delightful situation.” They wished it to be understood that they recognised the fact that if the delight of the house was due to Archie Browne, the beauty of the situation was to be attributed to the daughter of Lord and Lady Innisfail.

Archie Browne cared nothing for the picturesqueness of his house, but he cared a great deal for his wife, and he knew that his wife's mother was one of the most wonderful women in existence. He found it greatly to his advantage to do what he was told by his wife and his wife's mother, when they agreed in telling him what to do; and they had fortunately agreed in telling him that he must buy Suanamara from Mr. Barry Geoghegan, the distinguished Irishman who had ruined himself some years before by his patriotic attempts to win the Derby with an Irish horse. He had been unfortunate enough to win a few plates when he was young, and thus the remainder of his estates in the West of Ireland had come into the market by the order of the judge of a Court of Law; and after a decent business interval, they were bought by Archie Browne, who had inherited a few millions from his father, the great contractor.

Of course, Archie Browne got the place a bargain, people in the neighbourhood said. But this was not quite Archie Browne's opinion. He knew what a bargain was, he declared, and everyone knew that he did. This knowledge had been transmitted to his son with his millions by Mr. Alexander Browne, who had been a navvy at the age of twenty and had died a millionaire at forty-nine. He knew what a bargain was, he affirmed, and he ventured to assure people who talked of bargains that the great capitalists of the County Galway were not treading on each other's heels in their anxiety to be the first to secure a property washed by the Atlantic Ocean. When Lady Innisfail had tried to remonstrate with him on his delay in buying Suanamara, he had grinned, making no reply; and when she had urged her daughter to say something to him on this subject, her daughter had said in her cold formal way:

“Whatever Archie cannot do, he is certainly good at buying things.”

And he was. He had bought a good many foolish things before he met the Honourable Norah Innisfail, including a Shakesperian Season at the Acropolis Theatre with Mrs. Mowbray in the part of Imogen, but he had not been so foolish since. He got ample value for his outlay at all times, and his wife never failed to recognise his ability in this direction. When she told him to buy anything she knew that he would obey her, and she left the details wholly in his hands.

He had “gutted” the old house—the technical phrase was his own—and when the process of evisceration was completed, it had been a great pleasure to him to make the house beautiful, with hydraulic pumping of water up from the trout stream that ran through the glen, and with electric light generated by the same agency.

And then he set about the more difficult task of preserving the game upon the mountains, which constituted by far the greater portion of the Geoghegan estate. People in the neighbourhood laughed at the idea of anyone trying to preserve game, and suggested the possibility of Archie Browne’s suffering by the diverting of the aim of the natives from what they had always looked on as their legitimate objects; the shooting of grouse was regarded as a sport by certain of the natives, they said, but the shooting of landlords as a duty.

They wasted their time with Archie Browne. He grinned—there was a vast amount of argument in one of Archie’s grins—and said that few people understood the Irish character.

In the course of a year or two, by the judicious exercise of a compulsory scheme of emigration from the estate, he had made his mountains equal to the best in Scotland for sporting purposes, and he was not afraid to ask his friends—and his mother-in-law’s—from England for the months of August and September, and such of them as had laughed at Archie when he was a bachelor, allowed that he was a wonder as a husband. They added that Norah Innisfail had known what she was about when she had married him.

And they spoke the truth. She had become the mother of two of the sweetest children alive, and she had still sufficient time to be able to look after her mother very nearly as carefully as she had done in the days of her maidenhood, and in those days this duty had kept her in constant employment Her mother made a great mistake in fancying that in marrying Norah to Archie she had emancipated herself.

And now the two latest of the guests at Suanamara, having changed their shoes for lunch, were standing at their dressing-room window, gazing in wonder over the glories of mountain and lake and sea which lay before their eyes, causing them to forget for a time those of their fellow-guests whom they had already met, and to abstain from discussing the possibilities of those whom they had not yet seen.

Billows of purple heather were rolling down from the mighty mountains in which the house was, so to speak, engulfed, and here and there along the range the sombre entrance to a glen of larches and firs, touched with a yellow tint of autumn, made a marvellous gloom, which contrasted wonderfully with the vivid emerald patches of the lower lands. On into the grey distance bold contours of the promontories of the mountains wasted away in gradations of grey to the south, and beyond them, north and south, there was a quivering grey-blue band with a spatter of dazzling white.

“That is the Atlantic,” said Claire.

“That Atlantic Ocean—we have come to the verge of the Old World,” said her mother. “Your father told me that he had shot eagles over the Atlantic cliffs.”

They both looked wistfully out there, and each knew that the other was thinking of the grey-haired old man who had died in a far-off land without being able to realise his dream of returning to live in the land along whose cliffs he had wandered in his youth, waiting for an eagle. In his last days at Sofia, he had talked a good deal about the island that he loved—the green island lying in the midst of the green waters of the West.

After a space they went downstairs to the great square hall, where there was a billiard-table and many other tables, though only one was used at that moment for the game of bridge. It was half an hour off lunch time, Lady Innisfail explained, and she had such a morbid horror of wasting time that she had induced three of her guests to make up a bridge party. She presented Mrs, La Roache and her daughter to the three—Mrs. Lingard, Lady Fairholme, and Miss Fosberry. Mrs. Lingard was sprightly, Lady Fairholme was misty, Miss Fosberry was lustrous. They gave a pleasantly critical glance or two at the strangers and then at their cards.

Oh, yes, Mrs. La Roache had heard of bridge—she had even seen it played, she said—yes, it was, she believed, occasionally played at Nice during the months of December and January, but she had never played it herself.

Mr. Urquhart was writing at a desk, with a large thin pamphlet with a blue cover in front of him, Mrs. Archie Browne was talking seriously, as usual, with Lord Medway, and Lord Medway had assumed, with a considerable amount of success, the role of the attentive guest. A young woman was playing something horrible horribly on the pianoforte—a study in inanity from a study in insanity, which, being destitute of comedy and despicable in music, was termed a musical comedy. An elderly man, wearing gracefully the baldness of intellect, was on a chair by her side touching a banjo with a scientific exactness that left him a bar or two behind the young woman at the piano. But perhaps that was only the joke of the collaboration. There was a click of billiard-balls and the sound of Major Clifton's voice suggesting to the girl with whom he was playing pyramids to do something or other in order to avoid running in—she had already run in three times within the three minutes that Claire was in the hall.

It was altogether a delightful little family party, Claire perceived. She had never seen a party organised on precisely such a basis of independent grouping, and she was greatly interested. She could not help wondering with which of these poses plastiques she would assimilate— which of them would be artistically strengthened by her appearance.

Mrs. Archie Browne solved the question for her. With unabated, uneffusive cordiality she took a step forward to meet her and her mother, and while the latter assured her that their rooms were perfection—“Le petit Trianon in the midst of a wilderness,” was Mrs. La Roache’s phrase —Major Clifton with the easy confidence due to a longer acquaintance, had begun to talk to Claire, and it seemed quite natural that they should go into the depths of a concave window lined with seats that enabled one to sit at ease and admire all that was outside as well as within the spacious apartment He seemed to have a good working knowledge of both. He told her that the mountains with the purple heather were named Slieve Gorm, and that the nearest glen was Glenarney—that the house was the centre of curious legends, and that it was a matter of common knowledge that fairies were in the habit of assembling on moonlight nights on every one of the emerald patches that could be seen on the slopes where the forests of larch and fir were beginning to show signs of the autumn.

He added that the elderly man with the brow who was endeavouring to soothe the hiccup of the banjo was the greatest living authority on fairies and witches and “rummy things of that sort,” and that he had come to Ireland specially to make a study of the Irish variety. His name was Mr. Marvin, he said, and he had got so far in his investigations as to be able to announce to his fellow-guests that the Hibernian fairy was Coptic—or half Coptic. The narrator believed that the moment this discovery was made public it would create a panic in the ranks of those people who had a foolish fancy that the Irish fairy was Aryan.

“Mr. Marvin holds that the Aryan theory is responsible for the unsettled condition of Ireland all these centuries,” said Major Clifton. “I hear him arguing out the point every evening at intervals of strumming on his banjo.”

“What, are there people here who actually argue with him?” asked Claire.

“They only argue because silence would be wasted on him,” said he.

“And is his banjo Aryan or Coptic?” said Claire, with a thirst for knowledge.

“That is what he is not quite certain about,” replied Major Clifton. “It is understood that Mr. Philip Trent is taking him somewhere to give him a chance of investigating this point and settling it for ever. That is what it means to be a millionaire. The millionaires only become so in order that they may have a chance of realising their philanthropic ideas. They never spend any money on themselves.”

“It was mentioned on the coach that Mr. Trent was to arrive here to-morrow,” said Claire. “Have you seen him, Major Clifton?”

“Oh, yes, I have even spoken to him—the best chap alive. If he hadn’t been branded as a millionaire, he would have carried all before him. As it is, he appears as a good man struggling against a stream of popularity. And Mr. Urquhart is his private secretary. It was Mr. Urquhart who made him grossly popular.”

“But Mr. Trent does not bear him a grudge on that account, does he?”

“Not he—he is generous even to the people who have done most for him, and that is an uncommon trait, let me tell you, Miss La Roache.”

“Would you think it mal-à

-propos if I were to ask you at this point something that has been puzzling me—that is, how did you come to visit our ruin last night?”

Major Clifton laughed.

“I suppose it must be explained sooner or later,” said he. “Well, the fact is that Lord Medway and I went to shoot over the Cairnreagh with the man who rents it, and we dined with him, but missed our way back; and having once before accepted the hospitality of our friend Tim Sullivan at a late hour, we thought that we might chance to find him at home with a peg of whisky at his elbow. We were in such a condition as cried out for whisky imperatively, or, indeed, we should not have made that absurd call.”

“What should we have done if you had not made that call?” said Claire. “Was there ever such an adventure as this of ours? My mother and I thought that we were coming to a house something like the one we are in now. You can judge of how we felt when we found ourselves among the bats of the hall and the moths of the bedroom to which we were led by Mr. Sullivan.”

“Think of how we felt when we opened the diningroom door,” said Major Clifton. “Personally I felt as if I was looking at a piece of old tapestry.”

“Faded—greatly faded,” said Claire, with a laugh. “I know that I felt like a piece of old tapestry—a sort of unravelled feeling. Never mind. Five minutes after you had left us we felt that—that—well, that our colours were restored.”

“And here we are now going in to tiffin,” said Major Clifton, as the gong sounded.

CHAPTER VII.

Claire found herself seated by Mr. Urquhart at lunch, and before they had risen she felt that she had never yet talked with a man with whom she felt on such good terms. He was more than superficially sympathetic. Without the need for his speaking a word she felt that he appreciated everything that was upon her mind. She had become aware of this during the drive from Castle Finnbar to Suanamara. The impression which he produced was that she had known him all her life—that if she were to find herself in any position of perplexity she would go to him in the certainty that he would be able to relieve her mind from all doubt as to what course she should adopt.

He did not convey to her the idea that he was amazingly clever—people do not believe implicitly in amazingly clever men. They have an idea that amazingly clever men are usually amazingly selfish, and so they are. Mr. Urquhart had said no particular thing that impressed her, but he had never been otherwise than impressive so far as she was concerned. He had never for a moment been commonplace, and he had rarely been amusing. But, as before, he had given her to understand that in an emergency she might rely on him.

She could scarcely understand how it was that other people seemed to refer to him as being so clever. Here and there among themselves a remark had been made bearing upon his cleverness, and it had been invariably followed by a laugh—not a laugh of derision, but a laugh that somehow suggested that Mr. Urquhart had an object in view—that, in the colloquialism of Major Clifton, he “knew jolly well what he was about”

If she had been asked point-blank whether she liked him or not she would not have been able to reply, but of course there was no one at hand except her mother who had a right to put such a question to her, and her mother, being careful to make up her own judgments of persons before she had seen them and of incidents before they had happened, was not likely to become inquisitorial. But for one thing she felt grateful to Mr. Urquhart: he had said no word about her father. He had not assumed the attitude of a great number of English-speaking people with whom she had come in contact in various parts of Europe, in regard to her father—an attitude of chilling suspicion.

English-speaking people who habitually visit the Continent, are, she had noticed, invariably suspicious of English-speaking people who habitually reside on the Continent. Most of those whom she had met had put a few questions to her and her mother respecting their “people,” and hearing at the outset that their family name was Roache, and that it had acquired the definite article through Colonel La Roache’s connection with the French army, they had forthwith assumed that Colonel La Roache had been an Irish adventurer on the Continent, and that his wife and daughter were trying to carry on the same profession.

The result had been that neither she nor her mother had succeeded in forming many firm friendships among English-speaking people on the continent of Europe. Least of all had they much to do with English mothers with grown-up daughters. These were the most chilling of all.

Claire had now and again fancied that she was on the eve of forming one of those girl friendships which she had read about and which seemed so sweet to contemplate; but the ripening process had always succumbed to the chilling influence of the mothers of the girls to whom she fancied herself about to become attached.

This made her feel very bitterly in regard to the English mother; but her own mother—who was also English, she remembered, had only laughed, saying—

“My dearest child, it seems ridiculous for me to have to tell you, but you are extremely pretty.”

Then Claire had laughed, saying in French, with a graceful little movement of the hands, in the same language—

“Madame, I am your daughter;” adding, however, “but why turn our conversation into a different channel?”

“What I say is strictly â propos ” her mother had replied. “A mother with a pretty daughter is a perpetual menace to the mother with one who is not so pretty. A pretty girl is no menace to the prospects of a girl who is plain, but only to the prospects of the girl who is not so pretty.”

These had been among the rather bitter experiences of Claire La Roache during the two years that followed her father’s death, and she had begun to think of Englishwomen as exceedingly unkind. Upon more than one occasion, too, she had had such an experience of Englishmen as caused her to think of them as something rather more than unkind.

She wondered if in crossing the Channel to Ireland she had come into a new state of life—a state of life in which only nice people would play a part. All the people around her were quite nice. Nice people are those who ask no questions. She had long ago learned to hate the questioning people—and so many people had regarded her mother and herself as questionable.

But in Ireland everybody seemed to take everything for granted.

Could it be, she asked herself, that Irish people were sufficiently adventurous to admit adventurers into their circle without inquiry? During the past year or two she had come to think of her mother and herself as successors to her father in the profession of adventure, and to feel that she should feel in some measure ashamed of it.

She was never actually ashamed of the fact that her father had been inclined to rove. She was not even ashamed when it leaked out that he had been a Chevalier of the Legion of Honour before he had forsaken the French service for the Austrian, which, in turn, he quitted for the Bulgarian. She had never heard of his being lower in rank—or higher—than Colonel, but she had been told that only in the United States is a man’s holding of this rank accepted as a guarantee of extraordinary personal merit; so she had never allowed herself to be deluded into the thought that the fact of her father’s being a colonel in the Bulgarian army precluded him from holding high rank among Irish adventurers on the Continent.

Still, as has been said, she had never quite felt ashamed of his adventurous career. In fact, in her hereditary moments, when she became conscious of being the descendant of an ancient race of fighting men, she had felt a thrill of pride reflecting upon some of the things that her father had done. He had fought under his fellow-countryman MacMahon, on the disbandment of Garibaldi’s army, but it was not in sympathy with his genius to join with any measure of enthusiasm in the reorganisation of the French army. After a year or two he would have been found, if anyone had been sufficiently interested in him to look for him, in the Austrian army. He himself could never explain what brought him there; but he frankly admitted that he had gone to Bulgaria because he believed that that State would be the centre of a tornado of war within a year or two.

He had been disappointed in this respect Of course there had been a scrimmage or two, but what were scrimmages to a man who looked for the approach of a Russian army from one quarter, and of a German from another?

What is the upsetting of an apple-cart to a man who looks for a collision between express trains? What is the twirl of a Japanese fan to a man whose meteorological register forces him to think of tornadoes? There had been an unworthy scrimmage or two; and in order to while away the time that he was tapping his political aneroid, so to speak, he had got married.

Miss Villiers-Staunton was the daughter of a man whose name was certainly not Villiers-Staunton. He had wandered about the Balkan States for some years obtaining concessions (for considerations) between the Revolutions, and then he had died. The fact that she was an orphan constituted in the eyes of Colonel La Roache her supreme qualification for becoming his wife. The fact that she had never been one up to the moment of her father’s death had prevented many another ineligible man from proposing to her.

She was also pretty and penniless, and these were claims which the Irishman in Bulgaria could not resist He made no attempt to do so. He married her within a month of her father’s death—a space of time which seemed to pass very slowly, for it included as many attempts to assassinate him as an ordinary man meets in the course of a long lifetime. Miss Villiers-Staunton, in common with a good many Bulgarian ladies skilled in the use of the knife, not exclusively for domestic purposes, was desperately in love with him, and she was content to accept all that he had to give her. It was not much beyond his devotion; but when a woman really loves a man, she will be ready to resign herself even to a fife of opulence for his sake; and Colonel La Roache and his wife were very happy together, nor did the lawyer’s letter which the lady received from England six months after her marriage, informing her that her father’s will had been duly proved and that it was found that so far from being penniless, she was entitled to an income of five hundred pounds a year out of her father’s estate, diminish from the happiness of their union.

No one was more surprised than Mrs. La Roache at such a result of the administration of her father’s estate. Colonel La Roache had always suspected Mr. Villiers-Staunton of being an adventurer, he wore so many orders; Mrs. La Roache knew him to be one. But he had died, leaving the sum of £I0,000 admirably invested in English securities, and his daughter had inherited it all, less the costs of probate and administration. It appeared that Mr. Villiers-Staunton had always had a morbid dread of his daughter falling into the hands of an adventurer, and thus he had been prudent enough to conceal from everyone the result of his prudence in money matters. He had no difficulty whatever in posing as a man who lived by his wits. His daughter’s income, however, joined to her husband’s, enabled them to make something of an appearance in Sofia; and though the Irishman had often talked of the Castle of his ancestors, and of the longing that he had to return to it, he was too true to his nationality ever to make an attempt to divest himself of the interest which attaches to an exile. He knew that the Irishman (with a castle) is the object of universal pity at home, but an Irish exile (with a castle either in Ireland or Spain) is the object of universal admiration elsewhere.

After thirty years of fascinating exile he died, and his wife had for long become aware of the fact that in spite of all that she could do to make him happy, he cherished a secret sorrow. The country was settling down, and he was weary waiting for the approach of the Russian army from the north and the German army from the south.

“I am killed because no one will come to slaughter me,” he had once said, and his wife, who, after twenty years passed by his side, had begun to understand him, knew what he meant.

That was all the story.

Only on the death of the head of the household,

Claire and her mother had lived in various parts of Europe, and once for a month or two in England. Then that strange yearning had come upon Mrs. La Roache to inhabit the Irish castle, which had once been her husbands.

She had entered into correspondence with Mr. Sullivan without in the least knowing what Mr. Sullivan was like, and now—

Well, she was sitting on a very comfortable sofa in her dressing-room watching the sunset sending its windmill fans flying high in the sky over the Atlantic, and to right and left of the purple mountains before her. There was a red mist in the air, with here and there a flare of gold; then a crimson sponge of cloud dropping blood in the waters—a convulsive motion of gold flakes falling upon the heather—a suspicion of saffron and pink, a band of rose petals twining around the peak of Slieve Gorm— blueness among the nearer glens—the silent silver tarnsleeping like an uncut jewel in the hollow of the hills.

No riband of the sunset’s weaving was seen by Mrs.

La Roache’s daughter, the fact being that when the partyin the hall had separated after tea, she had seated herself in a too comfortable place in the hollow of a convexwindow just where the curtain which crossed the halfcircle was draped against the oak at one side. She had laid her head upon the leathern back of the window-seat, and enjoyed a tranquil view of the scene before her eyes, for the sun had not yet touched the toI’most twigs of the Ardshean pines, and the rooks had not yet begun to give notice of their sunset flight to the far-off woods of lnnishtorrig.

It was a tranquil hour. The murmur of the voices of a couple of men who were smoking on a terrace exchanging briar-root stories, a sentence or two between puffs, and a longer murmur following the tapping of the rim of an empty bowl on the seat, only added to the general impression of tranquillity of which she was conscious. Then in the fulness of her enjoyment, and with a sense of the dimming of the evening, she ventured to put her feet up on the window-seat.

Then the sun went down to the feathery tufts of the distant firs, and shone through the interspaces, giving an effect of golden osier-work—peeled osiers interlaced with black; and all was very tranquil.

Of course she fell asleep. To talk of love is to make love. To watch a sleeping landscape is to become sleepy. Claire had only had an hour or two of sleep during the previous two nights, and now slumber came upon her and took possession of her in an instant.

She awoke suddenly, in the blue shadow of the twilight. Murmurous voices were close to her, and before she knew that they were confidential voices, she was in their confidence, and it was unnecessary for her to stir, even if she had thought of stirring.

“... a year ago,” were the words—they were uttered in a baritone—to which she became an unseen listener.

“Yes, it must have been a year ago, just,” came an acquiescent treble.

"Just And then you said that, perhaps, you were not sure of yourself” came the other.

"And I was not sure of myself. That was a year ago.”

"The way you say that makes me feel hopeless, Evey.”

There was a long silence.

"And that long silence makes me feel more hopeless still.”

"Alas! Alas!”

"You are not sure of yourself yet?”

"Ah! Ah!”

"What do you mean? Give me a chance, Evelyn. Let it be as it was before—you have not yet made up your mind.”

"So sorry, Lord Medway! I have made up my mind.”

"Against me?”

"Ah. . . . How can you or anyone say whether it is for you or against you?”

"‘How can anyone say . . .?’ Well, I think I could manage to say whether it is for or against me, Evey.”

"Not you. If I were to tell you that I love you sufficiently well to marry you, it might be the worst thing that ever happened to you.”

"It would be the best”

"Ah, that is the way men speak. They are all so certain. We are not so certain. Good heavens! If girls thought only of themselves—their own happiness! But they don’t; they think of you.”

"That makes me feel hopeful. If you think of my happiness you will—”

"Oh, it will not do for us to talk except straight, Lord Medway.”

“Lord Medway—Lord—— that makes me most hope less. You used to call me Dick.”

“I will talk to you straight, Dick. A year ago I think I cared a good deal for you—I know that I did, because I care a great deal for you now. But I told you that I was not certain that I loved you enough to satisfy you and myself. I admit that I thought of myself. Well, during the year I have found out that I cannot love you as you must be loved by the girl you are to marry. I thought a year ago, six months ago, that I could do it— I swear to you, Dick, that I hoped with all my heart, prayed, prayed, even to God, that I might be able to do it. . . . Oh, I must go away now, it’s getting so dark, and only the end of September! How the evenings are——”

“Don’t go, Evey. Don’t leave me alone. Are you sure of yourself in regard to—to the other man?”

There was another long pause. It really seemed to Claire that the girl was sobbing. There was a feeling of sobbing in the silence.

“Don’t you mind me,” said Lord Medway. “Don’t think of my feelings. Only tell me straight, Evey. Are you sure of yourself in regard to the other man?”

“Don’t ask me—oh, don’t ask me, Dick,” she said in a pitiful whisper. “I tell you that I am conscious of being moved against my own will—moved in one direction when I am longing to go in another. I suppose that is what love means. A tyranny—a dreadful, hateful tyranny— but, oh, my God! it is love, love, love, and I am a feather upon billows—a feather of down. I suppose it’s the same with other girls—perhaps all other girls, against our will, mind—that’s the queer thing. That is why there are so many wrecks—feathers upon billows.”

She walked up and down the room. Claire heard her, and held her breath.

And then the heavy drapery which concealed Claire and the end of the window-seat on which she sat swayed until the drapery actually touched the back of her head. The rings at the top rattled on their bar. She knew that the girl on the other side had thrown herself into the curtain, a hand clutching the tapestry on each side. Claire somehow was as well aware of the pose as if the curtain had not been between her and the other, and then came the girl’s whisper. It was scarcely audible.

“Dick, I would give everything in the world to be able to love you. Not like this, not like this, but in the way you would want to be loved by a good woman.”

“And you will, Evey, some day,” said he.

“I cannot, I cannot; I love someone else,” she cried once again, almost piteously.

“That does not matter,” said he doggedly. “You will come to know that you love me, not another. I can wait, Evey. You are worth waiting for.”

There was another pause; then the curtain was suddenly released from the figure of the girl, who had been folding it and holding it about her. Claire heard the little laugh that she gave—it had the sound of a gasp—a laugh at the end of a long breath.

“Go away, go away,” Claire heard her say.

“Oh, yes,” he said, “I’ll go away. But I’ll come back to you, don’t doubt that. I’ll come back to you to help you out of your difficulty, and you will welcome me.”

“Oh, go away,” she said.

“Poor Evey! My poor little Evey!” said he, and Claire heard the door close behind him.

The next moment there was the sound of a little cry —it was just like the pathetic little plaint of a lamb that has strayed from its mother—the curtain was flung aside, and the girl had thrown herself—not down upon the window-seat which she had meant to throw herself on, but into the arms of Claire.

She started back with a barely stifled shriek.

“Who are you?” she said, after a moment’s recovery.

“I am your sister,” said Claire. “I heard everything. I could not help hearing everything. I was asleep when you came into the room. You had both spoken before I was aware of it What could I do?”

“You could do nothing, of course. Well, Miss La Roache, you have been present at a very funny scene. Were you not amused? I know that if I had been in your place I should have betrayed my presence by my roars of laughter.”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, do not talk in that way,” cried Claire. “Laughter? Oh, I wept, I wept, I am weeping now. I never thought that there was anything so full of pathos in the world. I never was in the presence of a woman—a woman—before. Oh, don’t let us talk about it; I will think of it as a dream that I have had. You told him to pray for you. He will do it—so will I; I am your sister.”

She was now standing up face to face in the darkness —the room was now in complete darkness—with the other girl. She put both hands out to the other girl, who did not respond at once. After a few seconds of distrust, however, she threw her arms about Claire, and kissed her twice, thrice, on the face.

“My name is Evelyn Camaleigh,” said she. “I am the most wretched girl in the world, but somehow I feel better for knowing that you overheard my secret It is no secret now.”

"It is your secret still; it is my secret, our secret,” said Claire. "Oh, I need not make any affirmation. You would not have kissed me unless you had felt assured that you could trust me.”

"That is true,” said the girl. "I will show you how far I can trust you, for I will tell you more than I told him —I will tell you the name of the other man—the man who made me love him.”

"No—no—for pity’s sake, no!” cried Claire. "I will not hear it—never—never!”

The other laughed.

"I feel much better for knowing that you overheard all that you did,” said she. "You will pray for me?”

"I will pray that you may be happy,” said Claire.

"Not that—not that!” she cried. "Do not pray for my happiness—my happiness is nothing. Pray for his happiness.”

"His?—his?—Lord Medway’s or the other’s? Whose happiness am I to pray for?”

"God knows—God knows,” said the girl.

And then the dressing-gong sent forth its mild thunder.

CHAPTER VIII.

It had been a delightful day, although Mr. Marvin had been present This was, roughly, the result of a consensus of opinion among the party who had dined with Philip Trent aboard his yacht swinging at her moorings in Lough Suanagorm.

Mr. Philip Trent had steamed into the lough a few days before, his approach being heralded by about a thousand telegrams addressed to him. Mr. Trent was one of those modern business men who conduct all their correspondence by wire—telegraphic and telephonic; and his private secretary’s private secretary was kept pretty busy replying to these communications. They related mostly to certain minor transactions in the way of business— trivialities involving at the very most a profit of twenty thousand pounds a year; but it is just over such pettifogging affairs that some people are most fussy; and some of Mr. Trent’s correspondents were very fussy. Mr. Urquhart knew how to deal with them. He was never discourteous; he was merely discouraging. And thus he kept his employer’s correspondence within reasonable limits.

When he had been at Suanamara for a couple of days doing a little shooting, fighting a salmon or two, and sending off telegrams by the thousand—the telegraph operator at the village—a young woman who had sent off as many as fifteen telegrams during the previous six months—despatched a message on her own account to the Postmaster-General, asking him if he could spare her six assistants—Mr. Trent took a party from the house for a day’s cruise in the Curlew. They had steamed out of the lough and along the magnificent coast for fifty or sixty miles, thereby enabling Miss Fosberry to get a capital snapshot of the majestic headlands of Ardreagh—quite a notable result of the day’s excursion—and in the evening they had dined together on the yacht Of course they could not expect anything but the simple fare of yachtsmen, but they were content to rough it with a refrigerator and a chef whose name was known in every part of the dining world.

It was generally admitted by his guests aboard the Curlew that Mr. Trent’s chef managed with great adroitness to take the rough edge off roughing it. The dinner to which he ventured to call their attention was worthy to be placed as a work of allegorical art alongside the Barerini Vase or the friezes of the Parthenon. It was not symbolic; it was allegorical, as anyone could perceive who studied every canto of the carte. It dealt with the mystery of human life—its mingling of tragedy and comedy—from the cradle to the tomb—nay, beyond it; for one of the incidents of the menu was a certain crème de Vanille à la Porte de Perle, which more than suggested a beatified hereafter.

How could any company fail to be in a contented state of mind—Monsieur Adolphe's plats, like all inspirations, were spiritual rather than mental; but still they gave a tender animation to the mind—the delicate brush as of a butterfly's wing—after dining off metaphors? That is what someone inquired over a peach from which the stone had been extracted, crushed, and replaced in frozen form with a flavouring which, though partly spirituous, was entirely spiritual.

But Mr. Marvin had been present. He rarely neglected a function that had any possibilities in it, and dinner aboard a millionaire’s yacht had many. Mr. Marvin was known as the Interpreter of the Primeval, and he sometimes did succeed in making people feel uncomfortable. He saw everything in the world of to-day as it existed some hundreds of thousands of years ago—he was not particular as to a few hundreds of thousands—it made no difference, he said. He could not perceive any change in anything of nature, the fact being that nature was unchangeable. There were no men in the world who were not savage, and no women who were not prehistoric. They were still animals of the trees and caves—yes, he thought that a recent ancestor was probably arboreal; and the first thing that a man child—or, for that matter, a woman child —did on getting into the open air was to climb a tree. Climbing trees and robbing the birds’ nest of eggs—eggs which were quite useless to the boy or girl—were the natural instinct of the child. The child did not know why it found a tree irresistible, horrid though it was to climb owing to the unhappy dropping of a tail—a prehensile tail of an ancestor who took his ease swinging from a bough and not sitting on a rock.

It was a disgrace to whip boys for bird-nesting and for robbing orchards, he declared, and the boys were on his side to a man. Boys now and again collected eggs, until the eggs became a nuisance to their relations; but they rarely collected apples or nuts—ah, nuts—nuts. Why should nuts be so popular among boys? This was the arboreal instinct.

And girls—did it ever strike anyone that women still wore their hair long? Yes, it did not require the adventitious aid of a coiffeur’s advertisement to make everyone aware that both men and women had a great admiration for long hair in the latter. Yes, but why?

Why, simply because another ancestor — a hundred thousand years or so advanced in civilisation from the “probably arboreal”—was accustomed, when he had chosen a certain woman to be his wife, to carry her to his cave by the hair of the head, which formed a most convenient medium of towage.

This was a very horrid revelation for Mr. Marvin to make to Mrs. Archie Browne and her guests, several of whom had beautiful hair; and they did not hesitate to say so, which was very feminine, and to be very feminine was, as Mr. Marvin was careful to explain, to be very contradictory.

“And therefore very charming,” Mr. Urquhart suggested.

But Mr. Marvin was not so sure of this. He said it was very feminine to pretend not to want to be haled to a cave, and yet to wear the tresses of primeval woman.

“Depend upon it,” said he, “if the women did not want to be dragged to a cave by a total stranger, they would have worn their hair short. But as it is, they still wear long hair. That is because women are still prehistoric. And men still look on a woman’s tresses with admiration. That is because the world contains only primeval men.”

“Thank Heaven!” said Lady Innisfail quite piously.

Mrs. Archie Browne, who had spent all her earlier years trying to keep her mother from saying these things piously, cried, reprovingly—

“Oh, mother!”

And then Philip Trent, making an attempt to save the situation, said gaily—

“Mr. Marvin, come for a cruise in my boat on Wednesday, and I will guarantee that for one day at least you do not find anything that is prehistoric or primeval.”

Mr. Marvin had accepted the invitation with the smile of the man who knows.

And that was how it came about that the other people declared, on returning from the cruise and the dinner, that the day had been a delightful one in spite of the presence of Mr. Marvin.

It was really not until tiffin was over—a tiffin in sympathy with the splendid swing of the Atlantic swell— that Mr. Marvin had become horrid.

“You will smoke one of my Partagas; you will find nothing primeval about my Partagas at any rate,” said Philip Trent, offering him the box of cigars. There were only fifty boxes of such cigars in Europe, and forty-nine of them were in the possession of Philip Trent.

“Not in the individual cigar,” said Mr. Marvin, who knew a good cigar and enjoyed consuming it with the best of the ignoramuses. “No, not in the individual cigar, perhaps; but, of course, you know why men took so eagerly to the idea of smoking.”

“I suppose it was because they had been told not to,” said Mr. Urquhart. “I know that is why I took so kindly to it.”

Mr. Marvin smiled that pitying smile of his, which made him so many enemies. It was reported in Royal Society circles that that smile of Mr. Marvin’s had retarded by quite half a century the advance of the theory of Evolution.

“It is rather extraordinary that no monograph on the origin of smoking has yet been written,” said he. “It has puzzled many people who only look at things superficially, that men should adopt a practice which—looked at superficially—seems objectless, if not objectionable—if not absolutely ridiculous and quite disagreeable! It is quite disagreeable, you know.”

“I have never smoked one of your cigars,” said Archie Browne, with a grin; “but I take it for granted.”

“But smoking has become all but universal,” continued Mr. Marvin. “Why?”

“Grateful—comforting,” suggested Mr. Trent. “You won’t go so far as to deny that it is comforting, Mr. Marvin?”

“Certainly not,” said Mr. Marvin. “But why?”

“I don’t suppose you know after all,” said Archie. “Tell us now, is there a catch in it? Do you want to lay a trap for an innocent juggins, like that one about the man who had twenty-six sheep: one of them died—how many were left?”

“Having a lighted pipe or cigar at hand conveys to one a sense of comfort and contentment simply because the earliest man who experienced something of the difficulty of obtaining fire, and yet knew that a fire was indispensable to his comfort, had a feeling of contentment when a fire—a single spark of fire that could at any moment be fanned into a flame—was beside him. The fire was the most precious of the possessions of primitive man, and our contentment with a pipe is merely a survival of his cherishing a spark.”

“Did he play skittles?” asked Archie Browne in a fine spirit of derision.

“There is every reason to believe that our skittles is merely a survival of some game played with an enemy’s skull,” said Mr. Marvin calmly.

“Bravo,” said Archie. “You read a paper on that subject, and the tobacco trust will give you a medal.”

“That reminds me that the war medal is undoubtedly the modem equivalent of the early scalp,” said Mr. Marvin. “The warrior who possessed the largest number of scalps was naturally the most highly honoured in the tribe. But civilisation advanced, and the wearing of human skin, imperfectly tanned, was discouraged. The original impression, however, was far too strong to be eradicated, hence the metal medal was invented, and men are agreed in honouring the wearer, on the same principle that people have an instinctive respect for a man who wears a coat lined with fur. The fur meant the successful hunter, and the successful hunter was nearly as highly esteemed in the days of primeval man as he is in an English county to-day.”

“All this is new to me,” said Archie. “But I suppose it will be taught in all the nurseries in another fifty years —it will take quite fifty years, I should say.”

“You need not think that for a moment,” said Mr. Marvin. “No, my dear Archie, women, I regret to say, women—especially mothers—are just the same to-day as they were fifty thousand years ago. I have listened at the door of a nursery, in no spirit of idle curiosity, but in a purely scientific spirit, and what did I hear that mother telling her year-old child?”

“I know,” shouted Archie. “It was the story of the pigs that went to market.”

“That was the story that followed,” said Mr. Marvin. “Between the first communication to the infant and the second there was an interval of at least ten thousand years.” “Don’t tell us that you waited all that time at the nursery door,” said Lady Innisfail. “You really are a very naughty man, Mr. Marvin—oh, you know that you are!” “It is very kind of you to say so,” said Mr. Marvin. “But what I heard at the nursery door was what might have been heard by any cave-dwelling husband on returning from the jungle for the night. The mother was teaching her offspring the various sounds of the jungle. ‘What does the cow say?’ she cried. ‘The cow says “moo-moo.”’ ‘Now what does the cow say?’ In some cases, with the adroitness of a mother anxious to make her offspring appear in a favourable light, she hyphened the name of the animal of the jungle to the sound it produces. ‘What does the moo-cow say?’ ‘What does the baa-lamb say?’ Nay, she went even further, and actually referred to some animals not under their names but by the sound they emit ‘What does the bow-wow say?' she cried. I have reason to suppose that she meant by that the dog. Then she asked, ‘What does the donkey say?’”

“Ah! that was a home-thrust You went off like a tennis-ball then, I'll swear,” said Archie.

“I waited until I actually heard that mother try to frighten her child to sleep by assuring it that if it didn’t lie still a great big bear would come round and eat it— ‘gobble it up’—that was the phrase,” said Mr. Marvin. “Just think of it. There was that jungle mother instructing that infant, not in the elements of civilisation, but in the common wisdom of the jungle.”

“All this is very interesting,” said Mr. Trent; “but where does it lead one?”

“It leads one back to the jungle from the higher mathematics and the American Gum Trust,” said Lord Medway.

“And what is the good of being led back to the jungle unless Mr. Marvin is led there and gets eaten by a tiger?” asked Lady Innisfail.

“Did your mother ever tell you what the tiger says, Mr. Marvin?” cried Archie.

“I have made these investigations in no particular interest, I can assure you,” said Mr. Marvin. “Only now and again, in the midst of that veneer—that transparent varnish which we call civilisation—it is as well to recall the fact that men and women are the same now, fundamentally, as they were, say, a hundred thousand years ago —that man is simply the head of the brute creation.”

“Oh, we all know that,” said Lady Innisfail with joyful alacrity.

“Yes, and that modern woman possesses and rejoices at possessing all the original instincts of the jungle mother,” said Mr. Marvin complacently.

There was a murmur of disapproval from the women —a chorus of disapproval from the men.

“I believe in religion—they had no religion in those days,” said Mrs. Archie Browne gravely.

“What people call religion in one age is what people call superstition in the next,” said Mr. Marvin. “The growth of religion is one of the most easily traced of all develoI’ments. Why do people sing in church?”

“You don't, you old reprobate, and I shouldn't care to hear you if you did,” remarked Archie. .

“Singing as part of a religious service had its origin in the jungle,” said Mr. Marvin. “The idea was, of course, that the Being whom it was thought advantageous to placate was invisible, and far off; consequently, the medium of placation was shouting, accompanied by the tom-tom. Well, singing and the organ are the modem equivalents of the shouting and the tom-tom.”

“This is shocking,” said Mrs. Archie. “And I don't believe a word of it The religion of the jungle was sorcery and witchcraft and dreadful things like that. I have heard that there are still devil-worshippers in some of those dreadful places in the interior of Africa. I read all about it in some book the other day. But of course Africa is Africa.”

“Africa is Europe as far as that is concerned,” said Mr. Marvin. “There is not much to choose between the continents in the matter of superstition. Your most civilised people would worship the devil if they thought they could get anything out of him.”

“Oh, Mr. Marvin, that is unscientific. It's unworthy of you to make a bare statement like that You have hitherto been quite scientific; but now you have become simply polemical,” said Philip Trent “I admit it,” said Mr. Marvin. “I have not yet collected sufficient data to justify my speaking with confidence —my usual confidence——”

“Ahem!” came in an acquiescent chorus from right and left “My usual confidence, on that point,” continued Mr. Marvin. “My thoughts were turned to what is called witchcraft and devil-worship as a field of investigation only the other day, when I chanced to be writing in a room in a house where I was staying, and one of my fellow-guests—a religious woman—stole in with another— also religious—and began to arrange packs of cards in a corner, after the most approved fashion of medieval witches, and one of them interpreted the cards quite solemnly for the other, talking, sotto voce, about the approach of a dark man with a large fortune, and—equally solemnly—about the possible unfaithfulness of a young man, fair, and inclined to be undersized.”

“How delightful! I have seen really wonderful things done with the cards,” cried Lady Innisfail. “Things have come out exactly as they were predicted. Archie, I remember now distinctly hearing that there was a witch in the neighbourhood. You must find her out for us—you must, indeed. It will be such a novelty. I have often heard of Irish witches, but I never actually saw one. You really must find her out for us. She is sure to be uncanny, and I simply adore uncanny things. Goodness knows what we may get out of her. She may be able to tell us what to do to win always at bridge.”

“Oh, mother, I really cannot allow you to talk in this way,” said Mrs. Archie in her most distressful voice.

“Nonsense! A witch will be a complete novelty, and we are simply dying of ennui,” said her mother. “Archie, you must find that witch.”

Philip Trent laughed, and begged of Mr. Urquhart to pass round the cigars.

Mr. Marvin, taking another cigar, smiled the smile of the savant, and murmured—

“That is not primeval woman, only medieval woman. But the witch is a link—a distinct and tangible link.”

He had seen the expression of intense interest on the faces of all the women present at the mention of the word “witch.” He knew that he had not succeeded in interesting them by all his lore.

CHAPTER IX.

It was a night of vast moonlight. Moonlight deluged the world. It gave to everyone in the region of the Lough the impression that there was nothing in the world that remained unsaturate with moonlight The long, narrow lough was quivering beneath its glamour, not palpitating with passion, but in the deep gladness of a chaste friendship. The range of cliffs, around whose feet the waters swayed in the majestic rhythm of the epic of the sea, were white from where they mingled with the mountains of the coast, on to the fine points on which the Atlantic rollers impaled themselves in the utter distance. The headlands were like icicles.

This was looking seaward, but landward all was different The black shadows of the glens zigzagged across the vast moonlight landscape like the veins in a block of white marble. The billowy heather of the hills far off was transformed into a silver mist; but over the fir-forests of the nearer slopes there seemed to be thrown a sheet of muslin in silvery, filmy folds. The texture was transparent enough to show the form of the boughs beneath.

A couple of pony carts had been sent from Suanamara to the head of the cliff path for the weaker brethren of Mr. Philip Trent’s party; but as it turned out there were no weaker brethren among the party. The way was one of the loveliest in the world, and everyone elected to have the moonlit walk—it was only two miles: far too short, Lady Innisfail declared. She had a wonderful eye for possibilities, her son-in-law respectfully and confidentially asserted in the ears of Mrs. La Roache.

Of course, there was no premeditation in the setting out of the party. No one awaited to accompany anyone in particular. What would be the good of that—the mountain ways were flooded with moonlight?

It was by the side of Philip Trent that Claire found herself walking up the cliff-path from the tiny landing-stage, while the sound of the oars of the boat’s crew, who were taking the long gig back to the yacht, came jerkily from the lough.

“This is delightful,” said he. “I suppose Mr. Marvin would find his own liking for moonlight and the open air another proof of our jungle origin.”

“Mr. Marvin interested me greatly. I never thought of looking back upon our life in that way,” said she.

“Until one is as old as I am one is only inclined to look forward,” said he.

“But I was thinking of fifty thousand years—that seemed to be Mr. Marvin’s favourite period,” said she.

“If one does not feel inclined to look back for five years, depend upon it one will not be impelled to multiply the space of time ten thousand times,” said he. “All your life is before you—this life and ... I fancy you sometimes go so far as to think of a life beyond this one. There is sometimes in your face a look .. . but, of course, every girl is taught that there is a future beyond this life.”

“It is a necessity for a woman: we have so few interests in life that our religion is something to cherish,” said Claire. “But I think that few of us think deeply or continuously about another life.”

“No, but that is simply because you have so implicit a trust in your good God you do not feel that there is any need for you to give the matter a thought: children do not ask themselves if dinner will be forthcoming. They trust But religion as we understand it—we who are Christians—roughly seems a constant conflict with every impulse of our nature. Now do you believe that religion is strong enough to overcome our nature—to carry us from the depths of the jungle to be the fit companions for angels?”

“I don't know anything about angels, but I believe that God is more powerful than Satan,” said Claire.

“Some people do not You heard what Mr. Marvin said. There are some people—they are really more numerous than you would suppose—who say to evil ‘Be thou my good.' They succeed, too, in this life. After all, this principle is no more than that which was embodied in the medieval allegory of Faustus. The appearance of the Mephisto and the signing of the compact for the man's soul are done away with, but the contract may still be entered into by such as are willing. I think I have met in the course of my life some men who would cheerfully sign such a contract and then trust to their own clever- ness to get the better of the holder of the mortgage—the post-obit upon their souls.”

“Business men?” said Claire, with a laugh.

Mr. Trent laughed.

“I confess that those whom I had in my mind’s eye were business men,” he replied. “Still there are lawyers —they are accustomed to the business of helping people to wriggle out of contracts—yes, I think that lawyers might be content to run their chance of a flaw in the deed—not for the sake of a county court judgeship, of course, but for the Lord Chancellorship. Yet, after all, it was not a Lord Chancellor that Mephisto showed to Faust in the mirror. The vision that appeared there showed that Mephisto shared with our friend Mr. Marvin, a sound working knowledge of primeval man. I wonder if he were to come to a man in these days, would he make arrangements to give him a vision of the Lord Chancellor sitting on the Woolsack, or of—let me see—well, suppose we say a millionaire on the deck of his steam yacht?”

Claire laughed again.

“Ask Mr. Marvin; he is an authority on these delicate points,” said she.

“Oh, we all know that Mr. Marvin would say that if the modern woman differs in no material point from the jungle woman, a modern man of business is identical with the cave-dweller, so that Mephisto would have no need to paint out Helen of Troy from his magic-lantern slide,” said Mr. Trent They turned off the cliff-road to the track that led them among the rocks of the summit. Lady Innisfail was waiting for them with Archie Browne by her side.

“I can’t for the life of me see why we shouldn’t work out the question of the witch. Can you, Mr. Trent?” she cried.

“What, another added to your already large circle in this direction?” said he, with quite a gallant air.

“Oh, that’s not the point. I am thinking of a real true witch—the black art, you know—that sort of thing —the real thing,” said Lady Innisfail.

“I shouldn’t mind it for myself,” said Archie; “but you know as well as I do that Norah would set her face against the business; and when Norah sets her face against anything . . .”

“You call yourself a man!” said the modern mother-in-law. “A man, and yet you shake in your shoes at the thought of a chit like Norah making a row.”

“You were afraid of her for twenty years yourself— that’s why you passed her on to me,” said Archie. “A witch? My aunt! You’ll be accusing her of spoiling the churning next, and applying to the court for an order to have her burnt A witch! Oh, come along!”

“A witch! Could anything be more amusing, I should like to know?” cried Lady Innisfail. “It will be the most novel feature ever introduced into a house party. If it only gets into the papers—and I think it is pretty sure to—we shall have the witch become the feature of every entertainment What is the good of living in a district where there is a witch if you don’t make use of her? Don’t you agree with me, Mr. Trent?”

“I agree with you in asking the question, Lady Innisfail. It would look very like flying in the face of Providence if we neglected to avail ourselves of the services of a properly accredited agent of a recognised power.” “Oh, come along, or I’ll go on without you,” said Archie. “If people begin to talk that sort of rot, it’s high time for decent people to go to bed.”

“It’s perfectly disgraceful,” said Lady Innisfail, resuming her walk, but going to the side of Philip Trent and talking over her shoulder to Archie who was with Gaire. “Miss La Roache has been with us more than a week, and you have done nothing for her entertainment—absolutely nothing. And yet, when the opportunity comes of doing something novel and handsome, you refuse. Are you not dying to have a talk to the witch, Claire, my dear?”

“I’m fairly dying for it,” said Claire. “Mr. Trent and I were talking about wizards and the witch’s master, and really I don’t see how I could be for many days longer without a witch. But, of course, I would not have anyone inconvenienced for my entertainment”

“Inconvenienced? No one will be inconvenienced,” said Lady Innisfail. “I know that the woman lives somewhere in the neighbourhood—quite at hand. If Archie will only exert himself, we can have her here in an hour or two.

“I won’t accept the responsibility,” said Archie, striking a match for a fresh cigar. “No, hang me if I do; I’m not going to countenance superstition.”

“History repeats itself,” said Philip Trent “There was a king called Saul, and he sent all through the country in search of a witch. Is Archie also to be among the prophets?”

Archie did not appear to recollect the allusion either to the witch or to the prophets. He was in doubt whether Trent was on his side or Lady Innisfail’s.

He growled between his puffs of smoke. There was a sound of pleasant laughter coming from some others of the party who were on ahead; he wished that he had joined the others. But he had no chance; Lady Innisfail had come to his side quite early. She had made up her mind to bore him about this ridiculous fad of hers. But he felt that it served him right for having anything to do with a chap like Mr. Marvin. Of course, Mr. Marvin had got invited to the house under false pretences. He played the banjo, and was investigating something about fairies. Lady Innisfail had invited him on account of his banjo, and Norah had invited him on account of his investigations. Norah had always been too much disposed to favour scientific research. She had once gone to a Royal Society’s conversazione, and immediately afterwards she had bought a lemur; she had seen one huddled up in a cage in charge of an enormous man in one of the reception rooms. The enormous man had brought it there in illustration of a theory of his—something about the circulation of the blood. Not on this account, but on purely personal grounds, it had attracted a large amount of attention—a great deal more than was given to the spectrum of argon. Still, when Norah had mentioned that she had seen the animal at the conversazione and sent about London trying to buy another, Archie felt that she was going too far in her devotion to science.

And later on she had invited Mr. Marvin to Suanamara, and Mr. Marvin had started the idea of hunting for a witch, and Norah’s husband was started as the witch-hunter. Truly, science was a dangerous thing to meddle with. Lemurs were well enough in their way, and they were fairly accessible; but a witch . . .

He wondered if the resources of science could be more profitably employed than in the annihilation of scientific men.

There was Lady Innisfail, who had hurried on before him, telling the others of the party in a triumphant voice with something of the strident ring of the timbrel in its tone, that he had agreed to find them a witch, and that they would consequently have no end of fun.

“Isn’t it fearful rot?” said he to Claire.

“Isn’t it all in fun?” said Claire. “A witch in the twentieth century? Why, she would be a ridiculous anachronism.”

“There you are!” he cried exultingly to Lady Innisfail. “There you are! Miss La Roache says that a witch would be a—a—what is this you said she would be, Miss La Roache?”

“An anachronism,” said Claire, laughing.

“There you are—you can’t go further than that, can you?” said he. “And Miss La Roache has lived in France and other places, and jolly well knows what she is talking about”

There was silvery laughter in the silver moonlight while the little party stood together on the spacious carriage-sweep in front of the house.

“Good night,” said one.

“I’m off to bed,” announced another.

“The moonlight is going to waste,” said a third.

“It’s like sitting out an entrancing waltz,” whispered a sentimentalist. “Moonlight poured forth like melody.”

“And no one to dance,” said a plaintive one.

“Except the fairies,” said Mrs. La Roache. “I believe that fairies were seen last night at some place or other.”

“It was I who saw them,” said Lord Medway. “On the links—half a dozen shiny little critters, flitting about with bundles of bulrushes over their shoulders. One of them teeed a hazel nut and picked out a first-class bulrush driver, and after a couple of misses—for he was dearly an airy fairy foozler—drove the nut at least three yards —the prettiest sight I ever saw.”

“After that, I’m off to bed,” said Archie. "You chaps will find the syphons in the library as usual.”

"He’s so dreadfully prosaic,” said Norah apologetically, when he was gone. "But really, Lord Medway, you shouldn’t have said that about the fairies—unless of course you did actually see them. Did you really and truly see them?”

"Don’t know,” said Lord Medway, after a stupid pause. "I have been thinking about the incident all day, and sometimes I fancy that I did, but at other times I have grave doubts on that point; luckily, however, in things of this sort, it does not matter whether one has doubts or not—the fairies were playing golf whether I saw them or not.”

"They are of Coptic origin,” said Mr. Marvin. "I have proved conclusively that it would be impossible for a fairy to survive unless it were definitely Coptic. And yet some people--”

"My aunt!” murmured a man in the shadow of the porch.

There was more laughter and a general movement— by no means a stampede—into the hall.

Mr. Marvin was the last to participate in this movement He smiled quite blandly with the moonlight on his face. He had a fair sense of his own sense of humour.

"I thought that I could drive them in,” he murmured in a thoroughly self-satisfied way. "Moonlight and fairies at midnight at the end of September! Fairies?—fools, all of them!”

Claire had reached the dressing-room which she shared with her mother, and threw herself down on the comfortable sofa—the sofa which was so comfortable that it now and again kept one who had yielded to the embrace of its arms out of bed for an hour or more.

“An enchanting day!” said her mother. “Money! . . . what a delight to be able to do all that and not feel that one has spent faster than one’s income was coming in!”

“That is what it means to be a millionaire,” said Claire.

“I talked to him a good deal,” said Mrs. La Roache. “He is hopelessly rich.”

“Hopelessly? Surely he is not so bad as that?” said Claire.

“You know what I mean—you should know—you have noticed it; he is so wealthy as to be above the aspirations of any of the girls here,” said the mother.

“They may not be especially aspiring,” said Claire. “But how do you know what is the limit of their aspirations?”

“They recognise the fact that he is not for them,” said Mrs. La Roache, evading a reply. “Yes, I could see . . . But what a cook! I believe that that yacht cannot be worked with less than thirty men. And such a cook! I will say that this Mr. Trent is a delightful man —if you were not told it you would never guess that he was a millionaire. . . . You were a good deal with that Mr. Urquhart, my dear.”

“I tried to be: I like him,” said Claire frankly.

“Like him? Yes—it is safe to like a man—such a man,” said Mrs. La Roache. “He cannot be otherwise than extremely clever. Someone called him the other day the tail that wagged the dog. I have heard it said that in most cases the private secretary is the master. I am sure that Mr. Urquhart is very clever and that——; but Mr. Philip Trent is . . . is. . . . How strange that such a man has not married long ago; I hear that he is on the verge of forty; he has been a wealthy man since he was thirty.”

“I have lost my heart!” cried Claire, suddenly starting up with her hand to her neck. “I have lost it; I knew that the snap of the clasp was worn—that is why I kept putting my hand up every now and again to see that it was safe. It was safe when I entered the house. It must have dropped either in the hall or on the stairs.”

Her mother knew that she was talking about a little gold heart—a large diamond with rubies about the rim —which had been given to her by a Bulgarian Royalty when she was a child. Claire wore it every day on the fine chain of a necklet.

“The servants will find it in the morning,” said her mother.

“I will not trust to them; I should pass a sleepless night thinking of it I will go downstairs and look for it now. Everyone is in bed.”

She slipped out of the dressing-room and down the little corridor until she reached the gallery to which the great staircase led. A light was burning in the corridor, and another at the head of the stairs. There was sufficient light to give her a chance of seeing the gleam of the jewel should it have fallen on the carpets; so she went slowly along, step by step, her eyes scanning closely the strip of carpet from side to side.

It took her a couple of minutes to reach the head of the stairs. The moment that she took the first step down she became aware of the fact that the hall below was not wholly deserted. She heard the sound of a voice—a gently modulated voice at the foot of the stairs—a man’s voice.

She felt impatient for a moment, for if there were men below she would be unable to descend. She had unfastened her hair while her mother was talking to her, and it had tumbled over her shoulders; it had been very near to the carpet when she had been searching with bowed head for the jewel.

The voice was a man’s. It was followed not by a man’s, but a woman’s, which said—

“It is Miss La Roache’s heart that you have found; I have seen her wear it How lucky!”

“Lucky! I daresay; but luckier in having found the heart of Evey,” came the other voice.

There was a silence, with a sigh, for half a minute. Then a whisper.

“Good night.”

“My dearest”

Another silence, with a breath.

Claire went back cautiously until she reached her corridor, and then, like a flash, to her room.

“Have you found it?” inquired her mother.

“I saw Lady Evelyn on the stairs—some of them have not yet gone to bed—and she told me that Mr. Urquhart had found it a few minutes ago, and had said that he would give it to me in the morning,” said Claire.

“How fortunate!” said Mrs. La Roache. “You are out of breath.”

“I ran back,” said Claire.

Claire was a true woman, and she had told her mother almost the exact truth—so far as was necessary for her information.

It was Stephen Urquhart's voice which she had heard first, and it had been replied to by the voice of Lady Evelyn Carnaleigh.

CHAPTER X.

Claire would have had a considerable amount of difficulty in defining the impressions of which she became conscious so soon as she had satisfied her mother by an almost exact truth and found herself alone in her room.

Of course, her first thought was of the secret which had been revealed to her.

The man whom Lady Evelyn loved in that curious way —apparently an unwilling way—was Stephen Urquhart. When Lady Evelyn had been at the point of telling her the man's name on becoming aware of the fact that Claire had been present during the scene which she had had with Lord Medway, Claire had stopped her. She had felt sufficiently embarrassed at the amount of knowledge she had already acquired, and had no particular desire to supplement it by so important a detail as that which Lady Evelyn offered to supply. But all that she felt in regard to this point did not prevent her from looking at some of her fellow-guests (male) with additional interest the next morning, asking herself which of them it was that stood between Lord Medway and the desire of his eyes.

The result was unsatisfactory, though, of course, Claire had no trouble in persuading herself to believe that she did not care in the least who was the man. The truth was that Lady Evelyn was so sweet and natural to all men —and women—it would be impossible to say that she favoured any one of them. Lady Evelyn did not treat anyone with exceptional favour, or with exceptional neglect—the latter course would have excited the suspicions of so well informed an observer as Claire.

After a day or two Claire came to the conclusion that the man whom Lady Evelyn loved to the exclusion (as she thought) of Lord Medway, was not within sight. He could not be at Suanamara she was persuaded, or she would have found him out. She had a large amount of confidence in a girl’s powers of dissimulation—she was a girl herself, and had now and again realised how grateful she should be to a bountiful and far-seeing Nature for having endowed her with this best of Nature’s gifts—the instinct of dissimulation; still, she did not believe that any girl would be for some days in touch—within easy kissing distance, as it were—of the man whom she loved without betraying herself and her secret.

But even if the girl succeeded in keeping the secret, assuredly the man would betray it. Men were a bit clumsy at that sort of work which demanded a light touch. They could weave cloth well enough, but were poor hands at lace-making. Yes, the man would most certainly have given himself away if he had been present. Lord Medway did so every day, though he was an exceedingly good type of the self-contained Englishman.

And now she was lying awake in her bed thinking that the secret had been revealed to her—that Stephen Urquhart was the man toward whom Lady Evelyn was drawn, so that she felt, with strange, passionate reluctance (there was no other way of expressing it), that she must refuse to accept Lord Medway’s offer of love.

Not for a moment had it occurred to Claire that Stephen Urquhart was this man. She had somehow come to think of Mr. Urquhart as standing on a different footing from that of the other men. He was a man who was obliged to work, while the others were playing. He was paid a salary for his services by his employer, whereas all the others were in positions of independence.

This very difference had, of course, made Mr. Urquhart more interesting in Claire’s eyes; but she knew so little of that class of people known as the English aristocracy that she fancied there was a great insurmountable barrier between them and the shopkeeping classes. She did not know that in the eyes of the English aristocracy, if it is a social offence to keep a shop, that offence, if multiplied a hundred-fold, becomes the greatest possible distinction. She did not know that the additional stones which are being added every year to this great edifice of exclusiveness, are supplied by menials—as in the case of the Earl of—, whose father was a butler; by publicans, as in the case of Lord—, whose father was a publican in Ireland; by navvies, as in the case of Lord——, whose father was a navvy; by pedlars, as in the case of Lord —, whose father and mother had hawked second-hand clothes through third-class fairs in country towns in the province of Ulster.

Had she been aware of this fact, it would have possibly increased her respect for the English aristocracy—it certainly should have done so; for to be the descendant of any of the founders of the families just named (anyone can fill up the blanks) is certainly more honourable than to be the descendant of the eminent cattle-stealers of early England, or even of those very beautiful ladies who made the cares of a kingdom sit so lightly upon the Stuarts. There was no adulteration in the beer sold by the fathers of several modern peers, whereas the early form of the word must be employed if one finds it necessary to refer to the origin of some of the most noble of the older families.

But she had lived out of England, and so had been prevented from knowing exactly how the aristocracy of that great country stands at present. She had not even seen the front page—it should properly be called the title-page—of a prospectus of vast attractiveness—a prospectus of coroneted fraudulence; nor did she know that nowadays if you ask a peer how are his prospects he takes it for granted that you mean his prospectus. Thus it was that she had not thought it possible that such a girl as Lady Evelyn would turn her back upon such a man as Lord Medway and put herself into the arms of so humble a man as Stephen Urquhart—a man humble enough to have an employer.

(Claire knew that when Lady Evelyn had said “good night” with that little sigh, and again “good night” with a little gasp, Mr. Urquhart had his arm around her.)

She was surprised; but Stephen Urquhart was the man —there could be no doubt on that point.

And what was her first impression when the knowledge of this thing was forced upon her?

Was it possible that there was a tinge—not exactly a pang—of jealousy in her heart at the knowledge?

She had been attracted to Mr. Urquhart the first moment she had seen him. This was due, Mr. Marvin would have assured her with every confidence, to the survival within her of the instinct of the primeval woman. Mr. Urquhart had seemed to her a strong man—stronger than any of the men about him—not in point of physique, but in those powers which, no doubt, the primeval woman soon learned to value more highly than she did mere brute strength. No doubt the primeval woman, after fifty thousand years or so of primevality—Mr. Marvin liked to talk in periods of fifty thousand years—began to sneer (occasionally) at mere brute strength; but if she did so, that was because she had discovered that there was something stronger than mere brute strength. It was by the aid of that something that men had got the better of the brutes—the other brutes. Mr. Urquhart had intellect. He did not ask her foolish questions about how she had been brought up, as so many other people, mainly those whom she had met in English circles—or on the fringe of English circles—on the Continent had done. And afterwards he had talked to her as if she were the most intellectual person with whom he had ever conversed. During the week that she had been at Suanamara he had talked frequently with her, and she had come to like him greatly; she fancied that he wished her to believe that he liked her greatly.

And yet he had put his arm about Lady Evelyn while he whispered that “Good night”

That was the thought to which all Claire's thoughts led; and the result—was it really a tinge of primeval jealousy? Did she like Stephen Urquhart sufficiently well to be jealous because some time—it might have been months or even years—before she had seen him he had got another girl to love him?

It took her some time to get into such a frame of mind as made sleep possible. And she reached this state of mind actually by becoming sadly regretful over the case of Lord Medway and his unrequited love. Could anything be sadder than the story, so much of it as she knew, of Lord Medway's unrequited affection for Lady Evelyn?

Of course it was a good thing for Mr. Urquhart to succeed in getting the love of so charming a girl as Lady Evelyn, but it was sadness itself that he could not do so without overthrowing the plans of so nice a man as Lord Medway.

She became wakeful once more when she recalled the details, so far as she was acquainted with them, of the scene in which Lady Evelyn had told Lord Medway that she loved another man. All these details, so far as she could remember them, had tended to make Claire feel that Lady Evelyn only separated herself with a pang—nay, with anguish—from Lord Medway. How she had clutched the drapery of the hollow window where Claire had sat! How she had given a sob or two at feeling herself forced by her love for another man out of his life! How she had flung herself with a cry of passion—of suffering— down upon the window-seat and into Claire’s arms!

At the thought of it all Claire became primevally impatient, asking the blank irresponsive night why on earth that girl should not be satisfied with the love of that man who was in her own station of life—this was the phrase of the servants’ hall which was in her mind—without coming into the life of another man who was obviously less suitable for her than Lord Medway?

She knew that she had a genuine affection for Lady Evelyn, but that did not prevent her from perceiving that Lady Evelyn had no business to love Stephen Urquhart. She had behaved very foolishly, and Lord Medway had her (Claire’s) deepest sympathy. She went asleep at last, soothed by the sympathy which she felt for Lord Medway.

In the morning she was met by Mr. Urquhart on the green patch in front of the house, where she was in the habit of going to have a breath of the pines before break fast. He had been some way along the track made through the pines down to the little glen.

"I was fortunate enough to find your heart at the foot of the stairs last night,” said he. “Your heart—a gem of purest ray serene in the centre, and blood-red rubies round the border. An emblem.”

“It is mine,” she said. “But when you find anything, you should always make anyone who claims it describe it to you before giving it up. It is foolish to describe it yourself to anyone.”

“Then I shall ask you to describe your heart to me before I part with it,” he said.

She laughed gaily.

He laughed seriously.

“It is gold,” she began. He interrupted her, putting the jewel into her hand.

“You are right,” he said. “Take it. I do believe that your heart is pure gold. It is a jewel which anyone might be proud to wear. I do not wish to hear you tell me that in the centre—in the heart of your heart there is a diamond, because a diamond is the hardest thing that exists—outside a human heart.”

She set her eyes upon the diamond.

“ How can I ever thank you for—for—for your honesty? ” she said. “You resisted the temptation of appropriating my jewel. You resisted the temptation of retaining it until I offered a reward for its restoration.”

“Oh, no,” he said—his eyes were fixed upon her face, and it actually seemed to her that there was tenderness —some tenderness—in his eyes as well as in his voice as he spoke. “Oh, no; I thought of the reward. I expected it. I got it. I saw your face brighten—the blood-red rubies of your jewel. Rewards—don’t talk to me about rewards.”

“I will not,” she said. “I wonder where you found the thing.”

“Underfoot,” he replied. “On the ground for anyone to trample on. Poor little heart! I saw a gleam of sunshine—a sunlit dew-drop on one of the red roses of the carpet—or was it a tear-drop?”

“A tear-drop at the dose of so perfect a day as yesterday?” she said.

“It was a perfect day, but it came to an end. That is why the tear-drop dropped,” said he.

“But it fell among the roses and became a diamond, the most enduring thing in the world,” said she.

“Not the most enduring—a tear-drop is the most enduring thing in the world,” said he—“the only enduring thing. God keep it from you. You should know only sunshine.”

“Because I am one of what Mr. Marvin calls ‘ephemera’?”

“There is nothing ephemeral except wisdom. What is wisdom to-day is foolishness to-morrow.”

“But yesterday was a perfect day.”

She was smiling at him, and he knew perfectly well what was the force and appropriateness of her comment.

“Yes,” he said. “To enjoy a perfect day is the beginning and end of all wisdom.”

“That is exactly what I was thinking,” said she— “that, coupled with your philosophy that what was wisdom yesterday is folly to-day.”

“I haven’t awakened yet. I am still living in yesterday—in the wisdom of yesterday,” said he.

“Then we may go in and have breakfast with a light heart,” said she. “Once more a thousand thanks for having trodden softly, for having spared the heart that lay ready to be trampled underfoot.”

This was the last word that was said on the subject of the jewel-heart. At first she had an uneasy feeling that what he had begun to say about the heart was somewhat trite—a little too obvious—somewhat of the abhorred type of the Cockney pun that ignores the aspirate; but in a moment that impression had passed from her, and the result of the episode of returning the jewel was to leave no unpleasant flavour on the palate of her ear, if one may be permitted to set anatomy at defiance in order to gain one’s end in conveying a shade of meaning.

They went into the house to breakfast, and separated half-way across the hall, so that Claire met Lady Evelyn alone.

"Mr. Urquhart gave you your pendant, I see,” said the latter, for Claire had the thing still in her hand. "We were the last in the hall; he picked it off the carpet at the foot of the stairs, and I was able to tell him that it was yours. What a lovely morning—the sunshine of May! ”

“ Quite a delightful morning,” said Claire. "How lucky it was that I didn’t drop it outside. It might never have been found.”

"Unless by the aid of the local witch,” said Lady Evelyn, with a laugh. "Lady Innisfail is holding on by her witch. I thought that the witch would have flown away on her broomstick through the moonlight”

And then Lord Medway came in with a fishing-rod and a basket of trout, with talk of the three-pounder that he had at last managed to kill. It had eluded him for a week. But of course the fish turned out not to be a three-pounder. When weighed it was found to be barely two pounds and twelve ounces.

Lady Evelyn was very charming in her condemnation of the inaccuracies of fishermen, and Mr. Trent said an amusing word or two in palliation of what he called four-ounce inaccuracies.

It was altogether a pleasant little breakfast-party.

CHAPTER XI.

Claire felt herself quite easily falling in line, so to speak, with the people of whose real lives she had been afforded a glimpse—the glimpse that passes through the diaphragm of a camera and leaves its picture on the photographic film behind. Her first thought was—

“How well they all do it!”

No one could possibly know, even by the closest of observation of Lady Evelyn and Lord Medway, that they had played parts in such a scene as had taken place in another room a fortnight before, and apparently no one but herself had the slightest suspicion that Stephen Urquhart was on such terms of friendship with Lady Evelyn as permitted of his kissing her when parting for the night She had fallen in line with the others. She flattered herself that no one could know that she had become cognisant of the illuminating episodes just referred to. She kept all that she knew to herself.

She could not help wondering if it was the English habit to keep as a dead secret such a relationship as existed between Mr. Urquhart and Lady Evelyn. Of course, the two had an understanding between themselves. They were “engaged.” She could easily believe that they should try to avoid the liability which attaches to a sub jection to the conditions of that odious commonplace. An “engagement” somehow sounded horribly middle-class. It was conventional. There was nothing emotional about it—it was not rhythmical—there was no lyrical charm about it—no melody. An “engagement” in England is the solicitor's draft of the title-deeds of the estate of matrimony. It has not yet been sealed; but it is eminently satisfactory. ... It entails a ring.

But in the case of Mr. Urquhart and Lady Evelyn there was no visible sign of any engagement existing between them; certainly no member of the party at Suanamara seemed to have the faintest idea that even the most informal contract existed between them. This being so, Claire did not need to take any great trouble to persuade herself that it would be ridiculous for her to do otherwise than fall in line with the rest of the party, and act as if she had not accidentally become possessed of a greater knowledge on the subject of the relations existing between the two. Lady Evelyn had become her greatest friend. Claire had an idea that the fact of her becoming aware of Lady Evelyn's secret constituted a bond of friendship between them. But she would not go so far as to assume that this bond would be appreciably strengthened were her friend to know that she had overheard that last “good night” whispered at the foot of the stairs.

And yet, why should that knowledge make any difference to her? Lady Evelyn had been at the point of telling her the name of the man whom she loved, when Claire had stopped her. Why, then, should she object to Gaire's acquiring that knowledge for herself?

It would be unreasonable for her to object; but Claire had an instinct that Lady Evelyn’s friendship for her was strengthened in some measure by the promptness which

she had shown in preventing her from revealing the name of the man. It was under the prompting of a momentary impulse that Lady Evelyn had offered to tell her the name of the man; but Claire had a feeling that her friend was glad that she had been prevented from fulfilling her offer.

She could not help wondering if Lady Evelvn had told Mr. Urquhart that Lord Medway had confessed that he loved her, asking her love in return. And if she had told him so much of the story, had she added the information that Claire had accidentally been present when Lord Medway had asked his question? Had she said anything to Stephen Urquhart respecting Lord Medway? Claire thought that she had not, and therefore it was best for her, Claire, to make no sign to anyone regarding the knowledge which she had accidentally acquired.

"You got your pendant from Mr. Urquhart?” said her mother after breakfast "Yes,” said Claire. "It is most gratifying, is it not, to have such an example of honesty in the upper ranks of life?”

Her mother ignored her pleasantry.

"The upper ranks of life? Mr. Urquhart is not in the upper ranks of life,” she said.

"Of course not,” said Claire. "He is only an honorary member of the upper ranks. He is an employ^. That makes his honesty all the more glaring.”

"Mr. Trent is a delightful man; he has been talking about you this morning already,” said her mother.

"He is a delightful man,” said Claire. "I would rather that people talked about me in the afternoon. Their judgments are riper than they are in the morning. Wasn’t it Mr. Marvin who was assuring us that people were not fully awake until four hours after they got out of bed?”

Her mother ignored the reference to Mr. Marvin. After a decent pause—a pause sufficiently long to convey the idea of one topic being ended and another begun—she said, with an affectation of carelessness—

“Mr. Trent is a delightful man—so appreciative.”

“ Should I put in a good word for Mr. Urquhart with him; he would, I am sure, be pleased to hear of the honesty of one of his employes?” said Claire.

Mrs. La Roache gave an exclamation of impatience. She could not understand her daughter’s flippancy at that moment Flippancy in conversation with a millionaire as a topic she justly considered to show bad taste.

The millionaire himself was in no position of prominence during this particular day. His telegrams began to pour in shortly after breakfast, and he was kept busy with his secretary and his secretary’s secretary. The telegraph messengers had to form a queue at the door of his room.

“He has probably made as much money to-day already as we shall leave when we die after years of scraping,” said a man with a gun, who had returned after a day’s mixed shooting on the mountain.

“As much as we shall leave when we die?” said another. “If he doesn’t do a good deal better than that, there isn’t much fun in millionairing.”

There was an inquiry for Archie at lunch. Now and again people staying at a house show a certain amount of solicitude for their host—always for their hostess.

“He is the messenger of King Saul,” said Philip Trent “He is gone hunting for a witch throughout all the land. He may find one.”

“I hope he will not,” said Archie’s wife with some severity. She had been silently discouraging the quest of the witch set on foot by her mother. But Lady Innisfail did not mind silent discouragement. She had been too long subjected to the non-silent discouragement of her schemes by her daughter to be in any way affected by her reticence.

"Archie is a good boy: he would do anything for me,” said Lady Innisfail. "Besides, this is scientific research. A witch: there is nothing so scientific as a witch—Mr. Marvin will tell you that—only I hope he won’t.”

There was a general acquiescence in Lady Innisfail’s views in this particular; Mr. Marvin was not present But it was late in the afternoon and the tea-tables were spread with hot cakes and other delicacies before Archie rode up. Everyone expected that he would have a word or so to say respecting the future of the witch as an object of scientific research. But Archie was grinning with considerable breadth and force of character. Some of his scientific associates in the old days had been known to hold the opinion that Archie’s grin could not be properly measured by an ordinary pair of callipers: full justice could be done to it only by the aid of a sextant and an artificial horizon.

"You have found her?” cried Lady Innisfail in tremulous eagerness.

"Give me some tea,” said Archie, "and a few hot cakes—as hot as you have them. I’ve had nothing but a sandwich since breakfast.”

"That’s not enough for a huntsman,” said Mr. Urquhart "Don’t spare the butter. A what?” asked Archie.

"A huntsman—hunting is the highest form of scientific research,” said Urquhart. "Did you bring her back slung across your saddle?”"Scent lying well?” inquired Lord Medway.

“Oh, go hang! Scent! My aunt! Scent!” said Archie enigmatically.

Lady Innisfail took her son-in-law under her wing, so to speak. After all, the hunt was of her making. She brought him buttered cakes in a lordly dish, and stood by him while he crammed a few into his mouth.

“Poor boy! my poor boy! I will not have him worried,” she cried. “He did it for me. If he should die, his death would be laid at my door,” she added, with a tragic solemnity that was the height of comedy.

She turned with bitter words on the people who laughed.

Archie grinned and put away two or three more mouthful-cakes. Everyone envied him his teeth. But Lady Innisfail stood by him to the last. He felt for his cigar-case. Lady Innisfail rushed for a light for him.

“My aunt! what a day!” he managed to say when his cigar was well alight.

“Poor boy! my poor boy!” said Lady Innisfail. “But you found her? You are an Englishman! And they say that the days of chivalry are over! You found her?”

But the hero of the quest had no idea of coming to the point at once. If heroes of quests had come to the point at once there would have been few epics written, and the lyric drama would have languished.

“You see, I heard nearly a year ago of this particular witch,” said he.

“Which one?” asked Lady Innisfail.

“This one,” replied Archie.

“Then you found her? Heaven be praised!” cried Lady Innisfail in the truest devotional spirit. “I knew you would. And yet they say that the English gentleman of to-day—— Is she coming to us, or must we go to her? Does she live at a distance? Tell us all about her.”

“I was going through the whole story in good order when you broke in on me,” said Archie. "I found her at the foot of Slieve Dhu. She lives in the rummiest cabin ever known. It is built somehow out from a cave. Rummy! I knew that I remembered hearing about her a year ago from the D.I. He told me that she had been accused by some idiots in the neighbourhood—graziers— of spoiling their churning—laying a spell on it, and that sort of thing. They wanted to get a magistrate’s order to burn her at a stake. A couple of years ago they took the law into their own hands, not so far from here, and did actually burn a witch. A happy sort of country this —steeped to the lips in superstition. I met a magpie at the end of the drive, and that made me sure that I would have no luck to-day, but I found her. The rummiest——”

“We shall make a picnic of it,” said Lady Innisfail. “We shall boil our kettle on the witch’s tripod—just like the scene in Macbeth—not the Lyceum Macbeth—the real one—with the music. We shall have a delightful day. Only—to-morrow is Friday. It’s the height of unluckiness to do anything of this sort on Friday, you know!”

Stephen Urquhart smiled.

“The end justifies the means—the witch averts the ill-luck that attaches to a day—I believe that her powers are equal even to such a miracle,” he said.

“Are you going to tell the story, or am I?” cried Archie, looking interrogatively from Lady Innisfail to Urquhart. “ I was just coming to an interesting bit when you broke in on me. Of course, if you think you can tell it all better than me, you had better go on with it. I’ve no particular wish to——”

“I’ll take care that these rude creatures don’t interrupt you again, Archie,” said Lady Innisfail in her most petting voice. If she had been speaking to a Japanese spaniel she could not have been more caressing. “Tell us all, dearest Archie; but don't say that we are not going to pay her a visit, or that she hasn't a tripod—on second thoughts, it doesn't so much matter about the tripod. We can bring one with us. Had she a tripod, Archie laddie?''

“I must tell my story in my own way; I decline to be hustled,'' said Archie. “I was letting you know how I came to find her. All due to my good memory. I hunted up the D.L, and he put me on her tracks. He told me that he had any amount of trouble keeping the people from her last year. Bad churning—butter wouldn’t come —that sort of thing. Lord! the superstition—awful—and this within your so-called British Islands, mind—not in the Australian bush or on the South African veldt! Staggers a chap, doesn’t it?”

The chaps whom he swept with a panoramic camera sort of look shook their heads gravely. He steadied his look at Urquhart; he did not half like the way Urquhart was smiling. He was afraid that Urquhart was an infidel —he told Norah so that very evening.

“I say that such superstition is revolting,” continued Archie, with an increase of earnestness that almost brought him to the level of a street preacher. Then he made a menacing pause. He seemed waiting for someone to say that there was nothing revolting about superstition. His challenge not being accepted, he went on to describe the witch to whom he had been led by the kindly direction of the constabulary officer. A queer old creature with the blackest eyes and the blackest face and the blackest hair that had ever been seen on mortal—assuming that a witch was mortal, which was, perhaps, going too far for everyday purposes. He overdid the description of the witch as a brunette. His audience sympathised with the witch. They felt that, like her Master, she was not so black as she was painted.

Then he went on to describe the negotiations which he had opened with her when he had prevailed on her to speak. It appeared that he had asked her boldly if she was a witch. This was straightforward at any rate, and the woman had been equally straightforward with him, telling him that she would answer him when he told her what was meant exactly by being a witch. This staggered him, he said; for he had not come to her with definitions of things ready cut and dried. But he had satisfied her that there was money in the transaction which he suggested to her.

It turned out that he had got out of the snare of making a definition of what he understood by a witch by defining the duty which he expected this particular one to discharge. After some hesitation—strangely attributed by Archie to her reluctance to give herself away to one who might have been an emissary of a prosecuting authority— she had, he said, agreed to receive a deputation from Suanamara the next day.

Her terms were moderate, he added. She had no fixed scale of charges, her fees varying with the names of those who paid her professional visits. Nor did she look for a royalty in the form of a percentage on the fortunes which she occasionally promised in accordance with the suggestion of the stars—no, she had expressed her willingness to give him a season ticket, so to speak, for himself and his friends at the moderate price of one sovereign.

“And no extras,” said Archie, referring to the witch’s tariff. “The sovereign includes all side shows—astrology, necromancy, palmistry, and——”

“Massage?” suggested Mr. Urquhart, when Archie made a pause, not finding in an instant the other long word which he sought in enumerating the witch’s side shows.

“Massage!” cried Archie. “Massage! you don’t seem to grasp the idea of this particular witch, my good man. She is quite a superior sort—nothing of the Derby-day made-up gipsy about her—nothing even of the Fancy Fair variety. I believe that she witches for the love of the thing. She doesn’t care an Assouan for the people of the neighbourhood, and they have come to find out that it’s safer to be in her good graces than out of them. They bring her all the necessaries of life free of charge, and sometimes a trifle over. Massage! This is not your shop, Urquhart.”

“It was my ignorance,” said Urquhart. “Pray attribute my error to the intellectual rather than to the emotional side of my nature. Believe me, I mean well. And your witch is a brunette? Well, most witches are. I never saw one made up fair, even on so great a novelty as a penny-in-the-slot-machine-made-variety at a railway station. Does she have a draw of the dhudeen now and again, Archie?”

“You are as much in the dark about her as if I had never opened my mouth, and now I’m as hoarse as a crow. What’s the matter with a whisky and Polly?”

CHAPTER XII.

The visit to the witch of Slieve Dhu made a good enough excuse for a drive through some of the most varied scenery in the West of Ireland. For twelve miles (Irish) the coach went through mountain pass and along the banks of mountain tarn—up through the still pines and across cataracts that sent a note of rejoicing through the murky glen—fording narrow streams that rippled and wimpled about the horses’ hoofs. There was no loneliness in this land, though only at intervals of long miles a human being was to be seen, and, at rarer intervals, a cabin with a brown turf stack.

There was no loneliness. The seas were shooting to the mountains. The waters were holding sweet companionship with the glens. The region was full of the glory and the vigour of life. The people who went through it were glad.

Lady Innisfail was a very clever woman, and even her daughter was beginning to find it out. She became so enthusiastic over the things she took up that everyone in her neighbourhood glowed with the same spirit. It was a great happiness to her daughter and the husband of her daughter, that none of her enthusiasms were permanent. They were no more permanent than a scientific truth; they did not cost much on the whole, and they occasionally led to something unexpected. Anything that leads to the unexpected has ever met with a hearty welcome in society, whether Pagan or Christian. A strange face, whether of a friend or an enemy is as welcome as a cloud in an Australian sky: “something may come of it”—that was enough for Lady Innisfail to go on with.

For the whole of one day and part of another she was enthusiastic on the subject of the witch. Nay, all her enthusiasm had not abated by the time the coach was dragging its iron-slippered wheels down the long descent of that purple-peaked mountain known as Slieve Dhu. To be sure she had begun to talk “not so much of witches as sandwiches,” as Lord Medway put it (without a dread of the consequences). The fact was that for some years of her life she had accustomed herself to look at all mundane matters from the standpoint of the mundane meal. She had an impression—and it was a perfectly accurate one—that this was the universal standpoint of all creation, and she knew that she could not be in the wrong if all creation was in the right. She hoped that the sandwiches would turn out satisfactory and satisfying—the witch was certain to be both.

The salmon mayonnaise and game pie, representing the substance of which the sandwich was the metaphor, turned out to be admirable, when partaken of on the roof of the coach on one of the bright green patches among the fir trees, just above a limpid stream eminently suitable for the cooling of Moselle for the cup which Lord Medway concocted.

And the Moselle cup was very excellent.

Competent judges affirmed that the Witch of the Hills —she had taken her degree in necromancy and had been given the title of Witch of the Hills by the Irish-speaking people of the neighbourhood—had a thorough knowledge of the art of choosing a studio. Her cabin had been built on the hillside, enclosing a cave. Above its roof rose the flat wall of the cliff for perhaps thirty feet, and the dark face of the stone was blackened by many years’ smoke from the chimney in the most grotesque and even horrible shapes. They lay like the shadows of some unearthly creatures projected upon the cliff-face, and, seeing the enormous curled and twisted things, the peasants were accustomed to cast a fearful glance into the space opposite to the cabin, as though they expected to see hovering there the dreadful shapes that cast such shadows.

At the summit of the smoke-group there was some thing with asses’ ears, but its origin could not be traced by anyone.

The peasant who caught a glimpse of it passing through the glen at sunset—none would pass through it after sunset—crossed himself. This fantastic thing, done in the smoke from a fire, was regarded as the sign of the occupant of the cabin.

Half a dozen uncertain steps led from the little mountain track up to the door of the cabin, and this door, moreover, was not in the front of the cabin between the windows, but at one end that jutted out, barely concealing the arch of the cave.

"I never shall forgive myself for not having found out all about this long ago,” said Lady Innisfail, when she, with such members of the party as had elected to pay the visit to the witch, stood on die track below the cabin and looked up to it. The higher track was almost concealed by the small firs stretching out fringed sleeved arms to right and left. “I never shall forgive myself; but I had really no notion that anything half so interesting was within easy drive of Suanamara. Good heavens! What is that discoloration on the rock above the cabin? It looks like one of those queer rock paintings that somebody lectured about The smoke from the chimney? Oh, no. Don’t tell me that the smoke ever——Mercy on us!

Look at that—is it a goat’s head? Look at the ears— just like the mask on a Sèvres vase. I declare that I am beginning to shiver. It is all so—so uncanny!”

“You will have to go on now that you have brought us,” said Archie sternly. “Don’t let us be more idiotic than we can help. I told you long ago that the whole thing was Tommy. Come along.”

“Oh, we’ll go on, never fear,” said Lady Innisfail, making an effort to pull herself together. "Why didn’t you say something about that queer smoke-mark, Archie. If I had known that that queer thing—now isn’t it just like the mask on a Sèvres vase?”

"I haven’t got the eye of an inspector of nuisances,” replied Archie. "Come along. I went alone to the cabin yesterday.”

"You are a brave man,” said Mr. Trent. "By the way, what is the lady’s name? Has she a professional name like the ladies who turn milliners? Is she Madame Mephisto? or are we merely to call her Missus Mac something or other, or Miss O’something?”

"Her name is Lucy Curtis,” said Archie. "She told me so. Then, of course, I called her Lucy. What’s a witch that we should treat her as a person of distinction?” "Like a maker of picture hats,” said Mr. Trent. "Come along; I’ll do the talking to her,” said Archie. They all went on with few further words, Archie leading, Mr. Trent following, with Lady Innisfail, Lady Evelyn, Mr. Marvin, and Lord Medway. Mrs. Archie had gone with Major Clifton, Claire, and Stephen Urquhart to visit a holy well about a mile down the glen. The suggestion was made that their hope was by this act to neutralise the possible consequences of the trafficking with the Evil One by the others. It was the opinion of Mrs. Archie, and in holding it she was backed up by Archie, who was an expert, that as Witch Curtis’s cabin, cave and all, could hold only four persons, it would be rather overcrowded if the whole party from Suanamara were to pay their visit at the same time.

The door was open, and Archie led his friends into the cabin with the air of responsibility that one associates with a personal conductor.

“How fearfully dim!” cried Lady Innisfail the moment that she crossed the threshold.

“Your ladyship will have no need to complain in another minute,” came a voice—a thin voice sounding, as it seemed, from outside the cabin altogether.

“The stance has already begun,” said Philip Trent. “The lady does a little in the ventriloquist line, I perceive.”

“I cannot see you, Miss Curtis—or should I say Mrs.? —but everyone does say that you are quite extraordinary,” cried Lady Innisfail. “Now do please tell us where you are.”

There was no answer; but a curious thing took place, for gradually whatever light was in the cabin—and there was certainly enough to allow of the members of the party seeing each other’s faces—became dim and still dimmer, until the place was left in complete darkness. It was as if the daylight had been turned off as though it were as amenable as gaslight to such an operation.

“Don’t stand at the windows,” said Archie. “You are shutting out the light. Hang me, if I can see a single thing. Now where’s the door? What idiot shut the door?”

The tiny room was in complete darkness. Of course someone was bound to stand before each of the windows —the place was about ten feet square—but the queer thing was that the light was shut out from the windows, and no one could find the door.

“A thunderstorm at the end of September?” said Lord Medway.

“It came on pretty quickly, didn’t it?” said Archie.

“This is horrid; let us get out again as quickly as we can,” said Lady Innisfail in a frightened whisper.

“I’ll stay—I mean to get the worth of my money,” said Archie doggedly. “You may go if you find the door.”.

He had already been groping for it without success.

Lady Evelyn laughed.

“It is the queerest thing I ever knew,” she said. “Would it be playing the game to strike a match, I wonder.”

Out of the darkness came the voice of Lady Innisfail.

“For Heaven’s sake, let me get out—something touched me on the face—something queer—horrible.”

“I felt it—cold as leather,” said Lord Medway.

“Are you there?” halloed Archie, as though he were speaking through a telephone. “Hallo! Lucy—Mrs. Curtis —give us a light, please—a candle-end will do.”

“Why, surely—surely—a light,” came the thin, distant voice.

In a second there was a shimmer as of a corpse-candle in the distance—it seemed to Lady Innisfail and the others of the party as if they were looking down a very long gallery—the faint blue quivering light appearing like a planet in a mist “I say,” said Archie. “Can anyone say where we are? I shall be glad to take the advice of an average expert on the subject In my ignorance I believed that we had come to a cabin on the hillside; but by the Lord Harry, it looks jolly like as if we had lost our way. My aunt! I should like to know if I look so blue about the face as all of you.”

“I have seen enough; I want to get away,” said Lady Innisfail. “Is there anyone in the cottage beside ourselves? —I am perfectly certain that someone brushed past me— two people.”

“I certainly felt something like that,” said Lord Medway. “What do you say, Mr. Marvin?”

“I am silent; one cannot observe and talk at the same time,” said Mr. Marvin in a voice that sounded unlike his own, being deficient in that effect of finality which marked his pronouncements. “I fancy it must be a matter of suggestion, synthetical with hypnotic suggestiveness.”

“I want to get away,” said Lady Innisfail. “Good heavens! are we such fools that we can’t find our way to the door? I don’t want any more synthet—whatever you call it. There it is again—the thing—I tell you I felt it —clammy—like touching a frog.”

A little shriek came from Lady Evelyn—a shriek and a laugh that had nothing of a laugh about it except the gasp.

“Snakes!” she said—“a cold touch like the touch of a dead snake. There is a queer smell—like nothing I ever knew before—clammy!”

“My aunt!” cried Archie.

“A crypt,” said Mr. Marvin. “Hypnotic suggestion.” “Are you there?” shouted Archie, again telephonic. It seemed to be in his mind that the best way to neutralise the effect of the supernatural would be by resorting to a commonplace scientific formula. He selected the most commonplace. “Mrs.—Miss—Lucy—this is past a joke —let us have a light, for goodness’ sake. I say—confound it all! I didn’t bargain for this. I thought—well, I’m hanged!”

“Anything that the gentlemen and ladies wish,” came the voice.

In a second the corpse-candle dwindled away in the Utter distance; the outline of the windows appeared in their proper places, and there was light in the space of the open door. The room became as light as it had been at the entrance of the visitors. These visitors looked into each other’s faces.

In front of them at the entrance to what seemed a cave six or seven feet deep stood a small woman clad in a peasant’s shawl and with her hair tied up in the usual lumpy knot. It was perfectly black hair, and her eyes were of a bead-like black. Her face was the brown face of a very old woman, seamed and pencilled with countless lines. The yellow bits of her face were puckered up in a smile as she stood curtseying to the group who had become huddled—positively huddled—together, near the door.

At the sight of the curtsey the group drew a long breath and became more artistically grouped. They perceived that she was not a hag.

"The pretty ladies,” said she. "And they want their fortunes told. That is why they come to old Lucy. They have heard that she is a witch, and that she can make the butter come, and do other queer things entirely, to say nothing of a cure for warts and the green fly on rose bushes and other miracles, and she doesn’t want her hand crossed with silver, for that would bring her under the law. Such pretty ladies! especially the one that loves the man that she says ‘nay’ to, though there’s a good favour about the one whose husband is on a far journey. Gentlemen, too, well-favoured gentlemen, not forgetting the one that told the pretty young English colleen that she was like her mother of fifty thousand years ago and wanted to kiss her on the strength of it as they were walking through a shrubbery. It was on the left cheek that she slapped him, calling him an old fool; but that was where she was wrong, for he isn’t a fool, though he is paying a visit to a witch-woman this blessed day.”

There was a loud laugh, and all eyes were turned upon Mr. Marvin.

The men muttered that they didn’t think he had it in him. But the women only smiled: they knew better; even Lady Evelyn, who was only twenty-three.

Mr. Marvin had a look of foolishness, but there was a reminiscence in his expression. He was unconsciously stroking his left cheek.

“It was a case of synthetic hypnotism,” said Lady Innisfail. “But I wonder who the girl was.”

“Would the gentleman who has ever thought more of millions than of maids like me to tell him what his future will be?” said the old woman, looking into the face of Lady Evelyn.

“No,” said Philip Trent. “I know what will be the future of any man who loves millions rather than maids.”

“But isn’t there a dark colleen coming over the water to him?” said Lord Medway.

“No, she has come—she has come, and he does not know it,” said the woman. “She has come, and one day he will want to leave her, because he does not know that she loves him.”

“And does she not know it?” said Lady Innisfail, who had the name of being a great match-maker.

“She does not know it; but she will know it before the day when a mountain melts with fire,” replied the witch.

“O Lord!” said Archie. “Is it worth setting a whole mountain on fire in order that a girl may see her way to be on friendly terms with Philip Trent? Look here, my good woman, do you mean that someone will put a match to the heather on Slieve Gorm? If anyone does, I’ll prosecute him within an inch of his life.’’

“The heavens wouldn’t be on fire if Slieve Gorm was in a blaze,” said the woman.

“The heavens—oh, that’s a roundabout way of saying that the Judgment Day will come first,” said Lady Innisfail. “Isn’t that so, my good woman?”

“I only say what I see, your ladyship,” said the woman. “And what I say is the truth.”

“Don’t you think that we have had the worth of your money, Archie?” said Lady Innisfail.

“Don’t say my money; it isn’t me that’s running the show,” cried Archie.

“Is there anything else that you would like to ask?” inquired Lady Innisfail. “Of course there may be some private affairs—but—but I think that we have done very well so far as matters of general interest are concerned. What do you say, Evey?”

“I have nothing to inquire about,” said Lady Evelyn. “And if I had, I shouldn’t,” she added.

“Does the pretty lady doubt the poor old witch’s word?” asked the woman, with a curious gleam of the eyes.

Lady Evelyn felt that her inmost thoughts were being Röntgened; the creature’s eyes were piercing her. She felt her own eyes closing.

“Yes, we have had enough for our money,” said Lord Medway who was looking at her, and took a careless step between the woman and the girl. “I am going to clear off, anyway. Come along, Evey.”

The old woman gave a chuckling laugh that was very nasty.

“You are the man that will take care of her—you —you—from witches and warlocks, and—worse,” she muttered.

“Come along, we can see our way to the door just now, but goodness knows how much longer we may be able to see it,” said Lord Medway.

"I do wish that you would tell us before we go how it was that you made the room dark—don’t do it again, mind; but oblige us by letting us know—of course in all confidence,” said Lady Innisfail in her most persuasive voice.

“I don’t know what it is that your ladyship talks about,” said the witch. “My poor cabin may have seemed dark to you gentlefolk coming out of the sunshine.”

“Oh, now you know it really became dark—black as night,” cried Lady Innisfail reprovingly. “It would be so amusing to do that at times. I wish you would tell me how it is done.”

“It is done by the use of an air dye. Your ladyship may have heard of air dye,” the witch said in a low voice of such a staccato that it sounded like a cough. It reached the ears of Lady Innisfail, however, who had not a grey hair in her head—thanks to a freedom from care —and to a recipe.

“I wonder if you are an impostor,” she said, with a smile. “You are so very clever that I think you must surely be an impostor. Good-bye, and thank you so much. We have all enjoyed ourselves immensely; haven’t we, Evey? Oh, she has gone away with Lord Medway. Tell me—in strict confidence, of course—does she really mean to refuse him? I know that he worships the ground she treads on; but will anything come of it?”

She had gone closer to the old woman and was whispering.

“Something comes of everything, and when the great fire comes it will bring happiness to some if it brings death to thousands,” said the witch.

“Ah, that is how you are so clever; you never will give a direct answer to a question; your replies only stimulate curiosity. You are at your great fire again.”

“Good-bye, fair lady,” said Philip Trent. “I am sure that you have told us all that we should know, and, happily, I have forgotten all that you did tell us. Now, Lady Innisfail, if you can manage to tear yourself away.”

“What, they are all gone? Then I suppose we must go too. So good-bye, Mrs.—or—are you really Mrs. or only Miss?”

“Your ladyship called me an impostor,” said the witch, smiling. “Suppose I was to tell you that I was the spouse of the great one whom men call Sathanus Diabolus, what would you say?”

“Do you hyphen your names—please tell me?” said Lady Innisfail.

The witch laughed quite pleasantly—for a witch, and the last of her visitors tripped away, with another “Goodbye.”

CHAPTER XIII.

Of course, all that was worth repeating to the remainder of the party of what had come from the witch was the reference to the past wickedness of Mr. Marvin and the promise of the enormous fire. Mr. Marvin began to feel himself a hero. He had given exhausting hours to the study of a Survivalist lore, but not much had come of it except the sound of his own voice, yet because he had one day found himself in a shrubbery of convenient and alluring obscurity, and had in an impulse of the moment, which was really a survival of a trick of an ancestor who was tricky among trees, tried to kiss an extremely pretty girl, he found himself regarded (he thought) as a hero.

He knew in his heart that he had not really wanted badly to kiss the girl; only he had an impression—this was the survival—that it would be manly to do so—that the girl expected it from him.

And he was perfectly right in his impression, though at the time he thought he had made a mistake. The extremely pretty girl, knowing something of men and the survival of primeval impulses, had expected him to behave badly, and she had paid him the compliment—though he did not recognise it as such—of slapping him on the cheek.

But the enormous fire—that was what they talked about on the roof of the coach while the vehicle swayed its way through some of the most wonderful scenery in the world—the enormous fire, after some of them had called Mr. Marvin a sly old dog, and others, a shocking person—even a quite too shocking person—the enormous fire—now, did she mean the real Day of Judgment or merely some local affair—that was the question.

Mr. Urquhart rather thought that the Sibyl’s line of sight was limited—even Sibyls have their horizon: Cassandra had never, so far as he could gather, referred to the motor-car, although he thought that that would be an object with which she could deal with that firmness of touch, so pleasingly characteristic of her. Yes, she had possibly in her prophetic eye the conflagration caused by the incendiary of a hayrick, or was it a turf stack?

“It’s as easy to talk of the Judgment Day as it is of Pain’s Benefit at the Crystal Palace—as a matter of fact, there are people who think that in point of general effect there is not much to choose between the two,” said Mr. Trent. “But I must confess that I was a bit put out when that phase of the darkness came on—that was at the outset, Urquhart. I tell you that the woman’s cabin became as black as night”

"What?” cried Urquhart, with a start of surprise that caused everyone else in the party to respond with a start "What? Do you tell me that she—that ridiculous milk-churn witch was able to—to—you say the room became black? You had just entered from the sunlight—that made it seem—”

"Nothing of the sort,” said Trent "The effect was not produced until we had been in the place for some minutes. The darkness came on gradually, until we could not see on which side the windows were—we could not find the door; and then—well, I distinctly felt the touch of something—something flying through the air. We all felt it—Lady Innisfail, Archie—all of us. Of course, the prophecies were rubbish——”

"Except the retrospective one about Mr. Marvin,” said Lord Medway.

"Retrospective prophecies are usually the safest—how easily one acquires the local idiom,” said Trent "I didn’t pay much attention to the libretto of the scena; but I will say that the stage effects surprised me.”

"If it had lasted much longer, I should have fainted —I know that, and I never fainted in all my life,” said Lady Innisfail.

"Fainting went out before you were born,” said Lord Medway.

"I don’t know that I didn’t shriek outright—did I shriek, Evey?” asked Lady Innisfail.

"Not that I heard,,but that may have been another delusion,” said Lady Evelyn. "I know that I felt that shrieking was in the atmosphere. I was shrieking silently all the time.”

“And after the darkness?” asked Urquhart, quite interested.

“A thin blue light—it seemed to be miles away,” said Lady Innisfail. “It seemed as if the side of the mountain was suddenly opened so that we could see for miles into it The light went away, knd then the place began to get light Oh, no; I’m not making a bull. Is there any other way of expressing what happened? tell me that, and then go on with your laughing.”

“There’s no other way,” said Archie. “The whole thing was rum—jolly rum. What was it that she said about Trent?—I’ll swear that she made a distinct personal reference to Trent; she said something about millions.”

“Surely one may talk of millions without referring to me individually,” said Mr. Trent “Her reference to the millions made me feel a bit suspicious,” said Lord Medway.

“The spirit of scepticism is so rampant nowadays that even the most flagrant case of witchcraft fails to be fully credited,” said Mr. Trent. “Anyhow we had the usual prophecies about maidens being in love with the men they ‘didn’t oughter,’ and men in love with—oh, the rest was rubbish—the prophecies of the witch’s tent at a Fancy Fair Bazaar.”

“Only for the fire,” said Archie. “She got there with the big fire.”

“So that, on the whole, the stance was worth the money,” said Urquhart. “What did you say the name of the woman was?”

“Curtis—Lucy Curtis—there are dozens of Irish Curtises,” replied Archie. “But this old thing looked like an ancient Spanish hag.”

“A picture by Velasquez in a bad condition,” suggested Lady Evelyn.

“That sounds nicer,” said Urquhart.

“And in a particularly bad frame,” said Lord Medway. “On the whole, I think that we had the best of it,” said Mrs. Archie Browne. “ We went on to the Holy Well, and then climbed up to the ridge, and met a nice old man who recollected the bad times of the Fenians, and Mr. Urquhart behaved very badly, did he not, Claire?” “He made a mock of the man’s grey hairs, and led him on to describe the landing of Oliver Cromwell and the wreck of the ships of the Spanish Armada—he remembered them both,” said Claire.

“I was astonished at my own moderation; I could easily have drawn him by silken cords to the landing of Strongbow, the Battle of Clontarf under Brian Boru, and the laying of the first sod of the Garden of Eden,” said Urquhart “So you see we had, as Mrs. Archie says, by far the more interesting time.”

“But a witch is a witch,” said Lady Innisfail.

“That’s quite true,” said Urquhart “I do not deny that she occupies a distinct place on the lyric stage. She is the contralto—an Azucena sort of person. She usually gets there in the final quartette—she must have an enigmatical romanza all to herself in the first scena— ‘Stride la Vampa.’ But in real life—a cabin seven feet by five—that’s not a big enough stage for my taste.”

“I assure you this old creature was quite wonderful. Wasn’t she, Evey?” said Lady Innisfail.

But Lady Evey was talking with some degree of interest to Lord Medway, and did not hear the appeal made to her by Lady Innisfail, and Lady Innisfail did not repeat it There was a pause, and afterwards people began to talk of the scenery and the beautiful blue twilight and the new moon—that floating fluff of silver ostrich feather above the purple peak of Slieve Dhu, with a great planet glowing above its curve. The last word seemed to have been said about Witch Curtis.

But when Stephen Urquhart was alone in his room, after ringing for his valet, he stood with his hands deep in his pockets, his head turned slightly to one side in the pose of the thoughtful man. He remained in that position for some moments—in fact, until his man’s step sounded on the corridor. Then he said—

“Heavens above! One of the real ones, after all. But here—in an Irish glen! How the——What was the name? Curtis! Curtis! By the Lord Harry, I have it: Curtis—Cortez. She is a descendant of a Spaniard—the West Coast of Ireland is covered with them—a Spanish Moor.”

He told his valet that he would wear his sapphire shirt-stud.

• • • • • • •

The next day Mr. Trent was taking Mrs. Archie Browne and her guests on a cruise to the great seal caves of Ros-na-Phoca; but Stephen Urquhart said that it was impossible for him to accompany them. He was bound to await a certain telegram, and it might not arrive before the afternoon. Mr. Trent said he thought that the reply would do to be sent in the evening, but Urquhart, being his private secretary, knew better. Mr. Trent complained bitterly of the way he was overworked by his private secretary.

It so happened, however, that Mr. Trent’s party had just started for the yacht when the telegram arrived. But Urquhart showed no particular chagrin at this little jest of fate at his expense. He did not send a messenger down to the yacht's moorings to delay the vessel until he should reply to the telegram. The messenger whom he did despatch was one who went to the stables with the notification that Mr. Urquhart wished a dog-cart to be at the hall door in half an hour. Then Mr. Urquhart told the butler that he would not be in for lunch, but asked him to make up a sandwich.

In due course the telegram was replied to—the thing referred to was the merest trifle; the purchase of a dock in a West of England seaport, which was offered at a price so low as to be within the reach of the humblest millionaire—and the dog-cart was brought round to the hall door.

Stephen Urquhart lit his cigar and turned the horse's head in the direction that the coach had taken the day before. He drove through the glen road to the Holy Well, and dismounted there. He had brought an ivory foot-rule with him, and the groom saw him taking the most exact measurements of the different portions of the Celtic cross which stood on the mound just above the well.

He ate a sandwich at this place, and took a flask cupful of whisky and water. Returning to the groom, he gave the man the remainder of his sandwiches and of the contents of the flask.

“Don't hurry over them,” he said. “I am going to walk through the wood. Meet me in three-quarters of an hour where the tracks join. It is now five minutes past one.”

The man touched his hat, saying, “Vergoodsir,” and Mr. Urquhart entered the pine-wood that clothed the whole slope of the hill. After walking on for a few hundred yards, he struck the lower track, and by it came upon the road just below the witch’s cabin. He climbed up to the open door and entered the cabin without knocking.

The old woman was seated on the floor peeling onions. Her black hair fell in wisps about her brown, wrinkled face. He gave a laugh. The attitude and occupation carried to him no recollection of the lyric stage. The dramatic contralto had never appeared in front of the footlights as the exponent of the cuisine of the cabin.

She started at the sound of his laugh, and faced him with the rusty knife still in her hand. In a second she had become transformed. Her pose was consistent with the best tradition of the contralto in opera of the Italian School.

“Who are you? What brings you here? What have you come for?” she cried. Her voice was not quite a shriek, but had she raised it by half a tone, it would have been a full-flavoured shriek.

He stood before her for perhaps half a minute. Then he made a curious sign with the fingers of his right hand, interlacing them with those of his left. In a second she had dropped her knife upon the floor, and her right hand fell at the same instant upon the wrist of his right hand. The action suggested the swoop of a hawk, and the sight of her thin, leathery fingers more than suggested talons.

“Where did you learn that?” she said in a whispered shriek—the only words that could be used to describe the quality of her voice. “Where did you learn that? I have not seen the sign for fifty years.”

“You see it now,” said he. “It is the only thing I inherited when my father died. He was a West Indian sugar-grower, and it was taught to him by one who was your master, and master of all such as you. I believe that you are a descendant of a Spanish Moor, and your name is the good Spanish one of Cortez. All that the Moors knew of the Art they got from the Nubians. Isha Obeaya was a Nubian and the descendant of a Nubian. He was one of the freed slaves of my father’s father.”

“Isha Obeaya was the Master,” she said. “You were right in calling him my master. I never saw him, but I know that he was the greatest of the old tribe of Nubian Hisharobeaya. He had the right to transmit the secret to two persons of the tribe. Your father was not of the tribe.”

“His father became a member by the passing on of blood.”

“That was one part of the rite. What about the other?”

“The feast of flesh? He also ate the flesh that was offered to him.”

“You can do nothing.”

“Nothing; but I can command those who can do something. That is why I am here to-day. I heard yesterday what you did, and I knew that the darkness of noonday is the gift of the Isha Obeaya alone. I was as greatly startled as you were to see me just now.”

“It is a paltry gift. What am I the better for it? You are not such a fool as to believe that I can do much.”

“I know your limits. You can see back a year or two and forward a year or two, and you can direct the thoughts of some temperaments.”

“But only in one direction. It is folly to come to me in hope of gold.”

“I am not one of the fools. I want your help in the one thing that you can control,”

“That means that you love a woman and you want her to return your love?”

“Even so.”

“What is her name?”

“Her name is Claire La Roache,” said Stephen Urquhart.

CHAPTER XIV.

For some days Claire La Roache had been a good deal in the company of Stephen Urquhart She had become interested in him more than in any of the other men staying in the house, and she thought that this was because she was more interested in Evelyn Camaleigh than in any of the women. She knew Lady Evelyn’s secret. She knew that she loved Stephen Urquhart, and that, for reasons of their own, both she and Stephen Urquhart found it necessary to keep secret whatever understanding they had in regard to their love. The understanding might have been equivalent to an engagement, but this engagement was not to be made public.

Her knowledge of their secret had, for a day or two, been somewhat distasteful to her: it had been of the nature of a burden upon her mind. She felt as if she had been playing the part of a spy upon them. She had had an eye at their keyhole, so to speak, and she felt mean. What business had she to make herself acquainted with the secrets of these lovers?

But before a week had passed she had discovered how great a bond of sympathy the knowledge of a secret may become. She felt like the generous patron of the boy and girl lovers who have been caught in the act of kissing behind a screen. The generous patron will not give the young things away; and Claire knew very well that she would never give away the secret of Stephen Urquhart and Lady Evelyn.

But first, as has already been set down, she had become impatient at the thought of Mr. Urquhart’s falling in love with a young woman who was entitled to do so much better for herself than to marry Mr. Urquhart. And then one day she was startled to see a certain look in Stephen Urquhart’s eyes when those eyes were turned upon herself.

One man had been in love with her long ago—three years ago—and she remembered the look that had been in his eyes. It had startled her—frightened her—caused her to run to her mother’s side, and never to leave it so long as the man who told her he loved her remained in the neighbourhood.

She recognised in the eyes of Stephen Urquhart something of the same startling element But this time, though startled, she did not fly to the side of her mother. She remained talking to Mr. Urquhart, and rather enjoyed the conversation, although it was a literary topic and involved a reference to the art of Anatole France.

This happened while she was walking with Stephen Urquhart to the Holy Well, Mrs. Archie Browne and Major Clifton walking on in front of them. After dinner that same night he had been by her side, and she had felt no inclination to run away.

Nor had he. A full hour had passed before they had finished their conversation—this time it involved repeated references to the art of Monsieur Guy de Maupassant— and only two other persons were left with them in the hall. These were Lord Medway and Lady Evelyn.

She went to bed at last, still feeling like the benevolent patron: he had spent his time by her side so that no one might suspect that an understanding existed between him and Lady Evelyn. He probably thought it well to be equally attentive to other young women, for Claire had come to know that this house of Suanamara was as full of eyes as the sky is full of stars, and as star unto star vibrates speech so did these tongues wag. But she was quite content to help these young, people in preserving their secret inviolate. The consciousness of her own benevolence was pleasing to her.

It was in the middle of the night following—the night after Stephen Urquhart’s solitary visit to the romantic Glen Dhu—that Claire La Roache awoke with a start and found herself sitting up in her bed. Her first impression was that someone had spoken to her—someone very close to her ear. She was frightened, but only for a moment. Then she became aware of a curious feeling that it was not she herself who was in the bed, but someone in whom she took a vague and impersonal interest—someone whom she was making efforts to convince of a fact of intense interest; and the words which she was employing to compass her end were these—

“He is simulating a regard for you solely to further his own purpose, and the girl is in league with him. She does not care how far you may be deceived by his attitude. Your feelings are a matter of indifference to her. If he tells you that he loves you and you believe him, she will simply stand by and laugh at your sufferings. And yet you are content to play that part for their convenience. You are content to join in their deception of the people around them!”

She continued sitting up in her bed, feeling conscious of that strange outer self at a distance from her in the room. The room was in complete darkness; only where the blind of the window opposite to her eyes was apart from the frame there was the blink of a star or two. The house was silent, but a sharp autumn wind was blowing, and it made a crescendo silken sigh through the drapery of the pines at intervals, with a drear whistle once through a keyhole, and a sob as it swept past the mouth of a ventilator not far from the roof. But the wind was not continuous: it came in gusts, and only twice a twig of the climbing plant struggling and straggling around the frame of the window, made a velvety tapping upon a pane.

Then came a cessation of these sounds; but a moment after the faint far-off cry of the curlews flying over the cold land from the cold sea shivered through the silence.

Claire sat still upright, with one hand resting on her pillow. She felt warm as if she had been engaged in a conflict of emotions that moved her deeply. She felt that she was being persuaded against her will. She felt that she had no word to say in reply to the voice that had been talking to her—making its suggestions; and that there was nothing left for her but to yield.

She seemed to become weary of holding out. She felt that even if death were to follow her yielding, she must still yiqjd—there was nothing else left for her. It was an insupportable weariness holding out any longer.

She threw herself back on her pillow and burst into tears, weeping for long like an overwearied child—like a child that has been told to do something which is repugnant to its nature, but which it knows it must do.

She did not fall asleep until some hours had passed, and when she awoke she had no impression of having had a dream. She recalled every moment of that interval of wakefulness. She now felt that she had a very reasonable thought at the first instant of awaking. She asked herself now if she was content to allow Stephen Urquhart to sit beside her as she had done with such constancy, solely that his love for Lady Evelyn should be concealed from the people who were about them?

She felt that she had been forced into a role that no woman who had any sense of what was due to herself— to her womanhood—should play. But, curiously enough, she did not lay the blame of the transaction on the head of Stephen Urquhart, but on the head of Lady Evelyn. It was that girl who had erred in the first instance, entering into that secret understanding with Stephen Urquhart; and then ignoring the possibility of her, Claire's, suffering bitterly in order that no one should suspect that there was any bond between herself and the man.

For Stephen Urquhart she had no thought of bitterness. She remembered that she had liked him the first day she had met him. She had felt that he was a man of strength and a man of resource, and then she remembered the little pang which she had experienced on going to her room on the night when she had crept through the corridor in search of the jewel-heart and had heard that softly whispered “good night” at the foot of the staircase. She had felt a pang, and, recollecting it now, she knew that it was a pang of jealousy.

It was jealousy, and if it was jealousy then—she gave a start as the truth was forced upon her—if it was jealousy, that meant that she was in love—oh, no—no, not quite that—she could not have been quite in love with Stephen Urquhart at that time.

At that time? But if she was not in love with him at that time, had she changed since then? Was she in love with him now?

She was sensible that a change had come over her, and it was not the change that is due to growth. It was the change that takes place in a night It seemed to her that only during the night she had come to a knowledge of her own heart. She was now facing the truth as truly as she was facing her own face in the mirror above her dressing-table. She was in love with Stephen Urquhart.

She laid down the brush which she had been using pretty vigorously on her hair, and stared at the truth in the glass before her. The truth that she saw there was a girl’s face bearing an expression of grave surprise and overspread with the tint of a pink rose petal—translucid transparency; the tinge was beneath the surface. Her eyes were large, and people who saw them for the first time and casually, said they were blue, but after a time, that they were violet. Now they wore the expression of one who is startled—of one who is alert, waiting for what may happen next. And all about her face and over her shoulders fell floods of peat-brown hair. What a stream it was that was in spate that time! It went with a rush over the slopes of the shapely head, rippling down, the white-pink coral curve of an ear showing above the waves, and there the ripples broke into a cataract upon her bare shoulders, swirling round her neck, sending whirling wisps of spindrift over the exquisite hollow of her throat, and then vanishing among the fuller lily curves below—lily curves of shoulders and half-bare bosom and arms glowing with the life that comes from the pure, passionate heart of a girl who is in soul a lily and at heart a rose.

She knew that she was staring at the face of a girl who is in love. That was the truth which she had before her. And yet this knowledge only startled her. It did not give her any happiness. How could it give her any happiness? She could not forget that Lady Evelyn, who was her friend, was also in love with the same man; she could not forget that the same man had had his arm about Lady Evelyn, holding her so close to him that her good night had sounded like a sob.

In an instant she had flung her hands up to her eyes, shutting out all that she had seen in the mirror; for the look that came to her eyes had frightened her. She had seen the expression of startled girlhood pass away, and its place taken by the look of the girl who says in her heart—

“Why should I turn aside because of another woman? Who is she that she, rather than I, should win him?”

At that moment she had seen before her the expression of the original woman—the prehistoric woman of whom Mr. Marvin loved so dearly to hear himself talk; and the sight filled her with fear. Could it be possible that in the course of a single night she had changed so greatly as to be now no different at heart from the original woman who was nothing more than an original animal courting capture, and making only the most feminine pretence to evade it?

She was frightened at the thought that such a thought should be in her heart, and it was in the impulse of this fear that she said—

“I will go away—I will go to the uttermost ends of the earth so that I may never see him again—so that I may be able to strangle my love for this man who is beloved by my friend.”

She felt strong in this determination; and so went on with her toilet—the maid whose services she shared with her mother was engaged with Mrs. La Roache, whose hair required rather more careful treatment than Claire’s.

But when Claire went to throw open a window, being at the point of leaving her room, she saw on the terrace below, the girl of whom she had been thinking. Lady Evelyn was standing there, and facing her was Lord Medway, with his fishing-rod. They were chatting together, and Claire saw that they were, as usual, on very good terms with each other, and that there was, in the eyes of the girl, a certain sweet tenderness of iexpression —a certain sweet sadness. But on the face of her companion there was no change. He seemed ever to be looking the future in the face with confidence. Never in his expression was there the least distrust of what was coming.

Was there ever a truer man? Claire asked herself. Was there ever a man who deserved well at the hands of a woman? And yet there was that girl whom he loved, flinging away the happiness—the good fortune which was within her grasp, for the sake of a man who was certainly not so well qualified as Lord Medway to make her future a success!

That was how it came that girls were so frequently looked on as fools; they threw away the chances—the certainties—of life for a mere caprice, and people who watched them do so laughed. But that was where the people made a mistake. They had no right to laugh. They should stretch forth helping hands to their poor blind sisters. They should stand between them and their caprices.

She turned away from the window and went slowly— thoughtfully to the staircase. But when half-way down she stopped suddenly, for all her thoughtfulness had led her to the one thought—

“I am her sister, and it is for me to stand between her and her caprice.”

In a moment she perceived that therein lay the solution of the difficulty which had beset her. The solution lay in her doing her duty as a sister, and her duty was to see that Lady Evelyn was made happy in spite of herself. If Stephen Urquhart were to fall in love with her, Claire, Lady Evelyn would be happy, for she would marry that true man who loved her truly—Lord Medway.

She had no trouble whatever in assigning to herself the part of a sort of journeyman Providence in this matter; and before breakfast was over, she had actually gone so far as to think of herself as making a great sacrifice solely for the purpose of compassing the happiness of Lady Evelyn. She had brought herself to believe that in taking to herself—or in trying to take to herself—the love of Stephen Urquhart, she would be accredited with an act of self sacrifice.

She felt satisfied with the sketch which she had made. She had all the satisfaction of an artist who has designed a picture, and feels confident that his ideas will work out well. And the most pleasing element in her design was (she thought) that there was nothing of that detestable prehistoric woman about it. Her scheme was one that could be thought of only by a highly civilised woman—a woman who had come to see how Nature can be improved upon.

CHAPTER XV.

Was it her knowledge of how Nature could be improved upon that caused her to see with great clearness of vision that the best way of getting near to a man is to keep as far away from him as possible?

She usually took a stroll on the terrace after breakfast, when the men of the party were lighting their pipes, and she had nearly always at this time found herself by the side of Stephen Urquhart. But this morning she went into the library, and from one of the windows of this apartment, which overlooked a sunny end of the terrace, she had the satisfaction of noticing the waiting look in the eyes of Stephen Urquhart as he sat in his cane chair with a bundle of letters on his knees. The expression on his face was too faintly indicated for anyone else about him to read; but Claire felt that she could read it aright, and she felt that she was making progress: she was getting the man nearer to her by keeping away from him.

And in this respect she felt that she was improving upon Nature; being quite forgetful of Mr. Marvin’s theories of the original woman who, while flying from the pursuing man, takes good care to wear her hair long, so as to give him a chance of catching her.

She perceived an expression of impatience—the merest cobweb of an expression, but quite enough for her—on the face of Stephen Urquhart when an hour had passed. And then she thought that the time had come for her to take a stroll on the terrace. But she had not risen from the window-seat when Philip Trent entered the room.

“What!” he cried, “are you indoors, Miss La Roache? Is this a library day—this day stolen from the summer? I’ll tell you what this day is—did you see the swallows making themselves ready to fly last week? Well, they went; but this day is a sort of dallying swallow—dallying —delaying, from the general flight of the autumn.”

“A perfect idea,” said Claire. “It is not merely an idea—it is a finished poem. Cannot you see how it would be written by François Coppée?”

He shook his head.

“We shall treat it—you and I,” he said. “Come outside. We shall walk through the pines down to the lough and see what colour it is in this October sunshine. Come along.”

“Delighted!” she cried. “That is how to treat your idea of the delaying swallow-day? Why should one trouble to write a poem when one can live one?”

“Why, indeed?” said he. “When people are perfectly happy they never want to write verses on happiness. Good Lord! The library to-day! Why, the very sight of a book to-day is enough to make me mad. But you, pale student—”

She ran with the book that had been on her knees to the bookcase, and pushed it shoulder to shoulder with its fellows.

“I am ready!” she cried.

Within three minutes she had put on her yachting cap and was back on the terrace. Stephen was still in his seat; Mr. Trent was saying something to him. She did not go too close. He might have been dictating a telegram.

“Such good time!” said he. “On we go.”

He said half a dozen more words to Mr. Urquhart and then joined her. They went on side by side to the end of the terrace, and then, when in the act of disappearing down the sloping wood path, she turned her head.

He was looking after her—Stephen had sent his eyes after her. She gave a little farewell wave of her hand to him. He raised a finger to his cap. She felt that she had made progress. This going away from him meant progress. That little wave of her hand meant not a goodbye, but an invitation.

She had seen Lady Evelyn go off with Mrs. Archie and Lord Medway with salmon-rods immediately after breakfast, therefore she had no hesitation in accepting Mr. Trent’s invitation to walk with him. But Stephen, catching sight of the two figures reappearing on the path at the slope of the glen, mused, muttering—

“Has the thing begun to work? Is it time?”

He knew himself to be an exceedingly clever man. He had set out in life to make the most of this endowment, which was practically his only one; and it was generally thought that he had done pretty well for himself. To become private secretary to Mr. Philip Trent was to have gone further than a good many men of cleverness could hope to go. But the opinion of the people who are round about a man is not invariably the opinion of the man himself, regarding his progress in life; so much depends on the man’s own ambition and his belief in his own power to realise the object of his ambition. Most people think that the Mittaghorn forms a very decent climb, and are quite ready to boast of having compassed it; but what about the man who has set his face to the Matterhorn?

Lady Evelyn Carnaleigh was a beautiful girl and a nice girl, and when he had first asked himself if it was possible that he could gain her love, he felt that he was ambitious indeed. But she was, as so many nice and beautiful girls are, practically penniless. Her father, Lord Carnaleigh, found it hard to keep up his establishments—one of them (in Paris) was notoriously expensive—on the income which his tenants allowed him. And knowing this, Stephen Urquhart had his doubts as to the advantage to himself likely to accrue from marrying the daughter of a poor man, even though he had a title, and his daughter was permitted the use of one also, with the precedence which accompanies such a distinction.

It was those doubts which had caused him, after Lady Evelyn had accepted his offer of love, to place before her the advisability of keeping their engagement a secret. He told her that he was not satisfied with his position in the world, and that he felt sure that Lord Carnaleigh would never give his consent to the engagement of his daughter to such a man as he was. For his own part he was not sure that Lord Carnaleigh was wrong—no, he certainly would not take it upon him to say that Lord Carnaleigh was wrong. But he knew what he could do, and he felt sure that, in the course of a year or two, he would succeed in making for himself such a position as would enable him to win her even in the face of such prejudices as her father would naturally—having at heart the best interests of his daughter—entertain against such a match for her as he, Stephen, might suggest “If I were to go to him now he would assuredly send me about my business, and I am not so sure that he would be wrong,” said Mr. Urquhart in talking the matter over with her.

“He would be wrong—he does not know you,” said Lady Evelyn.

He shook his head with a smile of toleration—the indulgent toleration of a man of the world for the prejudices of the narrow-minded.

“He would be right, and that would be the end of everything, for I have a—a sort of pride—I suppose it is ridiculous, but there it is—pride is the sole consolation of the humble—and I know that your father’s ‘no’ would be effectual,” he had answered. “Our only chance is to let our engagement be between ourselves until the right time comes—when I can go with confidence to your father and say, “I have won her.’ ”

At first she had hesitated—he knew—he hoped—-that she would hesitate: she had never had a secret from her father, she shrank from having one now; but of course he had prevailed.

This secret engagement had been in force for more than a year. It had its fascinations, especially for the man. It enabled him to have many delightful moments with the woman, and it made him sure of her, so to speak. It was nearly as good as a secret marriage; with such a girl as Lady Evelyn its binding power was almost as great. He knew that it reflected great credit on his cleverness— his good management of a delicate negotiation; and he was perfectly well satisfied with the situation until Claire La Roache had appeared before him.

He had never had a notion that he would be such a fool. He had always been able to keep himself well in hand: the way he had conducted his negotiation with Lady Evelyn proved this; and yet before he had been more than twice in the company of Claire La Roache, he knew that he was in love with her. Even while he had had his arm about Lady Evelyn, listening to the exquisite huskiness in her voice while she whispered his “good night” at the foot of the staircase—Claire La Roache being at the top—he had been in love with Claire La Roache.

He had no idea that he should ever be such a fool. For, quite apart from any question of his engagement to Lady Evelyn, it was, he knew, the height of folly for such a man as he was to love such a girl as she. Of course,

Digitized by LnOOQle everyone talked of her beauty, and he certainly thought that she was the most beautiful creature whom he had ever seen, and no one was better able than himself to assess accurately the value of a beautiful wife as an auxiliary to success. In the army it frequently meant the difference between distinction and obscurity, but politically such an auxiliary counted for very little, and he hoped to become one day a political power.

And yet he had fallen in love with Claire, and every day that he was near her had but made him feel that for her he was ready to do anything. He had heard of this old-fashioned sort of thing, and had ever been ready to smile at it as people smile at something prehistoric. But it had him in its grasp, and it left upon him the impress as of fiery fingers. He had known instances of the working of this power—the history of kings and nations was full of them—and they had always appeared sad to him. Kings had fallen, dynasties had been extinguished, or worse, dynasties had been prolonged, by the tyranny of this power upon the sons of men; yes, and religious reputations—political reputations — even artistic reputations, had been undone by it. And yet he, who had seen and heard all that mortal man had ever seen and heard of it, had allowed himself to become its victim!

He never gave a thought—after the second day—to the obligations which were imposed upon him by the fact of his engagement to another woman; no question of honour ever crossed his mind, causing him to hesitate, or to make the attempt to rid himself of the thraldom. He never thought of his future. He was prepared to go to any length in order to get her to love him.

He had gone pretty far when he paid that secret visit to the descendant of the Spanish Moor whose name was Cortez; and in the interview which he had with her he had astonished even that ancient woman, and she had had strange traffic with strange people and strange Powers in her time.

And now he was pacing the terrace in front of that Irish house, asking himself how it was that he, who had mapped out his life so carefully, and had seen the hard things which stood in the way of the realisation of his ambition, melt away before him, so to speak, had allowed this incredible folly to enter into his life. Of course, he knew that it was folly for him to allow this particular incident—this falling in love with a girl who could in no way advance his interests in the world—to dominate his life—to interfere with his plans; but now, so far from making any reasonable attempt to retrieve his position as a person of forethought and resolution—a person even of honour—he was taking delight m the thought that the means which he had adopted for realising his dream of folly, not his dream of ambition, were likely to prove effective.

All his thoughts were centred in that backward glance which she had cast at him with that graceful fluttering of her hand above her head. Her hand seen from afar was like a white butterfly twinkling through the morning air. He had waited for such a sign from her to tell him that his plans were succeeding—that his visit to that cottage on the side of the lonely Glen Dhu had not been made in vain. She was coming nigh to him. He gloated over the thought “Urquhart, you are a sensible man,” said Mr. Marvin, who, unnoticed by him, had strolled on the terrace, and was now at his elbow.

“Am I?” said Urquhart. He knew that when a full- flavoured bore wishes to entice a victim into his web of words, he invariably employs that formula—“You are a sensible man.” All men like to be called sensible, just as all women hate it.

“Everyone knows that you are, Urquhart, and you yourself know it better than anyone else,” said Mr. Marvin. “That is why I have come to you. I have been asking myself in what direction all my investigations lead one— that is the scientific system, Urquhart—to investigate first and to form your theory afterwards. Long ago it was the other way about: the theory was formulated in the first instance, and every incident was pressed into the service of the theorist to serve as a proof of his phantasm —not invariably phantasm, of course—I wouldn’t go so far as to say that.”

“That is your generosity, my dear Marvin,” said Urquhart.

“Oh, no; I am ready to allow that occasionally—not frequently—a theory was correct. But, as I say, I have been asking myself in what direction my investigations tend.”

“In what direction?”

“Listen to me, Urquhart. I feel myself compelled to say that the conclusion is forced upon me that all the mistakes of our life—all the miserable failures of our civilisation are due to the distance we have drifted from our original natures. If it became fully recognised that civilisation does not in reality exist, all would be well.”

“If you can get civilised people to admit that civilisation does not exist, you will have gone far, Marvin.”

“I mean to go far, Urquhart. I mean to say that so long as people refuse to acknowledge the elementary in Digitized by L»ooq le stincts of man, the animal, as the boundary of man’s life, mankind must remain at sixes and sevens—just as we are to-day. It must be acknowledged that civilisation is a sham. You remember the story of the Rev. John Creedy?”

“The nigger who was educated in England and, after marrying an English girl, returned to Africa and went Fantee?”

“You know it. Well, my investigations go to demonstrate beyond the possibility of a doubt, that every man —even the most highly civilised, so called, is ready to go Fantee at the slightest provocation—to revert to the original animal. The cruelty—the injustice—comes in when we punish a brother man for doing what his nature prompts him to do—what his nature insists on his doing. Our mistake—the mistake of civilised man (so called)— is that we have laid down laws which are contrary to the nature of man, and we insist on those laws being observed to the letter of the law and not in sympathy with the true nature of man.”

“These are the rules of the game of civilised life, laid down by civilised man for the protection of himself and other members of the same family, Marvin.”

“I am prepared to prove that all these laws—these artificial restrictions are the merest folly. But we have not merely made and written laws, Urquhart We have invented something that we call honour that forces us further away still from an acknowledgment of the great truths of Nature, and when a child, nearer to the original type, deviates from this ridiculous unwritten code, he is whipped; when a man deviates, he is shunted by society.”

“When he is found out. A clever man will not allow himself to be found out”

“Now there you touch upon an interesting point When a child, endowed by Nature with the faculty of lying—I need scarcely tell you that the whole scheme of Nature is founded upon lying, and that falsehood is Nature's most precious endowment—tells a falsehood, he is whipped instead of being encouraged by his parents! But when his male parent makes a fortune by the aid of a fraudulent prospectus or by the manufacture of an article which is not what it seems—by the advertising of an article which is sold at a price sufficiently large to allow of a profit being made off the manufacture and also the advertising of the article—that man is regarded with respect and esteem. Then there is the question of theft Of course, stealing is another of Nature's most valuable instincts. It is not so widely distributed as the instinct of lying, for it is a decree of Nature that lying is synonymous with self-preservation. All animals and a great many vegetables practise it, hence they are alive to-day. The reason why many species have become extinct is that they were not good liars. But the butterfly that tucks itself up so as to pretend that it is an orchid and so deceive the butterfly-eating bird, increases and multiplies. You have heard of the bird—a sort of snipe—in the island of Java, that pretends that it is the top of a bulrush—that's the bird that gets on.”

“All this is very interesting, but scarcely enthralling, Mr. Marvin. Your plea for the very precious art of lying can hardly be resisted. It does credit to your bring-ing-up.”

“What I must object to, Urquhart, is that when the public schoolboy tells a fib he gets flogged; but when he goes into the army the most important part of his education consists in acquiring the art of lying to an enemy. If he pretends to an enemy that he is behind a hill in the distance and so induces that enemy to walk into an ambush, his fame as a soldier rings through the land and Te Deums are sung in the churches under the superintendence of the men who assure us that lying is a vice. Now there was that witch whom we visited a couple of days ago—I wish you had been with us, Urquhart.”

“It would have been interesting, wouldn’t it?”

“It would, indeed. It would have shown you how thin is the veneer of civilisation——”

“So called.”

“So called. Thank you—how thin is the veneer— veneer?—it is not as thick even as a varnish—there were several educated—I might even say, religious, women——” “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that, if I were you, Marvin.”

“Well, perhaps—but there they were, listening to the stuff that old woman had to say—I give you my word that they were breathless with excitement—if any parson could so interest his hearers in a sermon he would be regarded as the greatest living preacher—and yet I need hardly tell you that witchcraft is a thing for savages only. That hag—that Obi woman—I give you my word that I felt as if I were in a native hut in Central Africa. I don’t say, mind you, that those people who were in immediate touch with the things of Nature did not possess some powers that we would nowadays call supernatural. But for that matter, as I have often said before, what was superstition yesterday is scientific truth to-day. There is Marconi—a man accused of communicating with people at a distance some years ago would have been burnt alive —they would have said that he was in league with the Powers of Darkness—what, must you go?”

“I am tearing myself away; I am really, my dear Mr. Marvin; but the fact is that your mention of the name of Marconi put me in mind of my duty. I have about forty wires to send off before the afternoon — not on the Marconi system, but through the medium of the post-office telegraph. But you have interested me greatly.”

“You are a sensible man, Urquhart”

“What—to run away from you, Marvin? Well—perhaps—”

Mr. Urquhart threw away the end of his cigar when in the act of giving his laugh.

But he knew very well that the people whom we regard as sensible are the people whom we succeed in interesting.

“Sensible?” said Mr. Urquhart, walking slowly along the corridor to his room. “Sensible? I thought so once; but now I know that I am a—a savage—yes, and glad of it.”

It was not until he had been for some time in his room that he began to think of what Mr. Marvin had said about the veneer of civilisation, and the ease with which it was scraped off.

CHAPTER XVI.

“I think that you fancy you do,” said Claire, when he had told her—in his own way—that he loved her and asked her if she did not believe him. He was standing before her, very close. He was conscious of the gracious glow—the exquisite warmth of her presence close to him. There is nothing like the passion of love for rubbing the veneer of civilisation off a man, Mr. Marvin could have told him if he had been in any doubt about the matter himself.

"Yes,” he said, and there was a certain unevenness in his voice which he could not account for. "Yes, I fancy that I do. I fancy that I am alive. I have begun to -be alive. What do you fancy about it, Claire La Roache?”

She smiled in his face; then she looked down at the point of the toe which she had pushed into sight from beneath the edge of her dress. She had her head turned slightly to one side. She rocked her foot about along the edge of her dress, still smiling.

"I am wondering what would happen if I were to tell you frankly that I believe you—that I know that you love me,” she said, and once more her eyes, still smiling, went up to his face.

"So am I,” he said. "I am wondering what will happen.”

"What would happen—don’t say what will happen, Mr. Urquhart”

"I prefer to say ‘will’—‘woulds’ are not in my line.”

"I believe that. The man who gets on in the world is the man who forces other people to say ‘I will,’ not ‘I might’ ”

"And you will say it now.”

"The man who says to someone ‘you will say it’ is the man who gets on in the world.”

"I don’t care about the world. The world has for me dwindled down until it has become enclosed within the limits of these four walls. There is nothing for me in the world that this room does not hold—that this hand does not hold.”

He had put out his hand to her. She did not draw back by the extent of a single inch. She only hesitated for a single second. Then she put her hand in his, not looking at his hand—looking—smiling into his face.

He held her hand tightly within his own.

“I knew that you would do it,” he said. “You love me.”

“Do I?” she said. “God knows. I tell you if I love you it is not because I want to love you. Is that the way people feel at first? Do they want to rush away and hide themselves, and never wish to hear the word love mentioned in their hearing again? That is how I feel now, and yet—yet—”

“You would not run away for all the world,” he said.

“Is that because I feel as you say you do—that the world has for me become compressed within these four walls?”

“That is how you feel, Claire—my Claire?”

“Yes, that is how I feel—and at the same time I tell you that I feel that this room is a prison. I tell you in all truth that I feel as if your love were a prison—cruel —noxious—terrible—no way of escape.”

“That is the real love,” said he.

“Is it?—is it?” she cried. “Then pure love is nearer to pure hate than anyone imagines it to be.”

“You have never loved before, or you would know that the delight of love is no greater than the delight of hate,” said he, looking into her face. It was paler at that moment than he had ever seen it.

She snatched her hand away from his and walked quickly across the creaking boards of the floor. She returned to him and looked at him for a moment, then set out on the same track across the room. Before she reached the window she turned about, saying—

"Talk to me—talk to me—for Heaven’s sake say something to me. Why do you stand there silent when you see me going about like this?—any nonsense—talk any nonsense you please.”

"I love you, Claire. I love you, Claire La Roache, I love you, my pearl among women.”

"That is what the savages say,” she cried, smiting her hands together. "They call the savage girl their pearl— their moonstone—their glass bead, as the case may be. Are you content to be thought a savage, Mr. Urquhart?” “Quite,” said he. "I am one, thank Heaven.”

She seemed startled, for he did not speak flippantly. She stared at him and saw that he spoke the truth. The savage man looked through his eyes.

"I wonder if I am a savage woman,” said she curiously, and with a little pucker of curiosity on her forehead.

“I hope you are,” said he. "At any rate you are a woman and you love me.”

"Both savage,” she laughed. "Well, you have said something to me—I asked you to say something to me—a soothing something. Shall we go now?”

"Go?—heavens above! Go? Not a minute has passed since I told you that I loved you and you told me that you loved me. Go?”

"What else is there to say that we haven’t said?” "Heavens! This is the most important hour in our lives, and you ask if there is anything more to be said.” “And is there? What happens as a rule when two people have found that they love one another?”

He had his arms round her in a moment, and his lips were all but upon her own; but at the moment when they were about to touch, she flung back her head and put up a hand.

“Not that—not that,” she cried.

“My beloved—you love me.”

“Yes—yes—but—not that—not that. I am not sure that I do love you.”

“I am sure of it. Why should you doubt it?”

She did not take her hand away from his; but she did not respond to his clasp. There was a puzzled expression on her face.

“I feel so constrained,” she said. “I am not satisfied. It may be love—but—oh, let us go now. Have I not gone far in responding to you? Tell me, do you love anyone else, Stephen Urquhart?”

“ ‘Was ever woman in such humour wooed?’ ” was his thought as he marked every change of mood of that beautiful creature for whom he had sacrificed much and was ready to sacrifice more. She had passed from mood to mood—a dozen of them and more—within the quarter of an hour that they had been alone. She had been gay, grave, petulant, coquettish, trustful, dubious in turn. And now there was something of the jealous woman in the tone of her inquiry.

“Do you love anyone else?”

Moreover, her eyes were searching his heart. If he had made the least attempt to evade a direct answer she would have become aware of it This he knew, and of course he was wise enough to answer her directly.

“I love no one else,” he said gravely. He would have liked to convey to her by his tone that he felt somewhat aggrieved at being asked so pointed and so pertinent a question. He did not believe that he had succeeded in doing so; it was such a very difficult thing to do. He underrated his own powers, and in another instant he was aware of this fact.

She made a little apologetic movement of her head, and put out her hand to him at the same moment, saying—

“Forgive me. It was a horrid question to put to you. Oh, believe me, I am being forced to do things—to ask things. Thank Heaven, they are coming to us now.”

Footsteps sounded on the boards outside, and Stephen hastened to open the door. Mrs. La Roache with Mr. Sullivan approached along the corridor.

“And what conclusions have you come to respecting the rooms in this wing?” asked Lady Innisfail. “We think that the lower ones are in such a picturesque state of ruin it would be a great pity to do anything with them.”

Mr. Urquhart shook his head sadly.

“Hopeless,” he said, “quite hopeless.” He turned to Mrs. La Roache. “It seems impossible to do anything with the place unless by the expenditure of a considerable sum of money.”

“And as I told you this morning, Mr. Urquhart, I am not just now in a position to spend anything considerable upon the place.”

“It will become more and more picturesque every year, rest assured of that,” said Lady Innisfail consolingly. “People will come to see it by the thousand, when the tourist traffic becomes properly organised. Why shouldn’t we hire a historical novelist to write it up and so bring people to it? That plan is worth thinking out I am sure that a historical novelist could be got very cheap. They are going out of fashion. I really could not make my way through the best of them, with their cold, damp winds blowing down a narrow alley in some medieval town or other—their heroes with the coldly cruel smile, and their ‘ ’sbloods’ and ‘sdeaths.’ I am sure that we could pick one up a bargain. What do you say about it, Mr. Urquhart?”

“A sound one would cost money, but one only slightly cracked—”

“Oh, now you are mocking us all,” said Lady Innisfail when Mr. Urquhart made a pause, breaking off his sentence in a very suggestive way. “That is the way with men; you never can get them to discuss a serious matter seriously. I say that if we were to hire a novelist to do for Ireland what Scott has done for Scotland, people would simply flow into the country. Do you know what the population of Ireland was before the famine?”

“There have been two famines a year for the past twenty years—which of them do you mean, Lady Innisfail?” said Mr. Urquhart.

“Two famines a year—two famines! Now, Mr. Urquhart, this is jesting on a very serious question,” said Lady Innisfail. “But what a delightful room this must have been!” she continued, looking around her. “It must have been a sort of boudoir. Such an exquisite pattern —silk tapestry.”

“I can give you the whole history of the room—ah, if it could only speak!” said Mr. Sullivan, throwing roguish glances from Urquhart to Lady Innisfail, and a more subdued variety from Mrs. La Roache to her daughter.

“Thank goodness it can’t speak!” said Lady Innisfail with an air of true devoutness. “I always have thought it most indecent for poets and people of that stamp to make oaks and hawthorn bushes talk—revealing horrid things. Now we must hurry off. I knew that you could only come to one conclusion about the place, my dear Mrs. La Roache: it must be given up to Father Time. By the way, doesn’t Mr. Sullivan look like the embodiment of Father Time? He is just as quaint, only Father Time is never clean shaven. And yet he might be if only he sharpened up that scythe of his.”

“Fair charmers!” said Mr. Sullivan with a smirk. “Let me have the honour to offer you some refreshment —a glass of Burgundy and a biscuit I have still a few bottles of the Waterloo vintage left I shall feel vastly obliged”—he pronounced it obleeged—“if you will accept my humble hospitality. Mrs. La Roache, your hand. Madam, I swear to you that the very touch of such a hand—”

But Mrs. La Roache continued her conversation with Lady Innisfail, and they found it necessary to brush past the gesticulating little man. In the hall, however, he succeeded in getting in front of them, and did his best to entice them into the room where Mrs. La Roache and Claire had sat on the evening of their arrival at the Castle; and when they passed him by once more, going out to the coach, he rebuked them with a snarl that in no way suggested the kindly firmness worn by the worn face of Father Time.

“He is a problem that you will have to face sooner or later,” said Urquhart, as the coach drove back to Suanamara. “What to do with Mr. Sullivan is a nice problem.”

They had driven across the hills to Castle Finnbar immediately after lunch, Mrs. La Roache having been urged by Claire to do so, in order that Mr. Urquhart and Lady Innisfail might have a chance of seeing what was the state of the rooms at the Castle, and of judging whether the place could be inhabited again. Mrs. La Roache had seemed pretty well contented with life as she had found it at Suanamara. It was much better than Sofia at its best, and was certainly infinitely superior to the little flat in Paris, and the appartement in that street just behind the Place Massena at Nice. But Claire had been resolute in impressing on her mother the necessity for at least making an effort to leave the house where they had been so hospitably entertained for nearly a whole month. Claire tried to explain to her that, as several sets of bridge players had come to, and gone from, Suanamara within the month, it would be trespassing on Mrs. Archie Browne's good nature were two such casual guests as she and her mother to stay on over the month.

There was Castle Finnbar waiting for them, Claire pointed out, and if it could be put into a habitable condition for a hundred pounds or so, her mother and she should lose no time in at least setting about getting the work done, if not in actually getting it done.

Mrs. La Roache, however, having long ago seen how impressed were all the visitors with the beauty of her daughter, was in no particular hurry to leave Suanamara to become the châtelaine of such a heap of stones held together by ivy as Castle Finnbar; and when Claire talked to Mrs. Archie on the subject of the departure of herself and her mother, Mrs. Archie was quite annoyed, and threatened to tell her husband.

As a matter of fact, Archie Browne was told of the designs of Mrs. La Roache and her daughter, and gave them the most hospitable abuse on that account for a whole evening. But in spite of this, Claire had her own way, and with her mother, Lady Innisfail, and Stephen Urquhart, drove to the Castle.

It was when Lady Innisfail and Mrs. La Roache were examining the melancholy details of the furniture of the lower rooms that Urquhart and Claire had gone to inspect the condition of the apartments upstairs, and they had scarcely entered the decayed boudoir before he had said words that called for that reply which she had hesitatingly given him—

“I think that you fancy you love me.”

And now she was sitting at the window of her room, looking out over the orange and gold of the glen foliage illuminated by the last gleam of daylight She had a good deal to think about—more than she had had at any one hour of her life.

Was it gladness that was in her heart at this hour? That was what she had to think about. Was it the best day of her life or the worst? He had told her that he loved her, and the announcement had not come upon her as a surprise. She had looked for it She had done her best to lead him on by keeping as far away from him as possible. And she had succeeded. And yet she was now asking herself if she felt desperately happy or jubilantly miserable.

Somehow she had a sense of having been coerced. That was the feeling which she had endeavoured to put into words when he had told her that he loved her. She had seemed to hear a voice ever close to her ears saying to her—

"This is the man whom you are to love.”

It was just the same as it had been on that night when she had awakened and sat up in her bed feeling that there was someone in the room with her—someone who was like herself outside of herself—a sort of dream self making suggestions to her, the force of which was irresistible.

She had spoken the exact truth to him when she told him that she had a sense of being imprisoned. She felt, sitting at that window, as if she were looking forth from the barred window of a prison—that she was not there by her own free-will. There was a springtide of laughter rippling below her window. She knew that some of the guests had returned from the business of the day—the business of fishing or shooting or sailing. Mr. Trent was saying something to Lord Medway, and Archie Browne was giving a guffaw, which showed her that the pleasantry was persuasive without being in the least subtle.

And then there was the voice of Lady Evelyn.

Claire sprang up at that voice. That was what she wanted.

“I have her happiness at heart,” she said, not to herself, but out loud, though there was no one in her room to hear her. It seemed as if she was bringing an argument to bear against herself—as if she was trying to silence another voice that had been somewhat clamorous in advancing its argument in quite another direction.

There was another wavelet of laughter beating against her window, and among its basses, the rivulet chime of a girl’s voice.

She sprang from her chair.

“That is it,” she cried. “To those who do not know all it would seem, if they heard of it, that I was dishonourable—detestable—horrid; but they do not know all. She will be happy with the man who loves her truly —a good man—nay, better, a brave man. She will be happy. They will both be happy—far happier than I shall ever be.”

She seated herself on her sofa feeling almost happy. But before many minutes had passed she was on her feet again pacing the room. Then she flung herself down on the cushion of the sofa in a paroxysm of tears. She felt weaker than words could express.

And yet before she had come to her room for the night she was conscious of a woman’s elation at having got the better of a rival—at having succeeded in drawing to her side a man who had been at the side of another woman. It actually amused her to speculate upon the course that would be adopted by Stephen Urquhart when the time came for him to explain to Lady Evelyn that he loved not her but another. She felt that it was quite an amusing thing to speculate on. But she had every confidence in Stephen Urquhart’s ability to extricate himself from a position which was not quite—no, not quite— well, she had recently become accustomed to an English idiomatic phrase that conveyed a good deal—a tight place. Yes, he was in a tight place; but that did not matter: he was clever; he would get out of it And he was hers—so much was certain. He loved her, and he would be dishonourable for her sake. She thought of all that Mr. Marvin had said about the Original Woman —prehistoric woman, and the more she thought about it the gladder she became that she was a descendant of the Original Woman. It was not the Primeval Woman who had felt complimented when the man sang outside her cave—

“I could not love thee, dear, so much,

Loved I not honour more.”

It was just when this thought was passing through the brain of Claire La Roache, that Philip Trent, sitting alone in the hall with Stephen Urquhart, threw away his half-smoked cigar, and said—

“Urquhart, a funny thing has happened—the funniest thing in the world. I do believe—no, I am sure of it— I am sure of it! I am in love.”

Stephen Urquhart smiled very gently—perhaps sadly —while he said—

“This is funny. But, after all—well, I suppose you have got it into your system or you would not seek to confide in anyone.”

“I fancy—well, I don’t see that I have any right to claim immunity from the common lot because I happen to have done pretty well for myself in other ways,” said Trent, giving a good deal of attention to the tips of his fingers.

“To expect so much would be ridiculous,” said Urquhart. “The only thing is that you told me long ago that you had a dread—”

“Yes, yes, I had a sort of dread that—that—well, you know what modem mothers are, Urquhart—thinking only of the worldly position of the man.”

“Pretty much the same as they always did. There was never a woman that lived in the world was not at one time a modem woman.”

“I shouldn’t wonder. Anyhow it’s a long time since I got frightened off. I didn’t think that I should ever be in love. But that was before she appeared before me.” “Is it allowable to ask who is the she?”

Philip Trent glanced up with an expression of surprise. “Heavens above? Can you ask such a question?” he cried. “Oh, I see that you are only jostling me.”

“Not I,” laughed Stephen. “You have certainly every symptom of the true lover. You seek a confidant, and when you have found one you decline to confide in him. But I won’t press you for names.”

"Good Lord, Urquhart, do you mean to tell me that there is more than one girl before your eyes in this connection?”

"I tell you that—oh, I’m afraid I have been a bit of a fool. I might have guessed; Lady Evelyn—but I really had not the slightest suspicion when I saw you sitting beside her last evening——”

"Don’t plunge, Urquhart. I don’t know what could have put Lady Evelyn into your mind. Lady Evelyn is a charming girl and all that; but the one I want to talk to you about is Claire La Roache.”

CHAPTER XVII.

Stephen Urquhart was accustomed never to lose command over himself, and at the mention of the name of Claire La Roache by Mr. Trent, he merely raised his eyebrows for a second and examined the end of his cigar. There was a pause of some duration before he said—

"Of course, Miss La Roache.”

He was clearly musing upon the revelation made to him by his patron.

But the patron was on his feet in an instant, standing with his back to the fire for a few moments and then suddenly turning about and, leaning his arm on the mantelpiece, gazing into the glowing logs. Then he faced Urquhart once more, saying—

“I judge from your perfect self-control that you are greatly surprised, Urquhart. I suppose it is the most natural thing in the world that you should be surprised; but I had a notion that you at least would be able to make a guess in the right direction. You may not think me very wise—I am, as you know, thirty-seven years old; she is, I daresay, fourteen or fifteen years younger.”

“There is no disparity there,” said Urquhart “We don’t get married at twenty-one as our fathers did; a man of forty and a girl of twenty-five—that’s what people think sensible nowadays.”

“I’m not sure that it is the best in the long run; but —oh, we’ll not discuss the economic aspects of the early marriage.”

“No, that would be beside the point, wouldn’t it? It’s enough for you to know that you are able to keep a wife in a way that approximates to modem notions of luxury. Have you spoken to Miss La Roache?”

“Good Lord! No. I tell you that I have only become aware of my—my feeling,—that is to say, convinced— certain—within the past day or two.”

Urquhart nodded. There was a pause. Philip Trent broke it; but now he spoke more slowly—more collectedly —he had been a little excited before.

“I am pretty sure of myself, Urquhart; I wish I was as sure of her,” he said. “When a man comes to my age he is generally sure of himself. Of course she is a very beautiful girl—you must acknowledge that, Urquhart” Urquhart was generous enough to make such an admission.

“But that fact of itself makes me feel a little hopeless,” Mr. Trent went on to say. “Yes, I feel that it would be next to impossible that such a girl should pass her twentieth year without having suitors. What do you say?”

“I quite agree with you. She must have had suitors; but so had Penelope—suitors by the score,” said Urquhart. “You mean that she is still heart-whole?”

“I mean that she is still unmarried.”

“And that means that you think I should not despair?” Urquhart made so long a pause before answering that Trent felt that he was answered.

“I see what you mean,” he said. “You have reason to know that she is not heart-whole. She loves someone else?”

“Nothing of the sort,” said Urquhart with reassuring quickness. “The fact is that all that you say so surprises me that I am far from fluent in replying to you. You should give me notice of your questions, as they say in another place. Let me have the night to think over this amazing announcement of yours—I don’t suppose that it should be called amazing, but owing to its coming upon me suddenly, I admit that it has somehow taken my breath away, and I feel incapable of—of—doing justice to the theme. Give me till to-morrow—take till to-morrow yourself—to consider the whole question.”

He rose smiling.

Philip Trent also smiled.

“I had a notion that I would surprise you,” he said.

“But now that you come to think over the matter——”

“But that’s just what I haven’t done,” said Urquhart. “I’m going to do it now—I’m going to think it all over, and by to-morrow I hope to have brought myself into a condition to look at it from every standpoint”

“Good night,” said Trent abruptly, but not impatiently. “Good night,” said Urquhart. “By the way, if in the morning you should not wish to resume our chat on this subject, you may be sure that I will not be the one to start it*

“Good night,” said Philip Trent from the foot of the staircase.

Stephen seated himself once more in front of the smouldering log in the grate. Here was a very pretty conclusion to the incidents of the day. Philip Trent, the man who provided him with his daily bread, was in love with the young woman whom his private secretary loved—the young woman, moreover, who loved his private secretary.

There was a “situation,” as theatrical people would call it, which had been developed from the smallest nucleus. It was worth giving a good deal of thought to on account of the splendid possibilities it afforded to a practical dramatist—not the miserable fellow who spends his days working at what he believes to be a problem which can only be answered—it would be more artistic to leave it unanswered—through the medium of four or five acts of hollow dialogue; no, not to this sort of dramatist who plays with puppets, but to the real dramatist who deals with living creatures and with the palpitating circumstances of life.

Stephen Urquhart felt himself to be such a dramatist —such a worker in the clay out of which men and women are made—such a controller of circumstance as was capable of turning out a stirring drama with a happy ending —for himself.

He had a great fancy for himself as a controller of circumstance. He had never gone so far—since he was very young—as to think himself capable of moulding the circumstance of life as he could the men and women who were necessary for his purposes. But then men and women are clay, and consequently plastic beneath the touch of a firm hand; whereas circumstance is difficult The play of Hamlet was written by a man with a considerable amount of observation in order to illustrate the tragedy of human life in which Purpose and Circumstance are antagonistic. Mr. Urquhart had no idea of playing the principal part in a drama that should illustrate the effects of such an antagonism. He thought that it would show a much finer disposition on his part were he to act as stage manager in a play that should show how friendly were the relations between Purpose and Circumstance. He had a great fancy for himself as stage manager. He flattered himself that he had at his command what theatrical people would call “new business.” . . . But here was the first situation in the drama in which he had cast himself for the part of the hero: here was the all-powerful man— the million-making man—loving the woman who had given her love to the humble man who discharged the duties of personal secretary to the million-maker.

Stephen Urquhart had the instincts of the dramatist, and it was this faculty which caused him to feel that a drama on this basis was imminent. He would work it out He felt that it could be made to work out greatly to the advantage of the personal secretary. But it would require the exercise of a good deal of thought. . . .

And then there was another character who had to be allotted a part in the play—the young woman who had been beloved by the hero in the past and who still loved the hero, and believed herself to be beloved by him. He thought about her, and the more he thought of her the more worthy of thought did she appear. . . .

Supposing that the acts did not work out as they should, would it not be a convenient thing for the hero to have this old love to fall back upon, so to speak? She was beautiful and she had a title—the people in the gallery dearly love a title, and the man who came before them with a beautiful and titled girl by his side would be certain to have their sympathy. . . .

But, of course, that was not in his scenario of the drama. In his scenario the hero stood by the side of the girl whom the million-maker loved.

But were they to be poor? He could not see his way to make his hero and heroine poor. He had a considerable personal interest in both of them, but really he could not see his way to endow them with the blessing of poverty. That would be to confess that his hero was a weak man instead of a strong man. That would never do for the gallery.

But how was he to make them rich, rich, rich—as rich as the million-maker? That was the question which this practical dramatist had to work out . . .

He sat alone in the hall of that great house. The silence of the night was velvety. That was the feeling which he had. The night was like a black cat walking upon its velvet toes. Surely he must have felt a bit sleepy, or such a bizarre idea would never have come to him. The log in the grate had smouldered itself away, and the flaky ashes dropped at intervals upon the hearth like snowflakes —a winter simile—like the falling of rose-petals upon grass—a summer simile. But Stephen Urquhart heard the sound of the dropping ash-flakes. He heard the hollow voice of a sudden gust of wind in the chimney. It seemed like the struggle of something inanimate to make itself intelligible.

He had a curious impression that he was not alone in the hall. Someone or something had come to keep him company. He could almost hear it breathing.

He turned away from the glowing red eyes of the smouldering log and found himself staring into the glowing red eyes of a great black cat—not quite black, rather of the slate-blue Persian hue; a beautiful creature, going delicately as Lilith, and with the philosophical reticence of the Sphinx.

It had strolled—velvet toes upon a velvet carpet—out of the darkness half-way across the hall, and now stood looking at him.

“What, you are here? I did not send for you,” he said. “Where do you come from? From going to and fro upon the face of the earth. You are undoubtedly an incentive to thought—to speculation. I wonder was it your coming that put that funny scheme into my head; or was it the coming of that funny scheme that brought you? You are very wicked, as everything must be that mingles a good deal with men and women—I believe that you are an especial favourite with women. Do they teach you anything, or do they learn anything from you? You both keep your precious secrets. For the keeping of secrets there is not much to choose between the three of you—a cat, a woman, and the grave. Lord, what superficial rascals they were who said that a woman could not keep a secret. We know better, you and I. But I didn't send for you. You can go—or you may stay, if you please. I assure you that it is a matter of indifference to me. I really shouldn’t wonder if you were Lilith — the real original Lilith of the Garden of Eden. Heavens! what an allegory that is—that allegory of Lilith! Only you could have invented it, Shere-i-Iran; you brought it with you out of your native Persia. You are a bit of an allegory yourself, my friend; but with your help I hope to be able to work out my little scheme which I think you will admit to be worthy of your inspiration.”

Mrs. Archie Browne’s great Persian cat, Shere-i-Iran, had always included Mr. Urquhart among its personal friends, for he had shown that he understood it, and respected it, never calling it by that vulgar vocative, Puss, and never assuming that it preferred a soppy piece of bread to red meat or white pheasant Now it listened as it had often done before, while he addressed it, and maintained a majestic silence when he had done; but it blinked its eyes, and strolled casually round the hall, until it came to the staircase. Then it went slowly up to the landing where there stood an excellent reproduction of the figure of St Francis of Assisi done in wood, the same as the original. It sat on the Turkey rug at the base of the pedestal, and looked down into the hall.

The man at the fire laughed; and certainly there were the elements of the distantly humorous in the expression of the agnostic cat beneath the rapture of the believing saint The one the emblem of the earliest paganism, the other the type of the faith that can remove mountains.

And there was the modem man, free (as people might suppose) from every trace of the superstition of paganism, as well as from the least suspicion of medieval credulity, seeing the humour of the situation.

He switched off the light in the hall—the one lamp which hung above the head of St Francis was left burning all night—and pushed back from the fire the chair in which he had been sitting. As he did so, a sudden flame about the size of a chrysanthemum petal squirted out from the burnt log. He turned his head. A shadow flicked over the floor and across the wall. The man gave a start and uttered a word.

The shadow that fled from floor to wall had about it something that suggested the Unking of the grotesque religion of the Middle Ages with ‘the grotesque cult of paganism; for it suggested the head and ears of the satyr} the goat’s horn was there and the faun beard—he saw it all in that flash from the Are, and in an instant turned on the light once more. He thought he heard the sound of claws.

He stood with his finger still on the little ivory switch and glanced round fitfully, as if he half expected to see something that he had never seen before.

He saw nothing worth his notice; only the Persian cat had sprung from the base of the figure of St. Francis and was now standing in perilous poisure (except for a cat) on the tonsure of the saint, its eyes fixed upon a distant point of the ceiling. It had in an instant become part of the statue—as rigid—as well defined under the light of the lamp. It remained there without a move, and the expression of its face, glancing up to the corner of the ceiling, was a satiric imitation of the rapt expression on the features of the figure of St Francis.

It was a lewd caricature—a sort of Walpurgis Night monkey-mockery of something accounted holy.

But still it was there, and the man saw it He turned his eyes to the comer of the ceiling; but all the light from the electric lamp was reflected downward; he fancied that he saw something quivering on the oak carved cornice, but the light was very dim.

He stood musing for a few minutes, and then muttered—

“A bat I daresay one finds its way in here every now and again. It may hibernate in some dark comer and find its wings only in the warmth and light—a bat!”

He gave a twist to the ivory thumb-piece, and the hall once more became dark. He went upstairs to his room.

At the door he made a pause. He fancied he heard a sound—a soft subdued movement of things in the hall below.

He went into his room and shut the door. Then he switched on his light and threw off his coat.

CHAPTER XVIII.

Stephen Urquhart was quite surprised when Lady Evelyn sprang up from the window-seat in the library at the moment of his entering the next day, saying—

“Don’t go away.” He had glanced round the room, and seemed about to leave. “Don’t go yet; I am not reading. I want badly to say something to you.”

“I am looking for Mr. Trent; but it is about something that can wait,” said he, closing the door.

He approached her smiling. He put out both his hands to her; he had glanced out of the window that faced the front to see that the terrace was empty.

She gave him one hand, and that with no especial fervour. But a moment later it seemed as if she had relented in regard to her coldness. She put her other hand into his.

“That’s better,” said he. “But that pause—that hesitation—I don’t like it. It chilled me. What does it mean, Evelyn?”

“I wanted so badly to say something to you, Stephen —something rather important to both of us—you must not be hurt, Stephen.”

“I am hurt,” said he. “Good heavens! what has happened, my dearest? Someone has been talking—some woman—Lady Innisfail is a foolish chatterer.”

“No, no; what could anyone say?” she cried. “No; all that I have to say is from myself alone. I feel it—I feel it”

“What is it that you feel, my Evey?” he asked. “If you tell me just what you feel you may be sure that I will not be afraid to hear it I have never doubted you— have I, dear?”

She took away her hands and stood before him like a child that is anxious to confess before being found out Her eyes were turned to the floor; she was ill at ease. He was full of curiosity. What could she have to say to him that should upset her so? He encouraged her, with a kindly hand laid on her shoulder.

“Stephen, forgive me—you are a man—you will forgive me—I want my freedom,” she said in one breath— one gasp.

He took his hand off her shoulder; his hand dropped, disappointed.

“Evelyn.”

“Oh, I know that you hold me in contempt. Do—I deserve it,” she cried. “But I must have my freedom at any cost—even at the cost of your contempt.”

“Someone has been talking—some woman—poisonous praters,” said he.

“No one has been talking. What should anyone talk about? No. But I have felt that it is impossible any longer to carry on this course of—of—well, it’s a sort of deception—dissimulation,” said she stoutly.

“What is a sort of deception? What is in your mind, my Evey?” He spoke slowly—sadly.

“I thought that I explained. Oh, no; I remember now. Stephen, you should not have asked me to keep our engagement a secret”

"You agreed with me that it must be kept a secret”

"It seemed so to me then—I did not know all that it meant I know now, and I want to be released, or to have our engagement made public.”

He could not avoid giving a little start It was, however, a very little one. The publishing of his engagement to Lady Evelyn might gratify his vanity, but it would lay his plans in ruins—the scheme which had entered his mind during the night And he had said that a cat, a woman, and the grave could keep a secret—that mankind had been unjust to woman!

"What has caused you to change your mind? Cannot you still see that it would be against our best interests to make any announcement relative to ourselves? Do you j mean to tell me that your father would consent?”

"Stephen, listen to me. It is you who have changed your mind. You do not love me as you did. Is not that the truth?”

“Evey—Evey, I am pained—I am——”

"Stephen, do you stand before me and say that you love me now as you always did?”

She was looking straight into his face. His first thought was that it was another woman who had done her best to prove that the generally accepted view of the world on the subject of women and secrets was correct. Claire must have said something to his Evey—something that had awakened her suspicion and aroused her jealousy.

He became quite sad, and sadness—disappointment—was the note of his reply to her straightforward question.

"Did I ever think that such a question would come from you, Evelyn?” he said.

“But it has,” she said.

“I wonder how your doubt originated,” he said, still sadly.

“No one has been saying anything,” she cried quickly. He wondered how she divined what was in his thoughts at that moment. “I don't suppose that you love anyone else. I suppose a man can cease to love one woman without transferring his love to another.”

“I daresay; but it is unusual. Why need we discuss points like this?”

“Why, indeed? Why discuss when one can feel?”

“You do not seem to think that I can feel, or you would never have said to me what you have said, cruel Evey!”

“It is because I feel—I feel—what can a woman do but feel? That is part of our curse—to feel without being able to think. Never mind. I tell you that for some time —for some days—I have been sensible of a change in you. I suppose that is what made a change in me.”

“Oh, Evey! you—change—you?”

“It is pitiful—pitiful!” She turned away from him almost passionately, and went to the window.

“It is pitiful—pitiful!” he repeated. “Here we are loving each other truly—deeply—and yet—you have a whim—a whim that seems to tell you that you have been too hasty—that you might do much better for yourself, and then—”

“Do not say that, Stephen,” she cried. “Better for myself! Can a girl do better for herself than to love the man whom—whom she loves? Whim? I tell you it is no whim. Oh, I feel—I feel! Stephen, assume, if you will, that it is I who have changed; but tell me that you agree to free me from the promise which I gave to you?”

"Evelyn—dearest child, it is my duty to save you from yourself,” said he. "I mean to do that duty even though you may detest me for it I will save both myself and you from the worst fate that could befall us; I refuse to listen to you. I hold you bound to me still. I hold myself bound to you. Dear child, in a year or two—a month or two—a day or two—you will thank me for my firmness, even though you may now—with the influence of that strange freak upon you—think me the most cruel of men. That is all that I have to say to you now.”

"Very well,” she said suddenly. "Let our engagement continue. After all, it settles one. I do believe that I love you as well as ever I did. And I know that the feeling that one is engaged has a soothing effect upon one. Sometimes, of course, one feels that one is in prison; but on the whole—”

She gave a shrug—actually the finished shrug of a woman of the world who has outlived her illusions, and the laugh of the woman who is not disappointed in men because she does not expect much from any man.

Stephen Urquhart watched her narrowly as she went past him. He wondered if she had any secret knowledge that gave point to that phrase, "Sometimes, of course, one feels that one is in prison.” He did not forget that those were the words which Claire La Roache had used in talking to him on a rather important matter the previous day. Was it a coincidence that his Evey had employed the same striking metaphor?

But she went past him, and (after her shrug and her laugh) smiled quite pleasantly on him.

He said, acquiescently, "Yes, on the whole——”

And then he, too, laughed.

But she went out of the room solemnly the moment he laughed. She took care that there was no duet of laughter: their voices did not mingle.

And then he was left to marvel what this girl meant— what this girl knew. She had never behaved in this way to him since he first knew her. She had ever been sweet, natural, trustful. Never once had she shown a sign of jealousy. To be sure, he had never given her cause to do so; but he knew that if a woman has a leaning to jealousy. . . . But was this freak of hers now due to an impression on her part that he had relaxed in his devotion to her? He could not believe it.

Then he went on to consider the question of its origin. He wondered if this subtle Power, whose aid he had invoked to influence Claire La Roache, had at the same time, and without being invoked, influenced Lady Evelyn against him. He had no great depth of knowledge on the subject of the working of this Power. It was a mystery to him. It was certainly the most mysterious of all the forces of Nature; but it was a force of Nature, and being so, was it subject to the laws that govern other forces of Nature? Did one of its laws make it compulsory that the old love should be off at the same instant that the new love was on? Was it one of the rules of the game, so to speak, that the man was not to retain a love to fall back on? There was a subtle force of Nature, the effect of which he had watched with rather more than a personal interest when he was a boy. It caused in fine weather the female figure at one end of a pivoted wire to emerge from an alcove in a pasteboard cottage, but in damp weather this figure swung into its alcove and the man-figure at the other end of the wire came forth. That remarkable phenomenon was produced by a simple natural cause, and be wondered if the same principle governed the operations of the force of Nature which yesterday was called Sorcery but to-day Science.

Was it a matter of impossibility that the new love and the old love should be in view at the same moment? He had heard of this Power fooling the folk who made use of it for their own purposes. The trite proverb about the necessity for having a long spoon when supping under certain conditions, had its origin in a story referring to such-like fooling. He felt that if this principle of hoisting the engineer on his own petard was inseparable from the operations of the force which he had invoked, it might not be so valuable an ally as he had hoped to find it. He was more far-seeing than Nature: he was not at all inclined to discard the old love until the new was certain. In matters of love one never knows what will happen; and it is best to be prepared with an alternative.

But the next minute he had flung to the winds all such precautions of a provident mind, for Claire La Roache stole into the room, and at the sight of her beauty the greatest of all forces of Nature took possession of him.

"Let them all fly to the Limbo of the lost, so long as this one is mine,” his heart cried out, and his arms were open to her.

"Perhaps this was what was meant by the prison, after all,” she said when his arms were about her.

He gave a little gasp.

"More about the prison?” he said.

"I told you yesterday what was the curious impression which I had—a prison,” she said.

"And now you think that you have discovered what it meant?”

"Perhaps—How did I know that you were in this room? And yet I knew it: I felt myself drawn toward this room.”

"And I felt myself compelled to remain here, my Claire. Even now that you have come on the scene I I feel no inclination to fly from the room.”

"Can I make it worth your while to stay, Stephen?” "You have made it worth my while already. ‘The delight of thy face, and the sound of thy feet, and the wind of thy tresses.’ Worth my while? Any one of the three would be enough to lure me from the uttermost ends of the earth—the earth? From the gate of the highest heaven, my Claire.”

And he really spoke the truth as it seemed to him at that moment, so sublime is the action of that terrific force of Nature which dominates even the most provident man at some moments of his life. He laughed, and he crushed her hand against his lips. It was as exquisite of taste as a peach that the sun has kissed during a long summer.

But the room was one that had desks and writing-paper: it was being hourly used. It was not for lovers who have much to say to each other. It was the room of the single kiss—quick—unpremeditated—premature— electric—thrilling—risky. She would not let him kiss her face—only her hands; but even this made him breathless.

"I must fly,” she whispered. "Let me get a sheet of paper—that will do for an excuse if I am caught”

"I will get one too,” he said. "I will get one for myself and half a dozen for you. If one will excuse me a quire will hardly be enough for you.”

The notepaper was snatched from one of the morocco cases, but it got badly crushed during the next few seconds.

When she had left the room he sat down before an escritoire and picked up a pen. His fingers were trembling, and there was a certain dryness in his throat “Let them all fly down the Sirocco, so long as she remains!” was the thought that beat with his heart-beats —fiercely—irregularly—improvidently.

But when he had sat there for a quarter of an hour he had pulled his old self out of the fire at which he had been warming himself when he had lost his balance and fallen into the depths of the furnace.

“It will never do for me to run such risks again,” he said to himself, shaking his head. “Good heavens! if he should come to know it ... if he should even suspect anything . . . after his confidences. I should have cautioned her. What have I been thinking of? . . . and the other—the other? ... I wish to Heaven I understood hen”

He found himself in a situation of great nicety—one he had not arranged for when constructing the scenario of his drama—one that illustrated very forcibly the troublous moments which a man is likely to have when he has been warming his hands at the fire of love, and in an incautious hour, loses his balance and finds that he is in the depths of a seven-times-heated furnace.

To be sure he felt that he had plucked himself out of the furnace; but he was conscious of an odour of singeing in the air, so to speak. The flames had licked him here and there. He must be cautious in future. So long as the science of calorics is unequal to the production of a really perfect stove, men will continue to warm themselves at open grates.

When he found himself in the neighbourhood of Claire La Roache that same evening he said to her—

“I wonder how you would like a voyage in Mr. Trent’s yacht—not a cruise round the coast of these islands of ours, but one across the Atlantic—to South America—in the Tropics—some place. where winter may be passed among palm trees and beneath blue skies.”

"How can you ask me?” she said. "If you were to be there it would be living. Why do you ask me?” “Because I think it could be managed,” he replied. "We are bound to go somewhere in the boat, and Mr. Trent will probably be making up a party. It occurred to me that if you and your mother would come you might enjoy it It would certainly mean the simplification of your problem of how to spend the winter.”

"It would mean the most delightful possible solution of the problem,” said she. "We have been here quite too long already. Lady Evelyn is the only guest who remains of those who were here when we came—Lady Evelyn and you. I think we should go before Mrs. Archie tires of us. She has been most kind to us hitherto. She has spoken about our going to her in Battenberg Square in the spring.”

“Mrs. Archie knows the social value of a beautiful face,” said Mr. Urquhart “But the winter must pass before the spring arrives. That has the sound of an adage, has it not? What may not happen before the spring is here! By the way, I have been thinking over our—our position. For a month or two I think that we must be as though no understanding existed between us. There are many reasons why we should keep our affairs a secret”

“That will be delightful,” she said. "There is no bond so sure as the sharing of a secret Every time I look across the table at you I will feel that—that there is a bond between us. I wonder if Mr. Trent will ask Lady Evelyn to come on that cruise?”

He looked at her narrowly. Was it possible that she suspected something? he asked himself.

“You have become greatly attached to Lady Evelyn,” he said. “Would you like her to form one of our party —provided that our party comes off?”

“I was not going to suggest that,” she said. “Of course, if Mr. Trent chooses her among his guests it would be quite delightful, but——”

“I do not think that Mr. Trent will invite her,” said Urquhart in the casual way that one dismisses a subject of indifferent interest. “I knew that you would be of my way of thinking in regard to the other matter. It would be the height of folly for us to set people gossiping about us. Seriously, I should be blamed for having the audacity to ask you to give me your promise before you had a chance of making your mark in the world. As it is, I have had some twitches of remorse on this point during the past twenty-four hours.”

She laughed.

“You think that you may have saved me from a brilliant match,” she said.

He shook his head.

“Such a girl as you——” he began, but she interrupted him.

“Such a girl as I am should be saved from the most splendid humiliation to which a girl can be subjected— a brilliant match. That is the only reflection which you should have at the present juncture. We shall share our secret, Stephen. It will draw us closer together.”

“You look at everything through my eyes,” he said; and he allowed himself a glance of rapture at her. He had full command over himself; there was no danger of his toppling over into the furnace. He was merely taking the chill off his fingers.

“I shall keep my secret—our secret,” she whispered. “I wonder if you would consent to my telling it to Lady Evelyn?”

He gave a gasp; all the warmth that had come to his body within the previous five minutes evaporated.

“Heavens above!” he whispered. “Don’t think of such a thing. Lady Evelyn! Our secret!”

“Oh, I don’t insist on it,” said she, laughing.

He looked at her narrowly once more. He would have given a good deal to know exactly how much she knew. He was well aware of the fact that he had never been otherwise than discreet in his management of his indiscretion in respect of allowing himself to fall in love with Lady Evelyn, so that he could not see how it was possible for Claire to know anything about it. Still, he was a sufficient believer in the subtle forces of Nature to feel that the intuition of a girl in love has to be reckoned with by anyone who hopes to come to a reasonable conclusion in regard to a girl’s enigmatical phrase—even a girl’s enigmatical laugh.

He thought that on the whole it would be wise for him to refrain from impressing upon her more vehemently than he had already done, the necessity for particular secrecy so far as Lady Evelyn was concerned. He recollected the curious way in which Lady Evelyn had behaved in the library a few hours before—the curious cynical laugh that she had given on leaving the room.

And Claire had also laughed, though without any cynicism.

CHAPTER XIX.

The next day was one of great interest to Philip Trent and, incidentally, to about half a million of people who were speculating—not in the vague, unsatisfactory way of philosophers, but in the simple, straightforward way of the Stock Exchange—upon his action in respect of a certain railway line in South America, the directors of which had repudiated their obligation to construct a branch that should gather the sap from an important district on the borders of a ridiculous republic. Every self-respecting newspaper in England, and one or two that could not accurately be so described, contained a headline inquiring—

“WHAT WILL MR. TRENT DO?”

It was upon the answer to this question that people were speculating in the New World as well as the Old. The cables were kept pretty busy, and the wires, telephonic as well as telegraphic, were humming over the hills and murmuring through the vales. If anyone could have tapped a single wire one might have made a fortune before sunset After all, it was only a question of buying the President of Ridiculiana, and Philip Trent knew within a dollar or two the market price of every President in South and Central America. He knew that they were subject to fluctuations, but he had constructed a thermometric chart of their revolutions, and by reference to its curves, he had no difficulty whatsoever in determining what the morning quotation should be for the soul of any President who had survived the night.

Mr. Trent knew what he would do in the matter, and he did it What he did made the fortune of some thousands of speculators and ruined three times the number, but what exactly it was that he did is not worth recording. The tapes tapped it out in due course. The House buzzed with it; the Street roared with it. But the buzz of Throgmorton Street is no more enduring than the buzz of a summer bee, and the roar of Wall Street does not last any longer than the roar of the wave of an incoming tide on the populous sands of Margate. The newspapers that asked what Mr. Trent would do were fully answered; but what Mr. Trent did after sending off his telegram, was to pick a cigar for himself and pass the box to his secretary, saying—

“I wonder if you have been thinking over that little matter, Urquhart”

Stephen Urquhart was not such a fool as to fancy that Mr. Trent referred to a matter so comparatively unimportant as the purchase of the President, so he said— “I have been thinking about it—at intervals.”

“You don’t mind by bothering you with it; you know how I stand. I feel like a child. I would not have bothered you if it were not that I feel quite helpless. I hope that you will not tell me to put the matter out of my thoughts altogether, for if you do I may hurt you by not taking your advice.

“Only an idiot would give a man in—a man of your way of thinking such advice.”

“In my way of thinking? Why do you put it like that? Why did not you say, as you were going to, ‘a man in love?’”

“It sounds a bit brutal—when a man is over thirty.” “But to be of * a way of thinking’ is just the opposite to being in love, isn’t it? It was you whom I asked to be of a way of thinking. Never mind. What conclusion have you come to on the matter—assuming that there is any finality to the consideration of such affairs, which is perhaps going a little too far?”

“I have been trying to sum up Miss La Roache.” Mr. Urquhart became thoughtful almost to a point of severity. He nursed one knee and looked at the toe of one of his shoes in the spirit of an unprejudiced connoisseur. "I may, or may not, have been successful in my efforts, but I honestly believe that she is a young woman who would not be in the smallest degree influenced by the incident of a man’s having a great position in the world, or by his possessing the good things of the world.”

“Such as honesty, sobriety and intelligence—such-like good things of the world?” said the millionaire.

The private secretary laughed. He saw that his employer was talking nervously. He smiled, saying—

“The things that you have named are never classed by young women among the good things of the world. When you talk of good things to them they assume that you mean a horse or two, a dog or two, a pheasant or two, and a shekel or two. I believe that Miss La Roache is entirely different from the general run of young women in this respect I have a feeling that if she loved a man she would marry him without any regard for his social position or his means.”

“She would be wrong—perhaps. But if a girl loves a man truly, she will marry him even though he is a millionaire.”

“You have come to the point I believe that Miss La Roache would not marry a millionaire unless she truly loved him, but I am afraid that—that——”

“That the fact of his being a millionaire would tell against him in her estimation?”

“Something like that—yes, practically that is what is on my mind.”

“And, curiously enough, that is precisely the same conclusion as I came to in respect of Miss La Roache. Let me tell you, too, that for a long time I have been of the belief that chaps with millions should not flatter themselves overmuch that young women will make up to them —the phrase is a horrid one, but it suffices—for their millions only. That seems—according to books—to be the dread of your sensitive millionaire, and he is said to be perpetually asking himself the question: ‘Would she love me if I hadn’t a penny?’ Oh, he is so morbidly sensitive, isn’t he? But I tell you that I am convinced that most of the sensitiveness is on the part of the young women, whose aim is to give people no opportunity of saying that they are making up to millions. But go on—what other conclusions did you come to?”

Stephen Urquhart was highly diverted in observing the condition of Mr. Trent. He knew perfectly well that all his wisdom on the subject of the maid and the millions was due to nervousness.

“The conclusion to which I came, after a considerable amount of reflection, was that Miss La Roache is exceptionally sensitive. If you were to go to her to-morrow, she would refuse you, and your chance would be gone for ever,” was the confidential advice.

“But I have no intention of going to her to-morrow— or even the next day,” said Trent quickly. “Urquhart, it would appear that I know as much about womankind as you do, and I looked upon myself as an infant.”

“An infant? Good Lord! there is not an infant living that does not know more about a woman’s nature than any man knows about the same subject,” said Urquhart "I suppose there is something in what you say, though it sounds too wise to be true. But to return to practical politics from your excursion to the nursery; what do you suggest that I should do if—and I agree with you—Miss La Roache should send me about my business to-morrow? Do you know, Urquhart, I am beginning to feel that a chap, whatever he may be, should follow his own bent in such a matter as this, and consult neither his solicitor nor his most trusted friend to pull him through.”

“Let me associate myself most sincerely with that expression of opinion,” said Urquhart “Advice—what is advice? Advice is what you ask of your friend when you have quite made up your mind what course to adopt.” “More wisdom,” remarked Trent sullenly.

Urquhart stood up and faced him.

“Look here,” he cried, “tell me, what would be your first impulse in regard to Miss La Roache?”

Trent saw that he was in earnest “I should like to take her aboard my boat and carry her a couple of thousand miles away from land and stay there with her for the rest of my life,” said he.

“And by the Lord Harry, that is just what I would advise you to do,” cried Urquhart “What do you mean, anyway?”

“I mean that, after worrying out the whole matter during the long hours of the night, I came to the conclusion that what you need is that Miss La Roache should know you, and the best way to get her to know you is to get her to take a long voyage aboard the same boat” Philip Trent rose slowly and stood beside his adviser. “I should bore her to extinction, Urquhart; I should lose whatever trifling chance I might have in other circumstances.”

"Heavens! do you fancy that I was suggesting that you and she should sail out into the illimitable alone?” cried Urquhart. "What a notion! I only meant that you should include her and her mother in the party you may choose for a winter’s cruise.”

"Oh, That sounds . .. but would she and her mother come?”

"That’s just the point. But if you asked them nicely, perhaps. . . . Well, you see, they are without a home just now, or they will be in another week when they leave here. Mrs. La Roache mentioned to me that she was undecided —Biarritz or Mentone—she talked of good cheap pensions with the air of one who has tried—one who has sampled every vintage of the Riviera—rung all the changes on the cheap and the chop.”

Philip Trent was thoughtful for awhile, and then he began to walk up and down the room. The assistant private secretary entered with a dozen or two fluttering flimsies in his hand.

"Hoskins cables that The Street is a bit wild. Ridiculia gold sixes have gone down two points since noon,” he said.

"Only two,” said Urquhart, holding out his hand for the flimsies. "Cable Binks to unload his Crusoes should any attempt be made to bull Bolivars. That will divert attention from Ridiculias for the moment.”

The assistant left the room.

“Wouldn’t it be taking rather a mean advantage of the girl and her mother, Urquhart—to offer them such a chance of spending the winter just at a moment when they are without a place of rest?” suggested Trent, turning round from the window out of which he had been gazing while Urquhart was giving his instructions to the young man.

“If your invitation would bear to be looked at in such a light you may rest perfectly certain that Miss La Roache, at least, will look at it in that light She is like the girl you spoke of just now—the one that could not endure the gibe of having her eye on millions. Miss La Roache is as sensitive as a palm leaf. Mrs. La Roache has lived in Court circles for twenty-five years.”

“Do you fancy that the girl would be strong enough to hold out against the—the wisdom of her mother?”

“I think highly enough of her to feel sure that she would yield to no consideration of wisdom. You may rest certain that if she has the smallest suspicion that it is your intention to take advantage of her homeless condition in order to make her the happiest woman in the world, she will never set foot aboard your boat”

Philip Trent started on his travels once again; but this time he was more leisurely in his movements. He stopped, as before, opposite to a window, and seemed working out some point that required to be beaten about between brain rackets, as it were. His private secretary could almost see that globe of thought being sent from side to side of the net in the man’s mind.

He was disappointed when Mr. Trent said—

“I wonder if you have ever looked carefully at a girl’s foot, Urquhart?”

Urquhart gave a guffaw, and Trent turned red. He gave an uneasy laugh, and looked out of the window once again.

“A girl’s foot? Never,” said Urquhart “Woman to me has never been otherwise than an exquisite abstraction.

Does her foot, seen under the microscope, differ materially from that of the other ephemera?”

Trent looked at him curiously.

“I wonder what will come of it?” he said, and from the tone in which he spoke, Urquhart knew that he had not taken in a word of the reply which he had received to his ridiculous question.

“Heaven knows,” said Urquhart, with an indifferent shrug.

“Heaven? Is it part of the teaching of the Church that marriages are made in heaven, Urquhart?” asked Trent with laughable gravity.

“Marriages are made in heaven, but the Divorce Court is presided over by Sir Francis Jeune,” said Urquhart. “For my part, I have no deep-rooted belief in Providence as a match-maker. In any case Providence is a type of all that is improvident.”

“Yes, that is the suburban view of Providence. But there is another. There is such a thing as Faith, Urquhart, and Religion.”

He went out of the room, leaving Urquhart somewhat amazed. He had been in close association with Philip Trent for several years, but up to that moment he had never thought of him as possessing any particular religious convictions. It seemed, however, that with this new-found possession of his—this gold-mine of love which he had discovered without the aid of a prospector—he had acquired a conviction.

“The Converted Millionaire,” murmured Urquhart. “What a good scare headline it would make! Only no newpaper would print it: it would sound too improbable.”

But at this point in his reflections, Mr. Urquhart began to think.

He had often heard of the purifying influence of the passion which men call Love. He had heard of its power to transform both men and women; but until now he had only shrugged his shoulders at such tales. So far as he himself was concerned, he could not say that he had had any ennobling experiences in respect of his love. Good heavens! could it be possible that there were two kinds of love—the one the love which man has inherited from his/ distant ancestor, “probably arboreal,” and the other —well, something different?

The result of his consideration of this question was to unsettle him to some trifling extent. But before the sound of the dressing-bell had set him on his feet he had recovered that equanimity of his which rarely deserted him. He did not want any subtle spiritual transformation. The fundamental principles of Nature were enough for him. He was content to lend himself to that elementary scheme of Nature which decrees that the strong shall prey upon the weak, that the trickster and the liar shall flourish by reason of their possession of such natural gifts as trickery and falsehood—the most valuable of Nature’s endowments, Mr. Marvin had termed them, and Urquhart knew that Mr. Marvin was a careful student of Nature.

He had a chat with Lady Evelyn after dinner, and the result of it was to make him very well satisfied with his own astuteness in endeavouring to put an ocean between Lady Evelyn and Claire La Roache. He saw with deep regret that Lady Evelyn was becoming a trifle reckless— more than a trifle rebellious. To be sure she had not returned to that detestable topic which she had broached the previous day—the advisability of his freeing her from her engagement to him, but he was not now so certain as he had been that he might depend upon her keeping the secret of her engagement to him. She did not seem like her old self this evening, and he had no confidence in a woman’s sense of honour. If Lady Evelyn were to mention to Claire La Roache the incident of her having the previous year promised to marry Mr. Trent’s personal secretary, Claire La Roache might have some difficulty in understanding how it was that that same man had not hesitated to ask quite another person than Lady Evelyn to marry him—after an interval of secrecy.

CHAPTER XX.

It was all settled within an hour or two. That is one of the privileges of having a considerable amount of money under one’s control: no matter how magnificent a scheme one may set on foot, it can be realised without any haggling over details of cost Mr. Trent had said quietly, after dinner, as if the thought had just occurred to him and he was afraid that he might forget it later on—

“By the way, Mrs. Archie, I shall have a month or two to spare this winter, and I mean to have a run across the Atlantic, and I want you badly to come. Archie is sure to join in, and I hope that Mrs. La Roache will also allow me to persuade her—and Miss La Roache. What do you say, my Lady Innisfail? Don’t throw cold water upon my little scheme; I don’t want to have any running down the scuppers until we are out of soundings.”

There was a silence at the table before Lady Innisfail gave her shriek. Urquhart saw that Claire’s fair face was reflecting the pink of the candle shades.

“Delightful!” shrieked Lady Innisfail. “And the witch never said a word about our going on a long voyage, did she, Evey?”

“Not a word. Are you going on a long voyage?” said Lady Evelyn. “I am not”

“You haven’t been asked,” said Lady Innisfail. “But you are going to be.”

“Not I,” said Lady Evelyn. “I told Mr. Trent last week that I was going to Egypt in December, and he is polite enough to refrain from such a shallow compliment as to invite me for this Atlantic cruise. Thank you, Mr. Trent”

“I did not forget,” said Mr. Trent “But indeed I remembered with regret”

“Ah,” said Claire, “I fear that you remembered but too well that we were bemoaning our homeless condition this winter. You are asking us because we are derelicts.”

“He couldn’t remember what you are not,” said Mrs. Archie. “I gave you to understand that you are to come to us until you get settled. We expect you. Don’t we, Archie?”

“We expect you—oh yes. We’ll take no denial,” said Archie stoutly.

“Stuff!” cried Lady Innisfail. “You expect that Claire and her mother will accept Mr. Trent’s kind invitation. What an inspired thought! An Atlantic cruise to some place that’s warm—the Gulf Stream.”

“The Gulf itself—why not?” said Trent “Can anyone show cause against?”

“It’s a free country—Ireland,” said Archie. “Anyone that pleases may object to leave it in the winter season— not me. Put down my name, Trent”

“And mine—write mine large,” said Lady Innisfail,

“I'll be the life and soul of the ship's company. Maybe I'll write a book on it”

“Oh, mother!” said Norah reprovingly. Since she had first been on speaking terms with her mother she had had many opportunities of reproving her; but until now her mother had never gone so far as to threaten that she would write a book.

“Why shouldn't I?” inquired Lady Innisfail. “It's about the only thing I haven't done—that and driving a locomotive. We shall have bridge every day on the deck and every night in the cabin. Remind me to take aboard with me that new scoring-book, Norah, and to tell Celestine to make up something white in serge and look after the laces. They never will pay enough attention to the laces.”

“That is the spirit which I admire,” said Trent “Lady Innisfail says as much in one breath as saves everyone else the need to speak. Thank you, Lady Innisfail. You have saved me an hour of explanation. When shall we get aboard? I can give you till to-morrow afternoon. Is that long enough?”

“The baby?” moaned Mrs. Archie; she felt overwhelmed by this tumult of promptness.

“Baby comes aboard with nurse—nurse rates with chief stewardess,” said Trent “And we have to go to the Severns in December,” suggested Norah to Archie.

“Well, that's one terror shelved,” said Archie. “Why do people who don't want us to come to them invite us who don't want to go?”

“Ask Mr. Trent,” said Lady Evelyn with a very pretty slyness.

But Mr. Trent was talking aside to Claire. He had the air of the man who settles everything by assuming that everything is settled.

"You haven’t spoken a word,” he said.

“Why should I?” she asked. “You are a man of action—a man who compels even the most Conservative newspaper to use big type in headlines. You are the Atlantic Ocean. I am a feather.”

“And a feather best tells how the Atlantic is to be swayed by the winds that blow,” said he. “Thank goodness everything is settled in a few words. We shall be at sea in a fortnight”

And really before another hour had passed everything was settled. Of course, the question of difficulties naturally resolved itself into a question of dresses. The men, especially those who were unmarried, were strongly of the opinion that the winter’s cruise would actually mean the realisation of a great scheme of thrift in the matter of toilettes. A serge or two—cheap—anything would do aboard a boat. And sailor hats—weren’t sailor hats cheap enough?

But the women only smiled.

Still, in spite of smiling women, everything was settled. There was a word or two said about the Canary Islands— the mouth of the Orinoco—a woman suggested Samoa, and frankly confessed that she thought Samoa was one of the Madeiras—another inquired about Treasure Island. A woman can learn everything except geography and the phases of the moon, Mr. Urquhart remarked, and Archie added that if a woman only knew where to look for the new moon and did not prefer to eat eggs rather than beef-steak for dinner, she would get the same wages as a man.

But it was all settled. The West Indies—Urquhart’s nomination—was the last word, and Lady Innisfail found an atlas and immediately became bewildered in the intricacies of the Eastern Hemisphere. She found India all right; but the West Indies. . . .

• • • • • •

The next day Lady Evelyn, at Claire’s request, gave her some sound advice regarding the clothes she would need, and after a little desultory chat, Claire said—

"How I wish you were coming with us! Don’t you?”

"No,” cried Lady Evelyn firmly, without the delay of a second.

Claire opened her eyes.

"Why not?” she said.

Her friend looked at her finger-tips. A thoughtful frown was on her face. She did not speak a word for some time.

"Strange—I never came upon anything quite so strange,” she said at last "Only a month ago I should have looked forward to this cruise with delight, and yet now—oh, nothing would induce me to go. I tell you, Claire, I would throw myself overboard on the second day out—perhaps on the first”

"What has happened?—perhaps you shouldn’t tell me,” said Claire.

"I don’t see why I shouldn’t You know so much already,” said the other.

Claire wondered if Lady Evelyn knew how much.

"I remember every word,” she whispered. "He has gone away—Lord Medway.”

"That is it; he has gone away. I should have been glad of it I fancied that I was glad of it, but that was only for a day. The day he left I knew the truth—the terrible truth.”

“Terrible? Why terrible, Evey?”

“Oh, cannot you see? Do you think that I set out on my life perfectly content to be as some girls—those who can find it a diversion to treat as a shuttlecock the love that is offered to them by men? Why is it that we are not provided by Providence with some faculty by which we can know what is the real love and what is the—the —the selfish sort? We have nothing to tell us the truth. It seems to me as though Providence had given us blindness for an endowment in this respect instead of perception. . . . You heard how I sent him away from me that day when you caught me in your arms?”

“But you loved him—I knew that you loved him all the same.”

“That was the awfulness of it I know now that I loved him and him only, and that I could never have loved the other man—the man for whose sake—on account of the promise I had given him—I sent Dick away from me. I cannot understand how it was that I was blind so long, any more than I can understand how my eyes were opened. But they were opened in a day.”

“In a day? Had you observed anything? Had anything come to your knowledge about—him—the other one?”

“Nothing that I could define. But indeed it was as sudden as a flash of light It was strange—it was mysterious. I found myself sitting up in my bed feeling that someone was in the room—something—a voice—but it was not speaking out loud—oh, it seems ridiculous, doesn’t it?—a voice, and yet no sound—but I heard it all the same. It told me that I loved him—him, Lord Medway,

I mean—and it seemed that the voice that told me was the very voice of my own heart, my own soul. Indeed, it seemed to me that it was my own soul that was talking to me—outside myself—outside myself—that is the strange part. But it happened. I felt as if I was trying to reason with myself—trying to argue myself down—I wonder if you know what I mean—it is so queer.”

“I know well—perfectly well.”

“It seems such nonsense; but it made all the difference in the world to me, for before morning had come I knew that it was the truth that had been revealed to me —I knew that it was Lord Medway whom I loved—not— the other. I think that I hate the other now.”

“What does it matter whether you hate the other or not, so long as you know that you love the one?”

“But he is keeping me to the promise which I gave to him last year. He will not allow me to free myself.” “He will free you.”

“Not he. I have already asked him. He would not listen to me. Why do you say that?”

“I know that he will free you because I——”

It was in Claire's heart—nay, on her lips—to tell Lady Evelyn the truth—to tell her that Stephen Urquhart was bound to release her from her promise because he had fallen in love with quite another girl; but to her amazement she could not utter the words that were on her lips. Her lips were sealed. Try as she might no words would come.

Lady Evelyn looked at her.

“Because you?—What is it that you know?—Do you know anything, Claire?” she asked.

“I know,” said Claire, “I know that you loved Lord Medway from the first. I knew it from the way you spoke on that evening when you had no idea that I was in the room. You will be happy with him.”

“I should be—God knows that I should be, if it were not for my promise to—the other,” cried Lady Evelyn.

“Do not let that trouble you,” suggested Claire.

“How can I prevent its troubling me—tell me that? Are you one of those girls who think that there is nothing binding in a promise made to a man? The man is true to me.”

Claire heard her boast—regretfully boast—that Stephen Urquhart was true to her, and still she found it impossible to speak.

“He is true to me, and I cannot be false to him,” continued Lady Evelyn. “How could I go to him and say, ‘I love another man, I no longer love you'?”

“But he will release you,” repeated Claire weakly.

“How can you talk that way when you don’t know the man?” cried Lady Evelyn with petulant quickness. She kept her eyes fixed curiously upon Claire’s, and then said—

“Listen to me. I offered to tell you the name of the man the first evening we met You would not allow me. I will tell you his name now, and you will be able to judge for yourself whether or not he is a man who would lightly release me.”

“No, no; tell me nothing more,” cried Claire.

“His name is Stephen Urquhart,” said Lady Evelyn. “Now you know all that there is to be known about this pitiful business. And now you will pity me—you will pity me.”

She threw herself weeping at Claire’s feet, her hands clasping Claire’s knees just after the manner of a stage heroine.

And Claire found it impossible to speak a word to her. She could only lay her hand upon her head, smoothing it and soothing it.

A step sounded on the lobby. Someone was approaching the room in which they were sitting. Lady Evelyn sprang up and hid away the handkerchief which she had rolled up into a tiny tear-saturated ball. She had a magazine in her hand and was sitting in the window when Norah Browne entered.

She had nothing particular to say—only to bemoan some fresh frivolity on the part of her mother. She expressed the hope that the cruise in the yacht might steady her. It was a forlorn hope, and it lost nothing of its despairing crescendo by Norah’s rendering of it.

In another half-hour it was Claire who was lying in tears on her sofa.

What was it that had happened to her? What was this change which had come over her since that night when she had awakened to hear that mysterious voice making its suggestions to her which she had no power to resist? And it seemed that she was not the only one in that house who had heard a strange voice on that same night She had been startled by Lady Evelyn’s communication to her on this point. What could it mean? Did everyone who came to learn what ’tis to love, suffer such a change as had come over her nature?

She had all her life been truthful and ingenuous. She could not remember having ever been guilty of a word or an act of deception; and yet she had during the previous month played a part the elements of which were deceit and disingenuousness. It had come to her knowledge that Stephen Urquhart was in love with Lady Evelyn, and yet she had not shrunk from him when he had come to her with words of love. On the contrary, she had felt all the gladness of triumphing over the sweet girl who was her friend. She felt that she did well to weep her tears now as she thought over all this—as she thought over her concealment from Lady Evelyn of the fact that Stephen Urquhart had asked her, Claire, for her love, while all the time she knew that he was engaged to Lady Evelyn.

What did it all mean? How had it all come about? How was it that, even while she was weeping her tears of bitterness, she felt herself to be a hypocrite, well knowing in her inmost heart that she was looking forward with delight to the yacht’s cruise, since she would every day for at least some months be in the society of Stephen Urquhart, the man whom she had stolen from her best friend?

It seemed to her as if love, the power which she had been accustomed to think of as the great glory of life—the great transformer of the commonplace into the beautiful —of the squalid into the exquisite—had reversed its functions so far as she was concerned. Could it be possible that love, the passion which—with a few others—the cultured descendant of primeval woman has inherited from her ancestress, has the power to strip off all the veneer of thousands of centuries, and so reduce her to the original elements of early femininity? Was it love that had changed her into that crafty, jealous, tricky, double-dealing creature, which Mr. Marvin and other students of Nature had assured her was the Original Woman—a companion meet for the original man?

She remained trying to work out this problem by the very feminine auxiliary of tears, until her mother came to their dressing-room.

Claire explained that she had a headache. Her mother knew that she was only pretending; but she pretended to believe her implicitly, and Claire pretended that she did not see through her pretence; and so they got along very well together by reason of their feminine resourcefulness.

CHAPTER XX.

The moonlight was flooding the lovely valley by the side of the Mome Rouge, which until May 8th, I902, lay between the town of St. Pierre, in the island of Martinique, and the heights of Mont Pelée. The valley was full of fantastic light and shade, and Stephen Urquhart, riding along the narrow bridle-path that began where the road from the town ended, pulled up his spiritless pony before it began to make its descent among the mangoes.

He had not had a glimpse of the moonlight magnificence of such a scene as this since he had been turned out of his home in the island of St Lucia twenty years before; but it seemed to him that only a single week had passed since he had been among these glories of growth, bathing himself in the living moonlight and listening to the ceaseless musical chirrup of the tree lizards, which somehow makes the West Indian night seem iridescent. He sat there on his pony watching the luminous patches among the thick vegetation of the valley, and the huge sprawling black shadows that spread themselves abroad when the moonlight lightnings struck one of the giant tamarind trees. Those wandering black shadows flowed over the illumined spaces, suggesting to anyone who might be near to see them, the wandering of a river over a land of light.

The night air was full of curious scents that came from the millions of perfumed leaves. The valley was full of leaves, from the mighty folded sheets that enveloped the plantains, to the tiny crisp shields of the coffee tree. Stephen Urquhart laughed, breathing of every scent that he knew so well in the old days. It seemed as if every whiff carried him back to some special day—a day burned into his memory by the red sun which he had loved. He laughed, not because the old days had been so full of the riot which makes up life in these islands of riotous vegetation, but because he felt that he had made his way in the world since those old days.

He had been little better than one of the negroes of St Lucia in the old days when his father had been beggared by the two curses of the West Indies—emancipation and hurricanes. He had roamed about the plantations as ragged as a negro, and he had been content with the loathsome negro fare of banana and shaddock. He had left the island a beggar, and had then lived with a beggared friend of his father’s in this island of Martinique until he was sixteen years old. Then he had worked his way to England; and here he was back at Martinique, looking up at the great peak of the mountain —he fancied that he could see the cross at the summit —while he laughed at the thought of how things had changed with him since he had last been in this place.

He glanced down upon the town spread along the shore beneath him. It was full of light. The lamps were gleaming below him as the fireflies were gleaming among the shadows of the valley in front of him; and beyond the shining lamps of St. Pierre and the red light of the Place Bertin stretched the quivering sea, with the anchor lights of the half-dozen ships in the roadstead. The sound of the breaking rollers tolling along the coast and the fitful music of a band playing in the gardens, mingled with the ceaseless quivering monotone of the cicalas.

He laughed and aroused his pony, sending it on by the little path that led first down among the mangoes and then upward among the tumbled rocks of the old river-bed.

The moon had passed over the middle of the valley, where it narrowed to a gorge, before he reached a weird group of guanguas, their leaves all tight shut since sundown; beyond these the vegetation became too dense among the tumbled rocks to allow of his pony making a track for itself. He dismounted and fastened the bridle to a branch, and forthwith began to force his way for some little distance up the slope among the wild fig trees, acacias, and frangipani bushes. Here he was in complete darkness for awhile; but he soon reached the spine of the slope where the moonlight was brilliant, reflected from the broad, burnished leaves of the great palms. He had half an hour’s climbing away from the river-bed gorge, and then all at once he found himself looking across a broad and open valley of rocks to the irregular slopes of Mont Pelée.

The valley before him was probably a mile across from where he stood to the nearest of the slopes of the mountain. It was a place of fantastic shapes and shadows of rocks, like one of Salvator Rosa’s most rugged landscapes —wild and inhospitable. Lying as it did just beyond slopes dense with tropical vegetation and bordered with all the grace of the palm plants, it looked like a bit of another world. The grass growths of that wild place were sparse, and quite failed to conceal the clumsy bulk of the mighty rocks that lay tumbled there confusedly. The broad bald surfaces of the boulders were not silvered by the moonlight. There they lay, naked and shapeless— bewildering relics of the demoniac forces that had hurled them molten out of the mountain miles into the air, to fall where they were—the horrble volcano vomit of ten thousand years ago.

Here and there along that valley of uncouth shapes, were at intervals the sprawling branches and trunks of leafless trees. One of these nearest to where Urquhart stood had the suggestion of an inhuman human figure— it was like a withered head—lean and gnarled, with innumerable snakes coiled up among its matted wispy locks. It was a veritable Medusa head, only attenuated to a hideously humorous degree; and the moonlight shining through a tiny space among the straggling rotten boughs where they were closely crossed and intercrossed, gave it the semblance of a fiery eye looking out from a skeleton head with naked jowl. Hard by there issued from between two enormous rocks a jet of sulphur smoke and arose into the air in a wisp of mist assuming a hundred fantastic shapes in its course, and stretching forth beckoning lean fingers of woolly wisp on every side.

So soon as this queer ghost of vapour had vanished, another arose at a short distance, and went whisking in its fantastic Macabre dance down the lonely valley, where it met a third and a fourth; a hundred quivering vapour-shapelessnesses interlaced skeleton fingers in a dance before the man’s eyes through the moonlight, and the thin shrill chirrup of the cicalas on the trees of the ridge beside him, made fitting music for the spectre-dance of the sulphur witches whose breath impregnated the air.

Urquhart stood on the ridge looking across the valley and breathing of the tainted air.

“It is the very gate of hell itself,” he said, “and I am the only one in the world that knows it”

He did not hesitate for a moment to descend the slope to that strarige valley of Mont Pelée, though the descent to this Avernus was not easy and the odours of the way were stupefying. It occupied him a full hour clambering down and across the mighty masses of rock that lay between his descent and a low but sheer cliff on the side of the mountain. Once he sank up to the waist in some kind of soil that was as unstable as sand, only crisper, and liker to crumbled coral. He only saved himself from sinking over the shoulders by a clutch at the side of the rock on which he had slipped, and almost at the base of the cliff his heel went on something globular that rolled from under his foot and almost threw him down. He stopped to pick up the object, and found that it was a human skull.

He heard the sound as of a dry scraping of the sand, and out of a hole there came a strange bird—black and raven-like as to its plumage, but with the head and beak of a parrot—a horrible hybrid. It came with a laughing squawk from the hole and perched on one of the lean boughs of the skeleton tree, watching him, not with a single eye, after the manner of birds, but with both, squinting over its curved beak, and emitting the low gurgling chuckle of a carrion crow.

For a moment the man was startled; then he recollected having seen such birds on the island. It was the diablot—the strange bird that digs a hole for its nest on the hillside.

With a laugh he went on his way, the bird following him in short ungainly flights, giving a parrot-parody of his laugh, as it perched on something that he saw at the side of the path—a ghastly decoration with a grotesque suggestion of comedy in its arrangement—something incapable of being described.

Stephen Urquhart was rooted to the ground for some minutes. He wiped his forehead. He became aware of the taste of bitumen on his tongue. He spat out. The bird spluttered too.

“Damnation!” cried the man, and in a second he had whipped out his revolver, and was aiming it at the hideous thing.

He did not fire. He spat out again, pushed the revolver back into his pocket, and with another laugh, crunched his way up to the cliff face.

After some little trouble he discovered a crimson streak here and there, which had something of the appearance of a vein of red marble running through the rock. He followed the windings of this vein where it ran downward and lost itself in the ground. He seemed puzzled for some moments, and it was with no very confident step that he went round the rocks to where there was an indentation beneath an overhanging ledge of the sheer cliff. He put out a hand to touch the surface of the stone, but his hand came upon nothing. He took a step further, but touched nothing. And then he became aware of the fact that what had appeared to him, and what would appear to any eye of man, to be merely an indentation—a sort of natural alcove at the side of the rock, was actually a hollow in the rock—a deep cavern of unknown limits of blackness.

He paused at that entrance of the gloom. Far away in that mystery of darkness he heard the howl of a dog —not the deep bay of a large hound, but the minor protracted howl that begins with a short bark. Then about him in the blackness he became aware of the moving as of wings, just the same as he had experienced on that night in the hall at Suanamara when he had spoken to the great Persian cat. Formless things seemed to be in the air. He felt his cheek brushed once again, as with the cold leathery pad of a monkey's paw, and there was a sound as of a scratching claw. Something touched the back of his hand, and it gave him the impression as of the hoof of a goat or some creature with a homy foot He had a curious sense of the passing of a jostling crew, and at the same time there was a horrid, oppressive smell as of the monkey-house at the Zoological Gardens. He heard a laugh behind him, and he fancied, as some people do in great darkness, that red gleaming eyes were in front of him.

A clammy touch, like that of a toad's skin, was upon his wrist, drawing him on, and a loathsome breath came upon his face, like the sudden opening of a vault before him.

“Once again,” said Stephen Urquhart, the man of modem scientific methods, to this Something which medievalism had inherited as a tradition from primevalism, when the clay out of which God made man was still plastic. “Once again.”

“Once again,” came a Voice. “But it is in keeping with the nature of you and yours that you should come here for me when you might have saved yourself the trouble: I was beside you that night when you sat by the fire and the whole scheme came into your head.”

“I half suspected it,” said the man, speaking to the Blackness. “I was sure that you would be by my side and on my side. I suppose the plan would never have come to me unless under the influence of your suggestions —thought-transference is what semi-scientific people call the force which a few are beginning to recognise again after a long interval of that ignoring which comes by ignorance. Well, I am here now—that was part of my scheme—shall I say our scheme?”

“Our scheme: we will not wrangle,” said the Voice. “You are here now.”

“Yes, and you know men well enough to be thoroughly aware of the fact that I do not come to yoi^ except in the way that other men approach their God—to be helped in this world.”

“And in the world to come?”

“The world that is always to come—that is the world for men.”

“And women. Should I say with women’?”

“You know as well as I do that there is no such thing as a man in the world. To talk of a man is to talk of a man and a woman. The man is what the woman makes him.”

“And the woman—what is she? You seem to have a pretty fair working acquaintance with your world as a place of residence.”

“It is the best possible place of residence for man and woman—that I know.”

“It is cooling slowly—so much I will say; it is now in an intermediate state. It is awaiting developments. Well, if the world is well suited for you I venture to think that you are well suited for the world.”

“And yet I come to you for help?”

“That is because you are a scientific man and wish to adopt the most scientific methods. Scientific men all come to me in the end.”

“But I came to you in the beginning. I am scientific.

I know you to have control of some of the greatest forces in Nature. I don’t know how you have attained that power; but every person who has imagination enough to be a scientific man has recognised the existence of this power. Long ago the less clever among men said that it wasn’t playing the game of life according to the rules to resort to your power to help us along. That is why they killed the early workers in science whom they called wizards.”

“But they couldn’t kill science, because science is Nature. And as they couldn’t kill it, they have begun to worship it. Isn’t that like men? Savage men try to kill a scientific stranger, and if they fail, they make a god of him. The Churches denounced Darwin as their greatest enemy, but they buried him in Westminster Abbey among their saints. One of the greatest forces of Nature men called Satan.”

The modern scientific man laughed, and the sound of his laughter aroused a million echoes of the vast void blackness in the midst of which he stood—it was a pattering hail of echoes which came out of the void—the mountain seemed to have a million voices, and every voice a queer laugh.

“I have never shrunk from philosophy,” said Mr. Urquhart. “Philosophy is the knowledge of the thought of man, and the knowledge of man is a knowledge of Nature. We have—you and I—been talking as philosophers just now—quite as generally and quite as aimlessly —only—unlike philosophers—we haven’t quarrelled.”

“A man does not quarrel with anyone to whom he goes for help—it is only when he has been helped that he quarrels with his helper,” said the Voice.

"That brings us back,” said Urquhart. "I want you to exert your Force in the direction of my plan.”

"You went to a woman who could do something on behalf of your plans.”

"And she did something—a good deal. But she told me how narrow were her limits. She has inherited something of the traditions of the Force. She could make a beginning; but I needed you to prevent a catastrophe.”

"I can help you within my limits. You know that there are limits to my knowledge of the working of the Force?”

"But they are not so circumscribed as the woman’s.” "No. Still there are limits. I am not sole master of the Force. All that I can do is to undo all that civilisation has done. I am here, closest in touch of anything that breathes, with the elements of the Force—I can look down into the abyss of fire—that inner fire which is the origin of all Nature. This mountain is the gate. And yet I have not got complete control over the Force which, like every force that man has known, has its origin in Fire—the internal Eternal Fire which men have worshipped since first the life of man, which is heat, came from the Fire, which is heat But I have my limits. Tell me what is your desire.”

And thereupon the modern man opened his heart to the Darkness, and laughter rolled through the abyss of blackness, and echoes of laughter seemed to vibrate from the eternal depths of the heart of Mont Pel6e in the West Indian island of Martinique on that moonlit night of January, I902.

CHAPTER XXII.

The steam yacht Curlew was lying at anchor in the roadstead of St Pierre, and some of the company, who were Philip Trent's guests, were getting anxious on account of the absence of Stephen Urquhart. He had gone ashore after an early dinner to convey to the Governor of the island of Martinique Mr. Trent's compliments, and thanks for the courtesy shown to the members of the yacht's company during the week that the vessel had been at anchor in the roadstead. The Governor had come from Fort de France the previous day and had dined aboard the Curlew. He had paid his visit the next morning, and in the evening Mr. Trent's private secretary had left the yacht on a p.p.c. mission to His Excellency.

At sundown Mr. Trent ordered the yacht’s gig to run alongside the boat jetty and await the return of Mr. Urquhart This order had been carried out, and Mr. Trent had dined with his guests in the cabin and was now seated with a few of them on the deck enjoying the light breeze which made the yacht talk to the ripples while the ripples whispered to die moonlight.

The town of St. Pierre was full of light, and the strains which a band was playing in the Gardens floated with artistic fitfulness out to sea, mingling with the great diapason of the rollers breaking along the coast The coloured lights of the terraces on the Place Bertin gave a touch of twinkling brilliancy to the ripples around the yacht, until the lanterns in the bows of the many boats rocking about between the ships and the shore blinded every light but their own.

Far away above the shining town stood the mountain range and the peaks of Mont Pelée, a moveless star here and there shining out from the darkness of the slope marking where a villa stood among its palms.

On the whole Lady Innisfail thought that she preferred being well out at sea where the word bridge was not used exclusively as a term of nautical topography. Rational people had their attention constantly diverted when the yacht was lying off an interesting island by night.

And then they talked!

Yes, for herself she would be very glad when the anchor was weighed and people once again settled down to their game, although she was ready enough to allow that Martinique was preferable to Cannes in January.

A few of Mr. Trent’s other guests, though they had been lost in admiration of the moonlight picture, seen through the gracious haze of cigarette smoke, were quite of her way of thinking. They had had three nights off bridge, and that represented to them more monotony of abstinence than they ever cared to face again.

Claire La Roache could not help feeling that Mr. Trent must be tasting to the full the delights of an enthusiastic yachtsman. He could not but feel satisfied with the appreciation given to his intelligent enterprise and unflagging courtesy. He had fitted out a yacht of eight hundred tons for a cruise through the islands of the West Indies, in order that Lady Innisfail and her assistants might get to understand each other’s characteristics at bridge.

She made a remark to this effect when Philip Trent strolled up to where she was standing at the bulwarks far astern, her eyes turned toward the shore. She had escaped from hearing anything more of Lady Innisfail's expression of patronising admiration of the scene.

Philip laughed.

“I have nothing to complain of,” said he. “I would not complain if Lady Innisfail played bridge all day as well as all night. I am selfish: I almost wish that she would.”

“I suppose you are selfish,” said Claire. “You are satisfied only when you have made us thoroughly happy.”

“Less satisfies me, I assure you,” said he. “Say that I am satisfied when you are all making yourselves happy. The art of being happy is like all the other arts, not so much mental as temperamental. One must work out one's own salvation from boredom for oneself. By the way, Miss Claire La Roache, how does this question affect you yourself? What do you think of the cruise as far as it has lasted? Have you had minutes of enjoyment?”

“Minutes? Days—weeks—I have never been so happy in my life, Mr. Trent,” she cried.

“I am glad,” said he quietly. “I meant that you should have a good time—of a sort I would not have asked you that question if I had not felt certain that you would answer it with a due regard for your conscience, and not in the conventional way of ‘Thanks so much for a delightful evening.’”

“I took it for granted that if you had wanted that phrase you would not have put the question to me,” said Claire.

There was a pause of considerable duration before he spoke again. A party of Creoles in a boat with Chinese lanterns drifted past singing Gounod's Barcarolle.

“I remember when I heard that song first,” he said. “What a time ago! What a change!”

“I suppose you have had great changes in your life,”| said Claire. “I don’t think that any man can get on in life as you have done unless he has had many experiences of good and evil”

“Good and evil make up life,” said he.

“Of course. That was the Tree of Life: the Knowledge of good and evil; and that is how the man and the woman were to become as gods,” said she.

“Yes—‘were to become,’” said he, “and they have been striving on that supposition for a good many thousand years without getting so like angels as to make it difficult for an outsider to know which was which. You see, it has never occurred to them to assume that the Father of Lies was responsible for the original statement”

“But it was the first glimpse of life that Adam and Eve had—that which came to them after they had eaten,” said Claire. “Do you think that they regretted it, Mr. Trent?”

“They were the First Man and the First Woman,” said he. “If you may believe our friend Mr. Marvin, the last man and woman are like unto the first Our life is a mingled yam of good and evil.”

“The knowledge—that is the thing, isn’t it—the knowledge of which is the good and which is the evil? If we have the knowledge, it is our own fault if we say to evil ‘Be thou my good.’ There’s a sermon for you, Mr. Trent.

I suppose I should conclude by asking you which you have chosen?”

“I have chosen you,” he said in an impulse so sudden that she started and gasped. He recovered himself in a second. “How idiotic! I mean, of course, that I have chosen you—that I have asked you to come on this cruise,” he said, smiling away his abruptness.

She smiled away her startledness.

"I wanted to have a more intimate acquaintance with goodness.” (He had resumed his natural manner.) '“Hitherto I have only had a rather distant knowledge of the good.”

“I wonder if Mr. Urquhart is dining with the Governor,” she remarked after a pause.

“I think it is quite likely that he has met some people whom he knew long ago—he once lived for some time at Martinique,” said Trent “I shouldn’t wonder if he remained ashore until quite late. But he will find the gig waiting for him at the jetty. I think that we are better aboard the yacht than ashore.”

He had quickly followed her example of lapsing into the obvious. He appreciated the safety of the commonplace.

“I am sure that the island looks better from a distance,” said she.

He turned his back upon the ship’s bulwark and the island. The action was a rapid one, and suggested to her that he was a little put out. That was why she turned partly round, saying—

“I am afraid that I interrupted you—I mean that I did not answer you just now. You said that you had only a distant view of what was good. Was that because you thought the same of it as you do of the island—that it is seen best at a distance?”

“I have never been a philosopher; a philosopher is a man who enjoys examining wisdom through a telescope of his own construction,” said he. “No; what was in my mind when I spoke was that up till now—this cruise, I mean—I had never an opportunity afforded me of—may I say, studying what I believe to be the origin of all that is good in this life of ours—such a woman as I think you are, Miss La Roache. I wonder how it came that I never I before found myself within reach of such an opportunity. I I suppose I was too greatly interested in doing my work in die world. Anyhow, I tell you honestly—I suppose that I should feel ashamed to have to do so—and now that I think of it, I do actually feel ashamed of my negligence; but really the systematic neglect that I gave to woman was quite extraordinary. Now, as a study, woman. . . . But having been at considerable pains to cultivate my ignorance on the subject, it would be the most ridiculous presumption on my part to say anything about it, either cynically or enthusiastically. It was when I had talked to you half a dozen times at Suanamara that I began to have a notion that I might have missed something in life. That was why I hoped that you might be induced to come on this cruise. .. . And now what I want to say to you is that now—now—I shall not be able to think that that something, of which I had only a vague idea, has been altogether lacking from my life.”

“I am trying to understand exactly what is on your mind, Mr. Trent,” she said after a little silence. “And I really think that I know something—a little—of it You always do make me understand what is on your mind—I will say that. I heard a good deal about you—not only from women, so you see I may have heard something of the truth; and I have read some sketches of your life— your career, and they all told something about how you —how you—what did you say just now?—how you cultivated your ignorance of woman. A very foolish man wrote a very foolish book, and he took care that everyone should believe that the central figure was you. It was quite rubbish that about your swearing like a costermonger at even the nicest woman. But you confess now that you cultivated your ignorance—I will not forget that phrase—but that now. . . . Dear Mr. Trent, I have been making aspeech, and I have lost the thread of it. The next time I really must speak from a sheaf of notes.. . .

Anyhow, you said that you had been studying me and that you thought that—that—you were the better for it.”

“That is just it—just it I am the better for it—I am another man.”

“Then I am quite glad. But if you are another man than the one I knew when I first saw you, I must tell you that I am another woman than the one you see on this deck. It is so queer that I should only have felt this since you began to speak to me just now. But it is the truth. There are some people who actually boast of the evil that is in them; they have an idea that evil is more fascinating than good, and I daresay it is; but indeed it is not in this spirit that I tell you now that—that——”

She had turned rather more than half round since she had begun to speak to him in that low, tremulous, earnest voice, which made him feel how nervous she was, and before she had said many words she had come to be directly facing him. As she went on her voice became more tremulous, and there was a trembling of her lips. She began to hesitate—to stammer—and when her voice broke down he saw that the velvet violets of her eyes were misty with tears; the moonlight swam in them—he saw it; he had never seen anything so lovely in all his life. Then with a single sob that started the tears—a sob and a curious little cry as of pain—she flung herself against the brass-work of the little rail that ran round the bulwarks and leant oygr it, a hand clutching the rail on each side.

She was sobbing in the silence.—not rapidly—only at intervals, but she did not raise a hand to wipe away her tears.

He waited for a few moments, and then took a step beside her, getting between her and the group of his guests who were seated on deck chairs amidships. He stood by her side looking across the water to the shore just as she was looking. At last he laid a hand upon the back of one of hers on the rail.

“Dear child!” he said. “Dear child, you have some trouble—some imaginary trouble. Do not tell it to me if it agitates you. Why should you tell it to me?”

She turned to him, flashing round in a second.

“You are a man,” she said. “You have had experience—you said so just now—experience of bad and good. I want you to tell me if it is possible for a woman to change in one day—one hour—from good to bad. Someone who has always hated—loathed — everything approaching deceit—double-dealing—can she suddenly come to act deceitfully—dishonestly? Can a woman who| knows what it is to be a Christian—can she suddenly i become no better than the original woman that Mr. Marvin talked of—jealous, cunning—ready to supplant her best friend:—ready to quiet the voice of her own conscience by saying to herself that her deception would certainly be to the advantage of her friend in the future? Tell me that, Mr. Trent Tell me if you think that every woman inow has the deceitful heart of the Original Woman? Do we all live by her tricks?”

Philip Trent could not smile. He could not even say “Confound Marvin for an idiot!” He scarcely knew what to say to this girl. He felt that the wholie scene, dialogue and all, was out of his. line.

But he was dreadfully interested in it all. He must say something. But what could he say?

Should he tell her that he loved her, and that Marvin might go and be hanged—Marvin and his mysteries? That was what he would have liked to do; but he had the instinct of a man for another’s mood of the moment, and he had learned something of the moods of women since a woman had first come under his notice, which he felt was just since Claire La Roache’s eyes had become misty before him. He felt for her without understanding her, and that is only another way of saying that he was more in love with her than ever.

“You ask me to give you an opinion on a subtle point touching the inmost nature of a woman, and yet only a few minutes ago I told you that my ignorance of woman was my strong point,” he said at last, after a few minutes of thought that led him no whither.

“You do not know how unhappy I am,” she said, and her words sounded like a moan.

“My poor child!” said he quite feebly. \“I know that you are unhappy. You fancy that—that—But you said just now that the cruise had been a very happy one for you.”

“And so it was,” she cried. “Cannot you see that that is what makes me so dreadfully unhappy now?”’

“I can’t see—unless you are thinking that it will soon end. But it will not soon end—it is just beginning. It will go on as long as you are happy—you—you—only you.”

“It is not that. Surely you must see that I could not be anything but miserable thinking how happy I have been when I have no right to be so.”

He felt that he was rapidly becoming educated on the subject of woman. Here was one who was miserable because she was so thoroughly happy.

And he loved her the more the more paradoxical she seemed.

“How long is it since you first began to feel miserable?” he asked her, and the moment that he had spoken he felt inclined to laugh, for his inquiry had about it all the solemnity of that of a physician anxious to learn all about certain symptoms.

“How long—how long? Why, ever since you began to speak to me just now,” she said.

“You make me feel sorry that I spoke to you,” said he. “I was hoping that—perhaps—I might be able to do something more for you. You know that I would do a good deal for you—but instead of that——”

“No—no; don’t think that for a moment,” she cried. “Don’t think that I became unhappy because you spoke. . . . And now I know that I feel better—I feel as if I had confessed to you—that makes me feel better.”

She was making some sort of an attempt to smile. She was not particularly successful.

“I think I may take it upon me to grant you unconditional absolution,” said he. “I am only sorry that I have not been able to give you any advice. But I have learned a good deal since I began my studies—half an hour ago. You will let me talk to you—you will let me listen to your heart palpitating again: I seem only to have taken the stethoscope from my ears this moment”

Again she made an attempt to smile, but failed more observably than before. She turned away her head.

“You are troubled—I would that I could help you; but I cannot—I am only a man,” he cried. A hand had gone out to her and grasped her by the arm. He spoke with a sudden flame of passion, and he could perceive that she was startled; perhaps she was hurt. It seemed to him that she had a right to be hurt. She had told him that she was unhappy; was his suggestion of passion a sympathetic reply to her plaint?

His hand dropped from her arm the moment that he felt her start beneath his touch. He put both his hands behind him while he said in a low voice—

“I have not startled you nearly so much as I have startled myself, Miss La Roache. I wonder if you are as ignorant of men as I am of women. Can you understand anything of our motives—our impulses?”

“I think that I can understand something of yours, Mr. Trent,” she said. “Since I first met you I have seen in how many ways you aimed at doing things for people. I saw that you put yourself out many times in order to give a moment’s happiness to someone. That is why I know you are in earnest now in wishing to help me—that was also, I suppose, why I talked to you just now—confessing—and that is why, I am sure, that I feel less unhappy now that I have confessed. But please do not think that I felt merely like one of the vague ‘miserable sinners’ in the Prayer-book. You know that I really felt —that I really do feel that I have been unspeakably mean —dishonourable—treacherous, and that I feel that I am here enjoying everything under false pretences—that is the truth, though why I only became aware of it since you came beside me just now I cannot tell. Mr. Trent, if a sudden impulse should seize me, forcing me to leave the yacht and go straight home in one of the mail steamers, you will not think that I have been ungrateful to you,, will you? Indeed I am not ungrateful to you. I feel that you are only too kind—you were so from the first I have never met anyone in the world who was so good— so true—so—so like a man.”

He did not laugh even at that remarkable crescendo of the virtues. On the contrary, he became almost as serious as she was.

“You will do just what pleases you,” he said. “If you leave the yacht, I will be perfectly assured that you do it because you feel that you must do it And, moreover, if anyone aboard this yacht suggests that you were not right, I shall feel that I am doing right in sending that person ashore at the earliest opportunity. But I need not say that I would think of your going away as the most unhappy thing that could take place.”

“It would be that—it would,” she said thoughtfully. “But if I must . . .”

“Dear child, do not follow any impulse that may separate you from us,” said he. “You do not know what this cruise means to me. I hope that you may some day. That is my last word to you at this time, for here comes the gig with Urquhart at the yoke-lines.”

He put out a hand to her, and she took it, without a word.

At the same moment Stephen Urquhart, sitting in the stem of the gig, said—

“Way enough! Bow,” and brought the boat handsomely up to the handrail.

He was looking very pale in the moonlight.

Yes, he had had a pretty good time ashore, he told the people who inquired.

CHAPTER XXIII.

All the time that Stephen Urquhart was causing considerable diversion to the nearest group who were seated in their deck-chairs amidships, by describing a ride which he had on the outskirts of St Pierre, Claire continued leaning over the bulwarks wondering under the force of what impulse she had said all that she had to Mr. Trent. Why had she felt compelled to tell him that she behaved badly—that she had been guilty of meanness—meanness which in the eyes of most men was worse than criminality? She had told him all that, and if she had not broken down at a certain point, she would undoubtedly have gone on to make him acquainted with the particulars of her perfidy—she would have let him know quite unreservedly all that had taken place between herself and Stephen Urquhart-—all that had taken place between herself and Lady Evelyn.

Was it fortunate or otherwise that she had stopped short of this confession, she asked herself; and it took her some time to come to the conclusion that on the whole it was as well that she had not gone further. But immediately after satisfying herself on this point she found herself wishing that she had told him all that she had to tell.

"He would not have been hard on me,” was the thought which was in her mind.

He had confessed to her that he did not understand women, and yet she was sure that he was just the man to forgive her.

And this opened up to her the abstract question: Is the man who pardons all the man who understands all, or is he the one who does not understand?

She had the French proverb to guide her in the solution of this question, but she was not so sure that the guidance of French proverbs is to be depended on in moments of difficulty; and she thought that on the whole not to understand a woman is to give a woman a chance. And then, because no woman can consider a question in I the abstract, but invariably sends it to her heart, which turns it into a concrete question, she asked herself if she would feel as certain of forgiveness were she to make her confession to the man whom she loved.

Stephen Urquhart was becoming even more diverting than he had yet been to the group in whose midst he was seated. He had drunk a glass of brandy and soda, and now he had a cup of coffee with a little glass of the Martinique liqueur known as Crême de Cacao; for he had had a rather rough time on that pony, he explained to his friends. It was a weird animal, he said; it had become world-weary a long time ago, and it had developed strange mental qualities, which were apt to prove confusing to a rider. Its amble was its own, but it would be a misfortune were it to become hereditary; but it was not for him to be hard on it, he said, for although he had not been on the island for sixteen years, he remembered that pony well, and it was an old pony in those days. Oh no; it would take no orders from anyone—stay—yes, he did it an injustice; he had once said, “Buck up, old chap!” to it, and it had obeyed him literally. But, after all, it had many good points about it if you could only bring yourself to think of it as a carved oak bureau; some of the embossing in the region of the withers was most artistic—the interlacing was Celtic.

He amused the people for some time, and then Lady Innisfail asked him if he had seen anything skittish except the pony at St Pierre. She had heard that here and there a classical dance might be seen on the island, and certainly some of the ladies had quite the air of a Parisienne. She had no doubt that it was as pleasant a place as many others equally wicked, for visitors on moonlit nights.

Mr. Urquhart raised his hands in horror, and then lowered them in humiliation; but he took another little glass of the Crême de Cacao.

Claire wondered if she were to make her confession to him, would he be as likely to forgive her as Mr. Trent would be? Stephen Urquhart had an understanding of women—he had proved his possession of it in many ways —and Mr. Trent had not; but she felt sure that she would have a better chance with Mr. Trent At any rate, she felt that she would shrink from giving to Stephen even a hint of anything that she knew—of anything that she had done, although she was aware that she had not done worse than he himself. If she had been deceitful, how much more deceitful had not he been? If .she had been dishonourable in regard to her friend Lady Evelyn, how much more so had not he been?

But however imperfect her acquaintance with men and their motives may have been, she knew perfectly well that men were not disposed to look more charitably upon a woman’s offending because she happens to be merely following their example. On the contrary, she had an instinct that told her that a woman must be very rigid in deed in her observance of those laws which man has always been himself rather lax in observing. Stephen would certainly not forgive her for her double dealing simply because he himself had been far more guilty in the same direction.

And all the time that he was giving a circumstantial account of the three American ladies who had been congratulating the Governor upon the fact that Martinique had, through the Creole Josephine, played a most important part in the criminal annals of the nineteenth century, Claire was wondering how on earth she had ever been led to talk to Philip Trent as she had talked to him. She could not understand how it was that such an impulse should seize her.

And all the time that Stephen Urquhart was assuming the blank face of His Excellency in professing the pro-foundest unacquaintance with Josephine and her connection with the island of Martinique, Claire was asking herself how on earth it was that she had been led to act the part which she had played in respect of Lady Evelyn. She remembered quite well that she had excused herself for her dishonourable act by the reflection that Lady Evelyn was much more suited to be the wife of Lord Medway than of Stephen Urquhart She asked herself now how she had ever come to find a salve to her conscience in such a thought.

The result of all her reflections and self-interrogations and marvelling was to cause her to resent the extremely high spirits displayed by Stephen Urquhart while he drank his Crime de Cacao and amused the group of his shiI’m ates. What business had he to be sitting laughing there while she had just been weeping bitter tears at the thought of what she had done for his sake? But that had always been the way: the man had always been light-hearted in regard to matters that had caused women to weep their bitterest tears. She did well to be resentful at the way the world was ordered.

She went off quietly to bed, without saying good night to anyone. The little ripple of laughter that floated into the ripples of moonlight from the half-circle of deck-chairs sounded coarse in her ears. She would have given all that she possessed in the world to be back again in Ireland—in Sofia—even in Nice. She would have given all she possessed never to have set a foot upon the deck of the Curlew.

Her mother met her on her way to their cabin. She took her daughter by the hand, and looked at her with all a mother’s tenderness of inquiry in her eyes. Claire was surprised. There was a phrase of congratulation trembling on her mother’s lips. Claire was puzzled.

"I saw you standing apart from everyone at the rail. Have you anything to tell me?” whispered Mrs. La Roache.

"What should I have to tell you?” said Claire. "What did you expect me to tell you, my dear mother?”

"I don’t know—I hoped—I hoped a great deal,” said the mother. "Mr. Trent—I saw that he was interested in you from the first—I often wondered if he would have set out on this cruise at all if it had not been his intention to —to—if he had not been so greatly interested in you—in us. Of course, he might look anywhere—when a man is a millionaire and not yet forty—he is actually only thirty-seven—well, the whole world is at his feet—still, there is no better family in the world than your poor father’s. Even if the Castle is in ruins, there is enough left to show what the Roaches were at their best . . . And you are beautiful, my dear child—there is no one who would dare to say that if a prince—not a Balkan prince—a real prince—a Royal House—Irish House—that is why your father was never known except as La Roache in France, and afterwards in the Balkans.”

"Dear mother,” said Claire, "I do not feel quite myself to-night—I have been strangely nervous since sunset, and that is probably why I cannot understand to save my life what you are saying. I have no notion any more than an infant might have, why you talk to me in these snatches about nothing in particular and yet so earnestly. I wonder what it is to have a sunstroke coming on. I begin to be a little frightened for myself. I am going to bed.”

She had passed her mother, but her mother detained her.

"What have I got except you, my darling child?” she whispered, and Claire knew that the tears were in her eyes while she spoke. "Is it not natural that I should have my hopes? I know men, and I have seen how they sometimes make fools of themselves over women—not that anyone on earth would dare to suggest that with you— though some fools talk of Irish adventurers.”

"Oh, mother, mother, if you knew how my head is aching—it has begun—I knew it would begin, I have been so nervous,” cried Claire.

"Great heavens! you may have contracted some of the dreadful maladies these islands are noted for—yellow fever—malaria——”

"Or the ague shakes—the thing that the old buccaneers used to suffer from so badly; that’s what I have, and if you hear a voice in the middle of the night calling out, ‘ Darby Magraw, fetch aft the rum,’ you need not take it for John Silver’s parrot, but for me. Good night, you dear old foolish thing! and I implore of you not to be a fool, though you are my mother.”

Gaire hastened past her and got within her own stateroom, shutting the door tight behind her. She threw herself on her bed without removing even her bodice. She was overwhelmed by her own thoughts, and not one of them referred to anything that her mother had just said: her mother’s words, disjointed and inarticulate, had conveyed to her nothing except that her mother was trying to hint something to her. What overwhelmed poor Claire was the thought that Philip Trent thought the same of her as he did before she had told him of her deception. That meant that she was continuing to deceive him.

That was because she had been too vague; she had not had strength or courage enough to acquaint him with the details of her deception, and such an opportunity of doing so as she had had might never occur again. The passion for confession (at odd times) which seems to be part of most women’s natures, and which has ruined the happiness of countless women, in addition to turning many truthful women into keepers of diaries—for if a woman has no actual fault to confess she will invent one—was upon her. It had been upon her all the evening, increasing in intensity during the half-hour which she had spent looking over the side of the yacht, debating in her own mind the question as to which of the two men would be more likely to forgive her were they to learn the extent of her delinquencies.

And there she lay with her face down upon the white face of the pillow, feeling all the agony of suppressed confession. A sense of her own guilt kept her there, and it seemed to be increasing every moment; and not the least revolting of its features was the reflection—constantly with her—that since she had satisfied her conscience at first that her friend Lady Evelyn would be far happier with Lord Medway than she would ever be with Stephen, she had never had more than a passing qualm.

That was a detestable thought to have. She was overwhelmed by it What was it that had blinded her perception all those weeks? How was it that after so long an interval she had at last been restored to sight?

For an hour she lay there, tortured by her remorse— tortured by the puzzling questions which were put to her by the irritating falsetto of some imp within her brain.

And she had no one to whom she could confess. She had no sympathetic ear into which she could pour the story of her wrong-doing, and so get rid of it for ever. Women are so religious that they have long ago come to regard confession of a fault as equivalent—with something over for future use—to expiation of that fault She had no one to whom she could confess. "Oh, if Lady Evelyn were but among the passengers!” she cried. She felt that ten minutes with Lady Evelyn would make her all right. But Lady Evelyn was thousands of miles away, and it was impossible for her to . . .

She started up and stood in beautiful dishevelment in the middle of her cabin. She flung out a hand and switched on the lamp. The picture that she saw in the mirror in front of her was of a girl with tossed hair falling about a white face out of which looked large, innocent, frightened eyes—a mouth that would have served as a perfect model for a painter of a figure of "Expectation,” —parted lips—a hand on her heart.

A sudden thought had come to her, and it came to her with all the force of a supreme revelation, lifting her from her bed and setting her on her feet.

After a breathless interval—an interval of bated breath and beating heart, she sprang to the satin-wood escritoire which was braced to the bulkhead, and made a snatch for paper and pens. She sat down and began to write with the rapidity and the fluency with which letters are written in a scene on the stage, her pen flying over the paper for dear life, and page after page being thumped upon the blotting-paper. In a quarter of an hour she had scrawled her name, and was gathering up the sheets and folding them feverishly, thrusting them into the largest envelope that was at hand. She thumped the envelope, when she had addressed it, upon the blotter, and, jumping up, wrapped her dressing-gown about her and hurried on deck.

The decks were deserted by all except the anchor watch and the third officer, who was smoking in a deckchair. She hastened to him with the letter, and when he rose and put a finger to his cap, she said—

"Good night, Mr. Stone. I have brought you a letter which I want you to be good enough to have posted for me ashore; the yacht will be under weigh very early, will it not?”

"Engineer has orders to have steam up at six bells, Miss La Roache. Steward is going ashore at four bells. I had best give the letter to him. I don’t like trusting these brigands in the boats,” said the officer.

"So many thanks,” said she. "I shouldn’t bother you only that it is particular. I put off writing it until the last moment. Good night, Mr. Stone.”

"I’ll not forget it, Miss La Roache,” said the young man, once more putting up a finger to his cap, and then watching her returning to the deck-house. She had fastened her dressing-gown in careless haste and a gleam of white at the clasp had met his eyes. He wished to Heaven that she had asked him to do something difficult for her—something shockingly unlawful—say, to put a pound or two of dynamite in the coal bunkers. She was just the sort of girl for whom a man would go through fire and water—nay, a Board of Trade inquiry.

This beautiful creature of the white neck and bosom went back to her cabin and, undressing herself with deliberation, got into her bed and fell asleep between the act of lying down and laying her head on her pillow.

The letter which she had written was addressed to Lady Evelyn Carnaleigh, and contained a complete confession of the writer’s treachery in the matter of Mr. Stephen Urquhart and his offer of love with an obligation of secrecy.

CHAPTER XXIV.

Claire had never given a thought to the question of what her attitude should be in regard to Stephen Urquhart for the remainder of the cruise. She did not feel nearly so much resentment against him after she had made her confession to Lady Evelyn as she had an hour before, when she had accused him, in thought, of leading her into ways that were crooked. She had not had many opportunities during the voyage of being alone with him. He had been thoughtful enough to warn her when they started, of the absolute necessity there was for preventing the possibility of awaking the suspicions of the most alert of their fellow-passengers in regard to the understanding that existed between Mr. Trent’s private secretary and herself. He gave an intellectual definition of their re spective attitudes. They were, of course, to be reserved in regard to each other; but at the same time, not too reserved; he assured her that there could not be a more compromising bearing of a woman toward a man than one of over-reserve. Unnecessary frigidity and unnecessary rigidity in their bearing toward each other were as certain to arouse suspicion as—nay, more certain than—excessive friendliness. He was Polonius himself in his counsel to her in regard to this particular matter; and she agreed implicitly with all that he said, though it was unhappily in her power to tell him that he had upon one occasion at least shown a want of caution in his bearing in respect of one young woman, whom he had no doubt cautioned as carefully as he was doing herself.

But it was just because she had once heard that hushed “good night” whispered at the foot of the staircase at Suanamara, that Claire made up her mind to be even more careful than Stephen entreated her to be. She had seen herself carefully scrutinised through the tortoise-shell and gold-framed lorgnettes—the sort that have handles— of some of the ladies who were to be her fellow-guests on the cruise, and she had no difficulty in perceiving that they were trying to determine what her position was to be among the ship’s company—whether she had been asked in order to divert suspicion from someone else, or simply because she was a good bridge player. She could hear the whispers of some and the purrs of others—for it is considered lucky to have a cat or two aboard every ship, and Mr. Trent had sent invitations to two of the class Felinæ, and they had come with lorgnettes, and smiles of the Cheshire variety.

She had been very careful—so careful that before Barbados was reached the musivorous prowlers were puzzled and disappointed. She had been as friendly as anyone aboard with Stephen, but no more so; and although a certain Colonel Gilford had shown a strong desire to make love to her in stray corners, yet she still remained on friendly terms with him also, and this discouraged him. She was, in fact, a model of discretion.

That was why some of the ship’s company—including Colonel Gilford—called her (in talk among themselves) cold as an icicle; but they all admitted that she had lovely eyes.

Others were harder on her and called her thoughtful; but they also allowed that she had beautiful eyes.

A few others said that she knew how to dress; and these were the people who hinted (among themselves) that she belonged to a family of adventurers. When a really handsome woman is really handsomely dressed, she is called an adventuress—sometimes an American—by those social Felines, the velvet of whose claws has become somewhat frayed.

Of course Stephen Urquhart had very good reason for feeling satisfied with her discreet behaviour, with her coldness, and with her taste in dress. He could not but feel that it would be something more than awkward for himself were it so much as suspected that there was even that vague thing known as an understanding between Claire and himself. To be sure, he was a man who had always at hand an emergency exit opening outward by which he could escape from any situation that was getting too hot for him. He had early in life taken care that his conscience as well as his memory was provided with emergency exits, and he had occasionally found them very convenient Just now he knew that, should the worst come to the worst—should the truth come to be known in the matter of his understanding with Claire, he could use Lady Evelyn as an emergency exit to effect his escape from what many men would call a tight place.

He saw this all along. If Mr. Trent, who had confided in him that he loved Claire, were to suspect something and ask him if he, Stephen Urquhart, had been making love to Claire La Roache, he could restore his confidence simply by saying to him—

“I am engaged to marry Lady Evelyn.”

But everything had gone on so well that there was not the smallest chance now of his being compelled to fall back upon such an explanation. For he had made that little excursion of his ashore at the beautiful island of Martinique, and had climbed some distance up the picturesque slope of Mont Pelée; and now the yacht Curlew, four days later, was steaming past the Palisadoes and Port Royal into the harbour of Kingston, Jamaica, and maids and valets were busy packing trunks, portmanteaus, and kit-bags, to be conveyed to the hotel at Constant Spring at the foot of the beautiful Blue Mountains, where rooms by the dozen had been cabled for by Mr. Trent to accommodate himself and his guests for a week or two.

That evening after dinner Claire sat on the verandah of the hotel by the side of Philip Trent and a few others of the Curlew's company, feeling as if rest had come to her at last The Blue Mountains seemed to give her the sense of being within the soothing influence of a great shadow in a weary land. Velvety-purple beneath the hollow cupola-arch of a sky of passionate stars, peak and ridge rose before her eyes, not majestic, but gracious of outline and gentle of contour.

The palms of the garden in front of the verandah were motionless, and not a leaf was stirring of the full-foliaged boughs of the mango-avenue, but every now and again there came a waft of heavy-scented flowers through the air, as though the flowers were breathing their souls into the night. The dewy perfumes of grove and grass were full of inexpressible tenderness to the wanderers who had come to this lotus-land straight from the salt sea. Fireflies twinkled about the dark of the trees; they were like the reflection of stars in a silent, irregularly rippling sea.

In the long drawing-room of the hotel a band of strings was playing softly, not a selection from some of the jingling Flyaway “ Girls ” that have made England ridiculous for some years, but a concerto by Beethoven—something in sympathy with the sombre softness of this night of tropical warmth and rich scents. At intervals the musical tinkle of the tramcar bells, and the soft hum of the wheels on the rails, were heard faint through the distance; and ever and unceasing the chirrup of the tree lizards quivered and shivered through the night.

“Not a false note!” said Claire in a whisper, when Philip turned to her with a smile that was almost a whisper and a question. “Exquisite!”

He nodded and remained silent.

The strings in the music-room had died away into silence, but out of the silence there came the gracious awaking of Gounod’s Berceuse, played by a single violoncello, with a note of the piano straying into the theme now and again. The Berceuse is the serenade that the lily sings to the nightingale when the rose has wasted itself away in passion.

It was so pathetically played that even Lady Innisfail, who was seated some distance away, not on the verandah but in the garden, was silent Archie Browne, who had really an ear for music when Norah told him what to admire, suggested to Philip the advisability of sending a couple of five-pound Bank of England notes to the musicians—but his play upon the word “notes” was delivered, to do him justice, sotto voce to Colonel Gilford, who had contrived to get into a chair immediately behind Claire. Yes, Mr. Archie Browne was extremely appreciative, the musicians thought And Archie thought that Philip Trent was a perfect stick—an insensible stick, because he only shook his head in response to Archie’s suggestion.

When the music ceased people began to stroll out to the garden. The moon had just risen large and glowing over the Blue Mountains, and beneath its light, valley and ridge became clear. The stars faded away with the dying strains of the music, and the firefly torches became feeble. The glamour of the moonlight was over everything. It made a silver embroidery to the great leaves of the plantains, and it caused the palms to cast fantastic shadows over the grass of the tennis-courts. This was in the early night; but half an hour later the whole world had wakened to the mellow flood of moonlight as the world wakens to a sunrise.

Claire stood at the verandah rail with Philip. He seemed somewhat distrait at that moment. He was smoking, and every now and then he appeared to be anxious in regard to the burning of his cigar. He had an aspect of nervousness—but nervousness in repose. He had his back turned to the mountains and the moon, as he leant against the ironwork of the verandah. He had scarcely a word for anyone.

But his silence had no chance of being obtrusive, for among the forty passengers from the mail steamer Orinoco who were sojourning at Constant Spring there was young Turnleigh the poet. His friends called him a poet, but the people who called themselves poets called him a “mere metrecist.” Others called him a “meretricious metrecist,” which sounded like compounding a felony. But he was really none of these, only a babbler.

He had squeezed himself beside Claire, to whom he had been presented by one of his fellow-passengers, and he babbled about the moonlight.

“No, no, my friend Sidney, your moon is not for these latitudes,” he said, shaking his head and waving his hand to the left. “You remember Sidney’s lines, Miss La Roache?

‘With what sad steps, O Moon, thou dimb’st the sky,

How silently and with how wan a face!”

That is the moon of the cold North—the land which we have left behind us. There is no suggestion of sadness about that massive moonlight that clothes us as with a garment—a silver and satin flowing robe of moonlight it is—and the silver embroideries of that splendid garment contain some mystic suggestions of passion—I know not what—I cannot see them, but I know that they are there before me—curious symbols that have grown with the growth of the race and only decayed with its decadence —a wonder of curves and interlacings—passion made sublime by suffering. Ah, there you have the true note of tropic moonlight. May you never forget it—the true note of mortal life that becomes immortal through passion and sorrow for the curse of immortality that has been imposed upon it.”

“My suffering aunt!” broke in Archie Browne. “It’s enough for a white man to think of it as matt-gilt, hand-burnished moonlight, and I’m off for a cocktail, anyway.”

"Give me the moonlight of Romeo and Juliet, music by Gounod, libretto by Shakespeare,” cried Lady Innisfail. "There’s no moonlight worth talking about except that at Covent Garden. Moonlight and Melba. There’s a duet for you—moonlight is a duet—never a solo. That’s what makes it so very human. It is always a duet, and if it is true, it palpitates. There’s a mystery for you, Mr. Tumleigh.”

But Mr. Tumleigh did not care greatly for other people’s mysteries. He was in the business himself. But he would have dearly liked to go for a stroll round the garden with Miss La Roache, and he said as much with his voice and much more with his eyes to Miss La Roache herself. His project only broke down (he thought) through Miss La Roache’s saying an alert "Good night” to him prominently, and to the others on the verandah incidentally.

Every chair in the great central “lounge” of the hotel had been occupied immediately after dinner; but a good many of the sojourners had been passengers in the mail steamer that had arrived the day before, and having had enough of tossing to last them for some time, they had retired to their rooms, so that only about a dozen people —some of them belonging to the Curlew—were on the settees under the palm plants. Claire waved a "good night” to those nearest to her as she turned aside on entering to the staircase, and went to her room, which opened off a spacious boudoir with green-jalousied windows just above the garden.

The windows were open and the jalousies thrown back so that the room was flooded with moonlight, with the shadow of the tuft of the great palm outside thrown upon the floor.

Claire could see through the space between the two folds of her bedroom door the white muslin mosquito curtains inviting her beneath their canopy; but on the other hand, there was the entrancement of the moonlight and the scents floating up from the garden—the incantation, hovering through the warm air, of the tree lizards. She seated herself in a chair at one of the open windows, and yielded to the fascination of the nocturne of Nature outside. Voices were murmuring below, and there was an occasional whiff of a cigar mingling with the perfume of the roses and the yellow caladium bushes.

In the course of a quarter of an hour only a few men were left in the garden, and Claire could hear the froufrou of dinner dresses on the stairs and corridors at the other side of her room.

Suddenly a single figure arose from the garden chair beneath the great palm, and strolled into the light She saw in a moment that it was Philip Trent who had been sitting there alone since Lady Innisfail and Norah had left his side—she had seen Norah and her mother cross the carriage-drive and go up the steps to the porch before she had been at her window for five minutes.

Philip Trent strolled away a few yards, and then remained motionless for a short time as if lost in thought He retraced his steps as casually as before, and leant over the back of the garden chair—only for a couple of minutes, however. He put his hands behind him, and with the slightly bent head of the thinker, crossed the green patch toward the bend in the carriage-drive. He did not go so far as the drive; he ceased his objectless stroll, and, apparently in that thoughtlessness which comes from too much thinking, began to return to the hotel, but obliquely, so that he might come out among the sago palms and the oleanders of the garden.

Claire wondered what was the deep question that he was working out. She had often watched him walk about in this fashion at Suanamara, and his walk was invariably followed by a period of great activity in the secretarial staff, hundreds of telegrams and cablegrams being despatched.

Suddenly she saw something that puzzled her. She had seen the shadow of Philip Trent thrown on the bright grass, and then, as she paused for a minute or two, it seemed to her eyes as if his shadow were cast in the opposite direction as well.

At first she fancied that he was standing beside some shrub; but when he walked on, she saw what was taking place: he was being followed by a black figure of a man across the grass.

The figure was immediately behind him—a sombre, shambling figure, apparently wearing a cloak, and so close behind him that Claire wondered how it was that Philip did not become aware of his presence. Philip was neither aware of his presence nor his action—so much was quite certain to the girl; and this surprised her at first and then frightened her.

Where had the man sprung from? How had he got behind Mr. Trent in the middle of the broad lawn without the latter becoming aware of his approach? What business had he now to dog his steps in this fashion— to become his second shadow, as it had seemed to her that he was?

She was puzzled, then angry, and, lastly, frightened.

She stood up between the open jalousies almost breathless with the excitement caused by her thought—her apprehension. There he went slowly backward and forward upon the grass, his head slightly bent, and there the strange figure followed him; and yet by no motion—by no gesture, did Philip Trent suggest that he was aware of that mysterious presence.

He—they—came slowly along the carriage-drive toward the hotel porch—she could hear the sound of footsteps on the gravel, but footsteps only of one person. This fact terrified her still more; for unless the silent one meant some wickedness, why should he step so stealthily as to make no sound whatsoever?

She was now leaning out of the window: he—they— had come so close to the building that she could not see them otherwise—she was leaning out sideways, her left hand holding back the swinging jalousie. They were coming alongside the porch and would be under her window in a few minutes.

They? no, only he.

To her amazement she saw that Philip Trent was alone.

At first she had an impression that the other was crouching behind him, and was thus concealed by him; but the moon was at one side of him throwing his shadow across the bright carriage-drive, and there was but one shadow.

When he had almost reached the porch he stopped, and turning half-way round, began to walk to the garden seat at the side of the great palm. The moment he turned she gave a cry, scarcely stifling it.

It was there still—that stealthy following figure, and yet there was but one shadow in the moonlight.

She saw Philip Trent make a pause as if he had heard her little cry—he paused and turned his head slightly; then strolled on toward the seat. She had drawn back from the window out of sight. But he did not glance in the direction of the window.

She would have called out to him but for the fact of her mother’s occupying the second bedroom, the door of which opened on to the boudoir and was slightly ajar. The sound of a voice would have aroused her in a moment, Claire knew. When, however, Philip was within half a dozen yards of the black shade made by the dense mangoes beyond the tall palms, she had a horrible feeling that if he once went out of the moonlight he would never be seen again. That loathsome Thing behind him would have strangled the life out of him in the darkness.

In a second she had rushed to the door—noiselessly but swiftly—down the stairs she went into the deserted hall—through a faint scent of cigarette smoke—and out through the wide-open door, startling out of his feeble senses the negro porter who was sprawling on one of the Madeira chairs.

Her feet could not have made any perceptible sound on the gravel, and the air was simmering with the chirrup of the tree lizards, yet Philip turned about and waited for her. He was still a step within the moonlight.

She was almost in his arms—clutching his hand— looking not at him—but behind him—beyond him—into the place of shadows.

“Heavens! What is the matter? My poor child!” he said, laying his other hand upon hers.

She was breathless.

“I saw him behind you,” she gasped—“a strange wicked figure—black—I was at my window—you were there—on the lawn—he followed you—I saw him— stealthy—I was frightened—even now—but where has he gone? How was it that you did not hear him—dose— close behind you—so close that it seemed to be but one —one shadow? I felt that if you went into that darkness you should die—but you are here—he is gone—you think me a fool—a girl.”

“My poor child,” he said. “What can I think of you except what I do think—all that is good—all that is sweet? How can I thank you? You have saved me from —from something. I will not go on to the seat I will go back with you to the hotd.”

“But I tell you that I saw him—oh, perfectly clear— I tried to make allowance for—for everything,” she cried, perceiving that he was humouring her—politely indulgent in regard to a foolish freak of her imagination.

“How can I ever thank you sufficiently?” he said. “Some importunate nigger, I daresay. I remember now that I did hear something—it may have been the thump of his feet beside me.”

“You could not; he made no sound—I listened for it He shadowed you—so close—even now——”

She looked apprehensively toward the mangoes.

“You are frightened,” he said. “But there is nothing to be frightened at now, my dear Claire. You have saved me. Let me tell you how it was that I became oblivious of every—every sound—every—every presence near me save only one.”

She stood in front of him white and lovely in the mellow moonlight. Her hair had become slightly disordered; a long, loose strand was lying, with a coiled, curled end, on one of her bare shoulders. Her heart was still beating quickly within her bosom, and its palpitations were palpable—exquisite—beneath the lily curves that swelled against the bondage of her bodice. Her throat and bosom were milk-white in the moonlight and warm as milk to his face as she leant toward him, her eyes still gazing beyond him into the shadows.

He put his hand upon her bare arm soothingly. He knew that she had not heard a word that he had spoken. She was too greatly interested in all that she was apprehensive of seeing among the shadows of the trees.

“I think that I had better investigate that mystery—it will satisfy you—both of us,” he said, making a movement towards the trees.

She grasped his arm with both her hands.

“No, no—for God’s sake,” she said in a whisper. “No, no; I will not let you go there. Oh, you think that I have only had a foolish fancy, but—I will not let you go there—I have a feeling—the Shadow of Death.”

“And I have more faith in your feeling than I have in anything that exists,” said he. “I will not go near the trees. You must calm yourself, my Claire; there can be no danger now. You have saved me from—something; I trust to your feeling.”

Still she remained with her eyes fixed upon the same place—still apprehensive. Even when he drew her gently away she cast a glance every now and then behind her.

They went toward the hotel porch, both silent “I should like to tell you what I was thinking of all this evening—all this night,” he said. “I should like to tell you what was the thought that absorbed me so that I was unconscious of—of anything near me—any danger that threatehed me.”

“Do not tell me anything now,” she said, with a curious shiver. “I feel that—that some danger is threatening. I feel that if you were to speak—yes, a single word —a blow might fall upon us. Let us go inside the hotel. I think that if I know that you are within I shall feel at ease. What a curious night for me! All the mystery that used to be about these islands seems to have remained in the atmosphere, and I feel that I have breathed deeply of it. I feel at this moment as if I were walking in a dream—as if this were the moonlight of a dream and that place”—they had reached the entrance-hall of the hotel—“were some place that I am revisiting in my sleep.” “And I, too, have felt all this evening that I have been in a dream—a very sweet dream—the only dream that ever entered my life,” said he; “a dream of the future, and of the future with love never separated from it for a day or an hour or a thought. That was rather a strange vision for me, was it not, Claire?”

She looked at him for a few moments—her eyes upon his. And then she felt a sudden glow fly through every part of her body as if she had all at once swallowed a subtle liqueur—warm and exhilarating for a moment, but then bringing on a delicious languor—an entrancing drowsiness. She was conscious of her eyes half closing.

At that moment she put out a hand to him.

“Good night,” she said, “good night.”

He took her hand and held it for a moment “Good night,” he said.

Before she had withdrawn her hand, he had his other arm around her, and was holding her tightly to him, kissing her on her cheeks, her forehead, her mouth. She made not the least attempt to resist him. She seemed to know by instinct that it would be of no use to make such an attempt She submitted. She did not return one of ns kisses; but when he released her she did not feel that she had been shamed. She only fled silently up the stairs and into her room.

Her mother spoke to her from within, in the surpliced voice of the newly-awakened. She asked her if she had just come upstairs, adding that she fancied she had heard someone in the outer room earlier in the night Claire managed to tide over her mother’s waking space, and all the time that she was giving vague replies to half-heard inquiries, she was looking at her face in the glass—at her cheeks, her forehead, her mouth. It seemed to her that she was someone quite apart from the figure in the glass. It seemed to her that she was someone who had been watching the adventures of one Claire La Roache during the evening. She was on the verge of being amused when she thought of all that that young woman had gone through; but she was overwhelmed with wonder to find that the thought of the kisses which she had received (passively) made her feel happy.

She was not palpitating now. She was at rest. Even the wonder at her own feeling of happiness was not disturbing to her—it was even soothing to her. She was conscious of a curious sensation as of a question answered —a sensation of satisfaction; and thus she undressed and went to her white bed under her white mosquito curtains in a soft glow of sublime contentment.

She was asleep in a minute.

CHAPTER XXV.

But when she awoke in the morning and her eyes rested on the large negress chambermaid who had brought her a cup of coffee, her reflections did not tend to soothe her. Although she had seemed to be in a dream the previous night, from the moment that she had looked out of her window and had seen that strange figure following Mr. Trent, until she had gone to bed, yet now her memory of all that had happened was in no way the memory of a dream. She felt that it had all been a reality and she could never see Mr. Trent again.

She had never before had an experience of a woman’s repentance, which invariably comes in the morning.

How could she ever see Philip Trent again? She remembered perfectly well that she had made no fight against his kiss. It seemed to her that she had accepted it as a natural thing—as natural a thing as a draught of water and rather more satisfying; and yet all the time that she was submitting to his kiss she was under a sacred obligation to love quite another man.

She wondered if it could be possible that the original nature of a woman which still remained—to some extent —in the heart of women, occasionally prompted them to passiveness against their own will—against their own knowledge of what was right and true and just and honourable? Has Nature no sense of what is honourable? Is she always trying to compass her own ends, even though human souls may be lost in the act?

The worst of it was (she thought) that only a week had passed since she had had a sincere repentance for all the dishonourable things that she had done—that she had somehow been led to do, in the past. At that time she had made up her mind that nothing would induce her to do anything horrid in the future; and she had moreover expiated her fault—perhaps even exculpated herself—by the confession which she had written out and sent to the woman to whom she had behaved so badly— so slyly—so contemptibly.

Only a week had passed since she had sincerely repented before, and yet now she had cause for a still sincerer repentance; for what she had done was a wrong to the man whom she had promised to love—the man for whose sake she had been content to act a falsehood for months, as a sign that she loved him.

She would never see Philip Trent again.

It gave her some satisfaction to make this resolution; and, curiously enough, it seemed to her that in making this resolution she was somehow expiating her fault.

“I will never see him again!” she cried. “What must he think of me? I could see that he did not believe me when I ran out to him to tell him of his danger—of what I had seen—I did see it—I did see it!” (She found it necessary to insist upon this fact even to herself.) “I saw the way he looked at me—but he was not unkind—not for a moment—he did not smile; if he had smiled a superior smile I would have left him. . . . But the thing was too ridiculous for him to believe, and then... then... he must have felt that I was submissive—passive—acquiescing—and so I was—so I was, God help me!.. . Ah, what must he think? What must he think of me?”

It was the thought of what he would think of her that was bitterest at that moment in the chronology of her repentance. And next in point of bitterness was the thought that she would never see him again.

And yet she was as truly repentant of what had happened as ever woman was when Nature has been more than usually relentless and conscience more than usually resentful It is because they have been taught to try to bring about a compromise between the two forces, that women are living in a state of perpetual repentance, and perpetual repentance is only another name for perpetual self-deception.

Of course she would have to face her fellow-passengers at breakfast, and she felt that that would be an ordeal. Would they not all look at her cheeks, her forehead, her mouth? It was all very well for her to keep the secret of her understanding with Stephen Urquhart: that was a secret which possessed no more than an austere and academic interest to anyone; but the kiss was a positive act. It left traces behind. When she thought of it she could feel a certain glow on her cheek spreading to her forehead and the roots of her hair. That was what she was afraid of.

Luckily her mother went into her room before she was quite dressed and took the rough edge off her meeting with the world. Her mother did not seem to notice anything compromising about her cheeks; and Claire was quite amazed to find that she herself had no difficulty in looking at her mother straight in the face—just as if nothing had happened.

Mrs. La Roache asked her how she had slept, and talked about the delightful coolness of the rooms. She did not believe that there was a single mosquito within miles of this delightful hotel.

Mother and daughter went downstairs together, and found their way up the long room to where the others of the party were seated over their iced grape-fruits. They were too deeply absorbed in absorbing these delicacies to have more than a moment to spare to say “Good morning.”

Claire, feeling herself quite equal to a supreme effort of self-control, glanced around for Mr. Trent. He was not to be seen. He had not yet left his room, or perhaps he was engaged in some important business with his secretary. At any rate, he was not at a table. She was spared the ordeal of coming face to face with him.

And the most curious thing about this particular point was that she felt quite disappointed that the reprieve was granted to her. So that, after all, she must have been looking forward to coming face to face with him. Before she had absorbed the exquisite pulp of the grape-fruit on her plate, she found herself hoping that he was not absenting himself on her account. It occurred to her that he might be ashamed of having yielded to his impulses of the night—that he might be penitent.

She knew so little of men as to fancy that this man might be penitent because of that kiss. But it was extremely womanly of her to feel apprehensive on his account—to feel quite guilty of causing him the inconvenience of penitence. She was ready to take the whole blame of the transaction upon herself. In the original story of the temptation it was the man who laid the blame upon the woman, and since then it has seemed to the woman quite right and proper that she should accept the relative position of the man and the woman as originally defined. Claire said to herself, “Who am I that I should be the means of preventing Mr. Trent from discharging his social duties toward his guests?”

But Mr. Urquhart appeared in place of Mr. Trent before the grilled flying-fish was served. Mr. Urquhart was smiling. She saw at once that he at least suspected nothing of Mr. Trent’s impulses. He made a sort of apology for Philip’s absence. Some letters—cables—had been received—rather important—required immediate attention. He knew he would be pardoned.

Of course he was pardoned, with a few phrases quite complimentary to the absent one, of “Bother business!” and “Confound cables!”

Carriages began to appear on the drive before tiffin. His excellency sent an aide-de-camp in undress uniform, with an orderly in dazzling tunic and white helmet, with a message to Mr. Trent, and it turned out that the aide-de-camp was a cousin of Lady InnisfaiPs husband. The Naval Commander, the Commander-in-Chief, the Chief Justice, a reporter from the leading Kingston newspaper, and a man selling cigars—all these representatives of the responsibilities of the Empire—sought interviews with Mr. Trent, but were compelled to fall back upon Mr. Trent’s party, and were consoled by cocktails or coffee for his enforced absence. They all gave a great deal of advice as to the places of interest to be seen on the island.

It was altogether a very busy day at Constant Spring. Mr. Urquhart had not a moment to himself, for his principal did not appear. He was not feeling very well, the private secretary explained to such visitors as were sufficiently distinguished to be worth such a distinction. Mr. Trent was confined to his room—oh no, nothing worth talking about—a touch of the liver—but Mr. Trent was bound to be careful.

If the distinguished ones did not accept the explanation in the spirit in which it was offered, it was their own fault The least worldly-minded of them must have been assured that Mr. Trent preferred not to be bothered with them.

In the late afternoon Claire and her mother went for a drive in a buggy that was placed at their disposal, up the read leading beyond the hotel among the enchanting scenery of the Blue Mountains, and when they returned in time to dress for dinner, and were sitting with Norah and Archie on one of the lounges of the porch, Stephen came downstairs talking with a stranger—an elderly gentleman with the forehead of a philanthropist and the mouth of a philanderer.

“Hallo,” said Archie, “that’s a chap I have seen in London—a well-known chap in some line of business—a judge, I think—or is it the Stock Exchange? No, I believe that after all he is running a theatre—some big thing like that.”

“You goosey!” said Norah. “Everyone knows that that is Sir Ellis Crofton, the great doctor. I suppose he is taking a cruise in one of the mail steamers and has called to pay his respects to Mr. Trent.”

“I am an idiot,” said Archie. “He is one of the chaps who attended my dad when he got knocked up. But it wasn’t so bad of me to be able to know his face, though everybody appears in the illustrated weeklies nowadays.”

Sir Ellis had gone outside the porch with Stephen, and they stood together talking in a low tone.

“Looks quite professional!” remarked Archie. “If it was known that Sir Ellis had called upon Trent pro fessionally it would make a difference of about two million to certain stocks.”

A sudden thought seemed to strike him.

“By the Lord Harry!” he cried in a whisper of infinite sagacity, “it’s quite on the cards that Trent is a bear on some stock, and hearing that Crofton was here, called him in—that would be Urquhart’s idea—I’ll take my davy that Urquhart hit upon it. I see the headlines—‘Serious illness of Philip Trent—Sir Ellis Crofton sent for.’ They’ll make the most of it in the papers, and stocks will go down with a rush. I’ll cable my broker to buy a thing or two to-morrow, before the recovery takes place.”

At this point some of the rest of the Curlews came in; they had been at the camp at Newcastle, and had brought a field-officer and subaltern to dine with them. Stephen entered immediately after, and Archie, with great tact, approached him on the subject of the visit of the great London physician.

“What does Sir Ellis think of the case, eh, Urquhart?” he inquired, with a gesture indicative of a considerable reticence in slyness. “Hopeless—eh? Oh, he still holds out some hope? Sir Ellis always does take a chirpy view of things—that’s why he is so popular.”

“We are lucky in having him handy,” said Urquhart gravely. “He came off the Mail. I saw that he was staying at Myrtle Bank. If Mr. Trent is to be seriously ill——”

“Oh, yes—‘Serious illness of Mr. Philip Trent’—I see the papers to-morrow morning, and down go the stocks,” said Archie. “Down go the stocks like a sack of potatoes. I wonder what I had best buy. Give a coon a wink, Urquhart.”

Urquhart shook his head.

“Sir Ellis says there is no cause for anxiety at all,” said he. "It may be the change from the yacht to the hotel, or perhaps what he has been eating—he was never careful enough.”

"My aunt! you don’t mean to tell us he is ill— actually ill: not a ‘Latest City News’ illness?” he cried.

"Sir Ellis is certainly no alarmist,” said Urquhart. “I am sure that he is right in thinking this attack a mere trifle.”

"Attack? Attack of what?” cried Norah.

"Sir Ellis thinks that it must be something gastric,” replied Urquhart. "He regards the symptoms as distinctly pointing to gastritis; at the same time——”

“Appendicitis—he’s sure to call it appendicitis, whatever it may be,” said Archie. "There seems to be no one quite free from appendicitis since they found out that there was such a disease a year or two ago. They’ll sliver him, never you fear, if they have the slightest excuse. If he takes my advice he’ll——”

"Sir Ellis Crofton is his medical attendant just at present,” said Urquhart "Should it be necessary to hold a consultation, I am sure that he would not overlook your claims, Archie; but to volunteer advice at this stage is unprofessional.”

Urquhart walked up the stairs smiling blandly.

But Lady Innisfail, who was a sagacious observer, whispered that he looked pale, and Mrs. Charleville—a lady who was in the party—agreed with her. Mr. Urquhart certainly did look pale under his sun-bronzing.

Claire had no word to say one way or another. She was overwhelmed with surprise, and was conscious of the deepest pain. She really felt as though she had been suffering from some terrible malady, and it had been communicated to him by the kiss. She somehow seemed to hold herself accountable for his having been stricken down. She was not an adroit enough analyst of her feelings to be aware of the fact that this impression had its origin in the momentary resolution which she had made that she would never see him again.

She remembered that she had said in her haste that she would never see him again, and it was as if that jocular Fate, which finds so much good sport in taking people literally—so much genuine fun in decreeing that hasty resolutions shall be carried out in their entirety—had taken her at her word. It was decreed that she should never see Philip Trent again.

She sat down on the cane chair under the palms of the entrance-hall of the hotel, watching the guests passing up the stairs and round the gallery to the corridor, where their rooms and maids were awaiting them—watching the negro waiters clumping about the polished floors. The band were tuning their strings in the drawing-room. Some of them played a bar or two of a melody, laughing and chatting. She sat there quite solitary until long after the hour when she should have gone to dress for dinner. Doors opened and banged in the rooms upstairs. Her mother appeared at the side of the gallery in her dressing-robe and looked anxiously over the banisters. But Claire had not words even to reassure her as to her whereabouts.

She sat there in her loneliness, her solitary thought being that she had somehow provoked Fate to play upon her that cruel jest. Fate did not care how many innocent people were made miserable by the carrying out of one of its schemes of jocularity. Fate never knows when comedy ends and tragedy begins. She had said that she would never see Philip Trent again, and the gods were chuckling over her resolution, made so carelessly. That was the fun of it She knew now that she had never meant her resolution to be taken seriously, for now the thought that she was never to see him again was insupportable.

And yet if anyone had suggested to her that she had ever loved Philip Trent she would have been surprised, perhaps angry; for to love Philip Trent implied her being false to Stephen Urquhart, the man whom she had promised to love.

She did not change her dress for dinner that night. She said that she had a headache, and she said the truth, though Mrs. Charleville, who was draped with exceeding incompleteness, touched with her toe the toe of her friend Lady Innisfail under the table the moment Claire had made her excuse.

CHAPTER XXVI.

The next morning Claire La Roache, coming downstairs to breakfast, found herself face to face with a rude structure of portmanteaus, kit-bags, and walking-sticks, which had just been brought in from the luggage cart On one cabin case she read the name Sir Ellis Crofton, Bart The great physician had come to Constant Spring Hotel, although he had been sojourning at Myrtle Bank Hotel at Kingston.

What did that mean?

It could mean only that Sir Ellis had thought it advisable to be near Mr. Trent—that Mr. Trent's illness appeared to be more serious than his private secretary had made it out to be.

Her heart sank within her, nor was she in any way reassured by the cynical way in which some of the yacht's company talked of millionaires and medicos. When a man worth a million or two had anything the matter with him, it would be safe for a casual observer to assume that it would not be minimised by even his most highly titled medical attendant, they said. Of course, it was fortunate that Sir Ellis Crofton was taking his holiday in the West Indies just when Mr. Philip Trent had been stricken down, and of the extreme good fortune no one was more amply aware than Sir Ellis Crofton himself. But it was the same way with everyone who came in contact with a man whose wealth was notorious: everyone regarded a millionaire as fair game; in fact, some people seemed to think not merely that he was fair game, but that to refrain from making a good thing out of him would be a culpable neglect of a golden opportunity. But some of these people were now and again subjected to a rude awaking in the course of their dealings with millionaires.

Almost everyone at the table had a story illustrative of the avarice of the modem millionaire. Some of the series were very amusing.

But Claire was beyond the consolation of cynicism. She had somehow acquired the notion that Philip Trent was seriously ill, and her conviction was not to be shaken by such influences as reason and logic, leaving cynicism and a knowledge of the frailty of humanity out of the question altogether.

Before the tables became deserted Stephen Urquhart put in an appearance. He was grave, nervous; it was plain that he had not slept much during the night. He had not got much to say, only to convey Mr. Trent’s regards to his friends and his expectation to be among them in the course of a few days. Meantime he hoped that they would look after themselves. It would add to the misfortune of his being laid up to think that they were not looked after.

Of course all—except Claire—affirmed that Mr. Trent might rest easy: they would find plenty of ways of amusing themselves in his absence, and they were sure that he would be with them in a day or two. By the way, what was actually the matter with him? they asked. What did Sir Ellis say? How jolly lucky it was that Sir Ellis happened to be in the West Indies!

Stephen said that it was a piece of real good luck that Sir Ellis’s services were available. It was more than lucky; it was providential—absolutely providential.

“Ah!” said Colonel Gilford, with a shake of the head that was meant to signify a great deal. “Ah, we are apt to be careless about these things at times; but a thing like this pulls a man up stiff and makes him think. The hand of Providence—well, people may shrug their shoulders and all that, but I don’t care a—a scrap; I am willing to be thought old-fashioned—behind the time— whatever you please—but give me my simple faith—the simple faith of our mothers, by George! ... I wonder what Crofton really thinks of the case.”

“Something gastric,” said Urquhart “Oh, dear, no— nothing to call for alarm. But it is as well to be careful —complete rest, Crofton said, and a diet Luckily this is a good hotel—the best in these latitudes. I hope that we shall be able to get up an excursion for to-day. I fancy that you would all like a run to Spanish Town. Spanish Town will give you a better idea of Old Jamaica —the Jamaica of Port Royal and Morgan the Buccaneer— than Kingston does. Yes, I shall send a wire to have luncheon for us at the hotel and a buggy or two to meet us at the railway station.”

Lady Innisfail, who was blessed with a considerable amount of tact, though she was occasionally quite successful in her efforts to conceal the fact from human observation, said that she for one would be delighted to go to— what was the name of the place?

She knew that if Mr. Trent were to hear that his guests had absented themselves from felicity on account of his indisposition, he would be greatly irritated. It would cheer him up to know that his friends were cheerful.

Whatever Lady Innisfail thought on any subject was just what Archie thought, and Claire fully appreciated the situation. For herself she thought that she might as well go wherever the rest of the party went She could do no good by remaining at the hotel—perhaps she might come to harm—“more harm” were the words that passed through her mind.

Urquhart was greatly pleased. He said it was a great comfort to be in contact with sensible people. Common-sense people were the people who had imagination—who could perceive possibilities not apparent to the sentimental. He sent on his telegrams to the Rio Cobre at Spanish Town, and before ten o’clock he got his party away. Of course he was compelled to stay with Trent, but he did everything that could be conceived for the comfort of the others.

And Claire La Roache, all the time that she was being carried through the marvellous banana groves that stretched for miles on both sides of the railway line, was thinking of that curious thing that had happened during the night when she had looked out of her window and seen that strange figure—that black form—stalking behind Philip Trent like his own shadow—itself shadowless. All the time that she stood with her mother and the others of the party who turned themselves into tourists for the day—in front of the statue of Rodney—within the cathedral which had all the aspect of a minster of the Old World, and which indeed is of greater antiquity than many cathedrals in Europe—facing the fine eighteenth century mansion which was once “The King’s House”— the name rang with the clear note of romance when it first came to their ears—all the time that she was driving alongside the ravines of the Rio Cobre, passing countless numbers of the negress population panting on toward the town, carrying on their turbaned heads their baskets of fruit—she was thinking of that strange thing that she had seen—that horrible portent, as it seemed to have been.

The day was an exquisite one—the blue hollow shield of the sky reflected the sun’s rays from every quarter; but though there was the unlimited sparkle of warm sunshine in the air, making it a delight to breathe, there was none of the brazen heat of a tropical sky. A gracious air was blowing through the valley of the river, and it stirred into all the grace of feathery motion the superb vegetation of both sides of the slope. Here were tamarind trees, their green foliage making an occasional background for the alamanda, yellow as a laburnum; here were lightly-poised caladiums, red and white, wild fig trees looking scared; among the rocks of the slope arose a flame of acacia, and on the higher ground the bougainvillea spread a purple haze of flowers about itself; flowering shrubs were here by the thousand, and at rare intervals, a large wild orange tree, its dwarf fruit shining among its glossy leaves as well as its fairy blossoms.

The hum of bees and the lazy aerial dance of butterflies of velvety beauty would have brought back one’s thoughts to the English lane—to the bank whereon the wild thyme blows—to the oxlips and the nodding violets —were it not that there quivered in the air between the blooms of the flowering plants the humming birds of the tropical gardens. The exquisite dainty things—humming birds are orchids with souls—quivered and hovered and twinkled with no apparent movement of their wings between the white flowers of the caladiums, some with short tail feathers, and others with a single long drooping shred of violet satin on each side, coquettishly curled at the end, as exquisite as a delicate strand of a girl’s hair.

Claire felt herself to be outside the picture. She was apart from these wonderful landscapes. The cascades of the river that made flowers of foam beneath the flowers of the forest drew forth kodak encomiums from several members of the party. She could not even simulate an interest in them any more than she could in the negro bustle of market day at Bog Walk, which was reached in an hour or two. It was a great relief to her to be once again driving on the electric-car track at Kingston out to the Blue Mountains.

“I shouldn’t wonder if Trent were to meet us in the porch,” said one of the party, aiming at cheerfulness. The others had a tropical droop about their bearing after the day’s excursion. The men were looking forward to the swimming bath of deliciously cool water with the merits of which they had become acquainted the day before.

“I don’t see why he shouldn’t,” said Norah in a tone of hopefulness that was worse than despair.

Claire said nothing. She knew that Stephen would meet the party when they entered the hotel in the blue twilight, and her presentiment was not astray. He was in the porch, smoking a cigarette.

She looked at him and knew the worst It was quite perplexing, Stephen said in a low, anxious voice—everyone was speaking in a low, anxious voice. Sir Ellis was quite perplexed. He thought it must be hereditary, though Mr. Trent had said that, so far as he could recollect, neither of his parents had suffered from any malady. No, it was not typhoid, but undoubtedly some of the symptoms of typhoid were present The lungs were perfectly sound—that was one good thing, and the heart, if a trifle jerky, was quite healthy.

“But if he is quite sound, what on earth is the matter with him?” asked Archie in not quite so low a tone as was expected of him.

“Weakness—a strange weakness,” said Stephen. “Sir Ellis admits that he has never seen anything just like it before. But, of course, the treatment is simple. Sir Ellis is no believer in drugs—diet is everything. It is greatly in his favour to be in such a place as this. The hotel people are most anxious. Sir Ellis is by his side. He says that there is really no immediate danger. He has an excellent constitution and will be able to hold out for some days.”

Archie opened his eyes.

“Oh, Lord!” he said. “You don’t mean to say that it has come to that?”

Colonel Gilford had a story to tell about an unde of his own who had had an illness that had baffled the best doctors of his day. When all hope for his recovery was abandoned, he took a fancy to have an onion to eat Nothing would do him but an onion. Well, the cook soon found him one and stewed it for him in some sort of gravy, and an hour after eating it, which he did whole, taking it into his mouth like a gooseberry, he was able to leave his bed, and he met the family doctor in century mansion which was once “The King’s House”— the name rang with the clear note of romance when it first came to their ears—all the time that she was driving alongside the ravines of the Rio Cobre, passing countless numbers of the negress population panting on toward the town, carrying on their turbaned heads their baskets of fruit—she was thinking of that strange thing that she had seen—that horrible portent, as it seemed to have been.

The day was an exquisite one—the blue hollow shield of the sky reflected the sun’s rays from every quarter; but though there was the unlimited sparkle of warm sunshine in the air, making it a delight to breathe, there was none of the brazen heat of a tropical sky. A gracious air was blowing through the valley of the river, and it stirred into all the grace of feathery motion the superb vegetation of both sides of the slope. Here were tamarind trees, their green foliage making an occasional background for the alamanda, yellow as a laburnum; here were lightly-poised caladiums, red and white, wild fig trees looking scared; among the rocks of the slope arose a flame of acacia, and on the higher ground the bougainvillea spread a purple haze of flowers about itself; flowering shrubs were here by the thousand, and at rare intervals, a large wild orange tree, its dwarf fruit shining among its glossy leaves as well as its fairy blossoms.

The hum of bees and the lazy aerial dance of butterflies of velvety beauty would have brought back one’s thoughts to the English lane—to the bank whereon the wild thyme blows—to the oxlips and the nodding violets —were it not that there quivered in the air between the blooms of the flowering plants the humming birds of the hear him speak of any woman as he has spoken of you. My dear Claire, you will be amazed—not so much amazed as I was, but still—oh, you will scarcely believe it—I am quite prepared to hear you say that it is impossible, but it is true; he loves you, poor fellow! he has been loving you since he met you first in Ireland.”

“Poor fellow! poor fellow!” said she after an interval, during which she had not given any indication of surprise.

“What? Do you mean to say that you guessed—I have heard of the intuition of women—but that you should be able to read his secret, which even I had failed to discover, is too wonderful. When he told me to-day I was so astonished that I began to suspect a delusion— delirium—but I soon perceived that he was speaking sanely. But why should I be so inconsistent as to be surprised? When I look at you, my Claire, I feel that the wonder is that every man who sees you——”

She made a little gesture of disapproval.

“Pardon me—I feel that it would be in the worst taste,” said he gently. “Poor fellow! poor— I cannot understand how you guessed his secret”

“I had no idea of it until the night before last,” said she. “And even then I do not suppose that I should have come to such a conclusion; though yesterday I re-called some few words that he said to me when we were waiting for you to return to the yacht from your excursion at Martinique.”

“Ah! Just at that time? Singular!” mused Stephen. “Never mind. He loves you. I really believe that you are the first woman whom he has loved. Poor fellow! poor fellow! Dearest Claire, it is something to be glad of—to be able to think that he cherished a true affection for you—an affection that gave him happiness in the last -days of his life.”

"The last days of his life?—no—no; do not say that —it cannot be—it cannot be,” cried Claire almost passionately.

He took her hand very sadly and looked into her eyes very tenderly.

"Alas—alas!” he said. "But he has not gone without knowing the greatest joy of living.”

He dropped her hand and walked quickly away. His emotions were becoming too great to be any longer concealed.

CHAPTER XXVII.

Was it true—was it true that it had been in her power to give him comfort in his last days?

That was the question which she asked herself all the time that she was sitting in the silence of her room that night He loved her and she loved another man, and yet she had more than a hope that Philip Trent was the better for loving her.

And she knew, moreover, that she felt the better for being loved by him. She now knew why she had felt no self-contempt—the self-contempt which should certainly have been hers—when she had gone away from being so passionately kissed by him two nights before. If she had in very deed loved him and not another man, she could not have felt more consolation from the reflection that she had been submissive at that time. Those moments of submission are either the making or the marring of a woman’s happiness, and of this fact she was aware, she knew not how; and she felt happy in the thought that she had brought some happiness to him.

She wondered if it gave her any happiness to reflect upon the fact—she supposed that it was a fact, though not yet accomplished—that it would not be in his power ever to know that she did not return that love which he had for her, and which he had expressed with admirable emphasis, though without the utterance of a word of love. Of course, she did not actually conceal even from herself the fact that she loved his loving her. She could never forget that he loved her—that he was still loving her.

It was on this account that she had been so stricken with sorrow when she learned that he had fallen ill—it was on this account, and not because, as she had at first fancied, she held herself, following a curious line of thought, responsible for his illness, having, by making that dreadful resolution never to see him again, challenged that ironical demon known as Fate, to take her at her word.

She had sat in her room since she had left the dinner-table. Her mother had gone to bed the moment that she had gone upstairs, and the general impression that seemed to prevail among the others of the Curlew's party was that nothing better could be done. Whatever evil might happen to their host, they themselves would have obtained the certain good of an extra three hours of sleep. But she remained by the window of the room off which her bedchamber opened, thinking her thoughts and finding some measure of consolation as the night deepened just before the rising of the moon.

Everything was very quiet in the building at this time; the mail steamer’s passengers, who had been at the hotel for four or five days, had taken their departure, and before eleven o’clock had come, the last of the negro waiters had left the billiard-room. The stillness within the building was the stillness of death, Claire thought, and the muffled sound of the opening and closing of a door at the other side of the gallery corridor, did not take away from that impression. From without there came only the strident chirrup of the tree lizards.

The moon, waning toward the last quarter, did not rise until late, but Claire was still sitting at the window when the great plumes of the palm tree at the brink of the tennis ground became softly outlined against the mother-of-pearl sky above the mountains and the shadow of their tufts began to creep up the wall behind her. The moon appeared, its dazzling brilliancy half smothered by the foliage for a short time, but soon asserting itself above the line of trees.

She started at that first moment of moonlight. There, just free from the shadows, stood the shadowy figure which she had seen following Philip Trent two nights ago. Once again it appeared before her eyes as a shadow— once again its coarse outlines puzzled her. It seemed to be swathed in a cloak or some such garment, draped after no recognisable scheme of draping. It had the bulk of a man, but if it was a man, he was concealing his head hy the muffling of his garment Indeed, as she saw it, the thing suggested nothing so forcibly as a shadow—the gnarled shapeless shadow of a short stunted tree.

It stood there as motionless as the trunk of the great palm, and Claire watched it with the fascination which comes from something wholly horrible and unreal. She felt that if it had moved she would have cried out with terror.

All at once, before the moon had passed far over the foliage, she saw someone leaving the hotel and walking across the moonlit space to the figure beside the palm, and in another moment she recognised Stephen Urquhart He quickly crossed the space, and then the thing moved, and Urquhart came to a standstill. Claire heard him say some words, but in so low a tone as made it impossible for her to gather what he said. A laugh came from the other.

(Two bats whirled through the moonlight above the great palm, swooping and whirling now and again close to the jalousies of her window. She caught a glimpse of the beady eye of one of them—the sharp white tooth of another.)

Stephen spoke again, but not a word was audible to her, and if he was answered by the other, she could not tell. She heard no voice except Stephen’s.

Then she saw an arm—it looked like an arm—raised and pointing to the tower of the hotel above the porch. It seemed as if the arm, in the act of being upraised, had carried with it some of the drapery of the figure; but in a moment she saw that it was not the soft drapery of a garment, but a curious leather-like attachment, exactly after the pattern of a bat’s wing, but enormous—curving in scallops from a claw-like finger to the foot.

Stephen said something—Claire made out the words “Not yet” and “Martinique”—nothing else. And then she saw him go in among the black sprawling shadows of the trees, the other stepping back beside him.

Two of the West Indian vultures, the Jim Crows which, act as the scavengers of almost every town and village in the islands from Trinidad to Cuba, flapped lazily through the moonlight from the Blue Mountains—she heard the winnowing of their wings as they approached—and settled upon the bough of the tree known as the guinip (gallows). The bough shook for some moments beneath their weight The two bats still whirred and whirled in their fantastic dance.

Claire before leaving Ireland had often thought over the stories which she had read of the West Indies—of the terrors attached to the story of the islands from the day of the discovery of the first by Columbus—the torturing of the Caribs, the Spanish atrocities of the pirates who had turned these paradises into pandemonium—she thought of the terrors of the slave ships, of the Yellow Jack, of the hurricanes that had devastated island after island, of the earthquakes that had swallowed up towns, and of tidal waves that had swept over Port Royal, only a mile or two from where she was sitting, and many another city as notorious as the Cities of the Plain. She had read also travellers’ tales of how the mystery of the devil-worship of Central Africa had been brought by the slaves to the West Indies—of the unspeakable incidents of the black arts of the Obi men and the human sacrifices of Haiti. Until now, however, she had never seemed to realise anything of what the name of the West Indies must have meant to all such as had sailed thither in the old days.

But all that she had experienced within the hour which she had passed at her window—the mystery of that shapeless nightly visitor who had vanished into the monstrous place of shadow—the weird arrival of the pair of black vultures that were swaying on the branch of the gallows tree, caused her to see in a moment a picture—lurid— monstrous—diabolic stains of red and black.

The vision of the Valley of Dry Bones had come to her. She had reached the valley, and had seen the dry bones, but she had not realised what they meant until in a moment there had been a great moving among the bones, they had begun to move together, and now appeared before her eyes a ghastly army—fleshless, frightful.

She threw herself on her knees at the open window and prayed—prayed for protection for Philip Trent from every Power of Evil. She had a vague consciousness of the presence of evil around her; she could not define the evil; but she felt that she was breathing of its atmosphere; she felt as if she had looked up to that sky of moonlight and had seen stretched over half the Heaven a dread figure such as she had seen in a picture of Pestilence—a vast hovering shape with a death’s head seen above a black flowing robe.

She prayed that she, too, might be delivered from the Powers of Evil; and while she was still on her knees she heard the faint silvery chime of the carriage clock within her bedroom. It rang the four quarters and then the hour of midnight. She was sensible of a curious change passing over the world when she looked up without rising from her knees. There was a mist passing over the moon, and it had the shape of a flying figure with a long trailing garment It fled away into the distance, and after it went the two black vultures—flapping away up the valley of the Blue Mountains toward the great Eastern peak known as Mont Diablo.

His face was white- and haggard when he came to her the next day. It was the afternoon. The rumour had been passed round that Philip Trent had had some sleep; but Sir Ellis, who had passed through the hall, had merely shaken his head when questioned by Colonel Gilford.

"Come with me for five minutes to your room,” whispered Stephen, and she rose and led the way upstairs.

His hand was still on the door of the room off which the two sleeping apartments opened when he spoke.

" Claire—Claire! ”

He took her by the hand nervously.

"He is dead—he is dead?” she said in a whisper.

"No—no—but it is a matter of hours,” he replied. "I told you yesterday that he had been talking about you —yes, a great deal. The poor fellow—poor fellow! But to-day—ever since the morning—one moan—one wish— it may be strange—Crofton says he has known several cases before—it would make him happy—yes, for an hour or two—he cannot last longer——”

"You have said nothing; how can I give him an hour’s —a moment’s happiness?” said Claire.

"Good heavens! I thought that I had told you. Claire, it is the one hope of a man at the point of death —nay, even while we speak—he wants you to go through the ceremony of marriage with him.”

She looked at him for a moment with wide, wondering eyes. It was plain to him that she did not grasp the meaning of his words. She looked at him; then gave a laugh—not the strident laugh of the hysterical woman, but a natural laugh. Then she dropped into a chair, and became silent "You understand, Claire, you understand?” he said, taking one of her hands and holding it in both his own. "The poor fellow! ... I know that he loved you—I told you that—he loves you—thinks only of you at this supreme hour. Oh, yes; Crofton has told him the truth —a matter of hours. It is not a foolish fancy by any means. He never was saner. He wants you to inherit all that he can leave—he has no relations—he loves you —you would bear his name. How could I tell him whether you would consent or not? But you are noble and—and you love me. You will do it for my sake, Claire—for my sake.”

“Will I—will I—for your sake?” she said in a voice so formal and hard that he could not have recognised it as her voice. She was, he could perceive, overwhelmed by the communication which he had made to her.

“For my sake,” he said again. “He has been good to me, and I would do much for him; and then . . . Indeed I would do all in my power to persuade you, Claire.”

“A mockery—a mockery!” she said, as if musing. “A mockery of marriage! a marriage of an hour’s duration!” “It would give peace to a dying man. Would that be a mockery, Claire?” he asked, with a touch of pain in his voice—a suggestion of pained rebuke—reproach.

She had her eyes still fixed upon his face. He had never before seen such an expression in her eyes. He was utterly incapable of reading it She was silent for a long time. He was becoming impatient; he knew that the crisis in his life was at hand; he had arranged for it, and it was at hand. He was impatient; but he would take very good care not to let her guess that he was. He had an idea that no woman could ever look beyond the face of the man who was nearest to her.

“Claire, you have a heart—you have a woman’s heart,” he said with infinite tenderness.

She continued looking at him, and then, all in a moment, she burst into tears. She laid her head down upon the cushion of the armchair and wept there; now and again her body was shaken by a sob. He put his arm caressingly about her shoulders.

“My poor child—my poor child!” he murmured.

And then her mother came into the room.

“Mother—mother—come to me,” she cried, stretching out her arms. Her mother was at her feet in a moment.

“My darling—my darling!” she said, clasping her hands behind her daughter’s waist “My darling child, Mr. Urquhart told me all, before he went to you.”

“What am I to do, mother? it rests with you to say what I am to do.”

“Dearest, can you ask?” cried the mother. “Does your own heart not tell you, Claire? Ah, child, child, the pity of it! the pity of it! But God has placed it in your power to make the last moments of——”

“Who has placed it in my power—who?” cried Claire, starting, and almost pushing her mother away from her by the act “It is by the mercy of God that it is placed in your power to soothe the last hours——” began the mother.

“And he loves you,” said the man in the gentlest of tones. And then he stopped. Whatever people might say of Mr. Urquhart, he always knew when to stop—the rarest gift in man or woman.

“It will be a love match—an ideal love match,” cried Claire, and now there was a note of hysteria in her voice. “It is a match made with the sanction of Heaven—God —you said that it was ordered by God, mother; and then there is love—you assure me that he loves me—why do you not say that he will be devoted to me until his last breath, Mr. Urquhart? I am sure that you may safely guarantee so much.”

He turned away when she began to laugh. But he was too impatient He was back to her in a moment His nervousness made him unnaturally calm. There was not a tremor in his voice when he spoke, saying—

“It is not for me to try to persuade you. If your own true woman’s heart does not prompt you——”

“Am I to trust it? Is a woman who follows the promptings of her own heart right or wrong?” cried Claire. “Was there ever a woman undone since the world began except by following the promptings of her own heart? For myself I am sick of my own heart It is deceitful above all things. Oh, some funny things happen in the world, so that one sometimes does not know whether the angels or the demons have the casting vote. Have the angels any sense of humour, Mr. Urquhart —what is your opinion?”

“Poor child! poor child!” murmured Mr. Urquhart “Oh, Claire—darling Claire!” crooned the mother. (“You could have wrung the tears out of her voice,” someone had said of her when she was at her best)

“I think that why we like demons better than angels is that the demons have a great sense of fun—oh, they are perfect children for fun,” said Claire, and again there was the shrillness of hysteria in her voice. Her mother put her arms about her. Claire flung her off, and rushed across the room to Stephen Urquhart, who stood facing the closed green jalousies of the window. She caught him by the arm.

“Tell me,” she cried, “tell me, Stephen Urquhart, if I am to marry Philip Trent?”

“If it rested with me——” he began.

“Yes or no—yes or no,” she cried.

He gave his mental photographic plate an exposure of three seconds. Then he squeezed the bulb.

“Yes—yes—before God, yes,” he said resolutely.

“The demons have it—they think that they have it— if you listen closely you will hear them laugh; the angels never laugh; they only weep, and it seems to me that their eyes must never be dry,” said Claire, turning away as mournfully as Ophelia.

She went to the door, but when her fingers were on the handle she turned to Urquhart.

“I take it for granted that you have made all the arrangements,” she said. “You are to be the best man, are you not? And you are so thoughtful, Mr. Urquhart. I wonder if you bought a wedding-ring in Kingston this morning—it would be so like you—you never forget anything. Is it not in your waistcoat pocket at this moment, done up in white tissue paper?”

He wondered how on earth she had come to know that The girl was a marvel. He was proud of her.

“I know your heart,” he said gently.

When they were both side by side in the doorway, she turned suddenly to her mother, who was a step behind. She pointed to the bottom of the window, saying—

“There—there—mother, I knelt there last night and prayed to God to be delivered from all the powers of evil.”

“And you are, my Claire, you are,” said her mother. She was thinking that her daughter would be the richest woman in England.

“I am—I am—God has heard my prayer,” said the girl.

What was it that she was thinking of?

CHAPTER XXVHI.

He had forgotten nothing—not even the Special Licence —the Extra-Special Licence. It was thought impossible that he could manage it all within the time; for no one knew that he had been with a Church dignitary two days before. Mr. Urquhart was alive to the evils of procrastination in business matters. Of course he had some little trouble in making the Church dignitary understand how the exceptional circumstances of the case of Philip Trent, bachelor and millionaire, demanded exceptional treatment by the Church in its capacity as licenser of marriages; but there were charities in need of subsidies . . . there was really very little trouble over the licence.

“It is expedient,” said the dignitary.

It was expedient, and that which is expedient should be expedited.

The Church lays down certain laws in regard to the celebration of marriages, and the State is considerate enough to make the laws which are legal conform with the laws of the Church—though to be sure there are lay registrars. But the laws of the State will rarely decree that a marriage is invalid if general principles are observed, any more than the State will prosecute for perjury a man or woman who breaks one of the vows made before the altar. A magistrate may commit for a day or two a man or woman who makes a false statement to bring about a carriage, but the marriage is valid all the same. Even a bigamist sometimes only gets one day’s imprisonment And Claire saw the expression that came to the face of the man in the bed—the man with the white face and the hollow eyes—and she was glad that she had come to his room.

The clergyman spoke the words of the sacred (and legal) service in precisely the same voice that he had employed with excellent effect in ordinary cases. He seemed quite unconscious of the mocking phrases that occurred here and there. It was not his business that the hand of Death was clasping the man’s left hand while the right hand was clasping the maiden’s. That was entirely a matter for the man and the maiden; not one to put a dab of colour to the voix blanche.

The Husband kissed the hand of the Wife; but she stooped over him and laid her lips upon his forehead.

Everyone was in tears—even the clergyman.

“Come away, darling—oh, my Claire, come away,” sobbed her mother.

Urquhart was by, ready to support her. He would have to say many words of comfort to her when she would be lying in a torrent of tears in her own room.

“No,” said Claire in a perfectly natural voice. “I am not going to leave him—why should I go away?”

“It is too much for you—you have been brave—strong —but you must not overtax your strength,” said Urquhart in a low, soothing tone.

She turned to the bed and helped the nurse to arrange the pillows after the patient had been raised slightly to swallow his stimulant. He looked gratefully at her out of his hollow eyes unnaturally brilliant.

“I won’t interfere with you,” she said to the nurse.

“I may even be able to help you in some little way. I will do everything that you tell me. But I won’t go away.”

"Why should you?” said the nurse. “Sir Ellis is having a consultation—they say that Dr. Culverwell is very clever in some cases—he is a Kingston doctor—he has had great experience.”

So it was Mrs. La Roache and Urquhart who went away. It was Claire who remained by the bedside.

“You are all that I beleved you to be,” said Phihp, putting a feeble gaunt hand an inch or two toward her. She took it with a look for leave to the nurse.

“You love me, do you not? I have done this because you love me,” said Claire. “I do not want you to say anything more—I do not mean to speak to you, only I want that to be your one thought—and it is the very truth. I have done it because I have not a doubt of your love for me.”

He closed his eyes; the nurse made a curious hasty movement toward him. Claire knew what she meant; but she felt that Philip’s hand was quite warm; she gave a significant smile, and the nurse understood her.

Claire had a very limited experience of sickness; it seemed to her that he was suffering only from exhaustion: he appeared to be overwhelmed by weariness. He certainly was free from pain.

She wondered if it was not quite in keeping with the principles upon which Nature works (sometimes) that this man, having done all the work in the world which any man could reasonably hope to do, should be struck down. She did not believe that Nature was quite unprincipled, though her operations were now and again baffling to the knowledge of those persons whom they chiefly affected.

She had sometimes thought it hard, for instance, that just when a man has learned how to live he is told that he must die.

She wondered now if Nature thought it reasonable to measure the duration of a man’s life by the amount of money he has made. The making of money in these days probably represents the personal strength and the individual cunning of the early world when Nature was young, and she had no doubt that it was in accordance with the fundamental principles upon which Nature conducted her business when just out of her apprenticeship, that when the strength of the brute man had gone, it was time for him to go too.

And if that were so, might it not be reasonable to hold that the man who had succeeded in making a million pounds or thereabouts, having done all that any man could be expected to do, should go hence?

Yes; but the man who is continuing to make money in these days is like Samson before the shearing of his locks: his strength remains unimpaired. To cut off such a man from the land of the living is as contrary to the principles of Nature as the shearing of Samson. He should be allowed to live so long as his money—i.e. his strength—remains with him.

True. But there is Delilah to take into consideration. Did not Delilah represent a force antagonistic to the strong man of the early world or his equivalent in the days of the world’s adolescence?

She became as bewildered by the effort to unravel the working of Nature as if she had had a professional biologist at her elbow.

And upon her bewilderment there entered another force of Nature, which Nature had not counted on when she resolved—somewhat prematurely a few people think —to start business on her own account; and this new force is the Man of Science. He started by being Nature’s interpreter, but he soon set up an opposition shop. He is the force that gives life to those whom Nature means to kill off; the force that interferes with the proper operation of the famine and the fever and the flood—the plague, the pestilence, the palsy.

Sir Ellis, of course, regarded Claire in her proper light as an integer in the working out of the problem which he had under his notice. He had told Urquhart that the carrying out of Trent’s whim of marrying Miss La Roache might possibly precipitate the end; but at the same time it might retard it by an hour or two. He was anxious— moderately anxious—to see in which direction the incident was operating.

He took the hand that Claire was holding, and felt for the pulse. Trent opened his eyes and frowned—then smiled.

But another man had entered with the great physician —a tall, rather gaunt man with a firm mouth and the brow of the imaginative man. The nurse looked at him with respect even in the presence of the London baronet, who had once had a royal life and a royal liver between his finger and thumb. The nurse called him Dr. Culver-well.

He went to the man in the bed and opened the breast of his shirt a few inches, exposing his chest and the framework of a rib or two. Claire had risen from her seat, and she saw the new doctor point a straight forefinger at a curious blue mark—something like a tattoo—just over the region of the patient’s heart Sir Ellis whipped out of his waistcoat pocket a Stanhope lens, which he applied to the surface of that blue " symptom,” his own eye above it He drew the shirt dose once more, and the two men conferred together at the window. Claire watched them. They were mysterious. They talked in whispers. Sir Ellis said—still in a whisper—

“I don't believe it possible. But if you wish. It can do no harm.”

He was wiping the Stanhope lens with his handkerchief. His lips were pursed out "You have not lived in the island of Jamaica, nor in the island of Martinique; I have,” said Dr. Culverwell.

"I laughed as you do——” Sir Ellis had not hitherto laughed, but he did so now, out of compliment to the diagnosis of the other doctor: that was in the true spirit of medical etiquette. His laugh was a cat's paw—just enough for a matter of principle—"but when I came to see with my own eyes,” continued the other, “I ceased to laugh.”

Claire heard Sir Ellis say something about "hypnotic suggestion,” and then he visibly brightened up under the influence of a phrase which he made use of, and which he evidently thought very happy; it was "I do not believe in toxicism on the Marconi principle.”

"You would not have believed in the Marconi principle ten years ago,” said Culverwell. "I tell you that the one principle is as scientific as the other.”

There was more whispering between them—a shrug on the part of the great doctor, a smile on the face of the lesser; and then the latter held up a finger to Claire and the nurse—Sir Ellis went to the patient, the two women to Dr. Culverwell in the dressing-room. He shut the door.

“On no consideration, on no pretence is any human being to enter that room until I return at night,” said he. “You understand? You are women, and you can keep everyone on the other side of the bedroom door. You understand—not his nearest or dearest—my orders.”

“Very well, sir,” said the nurse. “But I suppose you don't exclude Mr. Urquhart?”

“Who the devil is Mr. Urquhart?” asked the physician.

The nurse looked at Claire.

“Mr. Urquhart is Mr. Trent's secretary,” said she.

“He is just the man to be excluded,” said Dr. Culverwell. “Don't let his valet come into the room. But I said ‘no human being'—take that as literal. Watch every phase of the patient and time every phase.”

He took a step toward the door, but made a sudden quick turn upon Claire.

“You have, I believe, just married Mr. Trent?” he said.

Claire nodded.

“Do you love him?” asked the man, with his face close to hers.

She gave a start, and felt herself colouring all over.

“He loves me,” she said stoutly.

The doctor laughed as a professor laughs at a transparent attempt at deception on the part of a tyro.

“That's all right,” he said. “You'll watch him carefully.”

He left the room.

“He is so clever!” whispered the woman reassuringly to Claire. “He is so clever—so queer.”

“I suppose so,” said Claire. “I wonder if you have ever seen a case like this of Mr. Trent?”

“Oh, yes,” replied the nurse. “I have had experience of two others—that is why I thought it my duty to speak to Sir Ellis about Dr. Culverwell.”

“Did they—the cases—recover?” asked Claire in a low voice.

“One recovered.”

“And what is the name that doctors give to the disease?”

The nurse became slightly uneasy.

“Oh, some call it one thing, others another,” she replied.

“And what do you call it?” asked Claire.

“It is not my business to call it anything,” said the nurse.

“But you call it something all the same. I am a woman like yourself,” said Claire. “What do you call it?”

“I am a Catholic and I call it the Devil,” replied the woman, making the sign of the Cross. “I suppose that you don’t believe in the Devil?” she added, in a tone that suggested that the speaker would be indulgent to anyone into whose creed the Devil did not enter.

“I do believe in—in that Power; I have seen it,” said Claire.

“You might have done so, for the West Indies has been his own private demesne for centuries,” said the nurse. “It is so like the Garden of Eden. It puts him in mind of the old days.”

She went through the door leading to the bedroom. Claire seated herself. A feeling of awful oppression was upon her. She felt herself breathing with difficulty. In a few minutes Sir Ellis entered the dressing-room. He looked at her gravely. Human beings had a certain amount of interest for him, although he was ready to admit that he preferred them to come before him as “cases.” He looked at her gravely.

She misinterpreted his attitude.

“He is dead?” she said in a whisper.

“Oh, no—no—not—not yet,” he said. There was no great reassurance in his tone. He looked closely at her to see how his news affected her. She did not, he thought, show any signs of disappointment, but then women are great dissemblers.

“May I be told something, Sir Ellis?” she asked. “May I be told what is the matter with—my husband?”

She said the last words boldly, but only after a little gasp and with a little flush.

Her gasp and her flush amused him—a little.

“I wish I could tell you, Mrs. Trent,” he said. (She flushed all over at his address of her.) “I confess that I am baffled. But I am taking notes. It may be something hitherto unheard of.”

She could see that it gave him some little gratification to anticipate the enrichment of the materia medica by a new disease.

“I wonder what does Dr. Culverwell think of it?” she said. “Where has he gone now? May I know what he said to you?”

Sir Ellis pursed out his lips and swung his pince-nez on his forefinger. She had seen an actor do that when playing the part of a wise physician. She perceived that Sir Ellis was playing the part very well indeed. He was quite conversant with the “business” of the rôIe.

And he could not but admit that she was playing the part of the anxious wife with some ability, though she was certainly new to it. But then women quickly adapt themselves to the rôe. They are extremely well fitted to play the part of anxious wives. They have lived for a good many years in the world doing nothing else.

“Dr. Culverwell has had some curious experiences in the West Indies, especially among the negro population,” said the representative of the physician. “He believes, to some extent, in the power—the influences—it may be only what we call hypnotic suggestion—of the Obi.”

“That is a sort of witchcraft—I have read of it somewhere. And he believes that Mr. Trent has been made the victim of that? But why—oh, why should he be?” cried Claire.

“I would not advise you to trouble yourself much about it,” said Sir Ellis, elevating his eyebrows to an appreciable extent “I cannot altogether agree with Dr. Culver-well’s contentions. They are not quite—not quite—scientific. They are rather—well, rather medieval. Still, he believes in the thing—he says he has had experience of its operation.”

“If he does, why is he not here? Why has he gone away? Is it not possible to do something for the—the victim?” cried Claire.

“Dr. Culverwell is gone away to—to—it seems absurd —but they call her a witch-doctor.” He smiled with great gravity and said the queer word in a half-amused way— not contemptuously—indulgently, as one whom experience had made widely tolerant. “A witch-doctor,” he repeated with greater emphasis. “It appears that one witch-doctor” —he was now gloating over the word: he found he could make much more of it than he had at first thought possible—“one witch-doctor may be able to counteract the efforts of the other—of the one who is working the mischief—and he has gone to the other with promises— threats—money—what you please. My dear Mrs. Trent” —he had now become wholly grave and spoke with a sense of responsibility—“it is best for you to dismiss all this stuff from your mind. I told Dr. Culverwell frankly that I am no believer in toxicism on the Marconi principle. I am sure that Mr. Urquhart hid nothing from you—it would be cruel.”

“He told me that Mr. Trent had not more than a few hours to live,” said Claire.

“That was an hour ago,” said Sir Ellis.

She knew that he meant that the time had decreased by an hour. The materia medica would be increased by an entirely new case.

She seated herself in a chair after a little pause.

Sir Ellis went slowly and softly through the door into the bedroom.

With the opening of the door Claire heard the clink of medicine bottles.

CHAPTER XXIX.

Curiously enough, Claire failed to think greatly of the romantic features of the situation so far as it referred to herself. Maiden, wife, widow, all within the space of a few hours. It did not even occur to her that the people downstairs were saying this—coupled with whatever comments a perfect appreciation of good taste might suggest to some of them, in regard to her future position as the wealthiest woman in England and the prospect of her holding out against unscrupulous fortune-hunters. (It was Colonel-Gilford only who added such a comment, and it was received in silence; there was a general feeling that he was looking too far ahead. There are degrees of gossip.)

What was absorbing all Claire’s power of thought was her recollection of the previous night—her recollection of all that she had seen when looking out upon the garden on the night of her arrival at Constant Spring. That dreadful Shape which she had seen following the footsteps of the man who was lying motionless at the other side of that wall with the green paper on it It had followed him through the moonlight—it had only vanished into the place of shadows when she went out. That was the last time that she had seen Philip Trent until she had been led into his presence an hour ago.

How could she dissociate that horrible Thing from the striking down of the man? She thought of it with all the sane instinct of a woman. Had she not seen the Figure following the man like the shadow of doom in a picture? And had not the doom fallen on the man from that moment?

And what was the thought that came to her as a comment on all that she had seen that night?

“Thank God that he kissed me as he did—thank God that he kissed me!” she cried, starting to her feet with clasped hands.

And then she was smitten by her memory of the last night. The Figure had reappeared, and Stephen Urquhart had gone forth to confer with it—and flying out from the distance of the chasm of the Blue Mountains there had come the two West Indian vultures, and had swayed on the bough of the guinip tree.

Stephen Urquhart had gone out to hold conference with that Creature, from whose arm there depended that diabolic drapery. She shuddered at the thought of that shrivelled leather of bat’s wing, with a hooked claw at every scallop-curve down to its foot The only other time when she was conscious of the same feeling of horror was on awaking in the middle of the night at Suanamara and having a sense of being apart from herself—forced to listen to a voice which spoke out of the darkness, and which she could not choose but obey. That voice had forced her to be untrue to herself—to be false toward her friend and to love Stephen Urquhart The sequence of thought was womanly—natural —convincing. It led her to Stephen Urquhart And there was Stephen Urquhart standing in the doorway before her.

He had only taken a step within the room, A look of inquiry was on his face.

In a second she was face to face with him—close to him. She would not let him come a further step into the room. There was menace in her attitude—menace in her voice.

“Go back,” she said. “You are not to come here— everyone is to be shut out Go back.”

He was surprised—almost amazed.

“Poor child!” he said in a low pathetic whisper. “Poor child! Has it come? Has the end come? Crofton said hours.”

“That was an hour ago,” said Claire. She found a certain pleasure in repeating the phrase employed by Sir Ellis.

“Ah! It cannot be long delayed,” said he, and he felt that he was apologising to her for the delay. She felt exactly the same. It was his earnest hope that she would not be so unreasonable as to blame him for the delay. He hoped that she would not accuse him of failing to keep his word to her. “If he is not sleeping I will go through to him. There are some papers.”

She was standing before him.

“Go back,” she said. “No one is to pass through to the other room. Go back.”

He paused, looking at her straight in the face.

“Claire,” he said mournfully, “what do you mean by this attitude? Ah, my poor child, the strain has been too much for you.”

At this moment the door leading to the bedroom was opened. Sir Ellis appeared. His face told them all.

But he raised a finger.

“Come,” he whispered. “You would like to be with him at this moment.”

She paid no attention to him—no attention whatever. ab"Go back,” she said to the other man. "I will not allow you to pass the door. I am his wife. You are not to approach him.”

She went so close to him that her dress touched him. She was actually going to force him back.

Of course he yielded. The man was dying in the other room. She had been heartless—denying the poor fellow the few moments of happiness that she had it in her power to grant him. She might at least, he thought, have simulated, for the sake of appearances, a little devotion— decorative devotion. But he stepped back.

She shut the door in his face with startling promptitude—indecent promptitude.

But the poor thing was overstrung. Think of what she had undergone. Think of what she had yet to face. Happily, it would soon be over.

He got another jar when he had heard the sound of the door being locked.

In another second Claire had slipped past Sir Ellis and had thrown herself on her knees by the bed. The nurse had her fingers on the man’s wrist.

Sir Ellis, with the expression of a man who takes a purely academic view of a case, went to the other side of the bed.

The room was silent. Philip Trent was lying as still as a dead man. He did not seem to be breathing. Through the silence Claire fancied that she heard the sound as of something—it might have been a claw—scratching the corridor on each side of the bedroom door. The nurse also heard it, and became uneasy. Then there was the sound as of a butterfly or a large moth on the walls of the room itself. Claire and the nurse both sent their eyes in the same direction, looking if they might see what it was that made that odd sound. It was like the rustling of the edges of stiff paper.

Past their cheeks then came a breath of cold air, such as might be caused by the quick flight of a swallow close to their faces.

Claire automatically jerked her head back. But nothing was visible that could have caused that breath of air.

The nurse crossed herself and looked down at the man’s face. His eyes that had been closed were now open—staring. Then he smiled.

“Are you there?” he said in a low voice—the monotone of the telephone, only in a weak whisper. “Ah, there is a great conflict going on there. I should know what it means, but I don’t.”

The nurse had her cup with its stimulant at his lips in a moment.

Sir Ellis put his hand to the man’s wrist. Claire saw him purse out his lips, and the expression that came to his face was not one that suggested the realisation of the expected. He pulled out his watch, and observed the stop-seconds hand. Claire distinctly heard the ticking. It sounded like a death-watch.

“Someone at the door,” said Philip. “Did not you hear the rap? I did. One rap at the door. I don’t want anyone to be let in—only Claire—only Claire.”

“I am here, and no one else shall enter,” said Claire, taking the hand that the doctor’s forefinger had vacated.

He turned his eyes upon her. They were quite intelligent “I forgot for the moment,” said he. “I knew that you would stay with me. Keep near me, Claire. Do not pay any attention to whatever knocks may come to the door. I think that I have made a good fight. I was pulled this way and that—quite a tussle. And they both have wings —that’s the funny part. You felt the wind of a wing upon your face? I felt it. Queer.”

“Better not talk,” said Claire. “Be sure that I shall stay by you. Better not talk.”

“Better not talk yourself,” said he, smiling lustrously.

She laughed quite loud.

The nurse looked slightly shocked. It was not etiquette to laugh any way except mournfully at the humour of a dying person.

The smile remained upon the man’s face: he seemed too weak to be able to change his expression. But in a few minutes he closed his eyes, and then the bed-clothes upon his chest began to rise and fall to the extent of a quarter of an inch. He was asleep.

Claire allowed her fingers to remain in his for more than two hours. Her body was aching on account of the constrained position in which she sat. But she only shook her head when the nurse made a gesture towards her, suggesting her shifting her position. She would not move lest she should disturb the perfect serenity of that sleep.

At the end of two and a half hours Sir Ellis motioned the nurse to arouse the patient in order to administer nourishment to him. Claire saw how at the first moment of consciousness he frowned. She had heard of people being angry when they are snatched out of the very hands of Death—men rescued from drowning—and she could not help wondering if Philip’s frown was due to the same reluctance. But in another moment the smile which had been on his face before, returned to it, and lingered there even while the nurse took his temperature later on.

“You sat there all this time?” he said to Claire when he had been comforted with cushions at his back—hard cushions and soft pillows, the art of the trained nurse.

“How could I do anything else? you held me with a grip of iron,” said Claire, laughing again.

He laughed with her. He looked at his hand.

“A grip of iron,” he repeated. Then his face became grave as he said—

“Would to God that I could hold your love to me with a grip of iron!”

He closed his eyes at once and went asleep as gently as if he had received an anaesthetic.

Sir Ellis looked puzzled.

“Tell me,” he said to the nurse, “have you ever seen anything like this before?”

“Once,” she said. “I told you of it, Sir Ellis—just the same!”

“Do not say that he will die in this sleep,” whispered Claire, going from the bedside to where they were standing.

“No, he will not die in that sleep,” said the doctor. “ He will not awake for two or three hours, and you must take a mouthful of food and an hour’s rest if you mean to sit up with him, as I know you do, to-night. Personally, I am going to have a good dinner. I feel quite knocked up.”

“Would it not do for me to have something to eat in the other room?” asked Claire, after thinking for a few moments. She had a cold thought of the possibility of the great doctor’s being mistaken in his diagnosis of a malady of which he had confessed that he knew nothing. She felt that she would never forgive herself if Philip were suddenly to awaken—for the last time in the world—and find her absent from his side.

“If you have set your heart on it,” said Sir Ellis. “But do not neglect your sleep.”

Claire accompanied him to the corridor and asked the servant who was in attendance there to bring her something to eat. When she had swallowed a few mouthfuls, she went to the nurse.

“You remember what Dr. Culverwell commanded?” she said. “We were to let no human being cross the threshold of either door. Mr. Urquhart came to the other room a short time ago and I refused to allow him to enter. I am sure that I was right in taking Dr. Culverwell literally. What do you think about it?”

“No one shall pass the door while you are asleep,” said the nurse.

Claire went back to the dressing-room, threw herself down on the sofa, and was asleep in five minutes.

She was awakened three hours later by the tinkling of one of the medicine cups.

CHAPTER XXX.

Not a word would Sir Ellis Crofton say to her when he returned to the patient and she questioned him. “But I can see for myself that he is better than he was this morning,” said Claire.

The great doctor shrugged his shoulders, as though to disclaim all responsibility for the eccentricity of a dying man. Then he looked toward the sleeping figure and smiled benevolently, as though to assure her that he himself would be quite indulgent in regard to the little weaknesses of the man. Considering that the most prominent of his little weaknesses took the form of a rapid increase of strength, Claire could not say anything,

“These sudden changes frequently take place in cases of nervous prostration—it would be unwise to accept them as significant,” said Sir Ellis. “Still—I am bound to say —h’m—no, I think I had better not”

“There is no need for you to say anything more,” said Claire. “I can see, and all my life has been passed in reading between the lines. I am going to sit up tonight and await—whatever may happen.”

The night came on and with it the second nurse, but Dr. Culverwell did not put in an appearance. Philip had slept for two hours at one time and for three at another. He had not failed to ask for Claire each time he awoke, and when she had allowed him to press her hand, he put it very gently away from him. She never misinter preted the action. She knew that he remembered having gone asleep holding her hand. He meant to be careful to refrain from putting her to such an inconvenience again.

It was close to the hour of midnight when she went to his side again. He had been asleep for an hour, and the nurse had gone into the dressing-room to make tea.

As midnight drew nigh the last sounds of the closing of the bedroom doors of the three guests who had returned from dining at Newcastle Camp, were heard by Claire, and then came silence. But before she had been sitting in the silence for more than a quarter of an hour, she became aware of a curious shuffling along the walls of the room, just as if two or three people were going round it, keeping as close as they could to the panelling. And now, as had been the case in the early evening, she had a feeling that she was not alone with Philip in the room.

She heard that shuffling sound, sometimes close to her, and sometimes at the further end of the room, but there was no sound of footsteps or of breathing. Again, too, she heard the sound as of the scratching of a bird’s claw on the wall outside—the wall of the corridor off which the rooms opened.

When she was sitting listening in eagerness, she distinctly felt a breath of cold air upon her face, as if a hand had suddenly and quickly been flicked like a fan quite close to her cheek. And a moment afterwards she saw a small stoppered medicine bottle lifted as if by invisible fingers from the table where it had been placed, and laid gently among the three bottles which the nurse had just put together on the small table at the bedside. She sprang to her feet. And then there was a quick shuffling in the space between the two tables, and the bottle reappeared where it had originally been.

She distinctly heard a laugh or a chuckle smothered on the corridor side of the wall.

Claire tried to compose herself; she felt at the point of being terror-stricken, but the thought of Philip sleeping beside where she was seated prevented her from giving way to the dread that was ever close to her. Trembling all over, she slipped to her knees with her hands clasped over the counterpane, and prayed the prayer which had come from her heart the night before—that the man sleeping there might be saved from the Powers of Evil.

She did not rise at once on repeating her prayer. It seemed to her that she was soothed by continuing on her knees by the bedside, her head resting at the base of the pillows. She kept her eyes fixed upon the face upon those pillows. There were still traces of a haggard smile upon it.

Suddenly there was a twitching of the mouth, a quivering of the blue-veined lids that hid his eyes. It seemed as if he were in pain or trouble. His hands began to move.

A fearful thought smote her: the end was at hand. This was the end.

She was about to rise to summon the nurse from the other room, but she could not move. She found herself unable to stir from her place at the bedside. It was a nightmare horror that was upon her, and like many nightmares, its horror was increased by the fact of her having a distinct consciousness of being suddenly paralysed. She knew that she could not cry out even if she had the will to do so. She was bound hand and foot, and a nightmare sense of suffocation was on her.

And the face among the pillows?

The eyes had opened—large, hollow, unnaturally bright —and while she watched them, his head rose slowly from the pillows; he sat upright, staring with awful curiosity at the window which was opposite the foot of the bed— staring, while his hands clutched at the counterpane. His were the eyes of a man who sees more than the mouth of man dare speak of—the eyes of a man who looks into something beyond the face of Death when the face of Death has pressed forward close to his own face.

She turned from him to the window, and that movement meant the breaking of the nightmare. She gave a cry of horror, for she saw looking in on her out of the darkness a vile negro face, malicious as a monkey’s, and the ears were pointed like a satyr’s and white with the white of leprosy.

But the nightmare spell was broken. She had sprung to her feet with a shriek, and when the door between the rooms was flung open and Dr. Culverwell entered, followed by the nurse, she had her arms round the neck of Philip Trent, holding him tightly. She kept her eyes fixed upon the window while she cried—

“He is mine—he is mine—I love him—him only, and he shall not be taken from me.”

• • • • • • •

She was able to sit up in her own dressing-room when Stephen Urquhart knocked at the door. The sleep into which she had passed on recovering from an hour of insensibility had continued for twelve hours, so that it was the afternoon of the next day when she got the message that Mr. Urquhart was anxious to see her, and she said that he was to be admitted. Sir Ellis Crofton had already seen her.

His face was haggard. He had aged by ten years within twenty-four hours—since she had seen him last.

He went toward her with both hands outstretched.

“It is terrible—terrible!” he said in a low, earnest voice. “It is terrible: he will recover—Crofton says so. It is a miracle, but the fact remains—he is on the way to recovery. Oh, Claire!”

“Yes; I saw Sir Ellis half an hour ago; he talks about miracles, too,” said Claire.

“You blame me—you cannot but blame me, Claire,” he said. “But do not despair—you may yet be saved.”

She started up in her chair.

“What do you mean—saved—yet be saved?” she said.

“I shall find out some flaw in the marriage—trust to me. He will sanction it—I know that he will. He is generous: he will not seek to bind you to a contract that was made in such circumstances. The circumstances in which it was made have changed. Great Heaven! Think of it! Think of being bound to him. . . . But you do not blame me. I thought of all we might accomplish together —you and I . . . that was why I . . . There is nothing that we might not have done. . . . Why do you sit there smiling when you see that I am going mad? . . . Oh, you cannot have realised what I have told you. I tell you that he will recover—Philip Trent will recover.”

She continued looking at him, smiling gently. At last she said —

“I am wondering who it was that you were walking with in the moonlight the night before last.”

He did not start. He was too much surprised to start. He only stared.

“During the past few days I have had a good deal to occupy my mind,” she said. “I have been wondering from what source you derived your power over women— at least two women—I only know of two. I have been wondering by what power you deprived me of the best of those gifts which Christianity and civilisation have given to woman, and left me with only those traits which, as Mr. Marvin said, belonged to the Original Woman.”

He still stared at her; his lips moved, but certainly no word came.

“I daresay that all the original traits of primeval woman were in my nature—jealousy—a desire to be pursued by a man—craft—an ambition to get the better of other women—unscrupulousness—double-dealing—I don’t know what—at any rate, I know that by the influence of some power akin to what used to be called witchcraft—I used to laugh at such superstitions—you succeeded in— no, I don’t suppose it was in changing my nature, but certainly in blinding my eyes so that the things which once seemed horrid to me appeared to be actually praiseworthy. I knew that you were bound by your promise to Lady Evelyn when you told me that you loved me. But I led you on—I was led to lead you on. I gloated over my cheating of her—worse than that, I persuaded myself that I was cheating her for her own good, and that was true, though I did not know it at the time. . . . Oh, what is the good of giving the whole miserable story in detail? You know it all far better than I do. . . . But my eyes were suddenly opened—it was that night when you went ashore at Martinique—Dr. Culverwell this morning told me a good deal about Martinique. He has studied that horrible science—is it a science or a worship?—and he was able, thank Heaven, to counteract your skill and the skill of your allies. He knew the exact limitations of that Power which helped you—up to a certain point—and which would have removed Philip Trent and placed you in command of Philip Trent’s wealth. But the moment you came to me with Philip Trent’s suggestion that I should marry him I saw what it was that you hoped to accomplish. There is white magic as well as black. There is God as well as devil. I had prayed to God to be protected from the Power of Evil, and God showed me the way. It was God who showed me that I had never loved any man save Philip Trent only, and I knew that whether he lived or died I should defeat you. Oh, Mr. Urquhart, it was a strong pull with God on one side and you at the other, but I think that God has got the best of the contest so far.”

He had become whiter still.

“You never were more the Original Woman than you are now,” he said. “The Original Woman clung to the strong man. The modem Original Woman clings to the man of millions.”

She laughed without a suggestion of scorn or ill-temper.

The door opened. Mrs. La Roache entered.

“He has awakened. He is asking for you,” she whispered; “and for you, Mr. Urquhart—he wishes you to be present”

“I at least shall go to my husband,” said Claire.

She went out to the corridor. He followed with her mother.

Philip was sitting up among his pillows. Life was in his face—Life, but no joy.

She was kneeling at the bedside in an instant—for the third time—but never before had she bathed the counterpane with her tears.

He laid a hand upon her head.

“Dear one,” he said, “you must not weep. It will all be made right—this dreadful mishap shall be repaired. I know it can be done. Urquhart, you know that it can be done. You shall be free, my Claire. There is no law of Heaven or earth that can bind you to me in these circumstances.”

“There is—ah, Philip, there is,” she cried.

“None—none, I promise you. Oh, I know what can be done. I know that, by consent, a flaw can be found —an irregularity—why, the whole ceremony was a gross irregularity—a scandal! ”

“There is one law that binds us together, Philip,” she cried, rising and bowing down her head to his. “Hear me, my husband. You told me that you loved me. Hear me, dear, while I tell you that I love you—that you have all—all my love—all—all my devotion. I have come to know the truth, Philip, and it is the truth of God—for God is Love. Do not send me away from you, my husband.”

No one heard him speak, but everyone saw that the Light of Life was in his face, and her hand was fast within his own.

CHAPTER XXXI.

It was Colonel Gilford who brought the news of the tragedy—he called it a tragedy with the bated breath of the professional tragedian—of Mr. Trent’s recovery, to the circle of Mr. Trent’s guests. He was greatly perturbed in the telling of it, and the narrative lost nothing by reason of his perturbation.

“Poor girl, poor girl!” said he. “What a shocking thing to have to face! But she will get a divorce—oh, yes! With influence in the right quarter she should have no difficulty in getting a divorce. Fraud—of course it was—well, perhaps there was no fraudulent intention, but you can’t blink the fact that she was led into the marriage under false pretences. He did not keep his portion of the compact I should like to know what right the bishop had to give his licence to anything so preposterous. A flaw may be found. Now if it was in an American State there would be no trouble whatever. A flaw is introduced into every ceremony to give either of the contracting parties a chance, should it be needed in the future.”

“And one of them usually takes advantage of it,” said Lady Innisfail.

“Usually the woman,” said Mrs. Charleville.

“Poor girl!—-but she is certain to apply for a divorce,” continued Colonel Gilford.

Mrs. Archie looked even more serious than usual. Her mother said “Ahem!” after a decent pause.. The. women looked at each other quite solemnly at first, and this encouraged Lady Innisfail to laugh. She laughed. The others looked shocked, especially Norah. Then they all laughed together except Norah.

"Poor Claire!” said Lady Innisfail. "My heart bleeds for her. Think of what she has let herself in for. I don’t suppose that she will have much over a hundred thousand a year to live on. Ah, poor Claire! All our hearts bleed for her.”

"They do,” said Mrs. Charleville. "And we know that she will make no move with a view to stop the bleeding of our hearts. She certainly will not apply for a divorce.”

"What!” cried Colonel Gilford. "Do you mean to suggest that—”

"I mean to suggest that Claire is a woman—I suppose we may call her a woman now,” said Mrs. Charleville. "The whole thing is, of course, desperately tragical and all that, if you wish; though, if we really thought it so, I don’t see why we should have laughed as we did just now. Anyhow, there will be no divorce, will there, Mr.—Oh! it is Mr. Urquhart”

It was Mr. Urquhart who came abruptly upon the little circle. He was curiously pale under his brown skin. His attempt to smile was not so complete a success as his friends could have desired.

"You look a bit pink-eyed,” said Archie. "What’s going to happen?”

Urquhart shook his head.

"God knows,” said Mr. Urquhart solemnly and in the feverent tones of the Professing Christian. There was no flippancy about Mr. Urquhart He shook his head again; all the others shook theirs. It was Lady Innisfail who gave the sigh.

He walked away, and the moment he disappeared everyone began to chatter.

“It’s about ourselves I’m thinking,” said Archie. “ What’s going to happen to us? We are kind of marooned; that’s what we are—marooned on this blessed West Indian island. Didn’t Urquhart look pink-eyed? I wonder if Trent’s wife will do his typewriting when they settle down? That will take a pound a week off Urquhart. Will you have a cocktail, Gilford?”

Colonel Gilford thought that possibly it would be advisable, awaiting developments, to have a cocktail.

When the two men had gone, the women chattered again. They all wondered what was going to happen.

All doubt on this point was set at rest the same evening. It was Mr. Urquhart who explained in his lucid manner, that it had been decided between him and Mr. Trent that he was to act as host to the party, and go with them in the yacht to England. Mr. Trent and his wife intended to remain for a few months in Jamaica— that was the advice given to them by Sir Ellis Crofton. He hoped that this arrangement would meet the views of Mr. Trent’s guests. If it didn’t . . .

But Mr. Trent’s guests assured him that they thought the arrangement an excellent one. They only regretted that . . . etc., etc.

He did not think it necessary to tell them that it was Mrs. Trent who had suggested this arrangement. It was, however, a fact. Claire had come to him a short time before, her face wearing a placid business aspect, the aspect of a business in which no worries enter—something safe, assured—and had said to him—

“ I have just been talking over the situation of affairs with my husband, and we have agreed that it would be well to take the advice of Sir Ellis and remain for a month or two where we are, if you would be kind enough to take charge of our guests”—she actually said “our guests”—“back to England in the yacht. Will you therefore be good enough to see that everything is ready by Monday?”

That was really all that she had said, but she had said it in a way that amazed him. She spoke as one having authority; she might have been the wife of a millionaire for twenty years. And the easy, self-possessed way in which she had swept the past and all its associations behind her was surprising, even to a painful point, to him.

What could he say in the face of such an exhibition of masterfulness?

Well, what he did say was simply the one word— “Certainly.” He said it a second time—“Certainly;” and she assumed that there was nothing more to be said; only, when at the door, which he held open for her, she remarked very pleasantly—

“I do hope that you may all have a pleasant voyage.”

They had a very pleasant voyage, and the news of it was sent to Claire by cable, together with the news of the marriage of her friend Lady Evelyn Carnaleigh to Lord Medway.

About the middle of April, I902, the yacht Curlew, with Stephen Urquhart aboard, left England for Jamaica to take on board Mr. Trent and his wife. The yacht called at Martinique, and on the sixth of May Stephen Urquhart left her deck for the shore, after giving the captain orders to weigh anchor as soon as possible for Jamaica.

"I will cable to Mr. Trent when I get ashore,” said he. “ I have as much business here as will detain me for at least a week, but I think it better not to delay the yacht. You can pick me up on your way to England with Mr. Trent aboard; that will give me ten days here.”

What particular business it was that Mr. Urquhart had to transact at Martinique was never revealed to Mr. Trent or anyone else.

Philip Trent and his wife were sitting in the grateful shade of one of the mangoes in front of the Constant Spring Hotel, on the morning of the ninth of May, when the manager came hurrying out to them with a paper in his hand. He could not speak for excitement at first, he could only gasp the word “awful!” He thrust the paper into Philip’s hand.

In a moment Philip had started up.

“My God!” he cried. “An awful thing has happened! Martinique—the volcano—Mont Pelée! Good Lord! — Urquhart—he must still be on the island!”

Claire had glanced down the column giving some of the details of the disaster at Martinique.

“Only St. Pierre is destroyed,” she cried. “Fort de France is safe. Mr. Urquhart is sure to be at Fort de France.”

“We can hope for the best,” said Philip. “I shall cable at once.”

“All the cables seem to have been broken,” said the manager. “I heard so much yesterday: we could not understand the meaning of it The news of the eruption has come, as you see, from New York.”

“He would surely have gone to Fort de France,” said Claire. “There were warnings. We shall get news of him to-morrow.”

But the morrow came without bringing any news of Stephen Urquhart, but there was plenty of news of Martinique. The papers were full of it. The minds of the people were full of it And when there came at midday some hours of dread darkness hanging over the ridges of the Blue Mountains, and spreading like a pall over Kingston, the horror of the incident became palpable. Awful sounds were in the air—the mysterious booming of mighty waves—mysterious thunderings from the mountains that sent the negroes on their faces to the ground with howlings of the Day of Judgment.

But still no news of Stephen Urquhart Later on the yacht Curlew arrived at Kingston. The master had a story of sailing for miles and miles through an atmosphere dense with volcanic dust, of having seen reflected in the sky the blaze of Mont Pelée.

But still no news of Stephen Urquhart.

Philip Trent and his wife went aboard and steamed for Martinique. They passed the ghastliness of the heap of ruins that had once been St. Pierre, on their way to Fort de France, and it was when he looked at the still smoking side of the mountain that Philip said the same words that Stephen had spoken when on that very mountain—

“The Gate of Hell itself.”

They landed at Fort de France, but Stephen was not there. They spent days on the island, hoping for news of him, but no news reached them of Stephen Urquhart’s existence.

Claire was very thoughtful during the remainder of the voyage to England. She thought of how Stephen Urquhart had gone ashore some months previously at Martinique, and she also recalled the incidents of that night on which, looking out from her window at Constant Spring, she had seen him go forth from the hotel at midnight and hold converse with that strange horrible Shape, while the two vultures from Mont Diablo had perched upon the swaying boughs of the guinip-tree; and then she recalled the words which the nurse had said to her upon that strange night of vigil: “The West Indies has been the private demesne of the Devil for centuries; it is so like the Garden of Eden it puts him in mind of the old days.”

She was very thoughtful.

It was, curiously enough, Archie Browne who recalled some months later to Philip Trent that portion of the witch’s prophecy which had reference to a mountain being on fire.

“The biggest fire on earth, she said it would be,” said Archie. “Well, this business at Martinique was certainly the biggest on record. I wonder what she had in her mind.”

There was a long pause before Claire, who was present, said—

“I wonder.”

THE END.