The winter passed quickly—spring came, a soft, slow, gentle coming. Paul Harvey was a constant visitor at Victoria Mansions.

Sometimes he was there when Mr. Wainbridge was not, and then that was a “white day.”

Mr. Wainbridge found Paul’s appreciation of Launa gave life a zest—it added uncertainty and attractiveness, though he intended to win. A man can appropriate another man’s wife for walks and talks with much greater ease than he can the girl the other man is going to marry. But Mr. Wainbridge was enduring an amount of worry and annoyance about his uncle’s affairs, and he was not free, while Paul was. Mr. Wainbridge never connected him with the someone Launa had loved—was he not dead? Had she not implied as much, more than once?

Paul had promised to remain in England until Launa’s marriage; the indefinite prolongation was therefore borne by him with a placid demeanour. He also had been requested to give her away—there is a certain amount of excitement in giving “this woman to this man,” when longing to keep her oneself, a form of death on the battlefield. Paul liked it as well as a man can like anything he dreads and detests, and yet with the feeling that he would not like another man to do it.

The April day was lovely. Paul was at Victoria Mansions, ready to do what Launa wanted, hoping Mr. Wainbridge might not come.

“I want to go out,” she said; “to go far away, where I can paddle and see the catkins on the trees and listen to the sound of the river. I cannot stay at home and practise or do anything. I must go out.”

“ ‘Let me taste the old immortal indolence of life once more,’ ” he quoted.

“Come,” she said.

“Where?”

“Anywhere.”

They drove to Paddington, and then went by train.

The river was looking lovely—ruffled and irregular—the trees wore a wind-swept fluffy look. The grass was fresh and green; it was spring, and all was new.

“This is glorious,” she said, as she paddled up the stream.

The movements of her lithe body were beautiful to him—to her the motion and spring of the canoe were splendid, as it answered every stroke and went through the rippling water with a hiss and a rush.

“The lift of the long red swan,” he said.

“Don’t,” she replied. “How he loved it! How he loved that life!”

“And will you never come back to it?”

“I do not know. Afterwards, perhaps—yet no, never.”

“The Indians miss you. Mrs. Abram and Mrs. John often ask me about you. In the winter there is no one to be good to them.”

“I sent them money and blankets,” she answered. “I did all I could.”

“They want you. Mrs. Andrew gave me a charm to bring you back. ‘A little medicine yer know—a love potion of herbs.’ ”

She laughed.

“Is life here successful?” he asked. “Do you like it?”

“Yes, for some things I do. I came full of plans, and I have learned and worked. Now I am going to be married.”

“You have, then, been successful?”

“I have learned that life is cruel.”

“To you?”

“They, my friends, believed evil of me. Did you hear it?”

“I heard it.”

“And believed?”

“Don’t ask me such questions,” he replied. “You know I could not believe them. I think you—well, I think you the purest, best woman in the world.”

“That is not what you were going to say. You began and you changed it.”

“You were cruel once, but you are the one woman—for me.”

“Tell me about the lakes and the woods; I long to see them, to feel the air, and to smell the pines,” she said quietly.

They paddled on and on, sometimes talking; and it seemed like a triumphal journey into a far-away world, with the sun and the rippling water, glorious movement and peace, and, above all, it was perfect because they were alone together, and away from the rest of the world.

Paul made no pretence to himself of not knowing why he was happy and why he was miserable—happy while with Launa, miserable when away from her—while the knowledge that she belonged to someone else was always obtruding itself.

And Launa? To her Paul meant the old life (so she assured herself with great frequency), her father, the Indians, the woods—everything she loved. She was glad to have Paul with her. It was a good ending to the chapter of singleness. And though perhaps it was not quite as she would have liked to have planned things, perhaps all would be for the best. The present was full of joy, the future—she could not bear to think of it—would be blank.

“How long have you been in England?” she inquired at last.

It was odd she had never asked this question before.

“I spent two months here in the summer, then I had to go home. My cousin, Jim Harvey—you remember him?”

“I never heard of him.”

“I thought you knew all about him. He got himself mixed up in some row with the Indians, and so I went back. There was an Indian girl, too; he should have married her.”

“And his name was Harvey?”

“Yes, Jim Harvey. He has married the girl. The worst of it is she is far too good for him, and he will lead her a terrible life; but I suppose it is best. You saw her once at that picnic at Paradise that night I shot the horse. Do you remember?”

“I remember. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I thought you knew. I thought that was what you meant—”

“No,” she answered. “I meant—never mind now what I meant.”

She put down her paddle.

“I am tired. You can paddle back,” she said wearily. “It is time to go home. Sylvia is coming to dinner, and so is Mr. George.”

She was kneeling in the bow with her back to him.

“Launa, will you move? You will be more comfortable if you do, and I will keep her steady,” he said. “We shall soon get back.”

“I cannot move, I am so tired.”

She almost gave a sob. Suddenly she felt impotent and weary. His explanation had made it worse, and she ached with the hopelessness of it all.

He paddled into the bank, got out, and pulled the canoe in sideways; then he arranged the cushions for her in the middle.

“Now, get out while I hold the canoe, and sit there where I can see you. Light of my eyes,” he added in a whisper, but she heard it.

He gave her a hand, put a rug over her, and asked:

“Are you comfy?”

But she could not speak, and they started again.

The lift and sweep of the paddle, and the smooth regularity thereof, were soothing.

“Oh, the sorrow of the world!” she said. “It is unavailing. The awful mistakes, the terrible partings—it is too dreadful. When did you come back to London?”

“In December.”

“Why did you not come to see me before—in the summer?”

“Because I did not know your address—is that reason enough?—and I was rather afraid of you. I could not come.”

“Sylvia is my only woman friend.”

“You imagine that.”

“I do not imagine it; but I do not care.”

At dinner that night they were an uneven number.

“We must all go in together,” said Launa. “Sylvia, come with me.”

She put her hand on Sylvia’s arm and they went first.

Mr. Wainbridge came last; he wore depression ostentatiously until after the soup, and asked if they believed in ghosts.

“In ghosts,” inquired Mr. George. “In some ghosts. Do you believe in them?”

“Launa does,” said Mr. Wainbridge.

“I wish I could,” she answered.

“Did you ever see one?” asked Paul.

“One Sunday—it was a hot Sunday in July,” related Mr. Wainbridge, “we were going to Lady Blake’s, and Launa said she saw one.”

“One what?” asked Paul.

“One ghost.”

“What did she do?”

“She said it was dead. Are ghosts ‘it’?” inquired Mr. Wainbridge.

“When people die they become ‘it,’ ” said Mr. George. “They cannot—do not love. A man or a woman is neuter when love is over—when it is impossible.”

“They are maligning you, Launa,” said Sylvia, with a smile. A poet had written lines on her smile and called it divine. “Contradict them.”

“I did see a ghost,” she answered.

“Ghosts are indigestion,” said Mr. George slowly. “Have you read the new book, Miss Cooper?”

“Whose new book?”

“It is by an unknown author who writes of the love of a married man for some other woman. We know so much now, everyone writes of life’s miseries; if they would only write of happiness.”

“How wrong for a man to love the other woman,” said Sylvia.

“Wrong,” repeated Mr. George; “not at all; how unavoidable!”

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“How did they end it or begin it?” asked Sylvia.

“I hate a man who does nothing,” said Launa. “Love is either a secondary consideration or the passion of a moment to them. We are merely adjuncts—minor adjuncts.”

“Chromatic scales,” said Mr. George.

Paul ate his dinner with resolution. Launa was flushed—no doubt by the breeze on the river, and it was very becoming. She was not a minor adjunct.

Sylvia had grown grey looking.

She pushed away her plate quickly, and when Launa with her was leaving the room, Launa said:

“Do not hurry into us. We are so happy together and have so much to say.”

The men talked with indifference. They were anxious to go to the drawing-room. Mr. George at last said impatiently:

“Come on. I am tired of sport.”

With a conversation thereupon had they concealed their anxiety to be gone. Sport is absorbing.

In the drawing-room Sylvia, Paul Harvey, and Mr. George entertained each other.

Launa sat by the window and was talked to by Mr. Wainbridge.

“Paul and Sylvia. Paul and Sylvia. Paul and Sylvia,” sounded with dreadful monotony in her brain. She went to the piano and played “Warum.”

“How you have changed!” said Mr. Wainbridge. “Sometimes I feel as if I did not know you.”

“Are you tired of me?”

“Launa darling! tired—no, never. You are more uncertain in your moods—you are more fascinating. I never know what you will do next. To-day has been long without you.”

“Women take an age to learn that game killing would have no attraction for men if the game walked up to be killed willingly.”

“Where have you been to-day, my dearest?” he asked, taking no notice of her speech.

“On the river with Paul. And you?”

“I have been very busy and worried.”

“I am sorry. Worry is detestable.”

“Yes,” he replied, “and never ending.”

“Your aunt is still odd?”

“Very odd. She is terrible sometimes. Talk of to-morrow, dear.”

“I am going to see Sylvia.”

Mr. Wainbridge looked at her.

“Did you mind what I said about the ghosts? There are none between you and me?”

“Ghosts? no, none.”

“And so I may not come here to-morrow?”

“No. The next day you may.”

Paul spent the evening talking to Sylvia. He left early. Mr. George and she were alone.

“Why are you so silent?” he asked at last.

“Am I? I was thinking.”

“Of what I said at dinner?”

“What did you say?”

“Now you are offended.”

“I am very fond of dark blue serge,” said Sylvia, “very, and it is so becoming.”

“What has that to do with what I said at dinner?”

“How can I tell what you said at dinner? Did you know I have a sister, Mr. George? She lives in Eaton Square and is very respectable, which means she does not work for her living, and is never in an omnibus after four. I seldom visit her; the Square and her surroundings satisfy her.”

“And you told me this?” asked Mr. George.

“To interest you.”

“I see, I understand,” he answered.

“We need not decide yet what we shall do,” said Lady Blake.

“Nor do it,” said Mrs. Herbert. “I hate doing things.”

“Still it is necessary for someone to take notice of Miss Archer’s behaviour, now that she is engaged to Mr. Wainbridge.”

“They do not talk of being married,” said Lily, with a laugh.

Lady Blake was having tea with her, it was hot and June. They were both dressed in crepon and muslin. Lady Blake’s hat was a flower garden.

Mrs. Herbert looked bored. The heat was excessive, and she was weary.

Jack wrote to her occasionally, but he did not return, and she was tired of Sir Ralph. Other people were also afflicted in the same way, and Mrs. Herbert was often left out where before she had been first.

Women said her first husband had been an angel, and died to continue one, and her second went to Cairo.

Sir Ralph was beginning to take too much for granted, and he had no mind—pink books and papers of a light and airy kind were his literature. Mrs. Herbert had been intellectual when desirous of attracting Jack, and, after her long acquaintance with Sir Ralph, she told him that old families are becoming ignorant and corrupt.

“Have you seen Launa’s voyageur?” asked Lady Blake.

“Who is he? Have I seen him?”

“An indefinite relation of hers. Have you read the Signal this week? I have not.”

“Here it is. Look at it now.”

“Listen, listen,” said Lady Blake. “ ‘At the Duchess of Oldharris’ small evening party Miss Archer looked particularly well in white and black. She delighted everyone with her playing of ‘Warum.’ She has been in mourning for some time for her father, and has been much missed by society!’ ”

Lady Blake put down the paper with slow concern.

“The Duchess of Oldharris, the Duchess,” she said. “My musical party next week! When does your husband return?”

“I do not know.”

“Soon? I cannot think that it is good for you—or for him—to stay away so long.”

“Probably not,” said Lily. “Do you always do what is good for you? I have no doubt Cairo disagrees with him intensely.”

“I would go out to him if I were you,” said Lady Blake. “Your honeymoon was in that Surrey garden. How blissful it was that day I called upon you, but how short a time it lasted! You were sewing; you never sew now. Not even a little shirt like Becky Sharp.”

“The days are no longer perfect, as they were during my honeymoon,” said Mrs. Herbert, “though it is June.”

“You must have been misinformed,” said Lady Blake.

“Oh, no, it was June, I assure you. One does not forget that.”

“I mean about Launa. The Duchess is so particular, and it happened so long ago. Good-bye, dear.”

She rustled away to call at the House for her husband.

Next day Launa received an invitation for the musical party—she was even asked to play. She refused that honour.

Sylvia had become necessary to Launa, who had at first used her as a screen, for Mr. Wainbridge was there always, and with Sylvia present naturally there were no demonstrations.

Paul made his appearance only a degree less frequently—Launa did not mind being alone with him. He was waiting in London for her wedding day, for which no date was appointed, and Paul was not anxious to arrange this.

Sylvia talked to Paul when Mr. Wainbridge was in possession, and it occurred to Launa that Sylvia was very attractive—probably Paul thought this also.

In these days Launa felt that meditation and thought were unprofitable; she turned to Sylvia for something, not for protection, but for companionship. Sylvia was restless, Launa was restless also; the days were unsatisfactory if one hour were unoccupied. A day of inaction was Launa’s present idea of torment. Sylvia and she agreed on this subject.

One night Launa had come in very tired; too tired to eat. She drank some chocolate, and sat in the music-room.

Mr. Wainbridge appeared. It was late, and he had been at his uncle’s. The room was full of poppies; the heavy odour was oppressive, and the flowers were falling—slowly, slowly they tumbled down every few minutes.

“They are the ghosts of the past,” said Launa at last, as one or two flowers fell simultaneously, and yet as it were with reluctance. “Do you hear the slow sound they make as they fall? I am very tired.”

“Your tea-gown is like moonlight, and you look divine.”

“And unearthly? I would rather be human.”

“You are lovely.”

“Tell me something new,” she replied, with a laugh of confidence, and a look—“something that I do not already know.”

“What have you been doing to-day?” he asked, feeling the commonplace safe.

“I went with Sylvia to see a woman who is dying—and yet it is not certain she will die—to die is peace.”

“She was suffering. Why did you go, dearest? It is not fit for you to see such things.”

“That is the cry of the whole world,” she replied, getting up and moving the flowers near her. “Why go? Why see it? Peace, peace, and there is no peace.”

“You cannot help her.”

“You are right, I am powerless, and I have promised to send her jelly. Ridiculous! Jelly!”

“Who is she?”

“Her name was Bertram. She was once pretty and sang well. Sylvia knew her. Some man made love to her, and promised her the usual things. She left her work for him, and because of him, and he left her alone. She has starved, frozen, and been half-murdered, yet she lives.”

“I cannot help thinking, dear, that it was her fault, too. A woman does not—should not yield.”

“A woman wants to love and to be loved. . . . Then,” she added, “I could never love a man who would promise and never keep it.”

“To promise,” he repeated. “What is a promise? It is an impossibility. I promise to love someone for ever. You will some day—may it be soon?—promise to cleave to me only. I cease to love someone—the promise is broken. I am not responsible. Who is? You promised me once you would not go out alone when it is dark, and you do not keep it.”

“What is love? When I cannot keep my promise of cleaving to you, will you blame me? You say the keeping of promises is impossible. I never promised to love you.”

“Blame you? No. You love me—do you love me?—and women, thank God, are mostly constant.”

“Thank God,” she repeated.

She did not answer his question—to seek to acquire information was most simple.

“Love is all things—the joy of life—the sting of death,” he said.

“Friendship is a joy, too. It is like autumn after the midsummer heat is over. Do you not know the peace and stillness of a clear autumn day? There is a blue sky, and merely a suspicion of cold in the air. You know the air on a lake coming over a long sweep of country.”

She paused.

“There is a chill about autumn—a suspicion of indifference.”

“No, no,” she answered quickly. “What is the most perfect relationship in this world? Which is the happiest?”

“Who can tell? To me it is you; to you it is—I wish I could feel sure the stone of happiness you seek for is my love.”

She did not answer immediately.

“The stone of happiness when one finds it is still a stone. How can a stone bring happiness?”

“Your ring—to see the sapphire brings me happiness,” he answered.

He felt of late an intangible something between them—as if he were fighting with the powers of the air, with unknown forces—would he win, or they? The dead are quiet for ever, and yet something seemed to come between him and Launa. Do the dead watch over those they love? Mr. Wainbridge shivered; he was sometimes superstitious.

Paul was not an acquiescent lover, and since his day in the canoe with Launa he had pondered long and frequently. Was she happy? No; nor was he.

One afternoon when with her, like an inspiration it came to him that he was master. He would not give in, he loved her; love was power, and she did not love Mr. Wainbridge, of that he was sure.

Launa was alone.

They talked for some moments, the conversation was led by her to Newfoundland, but he took no interest in that.

“When are you going to be married?” he asked.

“When? I know not. Talk of something else.”

“I will talk about you. It is of no use for you to change the subject. I love you, love you, and you are mine. You have no right to marry anyone but me. You belong to me.”

Paul was as a god, knowing not merely good and evil, but love and light.

“It is my kisses you will long and hunger for, my arms which should be round you, not his.”

He looked at her. She had started when he began.

“His never are,” she said, while she longed to ask how he knew this, but she felt to acknowledge he knew was to acknowledge him right.

“You won’t let him now, but his arms will be round you. There is no escape from them once you are married. Think how you will feel when he is with you always, and you can never get away. You will see my face when his is close to you, you will feel—”

“Paul! Paul!”

“You would like to say, ‘Why persecutest thou me?’ They say girls often marry from ignorance and wish they had not. Launa, you will not be ignorant. Without love marriage is a loathsome Hell; with it, darling, it is Heaven. Such a Heaven! You are mine, as much mine as if five priests had read hundreds of words over us. Give him up! give him up!”

“I wish I could die, knowing you love me.”

“I would rather see you dead than his wife.”

“Paul, I love you.”

She held out her hands.

“My darling; my darling. How I love you. And you will give him up?”

She stood still, her eyes raised to his; hers were full of trouble, his full of love. He would face the world and count the loss of all things nothing for her. His was a love worth having, and he was brave and true, worthy of love. He came nearer. He had not touched her.

“Come to me, Launa.”

She turned and let him fold her in his arms, such strong arms.

“You take away my individuality. You are a brute, Paul. Let me look into your eyes; they are true. It is your eyes I see when I talk to him, your voice I hear, your kisses I feel. . . . Paul, don’t tempt me. I have degraded myself enough. Leave me—go. I am wicked, I am wrong.”

“Tempt you? My God, Launa! Am I not tempted?”

“When you hold me I am strong. A woman loves a man who has a strong arm for her.”

He bent down and kissed her face, then her lips, a long, long kiss.

“Launa, can you marry any other man? Be true, dear.”

“Sit down, Paul, by me. Let me hold your hand. I feel so weak and so afraid. And when you have gone and I am alone with him. . . . You know I love you. . . . But I have promised myself to him. I cannot break my word. I can ask him to give me up. I will do that.”

“You must tell him you cannot marry him. Why should one man insist on making three people miserable? For he will not be happy. I shall not leave you now until you have promised to marry me. I kiss you, I hold you, I take you.”

He lifted her in his arms and carried her to a sofa.

He put pillows under her head and knelt beside her.

“You cannot get up. I will not let you go—you must rest.”

“Paul!”

He kissed her.

“Launa, if you could know, could guess how I hunger for you. How I dream of you and long for you until the day is a long dreary reality, and night is life when I see you and hear your voice—gentle and soft—I love your voice. In my dreams I hold you in my arms.”

“Paul, you forget that I have promised. I have given myself to him.”

“You mean?”

“My word to him. How can I take it back?”

“Easily; by not keeping it.”

They both laughed, and so Mr. Wainbridge found them when he entered the room.

“Is Launa ill?” he asked, in well-bred tones of surprise.

She felt she hated him; his upper lip was too long, his manner too unctuous, and his shoulders were so round.

He glanced from Paul to Launa, and it seemed to him as if his appearance were just what was required to turn the scale in his own favour. She sat up. Paul put a cushion behind her and kissed her hand. Mr. Wainbridge advanced with disapproval and another cushion, which Launa refused with mild gratitude.

The men glared at each other. Mr. Wainbridge was uneasy, Paul triumphant.

“Shall I stay, Launa?” said Paul.

“No; I have a headache,” she said.

Paul left the room, and Mr. Wainbridge waited in silence.

“I hope you are better,” he said, at last.

“I have something to tell you.”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“You must hear it.”

“Look here, Launa, I know what you are going to say. You are going to say . . . what you will regret. Something about Mr. Harvey. I mean to marry you; you have promised. That is all.”

“You do not consider me responsible for my feelings; you have said it.”

“For your feelings, no; but for your promises, yes.”

“Suppose I have changed?”

“Suppose you never felt what you promised; suppose it was merely a refuge from loneliness, from—”

“Well, suppose it was,” she answered. “But I never promised to feel anything—simply to marry you.”

“What do you want me to do now?” he asked.

“I want you to set me free.”

“Never, never. To do that would be ruin for me.”

They faced each other; she was excited, flushed—with a new look of a half-born, half-understood joy. He was sullen.

“Why—tell me why? You could not hold me to my bargain—unwillingly.”

“It would be ruin for me to release you. My uncle would cut me off—leave me nothing, and give me nothing, if you or I break off our engagement. He has heard several things about me—things which—well, I have told you enough. Darling, you would not, you could not ruin me. I love you so intensely. Think of my life, my prospects, without you!”

“To live without me.”

“What could I do?”

The joy had left her face—the flush was gone. She was pale, and her face looked haggard.

“Go, go. I will not ruin your prospects and devastate your life—go. But you must leave me alone now. Yes, I hate you.”

He went to his Club. On the way he meditated writing a novel or a play—his inventive powers were so great. He had impressed Launa—she believed him. He had constructed the first chapter when he reached his Club.

Launa went for a long drive.

Paul was defeated. That night he received this note.

Lady Blake had started evening receptions, and once a fortnight she was at home. She had some idea of founding a salon, but her ignorance of the necessary steps was appalling. She thought it would have something to do with school-books and asking questions on abstruse subjects.

Launa went frequently, and took Sylvia with her, who was now second leading lady in the new play “Some Cabbages and a Weed.” The interview in the Signal had been of much assistance to her career. Formerly she had an existence—now she had a career. Mr. George devoted himself to her. This evening they met at Lady Blake’s. Launa was quickly surrounded by her friends, by her enemies, and people who could be either, had they known her. She was charming—the self-possession of a duchess, combined with the amiability and cleverness of the unknown woman wishing to be successful.

Mr. George was amusing them by relating the triumphs of the interviewer.

He had been the one to hear the aims and aspirations of the newest “Lady Temperance Lecturer.”

“Is she a Lady Temperance Lecturer?” he asked, “or a Temperance Lady Lecturer? The last way sounds as if one might suspect her of imbibing, and a Lady Temperance Lecturer does not sound—well, is nice the word? Women like that word; it expresses untold things to them, daintinesses and pretty undergarments. To a man it means a woman does not bore him. He does not call his best beloved ‘nice’ merely—angels are not nice.”

“Tell me about the Temperate Lady,” said Launa.

“I think Temperate Lady Lecturer would be a good name,” said Sylvia. “She might have an idea when to stop.”

“It was late,” said Mr. George, “when I interviewed her. She had been lecturing. Her window blinds were not down, and the moon shone in. There appeared to be much temperance in her mansion. We observed the moon with attention and in silence. After she had told me several details of her own life, ‘There is no water in the moon,’ she said, with a solemn air, ‘and nothing to drink. The people in the moon have nothing to drink.’ This whole sentence was in the largest of italics. I suggested that our best astronomers are in doubt as to the fact of human beings living in the moon. ‘Such a beautifully mountainous world,’ she said, ‘must be inhabited. Think of their Switzerland and of their Himalayas! They never have typhoid, for there is no water.’

“ ‘No drinks,’ I said. ‘Nothing to drink,’ she replied. ‘Not even the sea to bathe in, to picnic by in summer,’ I suggested. I won’t publish it all. I asked if the moon were fruitful, and she said, ‘Undoubtedly.’ Then I replied, ‘They are obliged to drink their brandy raw. If it is fruitful there must be grapes, if grapes, brandy’—you see the connection? ‘There is no water to make brandy,’ she observed. ‘Pardon me,’ I said, ‘you do not require water to make brandy only to dilute it, if you have temperance yearnings.’ She gasped, and I left her.”

“How glad she must have been,” said Launa, moving as she spoke to talk to Mr. Wainbridge’s cousin.

The rooms were becoming empty. Sylvia, Launa, Mr. Wainbridge, and Mr. George were standing together. The Member for Hackney joined Launa. He had developed an affection, nay, an inclination towards her. He was too cold for affection; he admired her.

The Under-Secretary for the Home Department came up behind them.

“Bolton, have you heard?” he asked, and kept his eyes fixed on Launa. He might have kept his information to himself had not Mr. Bolton been occupied with her.

“What?” asked the Member for Hackney. He did not desire to know anything further. His interest in the Colonies, as exemplified by Launa, was absorbing.

She smiled at the Under-Secretary, who wondered if Mr. Bolton would leave her when he heard the news.

“There has been a skirmish somewhere in Africa, and Fairmouth is, the telegram says, dead. You are Lord Fairmouth. I thought you would like to hear it.”

He waited. Sylvia gave a sort of moan and put out her hands.

“I loved him,” she said.

The Member for Hackney started, and Launa said:

“Miss Cooper and I must go home. Mr. George, will you give her your arm? Hugh, you will get us our carriage?”

Mr. Bolton stayed by Launa; the Under-Secretary had vanished.

“So that is the girl,” he said; “I have heard of her. That was somewhat dramatic. May I not be of some use to you, Miss Archer? Shall I take you to Lady Blake? You will want to say good-night to her.”

He offered her his arm, and they found the hostess. Launa apologised for Sylvia. The Member for Hackney said she looked quite pale. Lady Blake suggested sal volatile, and expressed her great concern.

“I will come and see you to-morrow,” said the Member for Hackney, as he held Launa’s hand at parting. “I am much interested in the Colonies and in the New World.”

Mr. George stared after their carriage, then he lighted a cigarette. Mr. Wainbridge had disappeared.

“She has a blister on now,” said Mr. George, “I wonder if it will ever heal.”

Mr. Bolton nodded and said:

“Miss Archer is engaged to Mr. Wainbridge?”

“Yes,” replied George.

They walked away together.

“Sylvia, don’t try to talk,” said Launa, as they drove home.

“Let me alone,” she moaned. “I am a fool to break down. You cannot tell what a joy it has been to me to feel to be sure of his love. It was all I had—all—”

Launa left her alone, after giving her a brandy and soda.

Fortunately “Some Cabbages and a Weed” was over, and the theatre shut up. It would open with a new play in September. Sylvia had her part to study and could rest, but not with her mother.

Mrs. Cooper could not have believed her daughter was in trouble—trouble which she should not share. A mother’s heart is the resting and the confiding-place for her daughter. She forgot a mother’s tongue often prevents confidences. She would have labelled her daughter “lost” had she known.

Launa had decided on taking a house by the river—a cottage with drains and hot water, as well as roses!

Mrs. Cooper and Sylvia would come too. Launa hoped Mr. Bolton would not talk of this accident and betray Sylvia. She waited with apprehension for the morrow and the Member for Hackney.

Sylvia besought her to find out the circumstances.

“Find out if he is dead. How he died: when and where. Oh, God! It is torture! Torture! Find out all about him.”

Mr. Wainbridge, Mr. George, and Paul came next day. Launa dispatched them for particulars. There was nothing in the paper. Mr. Wainbridge went to the Club, Mr. George to his newspaper, and Paul to the High Commissioner for Canada. This was his first meeting with Launa since their day of confession. He asked for no further explanation and she gave none.

He returned in an hour. The High Commissioner had been gracious. It was said that Paul knew too much about him to allow of his being anything else. There were episodes; the lady was happily married, and the Commissioner was High. The news was confirmed—Lord Fairmouth was dead.

“I must tell her,” said Launa.

Paul went down to the cottage to inspect it and to order it to be immediately prepared for them.

In all this they had quite forgotten Mrs. Cooper.

The Member for Hackney arrived before tea. His business engagements were many, but he was in need of refreshment.

He found Launa in the music-room. He took her hand with sympathy. He knew how to express his emotion with the ease of a ladies’ doctor. Some people said he had no real emotions, only fictitious ones.

“What a charming room!” he said, as he viewed it and her with admiration. He changed his tone as he added, “How is she to-day?”

“Broken-hearted.”

“Ah! In what way?” His experience had not provided him with any symptoms of such a thing. “The defeat of a measure,” he began, when Launa interrupted him.

“Oh, Mr. Bolton, does anyone know? Did the other man tell of what happened last night?”

Fear of discovery is a woman’s broken heart, he made a note of it, while he answered:

“No one knows. You may be quite sure of that. I arranged it with my friend. You may tell Miss Cooper I am glad I can set her—mind at rest.”

He meant at first to say heart.

“She does not care, she does not think of that,” she answered. “She has not seen him for six months . . . she loves him, he loved her . . . she made him leave her.”

“Really!”

“It is terrible to hear her. She does not cry, she merely moans. . . . You will have some tea?”

“I would like some tea,” he answered. “I am very tired.”

He felt much refreshed. Miss Archer had discrimination, and evidently was a good housekeeper.

“You stay in town for some time?” he asked. “Miss Archer, are you not the hansom girl? Mr. George told me about it, I remember. It applies to you both with and without a ‘d’.”

She smiled, and did not thank him.

“I have taken a house at Shelton, and as Miss Cooper is so wretched I intend to take her there.”

“She is related to you?”

“No; I am sorry for her. She is my friend.”

“Ah, that is better. Will you not be sorry for me? I, too, am alone, and sometimes lonely.”

She had never associated any frivolity with the Member for Hackney. He was one of those mysterious men who assisted in the governing of the country, and as such beyond much emotion. She looked at him.

“Do you need my sorrow?”

“I want it.”

“We often want what we do not need. I want more tea, it is not good for me, I do not need it.”

“Can I do anything to help you?”

“If you would. I had forgotten Mrs. Cooper, her mother. You could interview her for me. She may hear Sylvia is ill. I do not want her to come to see her daughter. Mrs. Cooper would believe you. She is an old lady who believes in a man’s opinion.”

“ ‘Man was made in the image of God.’ She believes it still?”

“Yes,” said Launa, “and she accepts with thankfulness ideas from any man.”

“If she were a young woman this might be attractive and new. I will go to see this Adamite. What must I say?”

“Be indefinite.”

“Headache and weariness for disease; absolute quiet and rest for the remedies,” he replied. “I quite understand. May I come again? Above all I would like to be with you at Shelton.”

“Do come. I should be so glad.”

“I could wish you would not—could not express it so easily. Where does this lady live?”

“In the Fulham Road.”

He sighed. The prospect of the long drive did not cheer him.

“You will take my brougham. I have ordered it for you.”

“Thank you,” he replied, and let his glance say more.

The Colonies were interesting. It was the year of new fishery arrangements with America and France. The Member for Hackney made a point of knowing all about them. He intended to ask Launa for information; he felt singularly elated at the prospect of seeing her again.

He was not particularly fond of fishing nor of bills, but information on all subjects was acceptable to him. He prided himself on knowing the views of the people for whom he was legislating.