Two days later Miss Ley duly travelled down to Tercanbury, and was met at the station by Bella, who told her that, according to their arrangement, no mention had yet been made of the proposed marriage. She had announced merely that Herbert Field, whom she desired to make acquainted with her father, would come to tea that day. The Dean welcomed Miss Ley with joy.

“It’s very gracious and charming of you to shed your light on our provincial darkness, my dear,” he exclaimed, taking her hand.

“Don’t hold my hand, Algernon. I had a proposal of marriage on Saturday night, and I’m palpitating still.”

“Oh, Mary, do tell us all about it,” cried Miss Langton, with delight.

“I shan’t! I told Algernon simply because I notice the average man has no consideration at all for a single woman unless she’s marriageable.”

“But why didn’t you bring your friend, Dr. Hurrell?” asked the Dean. “Only to-day I bought a Latin herbary, written in the seventeenth century, which I’m sure would interest him.”

“As if he’d understand a word of it, my dear Algernon! Besides, I thought it quite enough for you to snatch one brand at a time from the burning.”

“Ah, Polly, I shouldn’t like to stand in your shoes on the Last Day,” he answered, with twinkling eyes.

“I very much doubt if you could get into them,” replied Miss Ley quickly, protruding a small and elegant foot.

“The sin of pride, my dear!” said the Dean, shaking his finger at her. “Pride of all sorts, for not Lucifer himself was more satisfied with the excellence of his understanding.”

“I don’t care, Algernon—if I frizzle, I frizzle,” laughed Miss Ley. “I know I’m no fool, and after all, my gloves are sixes.”

Tea was brought in, and presently Herbert Field made his appearance. The Dean, who liked all young things, shook hands with him warmly.

“I’ve heard about you from Bella. I don’t know why she has never before allowed me to set eyes on you.”

He talked to the boy about his old school, and finding him interested in the antiquities of Tercanbury, gave way to his own enthusiasm. He fetched from his study certain lately-acquired plates of old churches in that city, and Bella watched the pair, the youth’s fair head contrasting with her father’s white hair and benign face, bending over them under the lamp. She was delighted with the friendship that seemed about to spring up between them, and wished with all her heart that they might thus spend many charming evenings interchanging views on books and pictures; while she sat by tending them as though both were her children.

“Now that you’ve broken the ice, you must come again often,” said the Dean, holding the boy’s hand, when Herbert bade him good-bye. “I must show you my library; and, if you’re fond of old books, I dare say there are some I have in duplicate which you might care to have.”

“It’s very kind of you,” answered Herbert, flushing, for the Dean’s old-fashioned courtesy was a little overwhelming, and the stately kindness hard to bear when soon he must distress him so enormously by taking away his daughter.

When Herbert was gone, the Dean said he would return to his study to finish an article he was preparing for a learned magazine on one of the later Roman orators.

“Would you stay a few minutes longer, father?” said Bella; “I have something I wish to talk to you about.”

“Certainly, my dear,” he replied, sitting down. He turned with a quiet smile to Miss Ley. “When Bella used to announce an important communication, my heart sank to my boots, for I always expected she would inform me of her approaching marriage; but I bear it now with equanimity, because it is invariably only to wheedle me into getting a boy into the choir who has every qualification except a voice, or to provide a home for some deserving widow.”

“D’you think I’m too old to marry now?” asked Bella, smiling.

“My dear, for twenty years you’ve refused the most eligible aspirants. Shall we tell Polly about the last one?”

“She wouldn’t tell us.”

“Only two months ago one of our Canons solemnly asked me whether he might pay his addresses to Bella, But she wouldn’t hear of it, because he had seven children by his first wife.”

“He was a singularly dull man into the bargain,” answered Bella.

“Nonsense, my dear; he has a first edition of the Pilgrim’s Progress.”

“Did you like Mr. Field?” asked Bella quietly.

“Very much,” answered the Dean. “He seems a quiet, modest young man.”

“I’m glad of that, father, because I’m engaged to be married to him.”

The Dean gasped; the shock was so great that for a moment he could not speak, and then he began to tremble. Miss Langton watched him anxiously.

“It’s impossible, Bella,” he muttered at last. “You must be joking.”

“Why?”

“He’s twenty years younger than you.”

“Yes, that’s true. I should never have thought of marriage only he has consumption. I want to be his nurse more than his wife.”

“But he isn’t a gentleman,” said the Dean, looking at her gravely.

“Father, how can you say that!” cried Bella indignantly, reddening. “I’ve never met anyone with such a gentle soul. He’s all goodness and purity.”

“Women know nothing about such things. They can never tell if a man’s a gentleman or not. What was his father?”

“His father was a tradesman. But kind hearts are more than coronets.”

The Dean tightened his lips. He had recovered now from his surprise, and stood before Bella, stern and cold.

“I dare say. But a kind heart doesn’t make a gentleman. Polly can tell you that as well as I.”

“Quite the biggest scoundrel I ever knew was Lord William Heather,” said Miss Ley reflectively. “He was a cheat and a blackmailer. He had committed every crime, great and mean, and kept out of prison only by miracle and the influence of his family; yet no one for a moment could deny that to his very finger-tips he was a gentleman. I never saw a better in my life. Gentility has nothing whatever to do with the Ten Commandments.”

“Mary, don’t go against me, too,” cried Bella. “I want your help.” She went up to the Dean and took his hands. “Father dear, this isn’t a rash whim of mine. I’ve considered it gravely, and I promise you that my motives are neither low nor unworthy. I would give the world not to cause you pain, and if I do, it’s only because I think my duty here is clear. I beg you to give me your consent, and I beg you to remember that for many years I’ve devoted myself to your comfort.”

The Dean released his hands.

“I didn’t know that you looked upon it as an irksome task,” he answered frigidly, “And why do you suppose this man wants to marry you?” He seized Bella’s arm, and with energy surprising in one of so fragile appearance, led her to the glass. “Look at yourself. Is it natural for a boy to wish to marry a woman old enough to be his mother?” With hard eyes he scrutinized his daughter’s face and the wrinkles about her mouth. “Look at your hands; they’re almost the hands of an old woman. I was mistaken in your friend; he can be nothing better than an unscrupulous fortune-hunter.”

Bella turned away with a groan; she could not understand that her father, gentleness itself, should suddenly be so horribly cruel.

“I know I’m old and plain,” she cried, “and I don’t think a moment that Herbert loves me. He would never have thought of marrying me unless I had asked him. But I can only save his life by taking him abroad.”

For a while the Dean looked down in deep thought.

“If he’s ill and must go abroad, Bella, I will willingly give him all the money he needs.”

“But I love him, father,” she answered, with a blush.

“Do you mean that seriously?”

“Yes.”

Then heavy tears came to his eyes, and ran slowly down his cheeks; the hardness was gone out of his voice when he answered, and it was half choked with sobs.

“Would you leave me alone, Bella? Can’t you wait till I’m dead? I shan’t last very much longer.”

“Oh, father, don’t say that. Heaven knows I don’t want to pain you. It tears my heart to think of leaving you. Let me marry him, and come with us to Italy. We may be very happy all three of us.”

But at this the Dean drew back from Bella’s appealing hands, and brushing away his tears, drew himself up sternly.

“No, I will never do that, Bella. I’ve tried to remember all my life that first of all I’m a Christian minister, but pride of race is in my blood. I’m proud of my stock, and in my small way I’ve sought to add honour to it. By marrying this man you dishonour yourself and you dishonour me. How can you suffer to change the glorious name you bear for that of a miserable little counter-jumper! I have no right to ask you to refrain from marriage because I’m old and helpless, and you’ve made me utterly dependent on you, but I have a right to ask you not to disgrace the name of my family.”

Miss Ley had never before seen such severity in the gentle Dean; an unwonted fire had driven away the delightful sweetness which was his most charming trait, and two red spots burned on his cheeks. His very voice was harsh, and he held himself upright, austere and cold, like some Roman senator conscious of his royal responsibility. But Bella was unmoved.

“I’m very sorry, father, that you should look at it in such a narrow way. I can never think it dishonourable to take the name of the man I love. I’m afraid that if you won’t consent I must still do as I think right.”

He gave her a long and searching look.

“It’s a very grave step absolutely to disobey your father, Bella. I think it’s the first time in your life.”

“I realize that.”

“Then let me tell you that if you leave the Deanery to marry this wretched tradesman, neither you nor he shall ever enter it again.”

“You must do as you think fit, father. I shall follow my husband.”

Slowly the Dean walked out of the room.

“He’ll never change his mind,” said Bella in despair, turning to Miss Ley. “He refused ever to see Bertha Ley because she married a farmer. His manner is so gentle, so sweet, that you might think his heart overflowed with humility, but he’s right when he says pride of race is in his blood. I think I alone know how enormous it is in him.”

“What will you do now?” asked Miss Ley.

“What can I do? It means that I must choose between Herbert and my father; and Herbert needs me most.”

They did not see the Dean again till dinner, when he came down, dressed as was his fastidious habit, with silk stockings and buckled shoes, in the full array of his degree. He sat at the table silently, scarcely eating, and paid no attention to the conversation, forced and trivial, between Bella and Miss Ley. Now and then a heavy tear rolled down his cheek. He was a man of methodical habits, and till ten o’clock always remained in the drawing-room; on this occasion, therefore, as on others, he sat down and took up the Guardian, but Bella saw that he did not read, since for an hour his gaze was fixed vacantly on the same place, and now and then he drew out a handkerchief to dry his eyes. When the clock struck he rose, and his face was worn and gray with utter wretchedness.

“Good-night, Polly,” he said. “I hope Bella has seen that you have everything you require.”

He walked towards the door, but Miss Langton stopped him.

“You’re not going without kissing me, father? You know it cuts my heart to make you so unhappy.”

“I don’t think we need discuss the matter again, Bella,” he answered coldly. “As you reminded me, you are of an age to decide your own affairs. I have nothing more to say, but I shall remain steadfast to my resolution.”

He turned on his heels and closed the door behind him; they heard him lock himself in his study.

“He’s never gone to bed without kissing me before,” said Bella painfully. “Even when he stayed out late, he used to come into my room to bid me good-night. Oh, poor man, how frightfully unhappy I’ve made him!”

She looked at Miss Ley with anguish in her eyes.

“Oh, Mary, how hard it is that in this life you can’t do good to one person without hurting another! Duty so often points in two contrary directions, and the pleasure of doing the one duty is so much less than the pain of neglecting the other.”

“Would you like me to speak to your father?”

“You can do no good. You don’t know what immovable determination lies behind his meek and gentle manner.”

The Dean sat at his study table, his face buried in his hands, and when at last he went to bed, could not sleep, but brooded continually over the change that must occur in all his habits. He knew not what he should do without Bella, but could have reconciled himself to the loss if the youth and station of Herbert Field had not to his mind made the union unnatural and outrageous. He was paler than ever next day, bowed and haggard, and went about the house restlessly, silent, avoiding Bella’s compassionate eyes: with an old man’s weakness, he could not restrain the tears of which he was ashamed, and hid himself that he might not excite his daughter’s pity. Miss Ley attempted to reason with him, but no good came; he was by turns obstinate and imploring.

“She can’t leave me now, Polly,” he said. “Can’t she see how old I am, and how much I want her? Let her wait a little. I don’t want to die alone with strange hands to close my eyes.”

“But you’re not going to die, my dear Algernon. Our family to its uttermost branches has two marked characteristics, pig-headedness and longevity; and you’ll live for another twenty years. After all, Bella has done a great deal for you. Don’t you realize that she wants to live her own life for a little? You haven’t noticed the change in her during the last few years; she’s no longer a girl, but a woman of decided views; and when a spinster develops views there’s the devil to pay, my dear. I always think the one duty of human beings is not to hinder their neighbours in fulfilling themselves. Why don’t you change your mind, and go with them to Italy?”

“I would sooner remain solitary to the end of my days,” he cried, with sudden vehemence. “The women of our family have always married gentlemen. You pretend to despise birth, and consider yourself in consequence broad-minded; but I was brought up with the belief that my ancestors had handed down to me an honoured name, and I must sooner die than disgrace it. In all the temptations of my life I’ve remembered that, and if I’ve been too proud of my race I ask God to forgive me.”

He was immovable; and Miss Ley, to whom the point of view seemed quite ridiculous, turned away with a shrug of the shoulders. A special license had been obtained, and on the following Friday, the day fixed for the marriage, Bella with a heavy heart put on a travelling-dress. They were to take the train immediately after the ceremony, catch the afternoon boat to Calais, and thence travel directly to Milan. The Dean, informed by Miss Ley of the arrangements, had said no word. Before starting for church Bella went to her father’s study to bid him good-bye; she wished to make one more effort to soften him and to gain his forgiveness.

She knocked at the door, but no answer came, and turning the handle, she found it locked.

“May I come in, father?” she cried.

“I’m very busy,” he answered, in a trembling voice.

“Please open the door. I’m just going away. Let me say good-bye to you.”

There was a pause, while Bella waited with beating heart.

“Father,” she called again.

“I tell you I’m very busy. Please don’t disturb me.”

She gave a sob and turned away.

“I think nothing makes one so hard as virtue,” she muttered.

Miss Ley was waiting in the hall, and very quietly the two women walked to the church where the marriage was to take place. Herbert stood at the chancel, and when Bella saw his bright smile of welcome she took courage; she could not doubt that she was acting wisely. Miss Ley gave her away. It was a very matter-of-fact ceremony, but afterwards in the vestry Herbert tenderly kissed his bride; then she gave a little hysterical laugh to choke down her tears.

“Thank heaven it’s over!” she said.

The luggage had preceded them to the station, whither they now walked demurely; soon the train arrived, and the happy pair set off on their long journey. But when the Dean knew that his daughter was gone from his house for good and all, he came out of his study; with aching heart he went to her room and noted the loneliness which seemed to fill it; he went to the drawing-room, and that was bare and empty, too. For a while he sat down, and since none could see, surrendered helplessly to his grief; he asked himself to what he could now look forward, and with joined hands prayed that death might soon release him from his utter misery. Presently, taking his hat, he walked through the cloister, thinking in the cathedral he loved so well to gain at least a measure of peace; but in the transept his eye caught the large plate of polished brass on which were graven the names of all the Deans his predecessors: first there were strange Saxon names, half mythical in appearance, and then the sonorous names of Norman priests, names of divines remembered still in the stately annals of the English Church, great preachers, scholars, statesmen; and lastly his own. And the fire came to his cheeks, anger inflamed him, when he thought that his name, not a whit behind the proudest of them all in dignity and honour, must henceforth be utterly shameful.

At luncheon the Dean, exerting himself to shake off his despondency, spoke with Miss Ley of indifferent topics. In a little while she glanced at the clock.

“Bella must be just leaving Dover now,” she said.

“I would rather you didn’t talk to me of her, Polly,” he answered, with a shaking voice which he strove to render firm. “I must try to forget that I ever had a daughter.”

“I believe that the most deep-rooted of human passions is that which makes men cut off their nose to spite their face,” she answered dryly.

Afterwards Miss Ley expressed a wish to drive over to Leanham and Court Leys, and invited the Dean to accompany her, but on his refusal ordered the carriage to be ready at three. For several years she had not seen the house wherein her ancestors, since the time of George II., had been born; nor was it without a discreet emotion that she recognised the well-known fields, the flat marshes, and the shining sea, which at that spot, to her partial eyes, had a peculiar charm not to be found elsewhere. She drove to Leanham Church, and getting the key, walked in to look at the stones and brasses which preserved the memory of her forebears: a new tablet recorded the birth, death, and qualities of Edward Craddock, and underneath a space was left for the name of his widow. She could not repress a sigh when she remembered that herself and Bertha, wife of the said Edward Craddock, would bring that long list to an end: after them the chapter of the Family of Ley would be closed for ever, and the pages of Burke know them no more.

“Algernon can say what he likes,” she muttered, “but they were a dull lot. Families, like nations, only grow interesting in their decadence.”

Driving on, she came to Court Leys, which stood as ever white and square, as though placed upon the ground like a house of cards. Closed since the death of Craddock, husband to her niece, it wore a desolate and forsaken look; the trim and well-mown lawns were choked with weeds, and the flower-beds bare of flowers; the closed gates, the shuttered windows, gave it a sinister appearance, and with a shudder Miss Ley turned away. She bade the coachman go back to Tercanbury, and deep in meditation, paid no more attention to the surrounding scenes. She started at hearing her name called in tones of astonishment, and noticed that Miss Glover, sister to the Vicar of Leanham, was staring after her. She stopped the carriage, and Miss Glover quickly walked up.

“Who ever thought of seeing you, Miss Ley? It’s quite like old times.”

Now, don’t gush, my dear. I’m staying with my cousin at the Deanery, and I thought I would come over and see if Court Leys still stood in its place.”

“Oh, Miss Ley, you must be very much upset. The poor Dean, they say he’s quite broken-hearted! You know young Field’s father was a linen-draper at Blackstable.”

“It looks as if the mésalliance were endemic in my family. You must never be surprised to hear that I have married my butler, a most respectable man.”

“Oh, but poor Edward was different, and he turned out so well. Where is Bertha now? She never writes.”

“I believe she’s in Italy. I mean her to marry Frank Hurrell, the son of old Dr. Hurrell of Ferne.”

“Oh, but, Miss Ley, will she?”

“She’s never set eyes on him yet,” answered Miss Ley, smiling dryly, “But they’d suit one another admirably.”

“Doesn’t it make you feel sad to see the old house shut up?”

“My dear, I take care never to give way to regret, which is nearly as sinful as repentance.”

“I don’t understand you,” answered Miss Glover. “I don’t believe it means anything to you that, as far as ever you can see, it’s Ley land.”

“There you wrong me. I do feel a certain satisfaction in revisiting the place; it makes me so glad that I live somewhere else. But I dare say it’s a fine thing to be in the country on your own land, even if you’re only a woman. I like to feel that my roots are here. When I look round, I can hardly resist the temptation to take off my clothes and roll in a ploughed field.”

“I hope you won’t, Miss Ley,” answered Fanny Glover, somewhat shocked; “it would look so odd.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, my dear,” smiled the other. “You’re so innocent that each time I see you I expect to find wings sprouting on your shoulders.”

“I see you’re just the same as ever.”

“Pardon me, I grow distinctly younger every year. Upon my word, sometimes I don’t feel more than eighteen.”

Then Miss Glover made the only repartee of her life.

“I confess I think you look quite twenty-five, Miss Ley,” she replied with a grim smile.

“You impudent creature!” laughed the other, and, telling the coachman to drive on, with a wave of the hand bade good-bye to Miss Glover, the scenes of her youth, and the fields which seemed part of her very blood and her bones.


Since the Dean somewhat curtly declined her offer to stay longer with him, Miss Ley set out next day for London. But a curious unrest had seized her, and she began much to regret her determination to spend the winter in England; Mrs. Murray was already gone to Rome, and the sight of Bella leaving for the Continent had excited still more in Miss Ley’s veins the travel-fever. She pictured to herself all the little delightful bothers of the Custom House, the mustiness of hotel ’buses, the sweet tediousness of long journeys by train, the grateful discomforts of foreign hostelries; she thought with dazzled eyes of the dingy grayness of Boulogne, and her nostrils inhaled the well-known odours of the port and station. Her nerves tingled with eagerness to forsake her house, her servants, and to plunge into the charming freedom of the idle tourist. But the train she was in stopped at Rochester, and her abstracted gaze fixed suddenly on that scene which, she remembered, Basil Kent had once highly extolled: the sky with its massive clouds was sombre, and its restfulness was mirrored on the fiat surface of the Medway; tall chimneys belched winding smoke, a sinuous pattern against the grayness, and the low factory buildings were white with dust; to the observant there was indeed a decorative quality, recalling in its economy of line, in its subdued and careful colour, the elegance of a Japanese print.

Miss Ley sprang up.

“Give me my dressing-bag,” she said to her astonished maid. “You can go on to London. I shall stay here.”

“Alone, madam?”

“D’you think anyone will run away with me! Be quick, or I shall be taken on.”

She seized her bag, jumped out of the carriage, and when the train steamed away gave a great sigh of relief; it quietened her nerves to be alone in a strange town, where none knew her, and walking downstairs she felt a most curious exhilaration. She surveyed the hotel ’buses, chose the most elaborate, and drove off.

With characteristic wilfulness, Miss Ley set no great store on the more celebrated objects that tourists visited; she had an idea that a work of art could arouse but a limited amount of enthusiasm, and this, with such as were world-renowned, seemed exhausted before ever she came to them. On the Continent, when she visited a fresh town, it was her practice to wander at random, watching the people, and nothing delighted her more than to discover some neglected garden or a decorated doorway, which the good Baedeker, carefully left at home, did not mention. That afternoon, then, in the lamplight, the inhabitants of Rochester might have seen a little old woman, plainly dressed, sauntering idly down the High Street, observing with keen eyes, amused and tolerant, and upborne, evidently, by a feeling of great self-satisfaction. At that moment the house in Old Queen Street seemed a prison, of which the faithful butler was head-gaoler; and the admirable dinner, all prepared, was more abhorrent than skilly and hard bread.

Presently, growing tired, Miss Ley returned to the hotel, and after resting went down to the dining-room. The waiter placed her at a little table, and while waiting for dinner to be brought she played absently with the Renaissance jewel which never left her. It had not yet occurred to her to examine the people who sat in the large room, and now, slowly raising her eyes, she saw fixed upon her, with a terrified expression, those of—Mrs. Castillyon; her face was livid with anxiety. At first Miss Ley did not understand, but then she perceived that Reggie Bassett was there also. No sign of recognition passed between the two women; Mrs. Castillyon looked down, and with scarcely a movement of the lips, spoke to Reggie. He started, and instinctively was about to turn round, but a quick word from his neighbour prevented him. Though seated some way from Miss Ley, they spoke in hurried whispers, as though afraid the very air should hear them. Miss Ley curiously glanced up once more, and once more Mrs. Castillyon’s eyes were hastily lowered. The ghastly pallor of her face was such that Miss Ley thought she would faint. Reggie poured out a tumbler of champagne, which Mrs. Castillyon quickly drank.

“I don’t think they’ll have a very pleasant dinner,” murmured the elderly spinster, repressing a smile. “I wonder why on earth they chose Rochester.”

Then, mentally, she abused Frank for not telling her what she felt certain he very well knew. Indeed, Miss Ley was scarcely less confused than Mrs. Castillyon, for she had no idea there existed such a relationship between the pair as to occasion a visit to the country from Saturday to Monday. But she put two and two together. She pursed her lips when she remembered that Paul Castillyon was at that time in the North of England speaking at a political meeting, and again smiled quietly to herself. She was devoured with eagerness to know how her neighbours would conduct themselves, for it always amused her to see in what manner people acted in untoward circumstances. She appeared not to look at them, but was able, notwithstanding, to note the hurried colloquy, followed by an uneasy silence, with which they finished their meal. It could not be denied that Miss Ley ate her dinner not only with equanimity, but with added zest.

“I didn’t know they cooked so well in English hotels,” she murmured. She called the waiter. “Can you tell me who that lady is at the fifth table from here?”

“Mrs. Barlow, madam. They only arrived this afternoon.”

“And is the gentleman her husband or her son?”

“Her husband, madam, I think.”

“Pray bring me a newspaper.”

Mrs. Castillyon and Reggie were bound to pass her on their way to the door, and Miss Ley, somewhat ill-naturedly, determined to remain where she was. Her sight was good enough for her to notice a look of utter despair on the pretty woman’s face when a Westminster Gazette accompanied the coffee. Miss Ley arranged it in front of her, and was soon engrossed in the perusal of a leading article.

There was no help, and Mrs. Castillyon was obliged to make the best of it. Reggie got up and strolled out, his eyes glued to the floor, with a scowl on his handsome features which indicated that Mrs. Castillyon would suffer for the mischance. But she was bolder; she walked a few steps behind him, uprightly, with a swaying movement of the hips that was habitual to her, and arriving in front of Miss Ley, stopped with a very natural cry of surprise.

“Miss Ley, of all people! How delightful to find you down here!”

She held out her hand with every appearance of joy. Miss Ley smiled coldly.

“I hope I see you well, Mrs. Castillyon.”

“Have you been dining here? How extraordinary that I didn’t see you! But it’s been a day of odd things for me. When I came into the hotel, the first person I ran across was Mr. Bassett. So I asked him to dine with me. It appears he’s staying in the neighbourhood. I wonder you didn’t see him.”

“I did.”

“Why on earth didn’t you come and speak to us? We might all have dined together.”

“What a prodigious fool you must think me, my dear!” drawled Miss Ley, with a mingled expression of scorn and amusement.

At this Mrs. Castillyon started, her face grew on a sudden horribly gray, and her eyes were filled with abject tenor. She had not the strength to continue the pretence on which she had at first counted; she saw, moreover, that it was useless.

“You won’t give me away, Miss Ley,” she whispered, in a tone that fear made scarcely articulate.

“I have no doubt that curiosity is my besetting sin,” answered Miss Ley, “but not indiscretion. Only fools discuss the concrete; the intelligent are more concerned with the abstract.”

“D’you know that Paul’s mother would give half her fortune to know that I was down here with a man? Oh, how glad she’d be of the chance of hounding me down! For God’s sake promise that you’ll never say a word. You don’t want to ruin me, do you?”

“I promise faithfully.”

Mrs. Castillyon gave a sigh of relief that was half a sob of pain. The room was empty except for the waiter clearing away, but she thought he watched suspiciously.

“But now I’m in your power, too,” she groaned. “I wish to God I’d never come here. Why doesn’t that man go away. I feel I could scream at the top of my voice.”

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” answered Miss Ley quietly.

Valuing nothing so much as self-restraint, she observed Mrs. Castillyon with a certain scorn, for this pitiful exhibition of shame and terror somewhat disgusted her. None was more indifferent to convention than herself, and the marriage tie especially excited her ridicule, but she despised entirely those who disregarded the by-laws of society, yet lacked courage to suffer the results of their boldness: to seek the good opinion of the world, and yet secretly to act counter to its idea of decorum, was a very contemptible hypocrisy. Mrs. Castillyon, divining the sense of Miss Ley’s scrutiny, watched anxiously.

“You must utterly despise me,” she moaned.

“Don’t you think you’d better come back to London with me to-night,” answered Miss Ley, fixing on the terrified woman her cold, stern gray eyes.

Mrs. Castillyon’s buoyant sprightliness had completely disappeared, and she sat before the elder woman haggard and white, like a guilty prisoner before his judge. But at this proposition a faint blush came to her cheeks, and a look of piteous anguish turned down the corners of her mouth.

“I can’t,” she whispered. “Don’t ask me to do that.”

“Why?”

“I daren’t leave him; he’ll go after some of those women in Chatham.”

“Has it come to that already?”

“Oh, Miss Ley, I’ve been so awfully punished. I didn’t mean to go so far. I only wanted to amuse myself—I was so bored; you know what Paul is. Sometimes he was so tedious and dull that I flung myself on my bed and just screamed.”

“All husbands sometimes are tedious and dull,” remarked Miss Ley reflectively, “just as all wives are often peevish. But he’s very fond of you.”

“I think it would break his heart if he knew. I’m so utterly wretched. I couldn’t help myself; I love Reggie with all my soul. And he doesn’t care two straws for me! At first he was flattered because I was what he calls a gentlewoman, but now he only sticks to me because I pay him.”

“What!” cried Miss Ley.

“His mother doesn’t give him enough money, and I manage to help him. He pays all the bills with notes I give, and I pretend to think there’s never any change. Oh, I hate and despise him, and yet if he left me I think I should die.”

Hiding her face in her hands, she wept irresistibly. Miss Ley meditated. In a moment Mrs. Castillyon looked up, clenching her fists.

“And now when I go to him he’ll abuse me like a fishwife because I suggested Rochester. He’ll say it was my fault that we came here. Oh, I wish we’d never come; I knew it was madness. I wish I’d never set eyes on him.”

“But why did you hit upon Rochester?” asked Miss Ley.

“Don’t you remember Basil Kent talked about it? I thought no one ever came here, and Paul said wild-horses wouldn’t drag him. That settled it.”

“Basil must apply his æsthetic theories to less accessible places,” murmured Miss Ley. “For that is why I came also. You know, our place is not far from here, and I’ve been staying at Tercanbury.”

“I forgot that.”

For a little while they remained silent. The hotel dining-room, with most of the lights extinguished, the tables clear but for white table-cloths, was gloomy and depressing. Mrs. Castillyon shuddered as painfully she took in the scene, and dimly felt that this passion, which had seemed so wonderful, in Miss Ley’s eyes must appear most sordid and mean.

“Can’t you help me at all?” she moaned.

“Why don’t you break with Reggie altogether?” asked Miss Ley. “I know him pretty well, and I don’t think he will ever bring you much happiness.”

“I wish I had the strength.”

Miss Ley gently placed her hand on the thin, jewelled fingers of the unhappy woman.

“Let me take you up to London to-night, my dear.”

Mrs. Castillyon looked at her with tear-filled eyes.

“Not to-night,” she begged. “Give me till Monday, and then I’ll break with him altogether.”

“It must be now or never. Don’t you think it had better be now?”

None would have thought that Miss Ley’s cold voice was capable of such persuasive tenderness.

“Very well,” said Mrs. Castillyon, utterly exhausted. “I’ll go and tell Reggie.”

“If he raises any objection, say that I make it a condition of holding my tongue.”

“Much he’ll care!” replied Mrs. Castillyon, with a sob of anger.

She went away, but immediately returned.

“He’s gone,” she said.

“Gone?”

“Without a word. All the things are out of his room. He’s always been a coward, and he’s just run away.”

“And left you to pay the bill. How like dear Reggie!”

“You’re right, Miss Ley: no good can come of the whole thing. This is the end, I’ll drop him. Take me up to London, and I promise you I’ll never see him again. I will try from now to do my duty to Paul.”

Their traps were soon collected, and they caught the last train to town. Mrs. Castillyon sat in the corner of the carriage, her face woebegone and white against the blue cushions; she looked out into the night and never spoke. Her companion meditated.

“I wonder what there is in respectability,” she thought, “that I should take such pains to lead back that woman to its dull, complacent paths. She’s a poor creature, and I don’t suppose she’s worth the trouble; and I haven’t seen Rochester after all. But I must take great care, I’m becoming quite a censor of morals, and soon I shall grow positively tedious.”

She glanced at the pretty woman, looking then so old and worn, the powder on her cheeks emphasizing their wan hollowness. She was crying silently.

“I wonder if that beast Frank knew all the time, and basely kept the secret.”

When at last they drew near London, Mrs. Castillyon roused herself. She turned to her friend with a sort of despairing scorn.

“You’re fond of aphorisms, Miss Ley,” she said. “Here’s one that I’ve found out for myself: One can despise no one so intensely as the person one loves with all one’s heart.”

“Frank can say what he likes,” answered the other, “but there’s nothing like mortal pain for making people entertaining.”


A few days later Miss Ley, who prided herself that she made plans only for the pleasure of breaking them, started for Italy.