Shelton cannot be described; it lay along the river, near heavenly back waters, where reeds rustled, and the rushes sighed softly, and it was within reach of the woods.

They all went there, each one hiding their real feelings from the others, except Mrs. Cooper. Her feelings were described by the word blissful; she derived much satisfaction from the donning of her best dress every day. It was made of silk; in her youth a lady was dressed in nothing but silk. Driving every day with a footman, and having a maid to button her boots, completed her happiness. She never noticed her daughter’s depression. Sylvia had recovered. She was more silent, just as good-looking, and Mr. George hovered about her with sympathy in his eye and with sorrowful attentions.

Mr. Wainbridge, Paul, and the Member for Hackney each felt the inhabitants of the cottage were under his special protection, and each one frowned at the frequent visits of the others.

Paul had received and accepted his invitation before he had told Launa to give up Mr. Wainbridge, and he came to Shelton. All was not yet lost. Mr. Wainbridge was obviously nervous. Launa looked unhappy. To her life in the country was a relief. Of late the strain on her mind had been trying. Paul’s presence was a comfort to her, with an underlying feeling of torture, of the intolerableness of fate, life, destiny.

Mr. Wainbridge made continual demands on her feelings—demands which sometimes were hard, impossible to fulfil, especially that she should love him.

He was quite aware that he frequently asked for the impossible and obtruded himself in a way which was foolish, and before Paul he was often reckless. A mad joy because of his possession of Launa filled his mind, for he knew a mad anguish filled the breast of Paul Harvey.

To Launa Mr. Bolton was like an invigorating breeze after a hot day. He knew that she was appropriated. He expected scars from an intimacy with her, but they were worth it. He was waiting for news from Africa before formally becoming Lord Fairmouth. Meanwhile he forgot ambition and wandered about the fields with her, looking for mushrooms which he never saw, because he found her so much more delightful. She was original and charming, her voice was soft and low. Had it a sound of sadness or of joy? One day one thing, the next another. What was she—heart-whole, heart-divided, or only a woman without a heart?

Mr. Bolton found some amusement from the comedy—or was it a tragedy?—that was being played. He had no fear for his own emotions: they were pretty much the same as those possessed by the other two, and he kept them under excellent control. He sometimes wondered if ambition had any part in Miss Archer’s plans. Would he, as Lord Fairmouth, have any chance? He enjoyed most of her society. Mr. Wainbridge’s visits were uncertain, and whenever Paul and Mr. Bolton were there, Paul took Sylvia out in the canoe.

Mrs. Cooper fortunately discovered an ancient enemy living four miles away, and she drove with frequency and glory, because of the footman, to discuss the past and its joys. The enemy’s joys were present ones. Together they found argument unconvincing and therefore agreeable.

It was Sunday.

They were all walking across the fields coming from church. Launa and Mr. Bolton were first; Mr. Wainbridge had been detained by his uncle at the church door. He caught up to Mrs. Cooper, who insisted on discussing the sermon—which was on “Eternal Damnation.”

The preacher was staying at the Court—Lord Wainbridge’s place—and was specially favoured by her ladyship, who had nodded with frequency and approval at each point to which he gave utterance, and which she considered reduced her husband to ashes here, and to flames hereafter. In her theology there was nothing so quiet and peaceful as ashes afterwards. But Lord Wainbridge had not observed these signs of approval. He regarded his nephew with attention, and Miss Archer with admiration. He looked at his wife—a faded unhealthy specimen of an aristocratic worn-out family, in black bombazine and a dowdy bonnet, and he thought of the other woman and of Launa. He observed her intently; her head well carried, and her hair well dressed, her pretty soft throat—he could not see her face, but she was certainly desirable, and he had never met her. So he stopped his nephew on his way to join Miss Archer, and suggested that Hugh should come over to the Court that afternoon.

Mr. Wainbridge listened to Mrs. Cooper’s remarks in silence. He did not care about the sermon, but he did care for Launa’s society, and she would spend the afternoon with Mr. Bolton or Mr. Harvey. He regretted he had not refused his uncle’s invitation, but that gentleman had appeared so sad, so old, and Lady Wainbridge sniffed with such depressing regularity, that to have refused would have been cruel.

“I dislike that church,” said Launa to Mr. Bolton. “It already makes me feel as if religion were contemptible and as if it were merely useful to occupy old women. I am sorry I went to it to-day.”

“It would be very wrong and very radical of you to neglect your own church. A good Conservative always supports the institutions of his country,” he said.

“That is the good of being women,” she answered, looking at him with a mixture of friendship and mischief. “We are not allowed to vote, and we need not be a Conservative or anything, and as for the institutions of the country, I am not sure that I like them, or even know what they are.”

“Marriage is one.”

“With or without love? For love is not an institution.”

“Sometimes; well, you know as well as I do that we can get on without love.”

“Love,” said Launa, “is the thing in life, it is—”

“What do you love?”

“Whom? What? I love life and movement—the wind and the sea. The being alive to-day is joy. Look at the grass, the river, the water! If I could only be at ‘Solitude,’ to smell the air as it comes across that sweep of woods!”

“To smell it alone?”

“Alone,” she replied.

“You arrange life on a basis of love.” He laughed. “It is not always fine. In winter the wind is cold and it shrieks unpleasantly; it is not warm like love—real love—and then there is success. Not to-day, nor to-morrow, but in a month or a year you would, I think, grow weary of your paradise alone.”

“Why did you laugh?”

“At myself and your basis of love.”

His philosophy kept him amused, because he was aware of his own foolishness. If there was a certain amount of pain in the laughter no one noticed it. The others caught up to them.

“I do not like that preacher,” said Mrs. Cooper.

“He is one of my aunt’s favourites,” answered Mr. Wainbridge. “She says his descriptions of hell are so reviving for the sinner.”

“So is lunch,” said Launa, “and I am hungry.”

After lunch Mr. Wainbridge followed Launa to her own sitting-room. He intended to conduct a parting. Emotions brighten the desert of life.

He put his arms round her.

“I like your necktie and your pin,” she said.

“I will give you the pin.”

He took it out and handed it to her.

“Here, dearest.”

“Now go and sit there. It is too hot for—”

“You never kiss me or let me kiss you.”

“I hate kissing—indiscriminate kissing.”

“You will not always hate it,” he answered. “I must go, I want to settle things with my uncle. You will accept their invitation to stay there?”

He found it best to forget the day she had asked him to set her free. She remembered it and his confession always.

“Not yet. I could not leave here until Mrs. Cooper and Sylvia go.”

“You will have me with you there all day—it will be perfect.”

“Nothing is perfect,” she answered. “You will be back—when?”

“After dinner. How I wish I could stay here now, but my uncle is so lonely. Good-bye.”

He put his arms round her gently and she let him—he stifled her, while he protected her. To suffer any embrace was unusual for her. He was still, glad to hold her. She was sorry he was leaving her; with him near, certain things were impossible—he was an anchor. But there was the rest of the afternoon and Paul.

“Institutions are good sometimes,” she said.

“That is obscure to me. Good-bye.”

And Launa sang a little song to herself:

As it was the fashion to observe love critically, with unbelief, she would do it too.

Paul came in at the window. He had a book in his hand.

“I am lonely,” he said. “May I stay? I never see you alone now, Launa.”

“Are the others all right? We will talk about the war. Where is Mrs. Cooper?”

“They are all asleep, Sylvia too. Bolton is writing letters, answering the bundle he got this morning. Wainbridge, thank Heaven, has gone to see his uncle.”

“Probably to arrange about our marriage.”

She seated herself opposite him and said this rather defiantly. She wanted to remember Mr. Wainbridge and her marriage.

“You are not married yet. . . . To-day is ours.”

“What shall we do now? You and I?”

“You and I,” he repeated, with joy. “Talk. Be glad we are together.”

“And can talk—about Canada.”

“Yes, about Canada,” he replied. “The products or the people?”

“The people,” she answered slowly.

“We will talk of the women.”

“Yes,” she said.

“About you, for you are a woman.”

“I wish I were not.”

“Why?”

“Because—because men have so much the best of it. . . . Do men like independent women? No, men like them clinging. What does a clinging woman do?”

“I don’t take the faintest interest in inscrutable women,” he replied. “Come out and sit among the pine trees and think of ‘Solitude’ and the lake—”

“And forget everything except now which is ours?” she said.

“Come then—come.”

The Court, the ancestral home of the Wainbridges, was purchased by the present owner’s father (with the furniture and the portraits) from a family whose possessions consisted of a very ancient title and many debts. Common sense was not included in their inheritance. That they could ever live with a plain cook and a house-parlourmaid and pay their debts never occurred to them.

The Court was built in a circular shape, with what Lady Wainbridge called “heathen pillars,” and a long flight of steps led up to the door. The gardens were beautiful and the flowers took prizes at shows. The house was dreary and not clean. The servants were celebrated for their piety, therefore other virtues were not required; most of them were “reclaimed.”

Lord Wainbridge was in the garden when his nephew arrived. Lady Wainbridge considered fresh air on Sunday a sin, except what little was imbibed when going to and from church in a brougham at eleven o’clock. She held a “Gospel Reunion” in the drawing-room after lunch, which her husband refused to attend.

For some time the two men admired the roses; they were late ones, and a new kind.

“I did not come to see Miss Archer,” said the elder man, “because you never asked me to do so. You made no formal announcement of your engagement to me.”

“Launa has been in mourning for her father. Nothing is settled—yet.”

“It will be soon? I am tired of this life,” said Lord Wainbridge. “I want to be free. I am going to make this place over to you, Hugh.”

His nephew started.

“To me? I cannot express my sense of your goodness to me.”

“Get married soon,” answered his uncle; “when there is an heir I shall feel happy. Your aunt dislikes the Court, and after you marry I shall not feel the need of being even respectable. I can live as I like.”

“You are too good to me. I cannot tell you what I feel.”

He felt his thanks were poor, stilted, and feeble, but he did not know how to express himself better.

“I should like to come and see Miss Archer.”

“Call her Launa,” said his nephew. . . . “You believe in marriage?”

“I believe in yours, of course, and in my own—we all believe in what is. Marriage exists—is it a failure? For individuals sometimes, for the many—no, I suppose not, for they still marry. You will be happy.”

“I hope so.”

“I admired Miss Archer—she is a living girl. Your aunt will also go to see her—I believe this week is a week of solitude and seclusion with your aunt, but afterwards she will go. You must prepare Miss Archer for some disagreeableness and loud prayers. Your aunt is afflicted in that way on these interesting occasions.”

“Yes,” said the other.

“I should like to have Launa here to stay for a few days; but I fear she might not be very happy. What is your opinion?”

“I will tell her. I am sure she will be grateful to you for all your kindness to us both, but—she is uncertain, and aunt Jane’s remarks might affect her.”

“Uncertain! She loves you? I felt sure when I saw her that it was love. Why is she uncertain?”

“I do not know . . . perhaps I am wrong. Girls often are . . . odd.”

“Sometimes I have hoped you would marry someone with a title, but I like that girl. I received the announcement of your engagement with indifference—it seemed to be only the binding of another man; but now—”

“You wish my marriage to take place soon? You feel as if it would leave you freer—”

“It would make you happier, and me also. I should not be backward about settlements.”

“My aunt may die, and you probably will marry again—”

Lord Wainbridge shook his head.

“No. I shall settle two thousand a year on Miss Archer. She has money, also, I understand?”

“You really desire my marriage?”

“Certainly.”

“Then I will arrange it as quickly as possible.”

“And I may come and see Launa?”

“My dear uncle, do not ask if you may. I am so grateful, more than grateful to you. I hope, and I am sure Launa will feel as I do, that you will make a second home with us.”

And so they parted.

For some days after his conversation with his uncle Mr. Wainbridge found that solitary discourse with his beloved was impossible. She eluded him, and his news grew stale and lost its power of delighting him. Launa had killed his triumph. She let him kiss her forehead sometimes, but they had no twilight walks and no talks.

Any reminder of their approaching marriage was received by her in silence, and he discovered that whereas formerly his love for a woman always cooled at the idea of the approach of matrimony—his pre-matrimonial love was but a star which paled before the heat and light of the rising hymeneal sun. Now his love was the sun, hot sun, which dried up and withered everything; it made his life one intense longing for her. His passion mastered him; everything was subservient to it. He was possessed by one idea, and longed to marry her and soon. He wanted her for his own—absolutely—body and soul. She did not love as he loved; he would kiss her into it—kiss her to know nothing but his love for her. Oh, God, that it should take so long, and need so much patience!

If Launa were only alone! There were Harvey and Bolton—and Paul he feared most of all. He was a prey to uncomfortably apprehensive thoughts, and all day long he had to talk of the garden or of croquet, while the sun of desire was burning him up, and the days were a weariness.

One day Launa was writing letters.

He came in.

“Allein,” he quoted, “zum ersten mal allein.”

She rose hurriedly and glanced at the door which he had shut. It was raining; the windows were closed.

“I am seriously thinking of looking after my affairs in Canada. It would be a long journey,” she said.

“In Canada?” he repeated. “What about your promise to me? Our marriage?”

“I thought you had forgotten about marriage. It is some time since we talked of love—we have talked very little about marriage.”

She undid her scent bottle on her chatelaine.

“Dearest,” he murmured, taking her hand while his heart beat tumultuously. He thought she was jealous, even though he knew she did not love him as he loved her, yet he believed, with the invincible belief of man, that she could be jealous of him. “You must not go to Canada alone. We will go there on our honeymoon!”

This proposition, sweet as it appeared to him, evidently did not raise any feeling of exhilaration in her.

“Canada is too far away for a honeymoon. You would have nothing to do there.”

“We will go to Paris.”

“Very well,” she replied.

Her calmness maddened him.

“Launa, darling, try to love me. I care for you so much; you are all the world to me. I love you—I love you!”

He took her in his arms, and it had all the appearance of a passionate, willing embrace. Paul was just going to open the window to come in. Launa did not see him—he turned round and walked away, and Mr. Wainbridge let her go.

“Don’t do that,” she said. “I hate it, loathe it, and if it were not for you and my pity—my pity, do you hear? I would . . . Sit there and talk rationally. I am a cold stone. I hate love-making, and you are going to be my husband. Have you forgotten the conversation you and I had at Victoria Mansions?”

He sat down by her, and did not answer her question. Instead, he told her all that Lord Wainbridge had said.

“Darling! my beloved! May I tell him it will be soon? Our marriage.”

“Soon?” she repeated drawing away her hand. . . . “I am so lonely, and you are no help. I wish I had someone to help me.”

“Let me.”

“You can’t; don’t you see that? Well, no matter. Will you wait until after lunch—until this evening? Then I will give you an answer.”

“My uncle is anxious to know you. He has been so good to us. We will repay him by being good to him. He needs it.”

“I know; I know.”

“Have you seen the Times?” asked the Member for Hackney, advancing with assurance and sitting down. The Times, he knew, was in the drawing-room; he had just put it down. He had also seen Paul Harvey’s face as he passed the window. Mr. Bolton had no particular feeling for Paul except that of wishing him out of the way. Harvey’s countenance looked as if he meant to go—somewhere. Such a resolution could only portend various developments with Mr. Wainbridge.

Mr. Bolton had just heard and seen in the Times, that he was beyond all doubt Lord Fairmouth.

Miss Cooper had hay fever for two days; no doubt this was due to the second crop of hay having just been cut. Her mother explained this at great length. Sylvia suffered intensely, and her eyes were very red. Everyone pitied her, and she stayed all day in her room; Mrs. Cooper could not stay with her for long, because hay fever is infectious.

“Poor Fairmouth is really dead,” said the Member for Hackney.

“And you are Lord Fairmouth now,” said Launa slowly.

She was thinking of something else; but it appeared to him as if her meditations were about him and his good fortune.

“Yes,” he replied.

Mr. Wainbridge left the room. The house was very quiet. He looked for Paul, but he could not find him. Paul had gone away in the canoe.

Mr. Wainbridge, therefore, was obliged to control the irresistible desire to confide in Paul, and in him only. Paul took such an interest in Launa, so did Lord Fairmouth, but Mr. Wainbridge did not fear him.

It was after dinner, during which meal Mrs. Cooper again discussed hay fever, and the depression consequent thereupon. Mr. Wainbridge was very silent. Lord Fairmouth recommended eucalyptus, and Launa looked pale, even anxious. Paul and the canoe had not returned, and it was growing dark, with a strong wind from the north-east. After dinner she was very restless and wandered about, then she began to play the piano.

Lord Fairmouth went away to write, and Mrs. Cooper retired to bed. She had old-fashioned ideas as to lovers, and regarded them as something almost indecent, requiring constant and frequent privacy.

Launa played on. The wind was shrieking, and then roaring through the tree tops. At last it gave a sudden scream and a yell. She jumped up, and her hands fell on the keys with a crash. A door banged, and a gust of wind clamoured against the window and howled outside.

“Where is Paul?”

She had been playing a Chopin study—number XI.

“Chopin is sometimes hysterical,” said Mr. Wainbridge.

“Here I am, Launa,” and Paul came in. “You were frightened. The wind is making a tremendous noise. When I opened the front door it was howling and shrieking, and nearly blew the lamps out.”

He took both her hands, and held them firmly. Her colour had come back, and she breathed quickly. There was a pause. Mr. Wainbridge strolled across the room.

“Launa, now is the time to tell Harvey your decision. When shall we be married?”

Paul let her hands go.

“When?” he asked. “Before I return to Canada? I am going soon.”

“In September,” said Mr. Wainbridge.

“Yes,” said Launa. “Paul, you have not forgotten your promise. You will give me away?”

Mr. Wainbridge gave a sigh of relieved tension. He had dreaded something different. The wind and the étude had affected his nerves also.

After he retired to his bed that night he remembered that Launa had said she was going to Canada. Paul had said so too. Had there been anything in this mutual resolve to go to Canada. Would he have lost her? The possibility—nay, the certainty—of this showed him his proposal for their marriage was only just in time. Her indifference was not the least of her attractions for him.

In two days Lord Wainbridge came to see her. They talked of the weather and of marriage, both of them changeable varieties, and of absorbing interest.

Lord Fairmouth went up to town, and as he went he remembered the Fisheries. Launa and he had talked very little about them. He had left the House of Commons, and she was going to be married.

Mrs. Herbert was unhappy. She clothed herself with discrimination, and drove frequently with Sir Ralph. She had given up her reputation, and cared nothing for what people thought or said, and they said all they could say. The subject of the behaviour of a woman whose husband is away, and who is continually (they said always) with another man, is inexhaustible. Sir Ralph was kind to her. His was the kindness of stupidity, and he did not mind her being very silent.

She despised herself. It would have been brave of her to have sent him away. Sir Ralph never kissed her, and he seldom stayed later than eleven o’clock. No one knew this, nor would they have believed it if she said so.

Lily bore the cold and indifferent greetings of her friends with an absence of notice which could only be attributed to guilt.

It was September. Mrs. Herbert was in town, with occasional days at the sea. She preferred to remain at her flat. Sir Ralph thought she stayed because town was empty, therefore a constant recognition of him and of her, when together, by their mutual friends was impossible, and they could meet in peace and in half secret.

This was not Mrs. Herbert’s real reason. She was waiting for her husband. She was always expecting him, always hoping that he might come back, and very often she seemed to hear his step on the stairs, to hear the click of his latch-key, and that was all. She feared to be away for long; he would perhaps come, and not finding her waiting would imagine things. She tolerated Sir Ralph while she slightly despised him. Love always bored her; he had told her he loved her. She had replied that love was a detail. He might love her if he liked; it kept him from mischief, no doubt.

“And you?” he asked.

“Oh, me! From suicide, perhaps.”

The day was fine. Mrs. Herbert put on her newest dress to drive and lunch and dine with Sir Ralph somewhere out of town.

“Have you seen the papers?” he asked, when they had shaken hands, and he had not kept the resolution, which he made every day, of kissing her. It was easy to resolve when he came up in the lift.

“I never read them in the morning. In the evening I do—advertisements and everything. Tell me the news.”

“Perhaps it would be as well for you not to drive to-day. . . . It would not look well for one’s future wife to be seen even while there is any uncertainty. It would look as if you had no respect for the world’s arrangements. I will stay here with you. You may do as you like, but it is as well to respect etiquette.”

“What are you talking about? Tell me. Who is your future wife? Is she a nun?”

Sir Ralph handed her the Morning Post.

“Read that.”

“ ‘Yacht gone down of Mr. Blakeley’s,’ ” she read. “Well? What has that to do with me? ‘All hands lost, and the names of the passengers.’ ”

“Read them! Read them!” he said.

And she read:

“Blakeley and his wife—together—lucky souls. Mrs. Grey, I never liked her. John Colquhoun—Herbert!—Herbert! What!” she exclaimed. “Jack—it can’t be—is it true? Jack. . . . God! it is cruel, cruel, and I have waited—waited, believing he would come—believing, and he was only cruising about with Mrs. Grey. Go away,” she said, with sudden energy and anger. “Go now. I hate you, hate you, hate you! It is for you that he thinks I have given him up; fool—as if I would or could. Now, it is forever—why is it? Why is it? I must hurt something!” She picked up a yellow vase full of sweet peas, and threw it away from her. It crashed against the brass fender. “Jack loathed that vase, now it is broken—but the sweet peas are spilt. Help me to pick up the flowers—do help me. They look so red—they are bruised and half-dead—they seem human—they suffer. They are Jack’s favourite flower. Go! go—why don’t you go?”

“I cannot bear to leave you. Lily, think of me—a little—think of—”

“Leave me. Go now, and never come back.”

She threw herself down on the floor, crushing her fresh dress and knocking down another vase, which broke. She lay there and could not cry—could only moan, long shuddering moans of sorrow. Alone, alone—always now, and forever, and he never would know that she had loved him—loved him! If only she had written to him!

Launa was busy with her clothes, and people were giving her teaspoons.

Paul had gone to Germany. He would return in time for her wedding. Hugh Wainbridge and Lord Wainbridge, who liked his future niece very much, had her all to themselves. Lady Wainbridge sent her volumes of sermons and books on the disappointments of the marriage state.

“I suppose it is wretched,” said Launa; “but people seem to bear it fairly well after a time.”

“I could,” said her lover, “with you. Don’t believe all you read in my aunt’s books.”

“Thank you,” she replied gaily.

They were alone in the music-room. The piano had vases of flowers, and a strip—a beautiful deadening strip—of velvet upon it. Launa’s piano had hitherto been bare.

Matrimony and music—more often matrimony and discord. She did not play very much, only little things for Lord Wainbridge; Chopin and ghosts went together.

“How do you like my dress?” she asked.

Mr. Wainbridge inspected her critically.

“It is too black,” he said.

It fell in long straight folds made of some soft black material. It was becoming and yet dreary, like the robe of a sister of charity.

“It suits you; but you look like a widow.”

“Death,” she said; “how unlucky of you to say that! I dreamed of a coffin last night—my own—and I was getting in and out of it to see if it fitted.”

“Dearest, you and I shall always be together.”

“Always?” she repeated, with a little shiver, as if some ghost of the past was near, “always.”

Already his mind did not answer hers. She did not want him always.

“It was a horrid dream. It frightened me.”

“You will never be frightened with me. Have you heard about Herbert?”

“I have heard nothing about him.”

“He was yachting with Blakeley in the Mediterranean, and the yacht went down. They were all drowned.”

“All? Mr. Herbert too?”

“Yes.”

“How terrible! I am so sorry for Lily, and I liked him very much. What will she do? She loves him, I am sure of that. It is terrible.”

“Darling you feel for all women. But for her—she has Sir Ralph.”

“Yes, but she does not love him. I must go to her. I may as well go now.”

“Now? It is tea-time.”

“Well, why not? With her it is probably no time, simply a long, dreary future through which she must exist. I will change my dress; ring for tea, and then you can come with me—in a hansom.”

“Mrs. Herbert has said vile things about you and me. She said you were—”

“I know. But now she is in trouble, and I am sorry for her. I can forget what she has said. She was once my friend, and so I will go to her.”

She dressed quickly, and they drove to Mrs. Herbert’s.

Launa did not ask whether Lily would see her. She sent him away and went in alone. A bewildered maid, whose eyes were red with weeping, led the way to the drawing-room.

Mrs. Herbert lay, face downwards, on the big sofa. She had stayed on the floor until the maids lifted her on to it.

In her mind was a galloping medley of thoughts and regrets, of ungratified desires; a repetition of words she had not said, and now could never say, hurried through her brain with torturing reiteration.

Launa kneeled by her.

“I have come to you to try and comfort you.”

Mrs. Herbert moaned—and then started.

“You! you! Oh Launa, I am so wretched. He is dead—dead without knowing how I love him. . . . He will never know. Is it really you, Launa? I was a brute to you; I was jealous of you. Can you forgive me? I am alone, alone. I thought he was fond of you.”

“He used to talk of you,” said Launa.

“Help me!” said the other. “It is all over.”

For some days Launa stayed with her. Lily was more than miserable; she was crushed, and could not bear to be alone.

There was so much inaction, none of those details which have to be fulfilled when anyone dies at home, no work was to be done except the purchasing of black, no beautiful flowers to arrange, no farewell look, painful, yet a comfort, for in the last sleep the wayfarer appears at peace. There was nothing, only a dumb hideous sorrow and remorse, endless torment, weary reflection on a dreadful past, which she would have blotted out if she could, and the tears of repentance wash away nothing.

Some days had passed since the dreadful tidings.

Mrs. Herbert went exhausted to bed, and Launa left her to go home.

Hugh Wainbridge had come to fetch her, and stayed until after tea. Launa was resting when Sylvia came in.

She wandered about the room touching everything until Launa said:

“Sit down, Sylvia, unless you desire to be slain.”

Sylvia obediently sat down.

She had grown morose and variable. She no longer took an interest in Mr. George and his frivolities, and she worked very hard.

Launa talked a little about Lily.

“I know,” said Sylvia, “that she is miserable now, and yet I envy her. They were together for a time, he loved her and she loved him. She can remember it all. What is the use of goodness? Good women live and die without knowing love, mad real love. Men marry them, but—why didn’t I do as he wanted me to do? He loved me, he asked me over and over again to belong to him absolutely, and I refused. He promised to settle all he had on me, and no one need have known. I loved him—how I do still love him! I thought I was doing right, and I believed that God would reward us—us mind—I believed that. I was sure that together we should be rewarded. He would never have died if I had gone, and people could have called me bad, but I would have been gloriously happy with him.”

“It is awful,” said Launa, “the apparent futility of all things.”

“I have never lived, never had any life, nor joy, nothing except empty applause at the theatre. . . . I am so wretched, so wretched. I will go to see Mrs. Herbert and tell her I envy her. He has held her in his arms, he has kissed her, and I ache for the touch of those arms I shall never feel, I hunger for the kisses I shall never have.”

“Ah, never,” said Launa softly.

Sylvia continued:

“I shall be sorry to-morrow when I remember all I have said. You are lucky, you are happy, and I—She is better off; I wish I had had her chances—if I had lived with him he would never have left me. Will he ever know how I love him? Will he, Launa? Say something. Don’t stare at me. Will he? Do you believe it?”

“Many waters cannot quench love, nor death, nor parting, nor marriage, nor anything.”

“No,” said Sylvia, “nor marriage. He was married to a devil. A reputation never brought a woman comfort. You never say to yourself ‘I am respectable!’ You do not feel as if respectability were a new frock in which to rejoice. Would you, Launa, have received me if I had been—what would my label be?”

“There are no men, there is no man, who is worthy of a woman giving up everything for him.”

“There is love, love, love. I will go to see Mrs. Herbert to-morrow. It is so easy to call men unworthy, but life is dreary when one tries to be good.”

Lily Herbert had accepted her fate—one must, no matter how rebellious the heart may be. The days were long and black and endless; the nights were worse, and full of spectres. The path of life behind her shone with the brilliancy of past happiness, which is often imaginary; before her the path was dark, with the gloom of hopelessness and despair.

Sylvia’s sympathy was a light to her. They frequently talked about Launa. How happy she was! How fortunate! Loved by the gods and by men. The love of men they put last; it was first in both their minds. The love of the gods is death, the love of man life. They had both wilfully thrown it away.

“Once he told me I should live with him as his sister,” said Sylvia. “I hated him for it. I would have been his mistress, but not his sister. He was too good, and I was willing to risk all for him. He gave me credit for so much goodness.”

“Why did you not try it?” asked Lily. “Men do not care for the brotherly pose very long. Their resolutions are momentary.”

Sylvia looked at her. Then she had felt sure men mean what they say after they have said it, as well as while they are saying it—she had changed her mind now.

“I see,” she replied, “and it is too late.”

There was a pause for some moments. Each woman was thinking of those things which usually intrude only at night, and which we push into their corner and avoid contemplating as much as possible.

“Launa is an angel,” said Lily. “She has been so good to me.”

“She has never loved any one,” said Sylvia.

“She would probably have married the other man for money, if she had,” said Lily.

“Her well-regulated affection for Mr. Wainbridge is like her engagement ring. A diamond between two sapphires—neat and even. Have you ever seen my locket?”

“No. I cannot help thinking, Sylvia, he meant to come back. He sent me a present on my birthday, a little locket of pearls. He would not have sent pearls if he thought me—bad—would he? Oh, Sylvia, how lovely!”

Sylvia had unbuttoned her dress and pulled out a locket. It was an opal in the shape of a heart, surrounded by diamonds. It gleamed and glowed with an unearthly radiance. It seemed a living thing emitting sparks of fire.

“How lovely!” repeated Lily.

Sylvia hid it again.

“It knew when he was dying, and grew so dull and pale. Now it burns brighter than ever.”

Then they parted. Sylvia went to the theatre, Lily sat by the fire. The day was cold and dark. She had cocoa instead of dinner, that was an ordeal she could not face alone. She sat and thought; she shut her eyes until she imagined he was there, she could almost feel his kisses, till a shuddering sob of the cold reality recalled her mind to the present. About nine o’clock her parlourmaid came in and told her Captain Carden wished to see her on important business.

“Very well,” said Lily, “I will see him.”

She disliked him—indifferently—and regarded a visit from him as she would one from the cabinet-maker or the plumber, so he was admitted, when to Mr. George or Sir Ralph she would have said “Not at home.”

Captain Carden’s face was red, he appeared excited.

“I have good news,” he said. “You dislike Launa almost as much as I do?”

“No, no, Launa and I are friends. She is one of the noblest women I have ever met.”

“You have changed. Would you not be glad to hear something which will give her trouble, which will be a blow to her? Women often are glad when such things happen.”

“What do you mean?”

“If you are telling me the truth I will not tell you what I mean. Are you not trying to deceive me by a pretence of virtue and friendship with Launa? You are slightly under a cloud now, will she know what gloom means soon?”

“Why?”

“I shall not tell you. I am waiting until—what day is she to be married to Wainbridge? On which day are they to be joined together, and never put asunder by man? When he can kiss her, touch her, and hold her—that is what men do.”

“Go away. Go at once, you have had too much to drink.”

“You do not want to hear? You do not—?”

“No; go!”

Left alone, Mrs. Herbert thought it all over. Captain Carden was mad with rage and jealousy.

Reflection during the night watches made her write to him, asking him to tea, and mentioning that she had changed her mind.

Captain Carden came. He spent the afternoon with her, and left in a rage because he had not been invited to Launa’s wedding on the 25th. He sent her a present—a chain supposed to possess power against the evil eye.

After this Carden visited Mrs. Herbert frequently. Launa spent the time in receiving presents, and trying on dresses, and in suffering the embraces of her future lord, who had grown more ardent and more reckless in his love-making. Paul came back from Norway, and Mr. George ordered a new frock-coat, and admired Sylvia more fervently in black than in any colour. He went every available night to see her act, and wished for Sunday evening performances in London, for on that evening they seldom met, and he had not the satisfaction of gazing at her. Launa announced her intention of going, soon after her marriage, to Norway, where her father was buried.

Mr. Wainbridge was jealous—jealous of the dead man.

He agreed to go. He reminded himself when he promised that he was merely a lover—when the promise was to be carried out he would be a husband. There is a difference between the doings of lovers and husbands; few people—especially women—realise this beforehand.

It was the twenty-sixth of October, and very cold. Launa had been for a long walk; the suspicion of frost was quite Canadian and exhilarating while it wearied her. She was staying at Shelton.

It was barely six. She was reading. She heard a carriage drive up and wondered who it could be.

The door opened, and announced by the new butler—Launa always had maids, but with the prospect of a husband she had engaged a butler—Mrs. Herbert and Captain Carden walked in.

The former looked very handsome; her face was unusually pink; her crape bonnet and long veil thrown back suited her.

“Lily!” said Launa, “how kind of you! I am so very glad to see you. You will stay, of course.”

She avoided Captain Carden’s hand.

“How are you?” he asked. “Well, I hope?”

Launa had turned to Lily, and did not answer his inquiries.

“Where is—where are the others?” asked Lily.

“Are you alone already?” added Captain Carden.

Mr. Wainbridge came in and greeted them with a bored air.

“I have come on business,” said Captain Carden stiffly.

“And you, Lily, have come to stay,” said Launa.

“If you will have me I shall be very glad to stay.”

“I may as well tell you the object of my visit,” said Carden, with importance. “Mrs. Wainbridge, I—”

“Stop!” said Launa.

“Never mind,” said Lily, taking hold of her hand and almost crushing it. “Let him say what he has to say, and then go.”

“I did not tell you before, because I have always wanted to remind you of one day at Victoria Mansions—the day you turned me out. I loved you, and now I am quite willing to marry you, even after the disgrace of having lived for some days as this man’s mistress, for Wainbridge is married.”

A strange and awful silence settled on them. Mr. Wainbridge’s lips were parted, and trembled slightly as he made an effort to speak. Captain Carden looked supremely triumphant, and continued:

“I have proofs here. His wife lives in Edinburgh; he married her legally. You, Launa, are—what are you?”

“Not married, thank God; not married.”

Turning, she saw Paul behind her.

“Paul!” she cried, “help me!”

Paul remembered that this was the third time that she had turned to him in an uncertain situation. Was this the lucky time?

“Launa,” he said, “come away. Let me settle this for you.”

He was already her protector, and they both felt it.

“I must hear it all,” she answered.

“He has two children,” said Captain Carden. “One a son. Your child, Launa—”

“Stop,” interrupted Wainbridge. “If you insult Miss Archer again I shall kick you.”

“Miss Archer!” repeated Carden, with a laugh. “You give in very quickly—you acknowledge she has no right to your name.”

“Nor has she. We are not married.”

“Of course not,” said Captain Carden, with a laugh.

“No, not married!” said Launa.

“The 30th was to be the wedding day,” said Sylvia.

“Damn you,” shouted Carden, turning to Lily. “And you knew!”

“Yes. I have won.”

“Take the proofs. I don’t want them.” He threw down a bundle of letters and turned away. “Oh, that I had succeeded! That you, Launa, were shamed in the sight of all men and all women. When a man trusts a woman she always betrays him! Beaten by five days. Think of it—by five days.”

He rushed from the room like a whirlwind—if he had succeeded, and brought shame to a woman and guilt to a man, he would have faced them all bravely. The women followed him—Launa still stood by Paul, who held her hand. She even returned the pressure of his fingers. Mr. Wainbridge went towards her, and Paul left the room.

“Good-bye, Launa,” said Mr. Wainbridge. “Good-bye. I suppose it is all over; I suppose you could not forget.”

“Forget. Do not say what I never can forget.”

“And yet women have faced the Divorce Court for a man they love.”

“When a woman loves; but when she pities—no. I told you once—”

“I am not married to her,” he continued, with what he considered much passion. “You know I do not believe in marriage as a binding ceremony. Love only is binding. I went with her to a priest, and we signed our names. How can a priest—a mortal man—marry men and women for eternity?”

“Great Heaven!” said Launa, “and I meant to marry you. Thank God, I escaped.” Her piety would not have been so excessive had she loved him. “You would not have believed in your marriage with me?”

“No; but I had settled all I have or will have upon you by your name and on your children—I love you, but I see it is all over. . . . Good-bye. . . . Launa, my darling, wish me well.”

“I pray for that woman who is your wife, and I rejoice that I escaped. I thank Heaven—you told me lies, you wanted my pity, you—”

“Heaven had but little to do with this. Carden was the ruling spirit.”

“Go!” said Launa; “go before I say all I want to.”

The new butler helped him on with his overcoat—he had listened at the key-hole, and Mr. Wainbridge would be a lord some day. He was a religious man, and remembered the chief butler and Joseph, but no quotation occurred to him which would apply to the situation; besides, he was a good servant and knew his place.

Mr. Wainbridge had the satisfaction of driving away in the trap which had brought Captain Carden to Shelton—therefore Carden would have to walk to the station and miss his train—unless Launa had out her horses for him. The reflections of Mr. Wainbridge during his journey to Paddington were unpleasant. There was his uncle to face, and he must make explanations to him.

Nothing was so disquieting as Launa’s cry for help to Paul. Why Paul? Why not to Sylvia or Lily or anyone? And the sound of relief in her voice—relief—was there joy? She had never loved him; if she had, she would have loved him married or dead. She was the sort of woman who does not—who cannot change. Therefore if she had loved him she could have risked all for him.

His only consolation was Carden’s walk in the dark to the station, and journey by a slow train at 1 a.m. to town. Carden would swear; it stopped at every station.