Miss Thornton again! Celia’s heart sank. She would not have confessed it, but she had taken a positive dislike to the name. She handed the letter back in silence, her face becoming thoughtful as she tried to imagine what Miss Thornton would be like.

Mrs. Williams continued to gossip, scarcely waiting for the girl to reply; but suddenly her mood changed as she received the well-known signal of coming pain. She glanced at Celia, drinking in the freshness of the girl’s striking beauty, and inwardly she raged. What would she not give to be young again? To feel the warm blood coursing through her veins; to experience that exuberance which is the natural attribute of youth; to be fresh and healthy and strong; able to expend all the forces of activity without fearing the dearth of a fresh supply! At that moment she could almost have written an elegy on her dead-and-gone youth.

“Celia!” she burst out suddenly, “I envy you; I’m jealous of you, child. You have all your life before you; you are only on the threshold as yet. Oh, the joy, the power that is yours! For years to come you—in all probability—will be living, and moving and speaking; eating, and drinking, and enjoying yourself; playing your part in the comedy of life; bringing men to your feet by the charm of your face and voice: whilst all the time I—who possess such zest for life—shall lay cold and silent, crumbling away into dust. Oh, what a horrible, hateful thing is death!”

Celia scarcely knew how to reply. With the tears springing to her eyes, she knelt by the side of the couch, and gazed earnestly into Ninette’s drawn and weary face.

“Why do you envy me my youth?” she said at length, in a suppressed voice. “Have not you, too, been young? Oh, I know how hard it must be to feel that before very long you must leave this bright world, and the sunshine and the flowers; but, if only you had faith in the future life, you would give no thought to your poor body crumbling in the dust: you would think only of the deathless soul-world, so much fairer than this earth. Surely you cannot have been so enamoured of the joys of what you call the comedy of life as to wish to cling to them for ever? I enjoy life, too, and I am young; but I already know that those joys are not to be depended upon; they are apt to disclose their hollowness, and to cloy. Everything changes so. People change, circumstances change, even we ourselves change; only God and Nature and Love are immutable. It seems to me that we can only be truly happy by allotting to our present, material joys, their due proportion—so infinitesimally small—in the great scheme of the whole life eternal. Then we shall no longer regret our past delights, and death will only be to us the mere shedding of our mortal chrysalis. Oh, I wish I could explain more clearly what I mean! I wish, with all my heart, that I could make you feel as I do about these things!”

Mrs. Neville Williams patted the girl’s cheek almost tenderly, although she could not quite make out what she meant.

“I am too prosaic and matter-of-fact,” she replied, with a sigh. “I am not spirituelle, like you. You have your brother’s dreamy and philosophical temperament, child. I wonder if you will hold the same opinions when you arrive at my age. It is so easy to breathe defiance at death when one is young and strong. But enough of this. I see you have brought some music. Sing to me, Celia: something sweet and soothing to frighten the bogey away.”

With ready obedience the girl rose, and, taking up her music-case, unfastened it. She had brought three songs with her: the “Snake-song,” from the “Voice of the Charmer,” a light French chanson of Massenet’s; and Stephen Liddle’s beautiful setting of Lyte’s “Abide with me.” After a moment’s thought she unfolded the latter; and opening the top of the piano, placed it on the music-stand.

“This is really a contralto song,” she explained, settling herself on the music-stool. “I have only heard one woman sing it to perfection, and that is Madame Clara Butt. However, I’ll do my best.” And then, striking the preliminary chords, so melodious and deep, she began.

With half-closed eyes Mrs. Neville Williams listened. The plaintive sweetness of the melody pleased her, as did the particularly rich timbre of Celia’s voice. What a splendid thing it was to be able to sing so perfectly, she thought! Then, when the second verse was reached, she found herself realizing the tenor of the words—

“Swift to its close ebbs out life’s little day,
Earth’s joys grow dim, its glories pass away;
Change and decay in all around I see—
Thou who changest not, abide with me.”

Here was more philosophy—or what she chose to term philosophy. She tried to listen to the melody only, ignoring the words; but presently the music increased its tempo, gaining in intensity; and Celia’s enunciation was so clear that even against her will the words impressed themselves upon her consciousness—

Then, so softly that she almost held her breath to listen, came the last verse—

There was silence while Celia put the music away; and then Mrs. Neville Williams spoke.

“That is a fine song, and you sing it well,” she remarked, feeling that she was expected to say something. “But it seemed, somehow, to mock me. I am out of sympathy with the words. Won’t you sing something catchy and bright? I want cheering up, for I feel almost as heavy as lead.”

Celia glanced at her in pity; but without a word, sat down at the piano again, and playing a short prelude, dashed off into a gay little drinking song she had learnt in Paris. This was more to Ninette’s taste, and her eyes brightened visibly as she rapped a tattoo on the chair in time to the vigorous refrain. She had been of a frivolous disposition all her life; she considered serious people and serious things a “bore;” her motto had ever been “vive la bagatelle:” it was surely too late to change now.

“Come and see me again,” she said, when Celia prepared to take her leave. “I know you don’t mind my looking like a scare-crow. You won’t tell any of my friends of my wretched appearance, though, will you?”

Celia promised faithfully not to divulge, and then, as she fastened the last button of her glove, she said wistfully—

“Wouldn’t you like to see a clergyman, Mrs. Williams?”

“No thank you, child, I would rather not. He could do me no good, and would probably make me feel uncomfortable: say that my illness was a judgment for my sins, or something equally horrid.”

“Oh, I don’t think he would,” the girl rejoined diffidently. “Besides, even if he did make you feel uncomfortable at first, he would not leave you without telling you the ‘comfortable words,’ and making you happy in the knowledge of them, you know.”

But Mrs. Neville Williams would not be persuaded, and with a look of seriousness on her expressive face, Celia left.

“Mrs. Williams seems better to-day, does she not?” she said to the maid who was in attendance at the halldoor. “What did Sir Dighton Forbes say when he called this morning?”

“He didn’t say nothing, miss, except that he is sending an ’orspital nurse to-morrow, and she is to stay over the operation. But we haven’t much hope, miss. The picture of the mistress that hangs in her bedroom tumbled down and smashed last night; and that’s a bad sign as I know for a fact; for when my young man’s mother took ill and died of the influenza—which will be two years come Christmas—her photograph, as was a hornament to the parlour, fell off the mantelshelf and——”

But the remaining words of the sentence were lost; for the elevator arrived; and with a hurried apology, Celia descended.

CHAPTER XVII

BOTH SIDES OF THE CURTAIN

The orchestra had just struck up the overture to the “Voice of the Charmer,” when two young men entered the auditorium and took their places in the stalls. Their faces contrasted strongly with their immaculate shirt-fronts, for they were bronzed, even weather-beaten; and their general appearance gave one the impression that they had recently returned from some distant clime. The one clean-shaven and square-shouldered, was Dr. Geoffrey Milnes; the other—shorter and of slighter build—Dick Stannard, the squire’s son. These two, although they had not seen much of each other when at home, had become fast friends out in Australia. Stannard was rollicking and bright, with a fresh breezy manner which acted as a kind of tonic on Geoffrey’s more serious disposition. He had taken a fancy to Milnes, and their mutual home-connections served to form a link between them. When the young doctor had been utterly disheartened by the absolute failure of his research in connection with tuberculosis, it was Stannard who saved him from morbidly dwelling on his defeat, and insisted on his taking an active part in the social life of Sydney. He took upon himself the part of mentor, and ruled Geoffrey with a rod of iron; not, however, that the advice he gave was in any way severe. His deep conviction was that it was the duty of every one to endeavour to obtain the maximum of enjoyment with the minimum of discomfort; and although he could not quite convert his friend to his way of thinking, he did succeed in capturing his medical tomes and papers, thus bringing his work to an abrupt standstill. Geoffrey scarcely appreciated his attention, and on the voyage home had threatened to duck him more than once, but he certainly felt more “fit” since he had been obliged to give his brains a rest.

“I say, Milnes, I’m awfully curious to see her,” Dick said, when he had devoured the contents of his programme. “The last recollection I have of her was at our Christmas party in Durlston, when she had very long hair and very short skirts, and stood on a hassock to recite ‘The Spider and the Fly.’ I suppose she has altered a good deal since then. I wonder if it is true that she is engaged to Lady Marjorie Stonor’s brother?”

“Can’t tell you, I’m sure,” Dr. Geoff rejoined with a frown; and then the lights were lowered and the curtain rose.

They both had neither eyes nor ears for any one but Mallida. Before she came on, the play lagged and filled them with impatience, but at her entry all was changed. Geoffrey felt thrilled to the core, as, at the sound of her well-remembered voice, he craned his head to catch the first glimpse of her sweet face and snowy draperies. Then a strong feeling of indignation took possession of him as he realized that, for the mere price of a seat, any fellow could avail himself of the privilege of basking in the sunshine of her smile, and drinking in the richness of her voice. And although he enjoyed the play and admired Celia’s acting, he hated to see her upon the stage, hated to think that for three hours every evening she belonged absolutely to the public; that her smiles and tears were alike artificial, mechanically assumed for their benefit. It seemed to him little less than desecration of the gifts with which she had been so liberally endowed.

Dick Stannard was wildly enthusiastic, and at the end of the first act, declared his intention of going behind. Geoffrey, for some inexplicable reason of his own, refused to accompany him, so, having thought out a few particularly flowery compliments to offer, he went alone. A few minutes later, however, he returned with an obvious expression of disappointment on his rugged face; and flinging himself on to the seat, uttered the inelegant but forcible expression of “Rot!”

“My dear boy!” expostulated Geoffrey. “Have you forgotten that you are in decent company for once?”

“No; but it is rot all the same,” returned Stannard, indignantly. “The fellow, whoever he might be, absolutely refused to take in my card. Said Miss Franks saw nobody at the theatre, not even her most intimate friends, and that I might possibly be able to see her by appointment at Mr. and Mrs. Haviland’s house in Acacia Road. I told him that I had just arrived from Australia, and was going on to the North to-morrow morning, but it made no difference. He said he had his orders which he was bound to obey, and as he wasn’t the sort of man to take a tip, all I could do was to turn to the right about and come away.”

“Which you did with a very bad grace, I am sure,” rejoined the doctor, with a smile. “Moral, don’t attempt to pry where you are not wanted.”

“It’s utter rot!” reiterated Stannard, emphatically. “What would it hurt if I just went and wished her good evening?”

But Geoffrey was secretly glad that the rules were so stringent, for they must save Celia the annoyance of interviewing many an undesirable visitor, he thought.

Meanwhile, behind the scenes, Celia was dressing for the second act. She would not have been so calm and collected, perhaps, had she known who was in the stalls. Her dresser was relating some of her humorous and varied experiences as she dexterously braided the girl’s long hair: and Celia, engaged in spoiling her complexion with grease-paint and powder, listened with genuine amusement. Mrs. Jackson had been chief dresser to Mrs. Potter Wemyss at one time, and was very proud of the fact. Many were the tales she had to tell of the great actress’s kindly words and deeds. “Mrs. Potter Wemyss used to say,” was her favourite mode of beginning a sentence; and “just like Mrs. Potter Wemyss” her ideal of perfection. Had Celia not known the lady in question, she would probably have grown tired of her name, but being a personal friend, her interest never flagged.

“You are ready early to-night, miss,” she said, as she put the finishing touches to Celia’s toilette. “It is a pity Mr. Haviland won’t let you see anybody. It would help to pass away the time. There’s that little Mr. Smiffkins always a-hanging round the stage door—the one who wears the overcoat with the tremendous fur collar and cuffs. He offered me a sovereign if I could get him an interview with you.”

“Did he really? What a waste of money!” was Celia’s comment.

“It’s rather a shame, though, miss, that Mr. Haviland is so strict. Why, you could have this room crammed full of flowers every show if he would let Jones take them in, not to mention boxes of chocolates and all manner of nice things. I don’t think as it’s right to deny an actress her perks. I should kick agen it if I was you, miss, that I would.”

“But how could I possibly accept presents from people I don’t even know?” said the girl with wide-open eyes. “Surely Mrs. Potter Wemyss never did!”

“Oh well, Mrs. Potter Wemyss is Mrs. Potter Wemyss. She’s got a great strapping husband six foot one in his stocking-feet, and they do say as he knows how to strike out with his fists. It wouldn’t do for young men to be sending her flowers and billydoos. But you are quite another matter, miss, you are ‘free and unfettered,’ as it says in the play.”

Celia smilingly shook her head, and rising, surveyed herself in the long pier-glass. It was certainly a picturesque figure which met her gaze. Her dress with its long train of bejewelled cloth, fell in stately folds around her form, glittering and scintillating with every fresh ray of light. A silver belt of cunningly chased design adorned her waist, whilst her peculiar head-dress—a quaint kind of cap—set off to the best advantage the rich colouring of her hair.

As she turned away, satisfied with the result of her dresser’s labours, she heard a foot-fall in the stone passage. Then, without knocking, and in evident agitation, Grace Haviland stumbled into the room. She was breathless and excited, and dropped on to a chair with an air of exhaustion. Clutched in her grasp were two of the evening papers and an unopened telegram. Instantly Celia divined that something had happened.

“What is it, Grace?” she asked, with apprehension. “Is anything wrong?”

Miss Haviland nodded, but for the moment was unable to speak.

“This telegram came directly you were gone,” she panted, as soon as she had recovered her breath. “I wouldn’t have troubled about it, only there was something in the evening paper which told me it was of importance. I thought you ought to know at once, so that’s why I’ve rushed here. I have not seen Guy yet: I think he is with Mr. Calhoun at the wings. Perhaps they will be angry when they know I’ve told you, but I thought it cruel not to let you know.”

Celia took the telegram, and tore it open. Then she uttered a little cry.

“Mr. Karne met with a serious accident. Come at once.—Higgins.”

And then she caught sight of the head-line of the newspaper column, “Attempted murder of Herbert Karne, R.A.;” and underneath, in smaller type, “The assailant a raving madman.”

For the moment she thought she must surely be the victim of nightmare. She rubbed her eyes, as though expecting her surroundings to float away and to find herself in her bedroom at Acacia Road. But, unfortunately, it was no nightmare; it was stern reality. There, unmistakably, was the dressing-room with her stage-dresses hung upon the walls, and all her stage-belongings strewn round the room. There also, was the dresser, looking startled and bewildered as she stood with her arms akimbo, and Grace Haviland, pale and agitated, hating to be the bearer of such bad news. And worst of all, there were the horrible words staring her in the face: Attempted murder.

Suddenly the electric bell announcing the ring-up of the curtain resounded through the building. The sound recalled Celia to the present exigence, and with a shudder she leant against the table.

“I can’t go on acting, now: it’s impossible,” she said, tremulously; “quite impossible. Mrs. Jackson, go and find Miss Graham; she must be in the theatre somewhere; tell her she must get ready at once to take my part. Tell Mr. Calhoun and Mr. Haviland that I’ve had bad news, and have to go to Durlston immediately; and ask them to drag out the stage business as much as they can. We’ve about twenty minutes’ grace: oh, do be quick!”

The dresser flew to obey her behest, and with nervous haste Celia began unbuckling her belt. But her fingers had suddenly lost their power, and she fumbled at the clasp in vain. The hooks of her bodice, too, seemed as if they were never intended to unfasten. Before she could succeed in getting out of her costume, the stage-manager and Haviland appeared.

Ernest Calhoun was one of those men who are able to retain their presence of mind under the most untoward circumstances; and while Haviland stood excitedly haranguing his sister for having brought the bad news in the midst of the performance, he himself remained serene and unruffled to the last degree.

“It is most unfortunate,” he remarked calmly; “and I deeply sympathize with you, Miss Franks; but I ask you candidly, what are we to do? If you refuse to go on with your part, the performance will have to be stopped, which, as you know, would entail a vast amount of inconvenience and expense.”

“But where is the understudy?” put in Grace with eagerness.

“Miss Graham has the evening off to-night,” answered Haviland, crossly. “I wish you would learn not to interfere with what does not concern you, Grace. I shall not forget this upset for a long time to come.”

Calhoun waved his hand. “Hush!” he commanded. “We must not waste time. Miss Franks, I appeal to you. Will you pull yourself together and try to carry the thing through?”

The girl shrank back in despair. “Oh, I can’t—I can’t!” she said, in a tense voice. “How can you expect it? My brother is seriously ill, perhaps dying. I must go to him. Surely you wouldn’t have the heart to keep me away? He is the only relative I have in the world! How can I act, and sing, and laugh, when there is a weight like lead at my heart?”

The stage-manager eyed her pityingly. “I know it’s very hard,” he said, in a softened voice. “But just consider a moment. You cannot get a train to Durlston to-night, for the last one went at about six o’clock; so you would have to wait till morning in any case. Now, suppose you go back to St. John’s Wood, what will you do? Simply sit still and make yourself ill with fretting, most probably. Whereas, if you remain here, your mind will, at least temporarily, be diverted into other channels. Miss Franks, I am sure you are a brave young lady. Won’t you try?”

“Oh, it’s cruel, Mr. Calhoun——” Grace Haviland began, but her brother would not allow her to finish the sentence.

Celia was well-nigh distracted. Although loth to cause the stage-manager so much inconvenience and bother, it would be too terrible to think of Herbert, perhaps dying, with none of his own kin near him, whilst she was playing on the hateful stage. Calhoun pulled out his watch, for the precious minutes were speeding away. All three looked at her in eager expectation. What would her answer be?

After what seemed an eternity, although it was in reality only about fifty seconds, she heaved a deep sigh.

“All right, I’ll go through with it,” she said with an effort. “Or at least I’ll do my best. But please—leave me alone—just for a few minutes.”

“That’s a brave girl!” exclaimed Haviland, with gratification. “I knew she wouldn’t put us in such a fix.”

“In seven minutes the call-boy will be here,” said the stage-manager; and then with a word of encouragement the two men withdrew.

Celia sat down at the table and buried her face in her hands. She tried to think, even to pray, but her senses seemed quite dulled. Fortunately the possibility of her stumbling or breaking down never entered her mind. She had promised to go through with it; and she meant to fulfil her promise. There might be tears and pain at heart, but there would be the usual stage-smile on her face. When she raised her head, there was an expression of almost fierce determination on her countenance. She would not, must not, fail!

Mrs. Jackson readjusted the details of her costume, whilst Grace tried to utter words of commiseration and encouragement. Then the former produced a small spirit-flask and glass, and bade Celia drink.

“There’s nothing like a drop of brandy neat, for putting life into a body,” she said cheerfully. “Come now, drink it, missie; it will do you good.”

But the girl demurred. “No thanks, I would rather not,” she replied. “I am all right now;” and then the patter of flying feet heralded the coming of the call-boy.

For years after Celia remembered that night, and declared she could never have gone through it again. Calhoun said she had never acted so well. In the third act, in which she was the central figure all through, she surpassed herself, and as the curtain fell, evoked a veritable tumult of applause. And not one out of that light-hearted, pleasure-loving audience had the slightest idea how it hurt her to give that merry ringing laugh at the end of the first scene; or that when, later on, she had to say, “Where is my beloved?... My beloved lays a-dying!” the tears in her voice were unfeigned.

But her nerves were stretched to their utmost limit of endurance, and the reaction was bound to follow. She returned to the dressing-room in a state bordering on exhaustion, scarcely heeding Mr. Calhoun’s “Well done!” Fortunately, however, the worst was over, for the remaining act entailed but slight exertion. She begged Grace Haviland to read the account of the assault at Durlston whilst she was changing her costume; and, occasionally interrupted by sundry comments from Mrs. Jackson, Grace complied with her request.

The gist of the matter was this:—

Jacob Strelitzki, a former heeler at Messrs. Mendel and Co.’s boot factory at Durlston, had, after an absence of two months, returned and run amok at the factory, attempting to wound three men with a large clasp-knife. Being of the opinion that he was either the victim of delirium tremens, or else had lost his reason, the factory people made every effort to detain him, but he cleverly managed to slip through their fingers and made his escape. Nothing more was heard of him until that very morning, when he had forced his way into the studio at the Towers, and, without any warning, attacked Mr. Karne—who was at work upon a picture—with the same clasp-knife he had used on the former occasion. Mr. Karne’s servants had come to the rescue, and managed to subdue the man, who was undoubtedly a raving lunatic, but not before he had been able to inflict serious injury to the unfortunate artist. No adequate motive for the crime was assigned, except that for some time Strelitzki had cherished a senseless grudge against Herbert Karne, and had so worked upon his comrades at the factory, that at his instigation they had even set fire to the artist’s house. Recently, however, a complete reconciliation between Herbert Karne and the factory people had taken place; and the latter were shocked and horrified in the extreme at the dastardly action of their former colleague. Meanwhile, Mr. Karne lay in a critical condition, having been wounded in the thorax and right lung.

Celia’s face blanched as she listened, whilst a sickening anxiety tore at her heart. Oh, if only Higgins had despatched the telegram a little earlier, she would have been well on her way to Durlston by now. As it was, she would have to wait till morning. Would morning ever come?

Mrs. Jackson thought the girl was going to faint, and insisted on forcing some brandy down her throat. She was very sympathetic, almost obtrusively so; for it was that tactless sympathy which is worse than none at all.

“Keep your heart up, miss,” she said cheerily, noticing that Celia’s tears were making havoc with her make-up. “You can’t rely on some of them ha’penny papers, you know. I don’t suppose it’s really so bad as they put it there. Not but what you’ve not cause to be anxious, for all that. I remember when my poor daughter—her that was on the trapeze business at the ’alls—fell right down from the roof to the floor without so much as a net to catch her, they sent for me—I was dresser to Mrs. Potter Wemyss at the Haymarket then—and I arrived at the ’all just in time to find the poor gel stiffening. They told me at first it was only a slight accident; but she was stretched out dead when I got there, miss, and looking as calm as calm can be. Them accidents are nasty things, I reckon. I do hope as you won’t find your poor brother laid out ready——”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, stop!” called out Grace, imperatively. “Can’t you see that you are frightening Miss Franks?”

She felt ready to throw the hand-glass or any other convenient missile at the woman for her arrant thoughtlessness.

Poor Celia was pale and trembling, whilst visions of her brother lying dead flashed before her mind’s eye. How she managed to get through that last act she never knew. The dim faces of the audience looming out of the semi-darkness seemed to her like rows of grisly skeletons mocking her with sardonic mirth. The sweep of the violins in the orchestra sounded like a funeral dirge. Two or three times she was almost overcome with dizziness; but at length all was over, and, for the last time, the curtain fell.

“You did splendidly, Cely,” Guy Haviland said to her on the way home. “You are what I have a great admiration for: a brave girl—a girl with ‘grit.’”

But Celia felt brave no longer. She leant back in the brougham with her head against Grace’s shoulder, and cried quietly all the way. She was utterly worn out.

CHAPTER XVIII

“NEITHER JEW NOR GREEK”—ONE GOD OVER ALL

“Well, what news?” said one, as though half afraid to ask the question.

The new-comer closed the door and came forward. “The Manchester physician has just gone back,” he answered. “Strelitzki has been sent to the Prestwich asylum.”

“And the doctors’ verdict?”

“Mr. Karne will live.”

“Gott sei dank!” ejaculated the man in the corner. He had wanted Herbert Karne to change his name, so that the Angel of Death would be deceived, and pass on without claiming his prey.

There was not a man in the room who was not intensely relieved by the news. Each clamoured for further particulars, and went to the Towers to read the bulletin for himself. Once more they were able to enter into their various pastimes and pursuits without feeling that to laugh or chat would be to exhibit callousness or bad taste. A load had been lifted from their hearts. Mr. Karne would live.

For nine days he had hovered ’twixt life and death—a time of heartrending anxiety to his sister, who attended him with untiring devotion, and scarcely ate or slept until the crisis had been overcome. On the tenth day Lady Marjorie arrived; and by a coincidence it was on the tenth day that he began to mend.

“He will get better quickly now that you are here,” Celia said optimistically; and her prophecy was, happily, fulfilled. Herbert had so much to live for now, that he was determined to make a good fight for life and health. He recovered quickly and thoroughly, quite astonishing Dr. Forrest by his unusual obedience to his orders.

Lady Marjorie looked thin and pale; and quite unlike the vivacious little woman of a few months ago. During her stay abroad she had suffered both mentally and physically, the sorrow on her mind having greatly retarded her recovery from the fever. But as her lover grew stronger, she also picked up health. The roses returned to her cheeks, and the sparkle to her eyes; until by degrees she regained the sprightliness which had been hers of old.

“It was a good thing Strelitzki did not quite finish me off just as our happiness was on the horizon,” Herbert said to her half playfully one day. “Just imagine if you had come back to find a nice little urn awaiting you, labelled ‘Concentrated essence of Herbert Karne.’ I am an advocate of cremation, you know!”

But Marjorie’s eyes filled at the very thought. “Oh, darling, I can’t bear to hear you jest about it,” she rejoined seriously. “If that wretched lunatic had killed you, I should have died too.”

And her lover, although he persisted in making light of the whole affair, knew that her words were no vain exaggeration. He began to wonder what Marjorie could see in him, that she should love him so. He considered himself quite the luckiest man in the world.

A fortnight before Christmas the good people at Durlston were somewhat surprised to hear that Durlston House was about to change hands, the new owner being a Mrs. Thornton, of Sydney. One or two of them went to Lady Marjorie expressing their regret; and asked her if she were leaving the town for good.

“Oh no, not for good,” she answered with a merry twinkle in her blue eyes. “Only for about six weeks.” And more she would not divulge.

But somehow the news leaked out, and there was quite a crowd of well-wishers outside the registrar’s office on the following Monday morning. They were mostly the tradespeople who attended at Durlston House and the Towers, probably drawn thither by the fascination which always seems to hover round a bridal couple, whatever their degree.

It was a dreadfully plebeian way of getting married, they said to each other; in fact, it was hardly respectable. “No banns, no church, no wedding-bells, no cake, no free drinks, no nothing.”

“And it’s not as if they couldn’t afford it, neither,” said Mrs. Smith, who kept the chandler’s shop in the High Street; “she being a hearl’s daughter and all.”

“Perhaps it’s because she were a widder,” hazarded Mrs. Jones. “Widders ain’t so pertikler as spinsters, seeing as it’s their second try.”

At the station, however, Mr. Karne somewhat redeemed his character in their eyes. The factory people, despite the fact that he was marrying out of the faith, had sent a deputation to wish the bridal pair good luck and a pleasant journey. In replying to their congratulations, Herbert said that on account of the state of his health, he had been obliged to have the marriage as quiet as possible; but when, in the course of a few weeks, he brought his bride home to the Towers, he hoped to be well enough to organize all the festivities generally associated with a happy wedding.

His little speech elicited general satisfaction, and after some consideration it was unanimously agreed throughout the town that he could not very well have had a “big” wedding, when he had so recently lain at death’s door.

“Although it do seem to me that a bride and bridegroom hev no more right to put off their wedding breakfast than a dead Irishman has to postpone his wake,” remarked Mrs. Jones to Mrs. Smith. “Seeing as one follows the other quite natural-like, as you may say. Still, if them Jews at Mendel’s is satisfied, it’s nowt to do with you and me.”

And there the matter rested.

Celia drove back from the station with Lord Bexley and Mr. Harry Barnard, who had been the witnesses of the marriage. She could not help looking a little bit woe-begone in spite of Mr. Barnard’s jocularity. Although not begrudging Herbert and Marjorie their happiness—on the contrary, she was deeply thankful for it—she felt that Marjorie was the most enviable woman in the world, for she had gained her heart’s desire: she had married the man she loved.

At lunch Mr. Barnard suddenly bethought him of a letter which had arrived for Herbert that morning.

“It was a black-bordered envelope, so I advised Higgins not to deliver it, in case Bert should take it as a bad omen, coming on his wedding-day,” he said in explanation. “What the dickens did I do with it, though? Ah, here it is!” extracting it from the depths of one of his numerous pockets. “I suppose we had better forward it, Miss Franks?”

Celia examined the envelope. “I can open it,” she replied, with a sigh. “I know where it comes from. Poor Mrs. Neville Williams——”

“Do you mean to say she is——” asked Lord Bexley, in a tone of awe.

The girl nodded. “Yes, she is dead,” she rejoined solemnly, as she read the letter. “I am glad that you did not give this to my brother, Mr. Barnard.”

“But I saw Dr. Milnes last week,” pursued Bexley, as though he could scarcely believe it. “He told me that the operation was quite a success.”

“Yes, so it was, according to the nurse’s account also,” answered Celia. “She says: ‘The operation in itself was entirely successful, but the unfortunate lady succumbed to weakness following a relapse.’ Poor Mrs. Neville Williams! I am sorry she is dead!”

“She was a slap-bang and a dash kind of woman, if ever there was one,” remarked Harry Barnard, unfeelingly. “Never happy unless she was up to some sort of a lark. Great Scott, the tricks she used to get up to when Bert and I were in Paris! As flighty as a two-year-old she was, but as cunning as they make ’em. She would have made up to you if you had given her half a chance, wouldn’t she, my lord?”

Bexley looked over at Celia and felt uncomfortable. “Mrs. Neville Williams is dead,” he said with quiet emphasis. “Requiescat in pace.”

And then Celia, who considered Mr. Barnard’s remarks in somewhat bad taste, tactfully changed the subject.

The “Voice of the Charmer” had but another week to run, for the theatre was wanted for the Christmas pantomime. Celia had promised to return to the cast for the final performances; and accompanied by the two gentlemen, caught the afternoon train to London.

Haviland and Calhoun were glad to see her back, for the play without her in it had been like Hamlet without the Prince of Denmark, even though Miss Graham had done her best to imitate the original Mallida’s interpretation of the part.

Celia was not sorry when the last night arrived, although she was bound to admit that all her co-workers had been exceedingly kind to her, from the manager down to the call-boy. But when Mr. Calhoun asked her if she would continue in the part if they resumed the run of the play in the new year, she quietly but firmly declined; and neither he nor Haviland could persuade her to alter her mind.

After Christmas, which she spent very enjoyably at Woodruffe, Herbert and Marjorie wrote for her to come and join them in Bournemouth, both assuring her that she need have no scruples about trespassing on the seclusion of their honeymoon, for there were two or three people they knew staying at the same hotel. The Wiltons, however, would not hear of her taking her departure until after their annual Christmas party, which was, to them, the great event of the winter season.

“Your brother ought to be able to spare you a little longer, now that he has a wife to keep him company,” said Enid, with authority; and to this all the other members of the family agreed.

But at length, after her sister-in-law had despatched three or four more letters of invitation, Celia bade farewell to them all and went. She found both her brother and his wife greatly improved in health; and the cordial welcome they gave her quite dispelled the fear she had had that her visit might be an intrusion. Their fellow-visitors at the hotel organized various forms of social enjoyment; and as the weather was genial—although it was January—they went about a good deal.

“There is somebody you know staying at Cliff Terrace,” Marjorie informed her whilst she unpacked. “He came to Bournemouth because he knew we were here. We scarcely expected you until Monday, and I told him so; but I should not be surprised if he came round to-morrow.”

“Who is it?” asked the girl with curiosity, but Lady Marjorie only smiled at her in a tantalizing manner, and refused to say.

The next day was Sunday. Celia expected the mysterious somebody all day, but he did not arrive. She wondered if it were Lord Bexley, and hoped he had not been trying to get his sister to intercede in his favour. She scarcely thought he would do such a thing, for he had appeared to take her decision as final, when she had rejected his proposal at the Havilands.

In the evening she expressed her intention of going to church; and as Marjorie was not allowed to inhale the night air, she went alone, her brother promising to meet her at the conclusion of the service. He did not scruple to allow her to go unaccompanied, for ever since she had passed out of the hands of her governess, she had been used to go about by herself.

The church was of modern build, fitted with electric light and numerous creature comforts unthought of in the days of our fathers. Celia nestled back in the corner of her pew, allowing the solemn stillness of the sanctuary to pervade her spirit. Evensong always had the effect of making her feel happy and restful; it was like a soothing lullaby after a busy day. She loved especially the jubilant Magnificat and the solemnly sweet Nunc Dimittis, for they were of peculiarly Jewish interest, and made her glory in her Hebrew descent.

After the service was over, and the bulk of the congregation filed out, she still remained in her seat, dreamily listening to the exquisite organ melody. It was one of Chopin’s most beautiful Nocturnes, sweetly mournful and pathetic in parts, but occasionally displaying the fervour of its restrained passion. Celia knew it well, but she had never heard it played amidst such surroundings before. The building was now in semi-darkness, the glare of the electric light having been replaced by the softening shadows of night. At the altar a surpliced choir-boy was extinguishing the six candles, one by one. He performed the action with care and reverence; and then quietly withdrew.

And still the music played on, rising and falling like the throbbing of a heart; and still, with her face turned towards the east—where the sacred symbol stood out in bold relief—Celia listened. At last, recollecting that her brother might be waiting, she passed on tip-toe down the aisle and through the porch. But he was not there; so, knowing that he would not like her to wait about alone, she began to make her way towards the hotel.

It was a fine night, frosty and dry. There was no moon, but the stars shone with dazzling splendour. Celia crossed over to the esplanade, and stood contemplating the prospect for a moment, whilst the salt breeze brushed against her cheek. As she gazed at the vast expanse of sky and ocean, and listened to the dull roar of the waves, some lines she had once sung in the “Golden Legend” recurred to her memory: