drew himself up with an air of dignified offence, and saying, "I wish
you better manners," turned on his heel.

Piers walked on at a rapid pace. Noticing again a well-dressed prowler
of the pavement, whose approaches this time were welcomed, a feeling of
nausea came upon him. He hailed a passing cab, and drove home.

A week later, he heard from Mrs. Hannaford that she and Olga were
established in their own home; she begged him to come and see them
soon, mentioning an evening when they would be glad if he could dine
with them. And Piers willingly accepted.

The house was at Campden Hill; a house of the kind known to agents as
"desirable," larger than the two ladies needed for their comfort, and,
as one saw on entering the hall, furnished with tasteful care. The work
had been supervised by Dr. Derwent, who thought that his sister and his
niece might thus be tempted to live the orderly life so desirable in
their unfortunate circumstances. When Piers entered, Mrs. Hannaford sat
alone in the drawing room; she still had the look of an invalid, but
wore a gown which showed to advantage the lines of her figure. Otway
had been told not to dress, and it caused him some surprise to see his
hostess adorned as if for an occasion of ceremony. Her hair was done in
a new way, which changed the wonted character of her face, so that she
looked younger. A bunch of pale flowers rested against her bosom, and
breathed delicate perfume about her.

"It was discussed," she said, in a low, intimate voice, "whether we
should settle in London or abroad. But we didn't like to go away. Our
only real friends are in England, and we must hope to make more. Olga
is so good, now that she sees that I really need her. She has been so
kind and sweet during my illness."

Whilst they were talking, Miss Hannaford silently made her entrance.
Piers turned his head, and felt a shock of surprise. Not till now had
he seen Olga at her best; he had never imagined her so handsome; it was
a wonderful illustration of the effect of apparel. She, too, had
reformed the fashion of her hair, and its tawny abundance was much more
effective than in the old careless style. She looked taller; she
stepped with a more graceful assurance, and in offering her hand,
betrayed consciousness of Otway's admiration in a little flush that
well became her.

She had subdued her voice, chastened her expressions. The touch of
masculinity on which she had prided herself in her later "Bohemian"
days, was quite gone. Wondering as they conversed, Piers had a
difficulty in meeting her look; his eyes dropped to the little silk
shoe which peeped from beneath her skirt. His senses were gratified; he
forgot for the moment his sorrow and unrest.

The talk at dinner was rather formal. Piers, with his indifferent
appetite, could do but scanty justice to the dainties offered him, and
the sense of luxury added a strangeness to his new relations with Mrs.
Hannaford and her daughter. Olga spoke of a Russian novel she had been
reading in a French translation, and was anxious to know whether it
represented life as Otway knew it in Russia. She evinced a wider
interest in several directions, emphasised--perhaps a little too
much--her inclination for earnest thought: was altogether a more
serious person than hitherto.

Afterwards, when they grouped themselves in the drawing-room, this
constraint fell away. Mrs. Hannaford dropped a remark which awakened
memories of their life together at Geneva, and Piers turned to her with
a bright look.

"You used to play in those days," he said, "and I've never heard you
touch a piano since."

There was one in the room. Olga glanced at it, and then smilingly at
her mother.

"My playing was so very primitive," said Mrs. Hannaford, with a laugh.

"I liked it."

"Because you were a boy then."

"Let me try to be a boy again. Play something you used to. One of those
bits from 'Tell,' which take me back to the lakes and the mountains
whenever I hear them."

Mrs. Hannaford rose, laughing as if ashamed; Olga lit the candles on
the piano.

"I shall have to play from memory--and a nice mess I shall make of it."

But memory served her for the passages of melody which Piers wished to
hear. He listened with deep pleasure, living again in the years when
everything he desired seemed a certainty of the future, depending only
on the flight of time, on his becoming "a man." He remembered his vivid
joy in the pleasures of the moment, the natural happiness now, and for
years, unknown to him. So long ago, it seemed; yet Mrs. Hannaford,
sitting at the piano, looked younger to him than in those days. And
Olga, whom as a girl of fourteen he had not much liked, thinking her
both conceited and dull, now was a very different person to him, a
woman who seemed to have only just revealed herself, asserting a power
of attraction he had never suspected in her. He found himself trying to
catch glimpses of her face at different angles, as she sat listening
abstractedly to the music.

When it was time to go, he took leave with reluctance. The talk had
grown very pleasantly familiar. Mrs. Hannaford said she hoped they
would often see him, and the hope had an echo in his own thoughts. This
house might offer him the refuge he sought when loneliness weighed too
heavily. It was true, he could not accept the idea with a whole heart;
some vague warning troubled his imagination; but on the way home he
thought persistently of the pleasure he had experienced, and promised
himself that it should be soon repeated.

A melody was singing in his mind; becoming conscious of it, he
remembered that it was the air to which his friend Moncharmont had set
the little song of Alfred de Musset. At Odessa he had been wont to sing
it--in a voice which Moncharmont declared to have the quality of a very
fair tenor, and only to need training.

   "Quand on perd, par triste occurrence,
        Son esperance
        Et sa gaité,
    Le remède au mélancolique
        C'est la musique
        Et la beauté.

    Plus oblige et peut davantage
        Un beau visage
        Qu'un homme armé,
    Et rien n'est meilleur que d'entendre
        Air doux et tendre
        Jadis aimé!"

It haunted him after he had gone to rest, and for once he did not mind
wakefulness.

A week passed. On Friday, Piers said to himself that to-morrow he would
go in the afternoon to Campden Hill, on the chance of finding his
friends at home. On Saturday morning the post brought him a letter
which he saw to be from Mrs. Hannaford, and he opened it with pleasant
anticipation; but instead of the friendly lines he expected he found a
note of agitated appeal. The writer entreated him to come and see her
exactly at three o'clock; she was in very grave trouble, had the most
urgent need of him. Three o'clock; neither sooner or later; if he could
possibly find time. If he could not come, would he telegraph an
appointment for her at his office?

With perfect punctuality, he arrived at the house, and in the
drawing-room found Mrs. Hannaford awaiting him. She came forward with
both her hands held out; in her eyes a look almost of terror. Her
voice, at first, was in choking whispers, and the words so confusedly
hurried as to be barely intelligible.

"I have sent Olga away--I daren't let her know--she will be away for
several hours, so we can talk--oh, you will help me--you will do your
best----"

Perplexed and alarmed, Piers held her hand as he tried to calm her. She
seemed incapable of telling him what had happened, but kept her eyes
fixed upon him in a wild entreaty, and uttered broken phrases which
conveyed nothing to him; he gathered at length that she was in fear of
some person.

"Sit down and let me hear all about it," he urged.

"Yes, yes--but I'm so ashamed to speak to you about such things. I
don't know whether you'll believe me. Oh, the shame--the dreadful
shame! It's only because there seems just this hope. How shall I bring
myself to tell you?"

"Dear Mrs. Hannaford, we have been friends so long. Trust me to
understand you. Of course, of course I shall believe what you say!"

"A dreadful, a shameful thing has happened. How shall I tell you?" Her
haggard face flushed scarlet. "My husband has given me notice that he
is going to sue for a divorce. He brings a charge against me--a false,
cruel charge! It came yesterday. I went to the solicitor whose name was
given, and learnt all I could. I have had to hide it from Olga, and oh!
what it cost me! At once I thought of you; then it seemed impossible to
speak to you; then I felt I must, I must. If only you can believe me!
It is--your brother."

Piers was overcome with amazement. He sat looking into the eyes which
stared at him with their agony of shame.

"You mean Daniel?" he faltered.

"Yes--Daniel Otway. It is false--it is false! I am not guilty of this!
It seems to me like a hateful plot--if one could believe anyone so
wicked. I saw him last night. Oh, I must tell you all, else you'll
never believe me--I saw him last night. How can anyone behave so to a
helpless woman? I never did him anything but kindness. He has me in his
power, and he is merciless."

A passion of disgust and hatred took hold on Piers as he remembered the
meeting in Piccadilly.

"You mean to say you have put yourself into that fellow's power?" he
exclaimed.

"Not willingly! Oh, not willingly! I meant only kindness to him. Yes, I
have been weak, I know, and so foolish! It has gone on so long.--You
remember when I first saw him, at Ewell? I liked him, just as a friend.
Of course I behaved foolishly. It was my miserable life--you know what
my life was. But nothing happened--I mean, I never thought of him for a
moment as anything but an ordinary friend--until I had my legacy."

The look on the listener's face checked her.

"I begin to understand," said Piers, with bitterness.

"No, no! Don't say that--don't speak like that!"

"It's not you I am thinking of, Mrs. Hannaford. As soon as money comes
in--. But tell me plainly. I have perfect confidence in what you say,
indeed I have."

"It does me good to hear you say that! I can tell you all, now that I
have begun. It is true, he _did_ ask me to go away with him, again and
again. But he had no right to do that--I was foolish in showing that I
liked him. Again and again I forbade him ever to see me; I tried so
hard to break off! It was no use. He always wrote, wherever I was,
sending his letters to Dr. Derwent to be forwarded. He made me meet him
at all sorts of places--using threats at last. Oh, what I have gone
through!"

"No doubt," said Piers gently, "you have lent him money?"

She reddened again; her head sank.

"Yes--I have lent him money, when he was in need. Just before the death
of your father."

"Once only?"

"Once--or twice----"

"To be sure. Lately, too, I daresay?"

"Yes----"

"Then you quite understand his character?"

"I do now," Mrs. Hannaford replied wretchedly. "But I must tell you
more. If it were only a suspicion of my husband's I should hardly care
at all. But someone must have betrayed me to him, and have told
deliberate falsehoods. I am accused--it was when I was at the seaside
once--and he came to the same hotel--Oh, the shame, the shame!"

She covered her face with her hands, and turned away.

"Why," cried Piers, in wrath, "that fellow is quite capable of having
betrayed you himself. I mean, of lying about you for his own purposes."

"You think he could be so wicked?"

"I don't doubt it for a moment. He has done his best to persuade you to
ruin yourself for him, and he thinks, no doubt, that if you are
divorced, nothing will stand between him and you--in other words, your
money."

"He said, when I saw him yesterday, that now it had come to this, I had
better take that step at once. And when I spoke of my innocence, he
asked who would believe it? He seemed sorry; really he did. Perhaps he
is not so bad as one fears?"

"Where did you see him yesterday?" asked Otway.

"At his lodgings. I was _obliged_ to go and see him as soon as
possible. I have never been there before. He behaved very kindly. He
said of course he should declare my innocence----"

"And in the same breath assured you no one would believe it? And
advised you to go off with him at once?"

"I know how bad it seems," said Mrs. Hannaford. "And yet, it is all my
own fault--my own long folly. Oh, you must wonder why I have brought
you here to tell you this! It's because there is no one else I could
speak to, as a friend, and I felt I should go mad if I couldn't ask
someone's advice. Of course I could go to a lawyer--but I mean someone
who would sympathise with me. I am not very strong; you know I have
been ill: this blow seems almost more than I can bear; I thought I
would ask you if you could suggest anything--if you would see him, and
try to arrange something." She looked at Piers distractedly. "Perhaps
money would help. My husband has been having money from me; perhaps if
we offered him more? Ought I to see him, myself? But there is
ill-feeling between us; and I fear he would be glad to injure me, glad!"

"I will see Daniel," said Piers, trying to see hope where reason told
him there was none. "With him, at all events, money can do much."

"You will? You think you may be able to help me? I am in such terror
when I think of my brother hearing of this. And Irene! Think, if it
becomes public--everyone talking about the disgrace--what will Irene
do? Just at the time of her marriage!" She held out her hands,
pleadingly. "You would be glad to save Irene from such a shame?"

Piers had not yet seen the scandal from this point of view. It came
upon him with a shock, and he stood speechless.

"My husband hates them," pursued Mrs. Hannaford, "and you don't know
what _his_ hatred means. Just for that alone, he will do his worst
against me--hoping to throw disgrace on the Derwents."

"I doubt very much," said Piers, who had been thinking hard, "whether,
in any event, this would affect the Derwents in people's opinion."

"You don't think so? But do you know Arnold Jacks? I feel sure he is
the kind of man who would resent bitterly such a thing as this. He is
very proud--proud in just that kind of way--do you understand? Oh, I
know it would make trouble between him and Irene."

"In that case," Piers began vehemently, and at once checked himself.

"What were you going to say?"

"Nothing that could help us."

When he raised his eyes again, Mrs. Hannaford was gazing at him with
pitiful entreaty.

"For _her_ sake," she said, in a low, shaken voice, "you will try to do
something?"

"If only I can!"

"Yes! I know you! You are good and generous--It ought surely to be
possible to stop this before it gets talked about? If I were guilty, it
would be different. But I have done no wrong; I have only been weak and
foolish. I thought of going straight to my brother, but there is the
dreadful thought that he might not believe me. It is so hard for a
woman accused in this way to seem innocent; men always see the dark
side. He has no very good opinion of me, as it is, I know he hasn't. I
turned so naturally to you; I felt you would do your utmost for me in
my misery.--If only my husband can be brought to see that I am not
guilty, that he wouldn't win the suit, then perhaps he would cease from
it. I will give all the money I can--all I have!"

Piers stood reflecting.

"Tell me all the details you have learnt," he said. "What evidence do
they rely on?"

Her head bowed, her voice broken, she told of place and time and the
assertions of so-called witnesses.

"Why has this plot against you been a year in ripening?" asked Otway.

"Perhaps we are wrong in thinking it a plot. My husband may only just
have discovered what he thinks my guilt in some chance way. If so,
there is hope."

They sat mute for a minute or two.

"If only I can hide this from Olga," said Mrs. Hannaford. "Think how
dreadful it is for me, with her! We were going to ask you to spend
another evening with us--but how is it possible? If I send you the
invitation, will you make an answer excusing yourself--saying you are
too busy? To prevent Olga from wondering. How hard, how cruel it is!
Just when we had made ourselves a home here, and might have been happy!"

Piers stood up, and tried to speak words of encouragement. The charge
being utterly false, at worst a capable solicitor might succeed in
refuting it. He was about to take his leave, when he remembered that he
did not know Daniel's address: Mrs. Hannaford gave it.

"I am sorry you went there," he said.

And as he left the room, he saw the woman's eyes follow him with that
look of woe which signals a tottering mind.

CHAPTER XXIII

Without investigating her motives, Irene Derwent deferred as long as
possible her meeting with the man to whom she had betrothed herself.
Nor did Arnold Jacks evince any serious impatience in this matter. They
corresponded in affectionate terms, exchanging letters once a week or
so. Arnold, as it chanced, was unusually busy, his particular section
of the British Empire supplying sundry problems just now not to be
hurriedly dealt with by those in authority; there was much drawing-up
of reports, and translating of facts into official language, in
Arnold's secretarial department. Of these things he spoke to his
bride-elect as freely as discretion allowed; and Irene found his
letters interesting.

The ladies in Cheshire were forewarned of the new Irene who was about
to visit them; political differences did not at all affect their
kindliness; indeed, they saw with satisfaction the girl's keen mood of
loyalty to the man of her choice. She brought with her the air of
Greater Britain; she spoke much, and well, of the destinies of the
Empire.

"I see it all more clearly since this bit of Colonial experience," she
said. "Our work in the world is marked out for us; we have no choice,
unless we turn cowards. Of course we shall be hated by other countries,
more and more. We shall be accused of rapacity, and arrogance, and
everything else that's disagreeable in a large way; we can't help that.
If we enrich ourselves, that is a legitimate reward for the task we
perform. England means liberty and enlightenment; let England spread to
the ends of the earth! We mustn't be afraid of greatness! We _can't_
stop--still less draw back. Our politics have become our religion. Our
rulers have a greater responsibility than was ever known in the world's
history--and they will be equal to it!"

The listeners felt that a little clapping of the hands would have been
appropriate; they exchanged a glance, as if consulting each other as to
the permissibility of such applause. But Irene's eloquent eyes and
glowing colour excited more admiration than criticism; in their hearts
they wished joy to the young life which would go on its way through an
ever changing world long after they and their old-fashioned ideas had
passed into silence.

In a laughing moment, Irene told them of the proposal she had received
from Trafford Romaine. This betokened her high spirits, and perchance
indicated a wish to make it understood that her acceptance of Arnold
Jacks was no unconsidered impulse. The ladies were interested, but felt
this confidence something of an indiscretion, and did not comment upon
it. They hoped she would not be tempted to impart her secret to persons
less capable of respecting it.

During these days there came a definite invitation from Mrs. Borisoff,
who was staying in Hampshire, at the house of her widowed mother, and
Irene gladly accepted it. She wished to see more of Helen Borisoff,
whose friendship, she felt, might have significance for her at this
juncture of life. The place and its inhabitants, she found on arriving,
answered very faithfully to Helen's description; an old manor-house,
beautifully situated, hard by a sleepy village; its mistress a rather
prim woman of sixty, conventional in every thought and act, but too
good-natured to be aggressive, and living with her two unmarried
daughters, whose sole care was the spiritual and material well-being of
the village poor.

"Where I come from, I really don't know," said Helen to her friend. "My
father was the staidest of country gentlemen. I'm a sport, plainly. You
will see my mother watch me every now and then with apprehension. I
fancy it surprises her that I really do behave myself--that I don't
even say anything shocking. With you, the dear old lady is simply
delighted; I know she prays that I may not harm you. You are the first
respectable acquaintance I have made since my marriage."

In the lovely old garden, in the still meadows, and on the
sheep-cropped hillsides, they had many a long talk. Now that Irene was
as good as married, Mrs. Borisoff used less reserve in speaking of her
private circumstances; she explained the terms on which she stood with
her husband.

"Marriage, my dear girl, is of many kinds; absurd to speak of it as one
and indivisible. There's the marriage of interest, the marriage of
reason, the marriage of love; and each of these classes can be almost
infinitely subdivided. For the majority of folk, I'm quite sure it
would be better not to choose their own husbands and wives, but to
leave it to sensible friends who wish them well. In England, at all
events, they _think_ they marry for love, but that's mere nonsense. Did
you ever know a love match? I never even heard of one, in my little
world. Well," she added, with her roguish smile, "putting yourself out
of the question."

Irene's countenance betrayed a passing inquietude. She had an air of
reflection; averted her eyes; did not speak.

"The average male or female is _never_ in love," pursued Helen. "They
are incapable of it. And in this matter I--_moi qui vous parle_--am
average. At least, I think I am; all evidence goes to prove it, so far.
I married my husband because I thought him the most interesting man I
had ever met. That was eight years ago, when I was two-and-twenty.
Curiously, I didn't try to persuade myself that I was in love; I take
credit for this, my dear! No, it was a marriage of reason. I had money,
which Mr. Borisoff had not. He really liked me, and does still. But we
are reasonable as ever. If we felt obliged to live always together, we
should be very uncomfortable. As it is, I travel for six months when
the humour takes me, and it works _a merveille_. Into my husband's
life, I don't inquire; I have no right to do so, and I am not by nature
a busybody. As for my own affairs, Mr. Borisoff is not uneasy; he has
great faith in me--which, speaking frankly, I quite deserve. I am, my
dear Irene, a most respectable woman--there comes in my parentage."

"Then," said Irene, looking at her own beautiful fingernails, "your
experience, after all, is disillusion."

"Moderate disillusion," replied the other, with her humorously judicial
air. "I am not grievously disappointed. I still find my husband an
interesting--a most interesting--man. Both of us being so thoroughly
reasonable, our marriage may be called a success."

"Clearly, then, you don't think love a _sine qua non_?"

"Clearly not. Love has nothing whatever to do with marriage, in the
statistical--the ordinary--sense of the term. When I say love, I mean
love--not domestic affection. Marriage is a practical concern of
mankind at large; Love is a personal experience of the very few. Think
of our common phrases, such as 'choice of a wife'; think of the
perfectly sound advice given by sage elders to the young who are
thinking of marriage, implying deliberation, care. What have these
things to do with love? You can no more choose to be a lover, than to
be a poet. _Nascitur non fit_--oh yes, I know my Latin. Generally, the
man or woman born for love is born for nothing else."

"A deplorable state of things!" exclaimed Irene, laughing.

"Yes--or no. Who knows? Such people ought to die young. But I don't say
that it is invariably the case. To be capable of loving, and at the
same time to have other faculties, and the will to use them--ah!
There's your complete human being."

"I think----" Irene began, and stopped, her voice failing.

"You think, _belle Irene_?"

"Oh, I was going to say that all this seems to me sensible and right.
It doesn't disturb me."

"Why should it?"

"I think I will tell you, Helen, that my motive in marrying is the same
as yours was."

"I surmised it."

"But, you know, there the similarity will end. It is quite
certain"--she laughed--"that I shall have no six-months' vacations. At
present, I don't think I shall desire them."

"No. To speak frankly, I auger well of your marriage."

These words affected Irene with a sense of relief. She had imagined
that Mrs. Borisoff thought otherwise. A bright smile sunned her
countenance; Helen, observing it, smiled too, but more thoughtfully.

"You must bring your husband to see me in Paris some time next year. By
the bye, you don't think he will disapprove of me?"

"Do you imagine Mr. Jacks----"

"What were you going to say?"

Irene had stopped as if for want of the right word She was reflecting.

"It never struck me," she said, "that he would wish to regulate my
choice of friends. Yet I suppose it would be within his right?"

"Conventionally speaking, undoubtedly."

"Don't think I am in uncertainty about this particular instance," said
Irene. "No, he has already told me that he liked you. But of the
general question, I had never thought."

"My dear, who does, or can, think before marriage of all that it
involves? After all, the pleasures of life consist so largely in the
unexpected."

Irene paced a few yards in silence, and when she spoke again it was of
quite another subject.

Whether this sojourn with her experienced and philosophical friend made
her better able to face the meeting with Arnold Jacks was not quite
certain. At moments she fancied so; she saw her position as wholly
reasonable, void of anxiety; she was about to marry the man she liked
and respected--safest of all forms of marriage. But there came
troublesome moods of misgiving. It did not flatter her self-esteem to
think of herself as excluded from the number of those who are capable
of love; even in Helen Borisoff's view, the elect, the fortunate. Of
love, she had thought more in this last week or two than in all her
years gone by. Assuredly, she knew it not, this glory of the poets. Yet
she could inspire it in others; at all events, in one, whose rhythmic
utterance of the passion ever and again came back to her mind.

A temptation had assailed her (but she resisted it) to repeat those
verses of Piers Otway to her friend. And in thinking of them, she half
reproached herself for the total silence she had preserved towards
their author. Perhaps he was uncertain whether the verses had ever
reached her. It seemed unkind. There would have been no harm in letting
him know that she had read the lines, and--as poetry--liked them.

Was her temper prosaic? It would at any time have surprised her to be
told so. Owing to her father's influence, she had given much time to
scientific studies, but she knew herself by no means defective in
appreciation of art and literature. By whatever accident, the friends
of her earlier years had been notable rather for good sense and good
feeling than for aesthetic fervour; the one exception, her cousin Olga,
had rather turned her from thoughts about the beautiful, for Olga
seemed emotional in excess, and was not without taint of affectation.
In Helen Borisoff she knew for the first time a woman who cared
supremely for music, poetry, pictures, and who combined with this a
vigorous practical intelligence. Helen could burn with enthusiasm, yet
never exposed herself to suspicion of weak-mindedness. Posturing was
her scorn, but no one spoke more ardently of the things she admired.
Her acquaintance with recent literature was wider than that of anyone
Irene had known; she talked of it in the most interesting way, giving
her friend new lights, inspiring her with a new energy of thought. And
Irene was sorry to go away. She vaguely felt that this companionship
was of moment in the history of her mind; she wished for a larger
opportunity of benefiting by it.

Dr. Derwent and his son were now at Cromer; there Irene was to join
them; and thither, presently, would come Arnold Jacks.

On the day of her departure there arose a storm of wind and rain, which
grew more violent as she approached the Norfolk coast; and nothing
could have pleased her better. Her troubled mood harmonised with the
darkened, roaring sea; moreover, this atmospheric disturbance made
something to talk about on arriving. She suffered no embarrassment at
the meeting with her father and Eustace, who of course awaited her at
the station. To their eyes, Irene was in excellent spirits, though
rather wearied after the tiresome journey. She said very little about
her stay in Hampshire.

The last person in the world with whom Irene would have chosen to
converse about her approaching marriage was her excellent brother
Eustace; but the young man was not content with offering his good
wishes; to her surprise, he took the opportunity of their being alone
together on the beach, to speak with most unwonted warmth about Arnold
Jacks.

"I really was glad when I heard of it! To tell you the truth, I had
hoped for it. If there is a man living whom I respect, it is Arnold.
There's no end to his good qualities. A downright good and sensible
fellow!"

"Of course I'm very glad you think so, Eustace," replied his sister,
stooping to pick up a shell.

"Indeed I do. I've often thought that one's sister's choice in marriage
must be a very anxious thing; it would have worried me awfully if I had
felt any doubts about the man."

Irene was inclined to laugh.

"It's very good of you." she said.

"But I mean it. Girls haven't quite a fair chance, you know. They can't
see much of men."

"If it comes to that," said Irene merrily, "men seem to me in much the
same position."

"Oh, it's so different. Girls--women--are good. There's nothing
unpleasant to be known about them."

"Upon my word, Eustace! _On n'est pas plus galant_! But I really feel
it my duty to warn you against that amiable optimism. If you were so
kind as to be uneasy on my account, I shall be still more so on yours.
Your position, my dear boy, is a little perilous."

Eustace laughed, not without some amiable confusion. To give himself a
countenance, he smote at pebbles with the head of his walking-stick.

"Oh, I shan't marry for ages!"

"That shows rather more prudence than faith in your doctrine."

"Never mind. Our subject is Arnold Jacks. He's a splendid fellow. The
best and most sensible fellow I know."

It was not the eulogy most agreeable to Irene in her present state of
mind. She hastened to dismiss the topic, but thought with no little
surprise and amusement of Eustace's self-revelation. Brothers and
sisters seldom know each other; and these two, by virtue of widely
differing characteristics, were scarce more than mutually well-disposed
strangers.

Less emphatic in commendation, Dr. Derwent appeared not less satisfied
with his future son-in-law. Irene's scrutiny, sharpened by intense
desire to read her father's mind, could detect no qualification of his
contentment. As his habit was, the Doctor, having found an opportunity,
broached the subject with humorous abruptness.

"It's no business of mine; I don't wish to be impertinent; but if I
_may_ be allowed to express approval----"

Irene raised her eyes for a moment, bestowing upon him a look of
affection and gratitude.

"He's a thorough Englishman, and that means a good deal in the
laudatory sense. The best sort of husband for an English girl, I've no
manner of doubt."

Dr. Derwent was not effusive; he had said as much as he cared to say on
the more intimate aspect of the matter. But he spoke long and carefully
regarding things practical. Irene had his entire confidence; nothing in
the state of his affairs needed to be kept from her knowledge. He spoke
of the duty he owed to his two children respectively, and in sufficient
detail of Arnold Jacks' circumstances. On the death of John Jacks
(which the Doctor suspected was not remote) Arnold would be something
more than a well-to-do man; his wife, if she aimed that way, might look
for a social position such as the world envied.

"And on the whole," he added, "as society must have leaders, I prefer
that they should be people with brains as well as money. The ambition
is quite legitimate. Do your part in civilising the drawing-room, as
Arnold conceives he is doing his on a larger scale. A good and
intelligent woman is no superfluity in the world of wealth nowadays."

Irene tried to believe that this ambition appealed to her. Nay, at
times it certainly did so, for she liked the brilliant and the
commanding. On the other hand, it seemed imperfect as an ideal of life.
In its undercurrents her thought was always more or less turbid.

A letter from Arnold announced his coming. A day after, he arrived.

Many times as she had enacted in fancy the scene of their meeting,
Irene found in the reality something quite unlike her anticipation.
Arnold, it was true, behaved much as she expected; he was perfect in
well-bred homage; he said the right things in the right tone; his face
declared a sincere emotion, yet he restrained himself within due limits
of respect. The result in Irene's mind was disappointment and fear.

He gave her too little; he seemed to ask too much.

The first interview--in a private sitting-room at the hotel where they
were all staying--lasted about half an hour; it wrought a change in
Irene for which she had not at all prepared herself, though the doubts
and misgivings which had of late beset her pointed darkly to such a
revulsion of feeling. She had not understood; she could not understand,
until enlightened by the very experience. Alone once more, she sat down
all tremulous; pallid as if she had suffered a shock of fright. An
indescribable sense of immodesty troubled her nerves: she seemed to
have lost all self-respect: the thought of going forth again, of facing
her father and brother, was scarcely to be borne. This acute distress
presently gave way to a dull pain, a sinking at the heart. She felt
miserably alone. She longed for a friend of her own sex, not
necessarily to speak of what she was going through, but for the moral
support of a safe companionship. Never had she known such a feeling of
isolation, and of over-great responsibility.

A few tears relieved her. Irene was not prone to weeping; only a great
crisis of her fate would have brought her to this extremity.

It was over in a quarter of an hour--or seemed so. She had recovered
command of her nerves, had subdued the excess of emotion. As for what
had happened, that was driven into the background of her mind, to await
examination at leisure. She was a new being, but for the present could
bear herself in the old way. Before leaving her room, she stood before
the looking-glass, and smiled. Oh yes, it would do!

Arnold Jacks was in the state of mind which exhibited him at his very
best. An air of discreet triumph sat well on this elegant Englishman;
it prompted him to continuous discourse, which did not lack its touch
of brilliancy; his features had an uncommon animation, and his slender,
well-knit figure--of course clad with perfect seaside
propriety--appeared to gain an inch, so gallantly he held himself. He
walked the cliffs like one on guard over his country. Without for a
moment becoming ridiculous, Arnold, with his first-rate English
breeding, could carry off a great deal of radiant self-consciousness.

Side by side, he and Irene looked very well; there was suitability of
stature, harmony of years. Arnold's clean-cut visage, manly yet
refined, did no discredit to the choice of a girl even so striking in
countenance as Irene. They drew the eyes of passers-by. Conscious of
this, Irene now and then flinched imperceptibly; but her smile held
good, and its happiness flattered the happy man.

Eustace Derwent departed in a day or two, having an invitation to join
friends in Scotland. He had vastly enjoyed the privilege of listening
to Arnold's talk. Indeed to his sister's amusement, he plainly sought
to model himself on Mr. Jacks, in demeanour, in phraseology, and in
sentiments; not without success.

CHAPTER XXIV

On one of those evenings at the seaside, Dr. Derwent, glancing over the
newspapers, came upon a letter signed "Lee Hannaford." It had reference
to some current dispute about the merits of a new bullet. Hannaford,
writing with authority, criticised the invention; he gave particulars
(the result of an experiment on an old horse) as to its mode of
penetrating flesh and shattering bone; there was a gusto in his style,
that of the true artist in bloodshed. Pointing out the signature to
Arnold Jacks, Dr. Derwent asked in a subdued tone, as when one speaks
of something shameful:

"Have you seen or heard of him lately?"

"About ten days ago," replied Arnold. "He was at the Hyde Wilson's, and
he had the impertinence to congratulate me. He did it, too, before
other people, so that I couldn't very well answer as I wished. You are
aware, by the bye, that he is doing very well--belongs to a firm of
manufacturers of explosives?"

"Indeed?--I wish he would explode his own head off."

The Doctor spoke with most unwonted fierceness. Arnold Jacks, without
verbally seconding the wish, showed by an uneasy smile that he would
not have mourned the decease of this relative of the Derwents. Mrs.
Hannaford's position involved no serious scandal, but Arnold had a
strong dislike for any sort of social irregularity; here was the one
detail of his future wife's family circumstances which he desired to
forget. What made it more annoying than it need have been was his
surmise that Lee Hannaford nursed rancour against the Derwents, and
would not lose an opportunity of venting it. In the public
congratulation of which Arnold spoke, there had been a distinct touch
of malice. It was not impossible that the man hinted calumnies with
regard to his wife, and, under the circumstances, slander of that kind
was the most difficult thing to deal with.

But in Irene's society these unwelcome thoughts were soon dismissed.
With the demeanour of his betrothed, Arnold was abundantly satisfied;
he saw in it the perfect medium between demonstrativeness and
insensibility. Without ever having reflected on the subject, he felt
that this was how a girl of entire refinement should behave in a
situation demanding supreme delicacy. Irene never seemed in "a
coming-on disposition," to use the phrase of a young person who had not
the advantage of English social training; it was evidently her wish to
behave, as far as possible, with the simplicity of mere friendship. In
these days, Mr. Jacks, for the first time, ceased to question himself
as to the prudence of the step he had taken. Hitherto he had been often
reminded that, socially speaking, he might have made a better marriage;
he had felt that Irene conquered somewhat against his will, and that he
wooed her without quite meaning to do so. On the cliffs and the sands
at Cromer, these indecisions vanished. The girl had never looked to
such advantage; he had never been so often apprised of the general
admiration she excited. Beyond doubt, she would do him credit--in
Arnold's view the first qualification in a wife. She was really very
intelligent, could hold her own in any company, and with experience
might become a positively brilliant woman.

For caresses, for endearments, the time was not yet; that kind of
thing, among self-respecting people of a certain class, came only with
the honeymoon. Yet Arnold never for a moment doubted that the girl was
very fond of him. Of course it was for his sake that she had refused
Trafford Romaine--a most illuminating incident. That she was proud of
him, went without saying. He noted with satisfaction how thoroughly she
had embraced his political views, what a charming Imperialist she had
become. In short, everything promised admirably. At moments, Arnold
felt the burning of a lover's impatience.

They parted. The Derwents returned to London; Arnold set off to pay a
hasty visit or two in the North. The wedding was to take place a couple
of months hence, and the pair would spend their Christmas in Egypt.

A few days after her arrival in Bryanston Square, Irene went to see the
Hannafords. She found her aunt in a deplorable state, unable to
converse, looking as if on the verge of a serious illness. Olga behaved
strangely, like one in harassing trouble of which she might not speak.
It was a painful visit, and on her return home Irene talked of it to
her father.

"Something wretched is going on of which we don't know," she declared.
"Anyone could see it. Olga is keeping some miserable secret, and her
mother looks as if she were being driven mad."

"That ruffian, I suppose," said the Doctor. "What can he be doing?"

The next day he saw his sister. He came home with a gloomy countenance,
and called Irene into his study.

"You were right. Something very bad indeed is going on, so bad that I
hardly like to speak to you about it. But secrecy is impossible; we
must use our common sense--Hannaford is bringing a suit for divorce."

Irene was so astonished that she merely gazed at her father, waiting
his explanation. Under her eyes Dr. Derwent suffered an increase of
embarrassment, which tended to relieve itself in anger.

"It will kill her," he exclaimed, with a nervous gesture. "And then, if
justice were done, that scoundrel would be hanged!"

"You mean her husband?"

"Yes. Though I'm not sure that there isn't another who deserves the
name. She wants to see you, Irene, and I think you must go at once. She
says she has things to tell you that will make her mind easier. I'm
going to send a nurse to be with her: she mustn't be left alone. It's
lucky I went to-day. I won't answer for what may happen in
four-and-twenty hours. Olga isn't much use, you know, though she's
doing what she can."

It was about one o'clock. Saying she would be able to lunch at her
aunt's house, Irene forthwith made ready, and drove to Campden Hill.
She was led into the drawing-room, and sat there, alone, for five
minutes; then Olga entered. The girls advanced to each other with a
natural gesture of distress.

"She's asleep, I'm glad to say," Olga whispered, as if still in a
sickroom. "I persuaded her to lie down. I don't think she has closed
her eyes the last two or three nights. Can you wait? Oh, do, if you
can! She does so want to see you."

"But why, dear? Of course I will wait; but why does she ask for _me_?"

Olga related all that had come to pass, in her knowledge. Only by
ceaseless importunity had she constrained her mother to reveal the
cause of an anguish which could no longer be disguised. The avowal had
been made yesterday, not long before Dr. Derwent's coming to the house.

"I wanted to tell you, but she had forbidden me to speak to anyone.
What's the use of trying to keep such a thing secret? If uncle had not
come, I should have telegraphed for him. Of course he made her tell
him, and it has put her at rest for a little; she fell asleep as soon
as she lay down. Her dread is that we shan't believe her. She wants, I
think, only to declare to you that she has done no wrong."

"As if I could doubt her word!"

Irene tried to shape a question, but could not speak. Her cousin also
was mute for a moment. Their eyes met, and fell.

"You remember Mr. Otway's brother?" said Olga, in an unsteady voice,
and then ceased.

"He? Daniel Otway?"

Irene had turned pale; she spoke under her breath. At once there
recurred to her the unexplained incident at Malvern Station.

"I knew mother was foolish in keeping up an acquaintance with him,"
Olga answered, with some vehemence. "I detested the man, what I saw of
him. And I suspect--of course mother won't say--he has been having
money from her."

An exclamation of revolted feeling escaped Irene. She could not speak
her thoughts; they were painful almost beyond endurance. She could not
even meet her cousin's look.

"It's a hideous thing to talk about," Olga pursued, her head bent and
her hands crushing each other, "no wonder it seems to be almost driving
her mad. What do you think she did, as soon as she received the notice?
She sent for Piers Otway, and told him, and asked him to help her. He
came in the afternoon, when I was out. Think how dreadful it must have
been for her!"

"How could _he_ help her?" asked Irene, in a strangely subdued tone,
still without raising her eyes.

"By seeing his brother, she thought, and getting him, perhaps, to
persuade my father--how I hate the name!--that there were no grounds
for such an action."

"What"--Irene forced each syllable from her lips--"what are the grounds
alleged?"

Olga began a reply, but the first word choked her. Her self-command
gave way, she sobbed, and turned to hide her face.

"You, too, are being tried beyond your strength," said Irene, whose
womanhood fortified itself in these moments of wretched doubt and
shame. "Come, we must have some lunch whilst aunt is asleep."

"I want to get it all over--to tell you as much as I know," said the
other. "Mother says there is not even an appearance of wrong-doing
against her--that she can only be accused by deliberate falsehood. She
hasn't told me more than that--and how can I ask? Of course _he_ is
capable of everything--of any wickedness!"

"You mean Daniel Otway?"

"No--her husband--I will never again call him by the other name."

"Do you know whether Piers Otway has seen his brother?"

"He hadn't up to yesterday, when he sent mother a note, saying that the
man was away, and couldn't be heard of."

With an angry effort Olga recovered her self-possession. Apart from the
natural shame which afflicted her, she seemed to experience more of
indignation and impatience than any other feeling. Growing calmer, she
spoke almost with bitterness of her mother's folly.

"I told her once, quite plainly, that Daniel Otway wasn't the kind of
man she ought to be friendly with. She was offended: it was one of the
reasons why we couldn't go on living together. I believe, if the truth
were known, it was worry about him that caused her breakdown in health.
She's a weak, soft-natured woman, and he--I know very well what _he_
is. He and the other one--both Piers Otway's brothers--have always been
worthless creatures. She knew it well enough, and yet----! I suppose
their mother----"

She broke off in a tone of disgust. Irene, looking at her with more
attentiveness, waited for what she would next say.

"Of course you remember," Olga added, after a pause, "that they are
only half-brothers to Piers Otway?"

"Of course I do."

"_His_ mother must have been a very different woman. You have
heard----?"

They exchanged looks. Irene nodded, and averted her eyes, murmuring,
"Aunt explained to me, after his father's death."

"One would have supposed," said Olga, "that _they_ would turn into the
honourable men, and _he_ the scamp. Nature doesn't seem to care much
about setting us a moral lesson."

And she laughed--a short, bitter laugh. Irene, her brows knit in
painful thought, kept silence.

They were going to the dining-room, when a servant made known to them
that Mrs. Hannaford was asking for her daughter.

"Do have something to eat," said Olga, "and I'll tell her you are here.
You _shall_ have lunch first; I insist upon it, and I'll join you in a
moment."

In a quarter of an hour, Irene went up to her aunt's room. Mrs.
Hannaford was sitting in an easy chair, placed so that a pale ray of
sunshine fell upon her. She rose, feebly, only to fall back again; her
hands were held out in pitiful appeal, and tears moistened her cheeks.
Beholding this sad picture, Irene forgot the doubt that offended her;
she was all soft compassion. The suffering woman clung about her neck,
hid her face against her bosom, sobbed and moaned.

They spoke together till dusk. The confession which Mrs. Hannaford made
to her niece went further than that elicited from her either by Olga or
Dr. Derwent. In broken sentences, in words of shamefaced incoherence,
but easily understood, she revealed a passion which had been her
torturing secret, and a temptation against which she had struggled year
after year. The man was unworthy; she had long known it; she suffered
only the more. She had been imprudent, once or twice all but reckless,
never what is called guilty. Convinced of the truth of what she heard,
Irene drew a long sigh, and became almost cheerful in her ardour of
solace and encouragement. No one had ever seen the Irene who came forth
under this stress of circumstance; no one had ever heard the voice with
which she uttered her strong heart. The world? Who cared for the world?
Let it clack and grin! They would defend the truth, and quietly wait
the issue. No more weakness Brain and conscience must now play their
part.

"But if it should go against me? If I am made free of that man----?"

"Then be free of him!" exclaimed the girl, her eyes flashing through
tears. "Be glad!"

"No--no! I am afraid of myself----"

"We will help you. When you are well again, your mind will be stronger
to resist. Not _that_--never _that_! You know it is impossible."

"I know. And there is one thing that would really make it so. I haven't
told you--another thing I had to say--why I wanted so to see you."

Irene looked kindly into the agitated face.

"It's about Piers Otway. He came to see us here. I had formed a
hope----"

"Olga?"

"Yes. Oh, if that could be!"

She caught the girl's hand in her hot palms, and seemed to entreat her
for a propitious word. Irene was very still, thinking; and at length
she smiled.

"Who can say? Olga is good and clever----"

"It might have been; I know it might. But after this?"

"More likely than not," said Irene, with a half-absent look, "this
would help to bring it about."

"Dear, only your marriage could have changed him--nothing else. Oh, I
am sure, nothing else! He has the warmest and truest heart!"

Irene sat with bowed head, her lips compressed; she smiled again, but
more faintly. In the silence there sounded a soft tap at the door.

"I will see who it is," said Irene.

Olga stood without, holding a letter. She whispered that the
handwriting of the address (to Mrs. Hannaford) was Piers Otway's, and
that possibly this meant important news. Irene took the letter, and
re-entered the room. It was necessary to light the gas before Mrs.
Hannaford could read the sheet that trembled in her hand.

"What I feared! He can do nothing."

She held the letter to Irene, who perused it. Piers began by saying
that as result of a note he had posted yesterday, Daniel had this
morning called upon him at his office. They had had a long talk.

"He declared himself quite overcome by what had happened, and said he
had been away from town endeavouring to get at an understanding of the
so-called evidence against him. Possibly his inquiries might effect
something; as yet they were useless. He was very vague, and did not
reassure me; I could not make him answer simple questions. There is no
honesty in the man. Unfortunately I have warrant for saying this, on
other accounts. Believe me when I tell you that the life he leads makes
him unworthy of your lightest thought. He is utterly, hopelessly
ignoble. It is a hateful memory that I, who feel for you a deep respect
and affection, was the cause of your coming to know him.

"But for the fear of embarrassing you, I should have brought this news,
instead of writing it. If you are still keeping your trouble a secret,
I beseech you to ease your mind by seeing Dr. Derwent, and telling him
everything. It is plain that your defence must at once be put into
legal hands. Your brother is a man of the world, and much more than
that; he will not, cannot, refuse to believe you, and his practical aid
will comfort you in every way. Do not try to hide the thing even from
your daughter; she is of an age to share your suffering, and to
alleviate it by her affection. Believe me, silence is mistaken
delicacy. You are innocent; you are horribly wronged; have the courage
of a just cause. See Dr. Derwent at once; I implore you to do so, for
your own sake, and for that of all your true friends."

At the end, Irene drew a deep breath.

"He, certainly, is one of them," she said.

"Of my true friends? Indeed, he is."

Again they were interrupted. Olga announced the arrival of the nurse
sent by Dr. Derwent to tend the invalid. Thereupon Irene took leave of
her aunt, promising to come again on the morrow, and went downstairs,
where she exchanged a few words with her cousin. They spoke of Piers
Otway's letter.

"Pleasant for us, isn't it?" said Olga, with a dreary smile. "Picture
us entertaining friends who call!"

Irene embraced her gently, bade her be hopeful, and said good-bye.

At home again, she remembered that she had an engagement to dine out
this evening, but the thought was insufferable. Eustace, who was to
have accompanied her, must go alone. Having given the necessary orders,
she went to her room, meaning to sit there until dinner. But she grew
restless and impatient; when the first bell rang, she made a hurried
change of dress, and descended to the drawing-room. An evening
newspaper failed to hold her attention; with nervous movements, she
walked hither and thither. It was a great relief to her when the door
opened and her father came in.

Contrary to his custom, the Doctor had not dressed. He bore a wearied
countenance, but at the sight of Irene tried to smooth away the lines
of disgust.

"It was all I could do to get here by dinner-time. Excuse me, Mam'zelle
Wren; they're the clothes of an honest working-man."

The pet syllable (a joke upon her name as translated by Thibaut
Rossignol) had not been frequent on her father's lips for the last year
or two; he used it only in moments of gaiety or of sadness. Irene did
not wish to speak about her aunt just now, and was glad that the
announcement of dinner came almost at once. They sat through an
unusually silent meal, the few words they exchanged having reference to
public affairs. As soon as it was over, Irene asked if she might join
her father in the library.

"Yes, come and be smoked," was his answer.

This mood did not surprise her. It was the Doctor's principle to combat
anxiety with jests. He filled and lit one of his largest pipes, and
smoked for some minutes before speaking. Irene, still nervous, let her
eyes wander about the book-covered walls; a flush was on her cheeks,
and with one of her hands she grasped the other wrist, as if to
restrain herself from involuntary movement.

"The nurse came," she said at length, unable to keep silence longer.

"That's right. An excellent woman; I can trust her."

"Aunt seemed better when I came away."

"I'm glad."

Volleys of tobacco were the only sign of the stress Dr. Derwent
suffered. He loathed what seemed to him the sordid tragedy of his
sister's life, and he resented as a monstrous thing his daughter's
involvement in such an affair. This was the natural man; the scientific
observer took another side, urging that life was life and could not be
escaped, refine ourselves as we may; also that a sensible girl of
mature years would benefit rather than otherwise by being made helpful
to a woman caught in the world's snare.

"Whilst I was there," pursued Irene, "there came a letter from Mr.
Otway. No, no; not from _him_; from Mr. Piers Otway."

She gave a general idea of its contents, and praised its tone. "I
daresay," threw out her father, almost irritably, "but I shall strongly
advise her to have done with all of that name."

"It's true they are of the same family," said Irene, "but that seems a
mere accident, when one knows the difference between our friend Mr.
Otway and his brothers."

"Maybe; I shall never like the name. Pray don't speak of 'our friend.'
In any case, as you see, there must be an end of that."

"I should like you to see his letter, father. Ask aunt to show it you."

The Doctor smoked fiercely, his brows dark. Rarely in her lifetime had
Irene seen her father wrathful--save for his outbursts against the
evils of the world and the time. To her he had never spoken an angry
word. The lowering of his features in this moment caused her a painful
flutter at the heart; she became mute, and for a minute or two neither
spoke.

"By the bye," said Dr. Derwent suddenly, "it is a most happy thing that
your aunt's money was so strictly tied up. No one can be advantaged by
her death--except that American hospital. Her scoundrelly acquaintances
are aware of that fact no doubt."

"It's a little hard, isn't it, that Olga would have nothing?"

"In one way, yes. But I'm not sure she isn't safer so." Again there
fell silence.

Again Irene's eyes wandered, and her hands moved nervously.

"There is one thing we must speak of," she said at length "If the case
goes on, Arnold will of course hear of it."

Dr. Derwent looked keenly at her before replying.

"He knows already."

"He knows? How?"

"By common talk in some house he frequents. Agreeable! I saw him this
afternoon; he took me aside and spoke of this. It is his belief that
Hannaford himself has set the news going."

Irene seemed about to rise. She sat straight, every nerve tense, her
face glowing with indignation.

"What an infamy!"

"Just so. It's the kind of thing we're getting mixed up with."

"How did Arnold speak to you? In what tone?"

"As any decent man would--I can't describe it otherwise. He said that
of course it didn't concern him, except in so far as it was likely to
annoy our family. He wanted to know whether you had heard,
and--naturally enough--was vexed that you couldn't be kept out of it.
He's a man of the world, and knows that, nowadays, a scandal such as
this matters very little. Our name will come into it, I fear, but it's
all forgotten in a week or two."

They sat still and brooded for a long time. Irene seemed on the point
of speaking once or twice, but checked herself. When at length her
father's face relaxed into a smile, she rose, said she was weary, and
stepped forward to say good-night.

"We'll have no more of this subject, unless compelled," said the
Doctor. "It's worse that vivisection."

And he settled to a book--or seemed to do so.

CHAPTER XXV

Irene passed a restless night. The snatches of unrefreshing sleep which
she obtained as the hours dragged towards morning were crowded with
tumultuous dreams; she seemed to be at strife with all manner of
people, now defending herself vehemently against some formless
accusation, now arraigning others with a violence strange to her
nature. Worst of all, she was at odds with her father, about she knew
not what; she saw his kind face turn cold and hard in reply to a
passionate exclamation with which she had assailed him. The wan glimmer
of a misty October dawn was very welcome after this pictured darkness.
Yet it brought reflections that did not tend to soothe her mind.

Several letters for her lay on the breakfast-table; among them, one
from Arnold Jacks, which she opened hurriedly. It proved to be a mere
note, saying that at last he had found a house which seemed in every
respect suitable, and he wished Irene to go over it with him as soon as
possible; he would call for her at three o'clock. "Remember," he added,
"you dine with us. We are by ourselves."

She glanced at her father, as if to acquaint him with this news; but
the Doctor was deep in a leading-article, and she did not disturb him.
Eustace had correspondence of his own which engrossed him. No one
seemed disposed for talk this morning.

The letter which most interested her came from Helen Borisoff, who was
now at home, in Paris. It was the kind of letter that few people are so
fortunate as to receive nowadays, covering three sheets with gaiety and
good-nature, with glimpses of interesting social life and many an
amusing detail. Mrs. Borisoff was establishing herself for the winter,
which promised all sorts of good things yonder on the Seine. She had
met most of the friends she cared about, among whom were men and women
with far-echoing names. With her husband she was on delightful terms;
he had welcomed her charmingly; he wished her to convey his respectful
homage to the young English lady with whom his wife had become _liee_,
and the hope that at no distant time he might make her acquaintance.
After breakfast, Irene lingered over this letter, which brightened her
imagination. Paris shone luringly as she read. Had circumstances been
different, she would assuredly have spent a month there with Helen.

Well, she was going to Egypt, after--

One glance she gave at Arnold's short note. "My dear Irene"--"In haste,
but ever yours." These lines did not tempt her to muse. Yet Arnold was
ceaselessly in her mind. She wished to see him, and at the same time
feared his coming. As for the house, it occupied her thoughts with only
a flitting vagueness. Why so much solicitude about the house? In any
decent quarter of London, was not one just as good as another? But for
the risk of hurting Arnold, she would have begged him to let her off
the inspection, and to manage the business as he thought fit.

A number of small matters claimed her attention during the morning,
several of them connected with her marriage. Try as she might, she
could not bring herself to a serious occupation with these things; they
seemed trivial and tiresome. Her thoughts wandered constantly to the
house at Campden Hill, which had a tragic fascination. She had promised
to see her aunt to-day, but it would be difficult to find time, unless
she could manage to get there between her business with Arnold and the
hour of dinner. Olga was to telegraph if anything happened. A chill
misgiving took hold upon her as often as she saw her aunt's face, so
worn and woe-stricken; and it constantly hovered before her mind's eye.

The revelation made to her yesterday had caused a mental shock greater
than she had yet realised. That Mrs. Hannaford, a woman whom she had
for many years regarded as elderly, should be possessed and overcome by
the passion of love, was a thing so strange, so at conflict with her
fixed ideas, as to be all but incredible. In her aunt's presence, she
scarcely reflected upon it; she saw only a woman bound to her by
natural affection, who had fallen into dire misfortune and
wretchedness. Little by little the story grew upon her understanding;
the words in which it had been disclosed came back to her, and with a
new significance, a pathos hitherto unfelt. She remembered that Olga's
mother was not much more than forty years old; that this experience
began more than five years ago; that her life had been loveless; that
she was imaginative and of emotional temper. To dwell upon these facts
was not only to see one person in a new light, but to gain a wider
perception of life at large. Irene had a sense of enfranchisement from
the immature, the conventional.

She would have liked to be alone, to sit quietly and think. She wanted
to review once more, and with fuller self-consciousness, the
circumstances which were shaping her future. But there was no leisure
for such meditation; the details of life pressed upon her, urged her
onward, as with an impatient hand. This sense of constraint became an
irritation--due in part to the slight headache, coming and going, which
reminded her of her bad night. Among the things she meant to do this
morning was the writing of several letters to so-called friends, who
had addressed her in the wonted verbiage on the subject of her
engagement. Five minutes proved the task impossible. She tore up a
futile attempt at civility, and rose from the desk with all her nerves
quivering.

"How well I understand," she said to herself, "why men swear!"

At eleven o'clock, unable to endure the house, she dressed for going
out, and drove to Mrs. Hannaford's.

Olga was not at home. Before going into her aunt's room, Irene spoke
with the nurse, who had no very comforting report to make; Mrs.
Hannaford could not sleep, had not closed her eyes for some
four-and-twenty hours; Dr. Derwent had looked in this morning, and was
to return later with another medical man. The patient longed for her
niece's visit; it might do good.

She stayed about an hour, and it was the most painful hour her life had
yet known. The first sight of Mrs. Hannaford's face told her how
serious this illness was becoming; eyes unnaturally wide, lips which
had gone so thin, head constantly moving from side to side as it lay
back on the cushion of the sofa, were indications of suffering which
made Irene's heart ache. In a faint, unsteady, lamenting voice, the
poor woman talked ceaselessly; now of the wrong that was being done
her, now of her miseries in married life, now again of her present
pain. Once or twice Irene fancied her delirious, for she seemed to
speak without consciousness of a hearer. To the inquiry whether it was
in her niece's power to be of any service, she answered at first with
sorrowful negatives, but said presently that she would like to see
Piers Otway; could Irene write to him, and ask him to come?

"He shall come," was the reply.

On going down, Irene met her cousin, just returned. To her she spoke of
Mrs. Hannaford's wish.

"I promised he should be sent for. Will you do it, Olga?"

"It is already done," Olga answered. "Did she forget? One of the things
I went out for was to telegraph to him."

They gazed at each other with distressful eyes.

"Oh, what does the man deserve who has caused this?" exclaimed Olga,
who herself began to look ill. "It's dreadful! I am afraid to go into
the room. If I had someone here to live with me!"

Irene's instinct was to offer to come, but she remembered the
difficulties. Her duties at home were obstacles sufficient. She had to
content herself with promising to call as often as possible.

Returning to Bryanston Square, she thought with annoyance of the
possibility that her father and Piers Otway might come face to face in
that house. Never till now had she taxed her father with injustice. It
seemed to her an intolerable thing that the blameless man should be
made to share in obloquy merited by his brother. And what memory was
this which awoke in her? Did not she herself once visit upon him a
fault in which he had little if any part? She recalled that evening,
long ago, at Queen's Gate, when she was offended by the coarse
behaviour of Piers Otway's second brother. True, there was something
else that moved her censure on that occasion, but she would scarcely
have noticed it save for the foolish incident at the door. Fortune was
not his friend. She thought of the circumstances of his birth, which
had so cruelly wronged him when Jerome Otway died. Now, more likely
than not, her father would resent his coming to Mrs. Hannaford's, would
see in it something suspicious, a suggestion of base purpose.

"I can't stand that!" Irene exclaimed to herself. "If he is
calumniated, I shall defend him, come of it what may!"

At luncheon, Dr. Derwent was grave and disinclined to converse. On
learning where Irene had been, he nodded, making no remark. It was a
bad sign that his uneasiness could no longer be combated with a dry
joke.

As three o'clock drew near, Irene made no preparation for going out.
She sat in the drawing-room, unoccupied, and was found thus when Arnold
Jacks entered.

"You got my note?" he began, with a slight accent of surprise.

Irene glanced at him, and perceived that he did not wear his wonted
countenance. This she had anticipated, with an uneasiness which now
hardened in her mind to something like resentment.

"Yes. I hoped you would excuse me. I have a little headache."

"Oh, I'm sorry!"

He was perfectly suave. He looked at her with a good-natured anxiety.
Irene tried to smile.

"You won't mind if I leave all that to you? Your judgment is quite
enough. If you really like the house, take it at once. I shall be
delighted."

"It's rather a responsibility, you know. Suppose we wait till
to-morrow?"

Irene's nerves could not endure an argument. She gave a strange laugh,
and exclaimed:

"Are you afraid of responsibilities? In this case, you must really face
it. Screw up your courage."

Decidedly, Arnold was not himself. He liked an engagement of banter; it
amused him to call out Irene's spirit, and to conquer in the end by
masculine force in guise of affectionate tolerance. To-day he seemed
dull, matter-of-fact, inclined to vexation; when not speaking, he had a
slightly absent air, as if ruminating an unpleasant thought.

"Of course I will do as you wish, Irene. Just let me describe the
house----"

She could have screamed with irritation.

"Arnold, I entreat you! The house is nothing to me. I mean, one will do
as well as another, if _you_ are satisfied."

"So be it. I will never touch on the subject again."

His tone was decisive. Irene knew that he would literally keep his
word. This was the side of his character which she liked, which had
always impressed her; and for the moment her nerves were soothed.

"You will forgive me?" she said gently.

"Forgive you for having a headache?--Will it prevent you from coming to
us this evening?"

"I should be grateful if you let me choose another day."

He did not stay very long. At leave-taking, he raised her hand to his
lips, and Irene felt that he did it gracefully. But when she was alone
again, his manner, so slightly yet so noticeably changed, became the
harassing subject of her thought. That the change resulted from
annoyance at the scandal in her family she could not doubt; such a
thing would be hard for Arnold to bear. When were they to speak of it?
Speak they must, if the affair went on to publicity. And, considering
the natural difficulty Arnold would find in approaching such a subject,
ought not she to take some steps of her own initiative?

By evening, she saw the position in a very serious light. She asked
herself whether it did not behove her to offer to make an end of their
engagement.

"Your aunt has brain fever," said Dr. Derwent, in the library after
dinner. And Irene shuddered with dread.

Early next morning she accompanied her father to Mrs. Hannaford's. The
Doctor went upstairs; Irene waited in the dining-room, where she was
soon joined by Olga. The girl's face was news sufficient; her mother
grew worse--had passed a night of delirium. Two nurses were in the
house, and the medical man called every few hours. Olga herself looked
on the point of collapse; she was haggard with fear; she trembled and
wept. In spite of her deep concern and sympathy, Irene's more
courageous temper reproved this weakness, wondered at it as unworthy of
a grown woman.

"Did Mr. Otway come?" she asked, as soon as It was possible to converse.

"Yes. He was a long time in mother's room, and just before he left her
your father came."

"They met?"

"No. Uncle seemed angry when I told him. He said, 'Get rid of him at
once!' I suppose he dislikes him because of his brother. It's very
unjust."

Irene kept silence.

"He came down--and we talked. I am so glad to have any friend near me!
I told him how uncle felt. Of course he will not come again----"

"Why not? This is _your_ house, not my father's!"

"But poor mother couldn't see him now--wouldn't know him. I promised to
send him news frequently. I'm going to telegraph this morning."

"Of course," said Irene, with emphasis. "He must understand that _you_
have no such feeling----"

"Oh, he knows that! He knows I am grateful to him--very grateful----"

She broke down again, and sobbed. Irene, without speaking, put her arms
around the girl and kissed her cheek.

Dr. Derwent and his daughter met again at luncheon. Afterwards, Irene
followed into the library.

"I wish to ask you something, father. When you and Arnold spoke about
this hateful thing, did you tell him, unmistakably, that aunt was
slandered?"

"I told him that I myself had no doubt of it."

"Did he seem--do you think that _he_ doubts?"

"Why?"

Irene kept silence, feeling that her impression was too vague to be
imparted.

"Try," said her father, "to dismiss the matter from your thoughts. It
doesn't concern you. You will never hear an allusion to it from Jacks.
Happen what may"--his voice paused, with suggestive emphasis--"you have
nothing to do with it. It doesn't affect your position or your future
in the least."

As she withdrew, Irene was uneasily conscious of altered relations with
her father. The change had begun when she wrote to him announcing her
engagement; since, they had never conversed with the former freedom,
and the shadow now hanging over them seemed to chill their mutual
affection. For the first time, she thought with serious disquiet of the
gulf between old and new that would open at her marriage, of all she
was losing, of the duties she was about to throw off--duties which
appeared so much more real, more sacred, than those she undertook in
their place. Her father's widowerhood had made him dependent upon her
in a higher degree than either of them quite understood until they had
to reflect upon the consequences of parting; and Irene now perceived
that she had dismissed this consideration too lightly. She found
difficulty in explaining her action, her state of mind, her whole self.
Was it really only a few weeks ago? To her present mood, what she had
thought and done seemed a result of youth and inexperience, a condition
long outlived.

When she had sat alone for half an hour in the drawing-room, Eustace
joined her. He said their father had gone out. They talked of
indifferent things till bedtime.

In the morning, the servant who came into Irene's room gave her a note
addressed in the Doctor's hand. It contained the news that Mrs.
Hannaford had died before daybreak. Dr. Derwent himself did not appear
till about ten o'clock, when he arrived together with his niece. Olga
had been violently hysterical; it seemed the wisest thing to bring her
to Bryanston Square; the change of surroundings and Irene's sympathy
soon restored her to calm.

At midday a messenger brought Irene a letter from Arnold Jacks. Arnold
wrote that he had just heard of her aunt's death: that he was deeply
grieved, and hastened to condole with her. He did not come in person,
thinking she would prefer to let this sad day pass over before they
met, but he would call to-morrow morning. In the meantime, he would be
grateful for a line assuring him that she was well.

Having read this, Irene threw it aside as if it had been a tradesman's
circular. Not thus should he have written--if write he must instead of
coming. In her state of agitation after the hours spent with Olga, this
bald note of sympathy seemed almost an insult; to keep silence as to
the real cause of Mrs. Hannaford's death was much the same, she felt,
as hinting a doubt of the poor lady's innocence. Arnold Jacks was
altogether too decorous. Would it not have been natural for a man in
his position to utter at least an indignant word? It might have been as
allusive as his fine propriety demanded, but surely the word should
have been spoken!

After some delay, she replied in a telegram, merely saying that she was
quite well.

Olga, as soon as she felt able, had sat down to write a letter. She
begged her cousin to have it posted at once.

"It's to Mr. Otway," she said, in an unsteady voice. And, when the
letter had been despatched, she added, "It will be a great blow to him.
I had a letter last night asking for news--Oh, I meant to bring it!"
she exclaimed, with a momentary return of her distracted manner. "I
left it in my room. It will be lost-destroyed!"

Irene quieted her, promising that the letter should be kept safe.

"Perhaps he will call," Olga said presently. "But no, not so soon. He
may have written again. I must have the letter if there is one. Someone
must go over to the house this evening."

Through a great part of the afternoon, she slept, and whilst she was
sleeping there arrived for her a telegram, which, Irene did not doubt,
came from Piers Otway. It proved to be so, and Olga betrayed nervous
tremors after reading the message.

"I shall have a letter in the morning," she said to her cousin, several
times; and after that she did not care to talk, but sat for hours busy
with her thoughts, which seemed not altogether sad.

At eleven o'clock next morning, Arnold Jacks was announced. Irene, who
sat with Olga in the drawing-room, had directed that her visitor should
be shown into the library, and there she received him. Arnold stepped
eagerly towards her; not smiling indeed, but with the possibility of a
smile manifest in every line of his countenance. There could hardly
have been a stronger contrast with his manner of the day before
yesterday. For this Irene had looked. Seeing precisely what she
expected, her eyes fell; she gave a careless hand; she could not speak.

Arnold talked, talked. He said the proper things, and said them well;
to things the reverse of proper, not so much as the faintest reference.
This duty discharged, he spoke of the house he had taken; his voice
grew animated; at length the latent smile stole out through his eyes
and spread to his lips. Irene kept silence. Respecting her natural
sadness, the lover made his visit brief, and retired with an air of
grave satisfaction.

CHAPTER XXVI

Olga knew that by her mother's death she became penniless. The income
enjoyed by Mrs. Hannaford under the will of her sister in America was
only for life by allowing a third of it to her husband, she had made
saving impossible, and, as she left no will, her daughter could expect
only such trifles as might legally fall to her share when things were
settled. To her surviving parent, the girl was of course no more than a
stranger. It surprised no one that Lee Hannaford, informed through the
lawyers of what had happened, simply kept silence, leaving his wife's
burial to the care of Dr. Derwent.

Three days of gloom went by; the funeral was over; Irene and her cousin
sat together in their mourning apparel, not simply possessed by natural
grief, but overcome with the nervous exhaustion which results from our
habits and customs in presence of death. Olga had been miserably
crying, but was now mute and still; Irene, pale, with an expression of
austere thoughtfulness, spoke of the subject they both had in mind.

"There is no necessity to take any step at all--until you are quite
yourself again--until you really wish. This is your home; my father
would like you to stay."

"I couldn't live here after you are married," replied the other,
weakly, despondently.

Irene glanced at her, hung a moment on the edge of speech, then spoke
with a self-possession which made her seem many years older than her
cousin.

"I had better tell you now, that we may understand each other. I am not
going to be married."

To Olga's voiceless astonishment she answered with a pale smile. Grave
again, and gentle as she was firm, Irene continued.

"I am going to break my engagement. It has been a mistake. To-night I
shall write a letter to Mr. Jacks, saying that I cannot marry him; when
it has been sent, I shall tell my father."

Olga had begun to tremble. Her features were disturbed with an emotion
which banished every sign of sorrow; which flushed her cheeks and made
her eyes seem hostile in their fixed stare.

"How can you do that?" she asked, in a hard voice "How is it possible?"

"It seems to me far more possible then the alternative--a life of
repentence."

"But--what do you mean, Irene? When everything is settled--when your
house is taken--when everyone knows! What do you mean? Why shall you do
this?"

The words rushed forth impetuously, quivering on a note of resentment.
The flushed cheeks were turning pallid; the girl's breast heaved with
indignant passion.

"I can't fully explain it to you, Olga." The speaker's tones sounded
very soft and reasonable after that outbreak. "I am doing what many a
girl would do, I feel sure, if she could find courage--let us say, if
she saw clearly enough. It will cause confusion, ill-feeling, possibly
some unhappiness, for a few weeks, for a month or two; then Mr. Jacks
will feel grateful to me, and my father will acknowledge I did right;
and everybody else who knows anything about it will have found some
other subject of conversation."

"You are fond of somebody else?"

It was between an exclamation and an inquiry. Bending forward, Olga
awaited the reply as if her life depended upon it.

"I am fond of no one--in that sense."

Irene's look was so fearless, her countenance so tranquil in its
candour, that the agitated girl grew quieter.

"It isn't because you are _thinking_ of someone else that you can't
marry Mr. Jacks?"

"I am thinking simply of myself. I am afraid to marry him. No thought
of the kind you mean has entered my head."

"But how will it be explained to everybody?"

"By telling the truth--always the best way out of a difficulty. I shall
take all the blame on myself, as I ought."

"And you will live on here, just as usual, seeing people----?"

"No, I don't think I could do that. Most likely I shall go for a time
to Paris."

Olga's relief expressed itself in a sigh.

"In all this," continued Irene, "there's no reason why you shouldn't
stay here. Everything, you may be sure, will be settled very quietly.
My father is a reasonable man."

After a short reflection, Olga said that she could not yet make up her
mind. And therewith ended their dialogue. Each was glad to go apart
into privacy, to revolve anxious thoughts, and to seek rest.

That her father was "a reasonable man," Irene had always held a
self-evident proposition. She had never, until a few days ago,
conceived the possibility of a conflict between his ideas of right and
her own. Domestic discord was to her mind a vulgar, no less than an
unhappy, state of things. Yet, in the step she was now about to take,
could she feel any assurance that Dr. Derwent would afford her the help
of his sympathy--or even that he would refrain from censure? Reason
itself was on her side; but an otherwise reasonable man might well find
difficulty in acknowledging it, under the circumstances.

The letter to Arnold Jacks was already composed; she knew it by heart,
and had but to write it out. In the course of a sleepless night, this
was done. In the early glimmer of a day of drizzle and fog, the letter
went to post.

There needed courage--yes, there needed courage--on a morning such as
this, when the skyless atmosphere weighed drearily on heart and mind,
when hope had become a far-off thing, banished for long months from a
grey, cold world, to go through with the task which Irene had set
herself. Could she but have slept, it might have been easier for her;
she had to front it with an aching head, with eyes that dazzled, with
blood fevered into cowardice.

Dr. Derwent was plainly in no mood for conversation. His voice had been
seldom heard during the past week. At the breakfast-table he read his
letters, glanced over the paper, exchanged a few sentences with
Eustace, said a kind word to Olga; when he rose, one saw that he hoped
for a quiet morning in his laboratory.

"Could I see you for half an hour before lunch, father?"

He looked into the speaker's face, surprised at something unusual in
her tone, and nodded without smiling.

"When you like."

She stood at the window of the drawing-room, looking over the enclosure
in the square, the dreary so-called garden, with its gaunt leafless
trees that dripped and oozed. Opposite was the long facade of
characterless houses, like to that in which she lived; the steps, the
door-columns, the tall narrow windows; above them, murky vapour.

She moved towards the door, hesitated, looked about her with
unconsciously appealing eyes. She moved forward again, and on to her
purpose.

"Well?" said the Doctor, who stood before a table covered with
scientific apparatus. "Is it about Olga?"

"No, dear father. It's about Irene."

He smiled; his face softened to tenderness.

"And what about Mam'zelle Wren? It's hard on Wren, all this worry at
such a time."

"If it didn't sound so selfish, I should say it had all happened for my
good. I suppose we can't help seeing the world from our own little
point of view."

"What follows on this philosophy?"

"Something you won't like to hear, I know; but I beg you to be patient
with me. When were you not? I never had such need of your patience and
forbearance as now--Father, I cannot marry Arnold Jacks. And I have
told him that I can't."

The Doctor very quietly laid down a microscopic slide. His forehead
grew wrinkled; his lips came sharply together; he gazed for a moment at
an open volume on a high desk at his side, then said composedly:

"This is your affair, Irene. All I can do is to advise you to be sure
of your own mind."

"I _am_ sure of it--very sure of it!"

Her voice trembled a little; her hand, resting upon the table, much
more.

"You say you have told Jacks?"

"I posted a letter to him this morning."

"With the first announcement of your change of mind?--How do you
suppose he will reply?"

"I can't feel sure."

There was silence. The Doctor took up a piece of paper, and began
folding and re-folding it, the while he meditated.

"You know, of course," he said at length, "what the world thinks of
this sort of behaviour?"

"I know what the world is likely to _say_ about it. Unfortunately, the
world seldom thinks at all."

"Granted. And we may also assume that no explanation offered by you or
Jacks will affect the natural course of gossip. Still, you would wish
to justify yourself in the eyes of your friends."

"What I wish before all, of course, is to save Mr. Jacks from any risk
of blame. It must be understood that I, and I alone, am responsible for
what happens."

"Stick to your philosophy," said her father. "Recognise the fact that
you cannot save him from gossip and scandal--that people will credit as
much or as little as they like of any explanation put forth. Moreover,
bear in mind that this action of yours is defined by a vulgar word,
which commonly injures the man more than the woman. In the world's
view, it is worse to be made ridiculous than to act cruelly."

A look of pain passed over the girl's face.

"Father I am not acting cruelly. It is the best thing I can do, for him
as well as for myself. On his side, no deep feeling is involved, and as
for his vanity--I can't consider that."

"You have come to the conclusion that he is not sufficiently devoted to
you?"

"I couldn't have put it in those words, but that is half the truth. The
other half is, that I was altogether mistaken in my own
feelings--Father, you are accustomed to deal with life and death. Do
you think that fear of gossip, and desire to spare Mr. Jacks a brief
mortification, should compel me to surrender all that makes life worth
living, and to commit a sin for which there is no forgiveness?"

Her voice, thoroughly under control, its natural music subdued rather
than emphasised, lent to these words a deeper meaning than they would
have conveyed if uttered with vehemence. They woke in her father's mind
a memory of long years ago, recalled the sound of another voice which
had the same modulations.

"I find no fault with you," he said gravely. "That you can do such a
thing as this proves to me how strongly you feel about it. But it is a
serious decision--more serious, perhaps, than you realise. Things have
gone so far. The mere inconvenience caused will be very great."

"I know it. I have felt tempted to yield to that thought--to let things
slide, as they say. Convenience, I feel sure, is a greater power on the
whole than religion or morals or the heart. It doesn't weigh with me,
because I have had such a revelation of myself as blinds me to
everything else. I _dare_ not go on!"

"Don't think I claim any authority over you," said the Doctor. "At your
age, my only right as your father is in my affection, my desire for
your welfare, Can you tell me more plainly how this change has come
about?"

Irene reflected. She had seated herself, and felt more confidence now
that, by bending her head, she could escape her father's gaze.

"I can tell you one of the things that brought me to a resolve," she
said. "I found that Mr. Jacks was disturbed by the fear of a public
scandal which would touch our name; so much disturbed that, on meeting
me after aunt's death, he could hardly conceal his gladness that she
was out of the way."

"Are you sure you read him aright?"

"Very sure."

"It was natural--in Arnold Jacks."

"It was. I had not understood that before."

"His relief may have been as much on your account as his own."

"I can't feel that," replied Irene. "If it were true, he could have
made me feel it. There would have been something--if only a word--in
the letter he wrote me about the death. I didn't expect him to talk to
me about the hateful things that were going on; I _did_ hope that he
would give me some assurance of his indifference to their effect on
people's minds. Yet no; that is not quite true. Even then, I had got
past hoping it. Already I understood him too well."

"Strange! All this new light came after your engagement?"

Irene bent her head again, for her cheeks were warm. In a flash of
intellect, she wondered that a man so deep in the science of life
should be so at a loss before elementary facts of emotional experience.
She could only answer by saying nothing.

Dr. Derwent murmured his next words.

"I, too, have a share in the blame of all this."

"You, father?"

"I knew the man better than you did or could. I shirked a difficult
duty. But one reason why I did so, was that I felt in doubt as to your
mind. The fact that you were my daughter did not alter the fact that
you were a woman, and I could not have any assurance that I understood
you. If there had been a question of his life, his intellectual powers,
his views--I would have said freely just what I thought. But there was
no need; no objection rose on that score; you saw the man, from that
point of view, much as I did--only with a little more sympathy. In
other respects, I trusted to what we call women's instinct, women's
perceptiveness. To me, he did not seem your natural mate; but then I
saw with man's eyes; I was afraid of meddling obtusely."

"Don't reproach yourself, father. The knowledge I have gained could
only have come to me in one way."

"Of course he will turn to me, in appeal against you."

"If so, it will be one more proof how rightly I am acting."

The Doctor smiled, all but laughed.

"Considering how very decent a fellow he is, your mood seems severe,
Irene. Well, you have made up your mind. It's an affair of no small
gravity, and we must get through it as best we can. I have no doubt
whatever it's worse for you than for anyone else concerned."

"It is so bad for me, father, that, when I have gone through it, I
shall be at the end of my strength. I shall run away from the after
consequences."

"What do you mean?"

"I shall accept Mrs. Horisoff's invitation and go to Paris. It is
deserting you, but----"

Dr. Derwent wore a doubtful look; he pondered, and began to pace the
floor.

"We must think about that."

Though her own mind was quite made up, Irene did not see fit to say
more at this juncture. She rose. Her father continued moving hither and
thither, his hands behind his back, seemingly oblivious of her
presence. To him, the trouble seemed only just beginning, and he was
not at all sure what the end would be.

"Jacks will come this evening, I suppose?" he threw out, as Irene
approached the door.

"Perhaps this afternoon."

He looked at her with sympathy, with apprehension. Irene endeavouring
to smile in reply, passed from his view.

Olga had gone out, merely saying that she wished to see a friend, and
that she might not be back to luncheon. She did not return. Father and
daughter were alone together at the meal. Contrary to Irene's
expectation, the Doctor had become almost cheerful; he made one or two
quiet jokes in the old way, of course on any subject but that which
filled their minds, and his behaviour was marked with an unusual
gentleness. Irene was so moved by grateful feeling, that now and then
she could not trust her voice.

"Let me remind you," he said, observing her lack of appetite, "that an
ill-nourished brain can't be depended upon for sanity of argument."

"It aches a little," she replied quietly.

"I was afraid so. What if you rest to-day, and let me postpone for you
that interview----?"

The suggestion was dreadful; she put it quickly aside. She hoped with
all her strength that Arnold Jacks would have received the letter
already, and that he would come to see her this afternoon. To pass
another night with her suspense would be a strain scarce endurable.

Fog still hung about the streets, shifting, changing its density, but
never allowing a glimpse of sky. Alone in the drawing-room Irene longed
for the end of so-called day, that she might shut out that
spirit-crushing blotch of bare trees and ugly houses. She thought of a
sudden, how much harder we make life than it need be, by dwelling amid
scenes that disgust, in air that lowers vitality. There fell on her a
mood of marvelling at the aims and the satisfactions of mankind. This
hideous oblong, known as Bryanston Square--how did it come to seem a
desirable place of abode? Nay, how was it for a moment tolerable to
reasoning men and women? This whole London now gasping in foul vapours
that half obscured, half emphasised its inexpressible monstrosity, its
inconceivable abominations--by what blighting of eye and soul did a
nation come to accept it as their world-shown pride, their supreme
City? She was lost in a truth-perceiving dream. Habit and association
dropped away; things declared themselves in their actuality; her mind
whirled under the sense of human folly, helplessness, endurance.

"Irene----"

A cry escaped her; she started at the sound of her name as if
terrified. Arnold Jacks had entered the room, and drawn near to her,
whilst she was deep in reverie.

"I am sorry to have alarmed you," he added, smiling tolerantly.

With embarrassment which was almost shame--for she despised womanish
nervousness--Irene turned towards the fireplace, where chairs invited
them.

"Let us sit down and talk," she said, in a softened voice. "I am so
grateful to you for coming at once."

CHAPTER XXVII

His manner was that to which she had grown accustomed, or differed so
little from it that, in ordinary circumstances, she would have remarked
no peculiarity. He might have seemed, perhaps, a trifle less
matter-of-fact than usual, slightly more disposed to ironic
playfulness. At ease in the soft chair, his legs extended, with feet
crossed, he observed Irene from under humorously bent brows; watched
her steadily, until he saw that she could bear it no longer. Then he
spoke.

"I thought we should get through without it."

"Without what?"

"This little reaction. It comes into the ordinary prognosis, I believe;
but we seemed safe. Yet I can't say I'm sorry. It's better no doubt, to
get this over before marriage."

Irene flushed, and for a moment strung herself to the attitude of
offended pride. But it passed. She smiled to his smile, and, playing
with the tassel of her chair, responded in a serious undertone.

"I hoped my letter could not possibly be misunderstood."

"I understand it perfectly. I am here to talk it over from your own
standpoint."

Again he frowned jocosely. His elbows on the chair-arms, he tapped
together the points of his fingers, exhibiting nails which were all
that they should have been. Out of regard for the Derwents' mourning,
he wore a tie of black satin, and his clothes were of dark-grey, a
rough material which combined the effects of finish and of
carelessness--note of the well-dressed Englishman.

"We cannot talk it over," rejoined Irene. "I have nothing to
say--except that I take blame and shame to myself, and that I entreat
your forgiveness."

Under his steady eye, his good-humoured, watchful mastery, she was
growing restive.

"I was in doubt whether to come to-day," said Jacks, in a reflective
tone. "I thought at first of sending a note, and postponing our
meeting. I understood so perfectly the state of mind in which you
wrote--the natural result of most painful events. The fact is, I am
guilty of bad taste in seeming to treat it lightly; you have suffered
very much, and won't be yourself for some days. But, after all, it
isn't as if one had to do with the ordinary girl. To speak frankly I
thought it was the kindest thing to come--so I came."

Nothing Arnold had ever said to her had so appealed to Irene's respect
as this last sentence. It had the ring of entire sincerity; it was
quite simply spoken; it soothed her nerves.

"Thank you," she answered with a grateful look. "You did right. I could
not have borne it--if you had just written and put it off. Indeed, I
could not have borne it."

Arnold changed his attitude; he bent forward, his arms across his
knees, so as to be nearer to her.

"Do you think _I_ should have had an easy time?"

"I reproach myself more than I can tell you. But you must
understand--you _must_ believe that I mean what I am saying!" Her voice
began to modulate. "It is not only the troubles we have gone through. I
have seen it coming--the moment when I should write that letter.
Through cowardice, I have put it off. It was very unjust to you; you
have every right to condemn my behaviour; I am unpardonable. And yet I
hope--I do so hope--that some day you will pardon me."

In the man's eyes she had never been so attractive, so desirable, so
essentially a woman. The mourning garb became her, for it was moulded
upon her figure, and gave effect to the admirably pure tone of her
complexion. Her beauty, in losing its perfect healthfulness, gained a
new power over the imagination; the heavy eyes suggested one knew not
what ideal of painters and poets; the lips were more sensuous since
they had lost their mocking smile. All passion of which Arnold Jacks
was capable sounded in the voice with which he now spoke.

"I shall never pardon you, because I shall never feel you have injured
me. Say to me what you want to say. I will listen. What can I do better
than listen to your voice? I won't argue; I won't contradict. Relieve
your mind, and let us see what it all comes to in the end."

Irene had a creeping sense of fear. This tone was so unlike what she
had expected. Physical weakness threatened a defeat which would have
nothing to do with her will. If she yielded now, there would be no
recovering her self-respect, no renewal of her struggle for liberty.
She wished to rise, to face him upon her feet, yet had not the courage.
His manner dictated hers. They were not playing parts on a stage, but
civilised persons discussing their difficulties in a soft-carpeted
drawing-room. The only thing in her favour was that the afternoon drew
on, and the light thickened. Veiled in dusk, she hoped to speak more
resolutely.

"Must I repeat my letter?"

"Yes, if you feel sure that it still expresses your mind."

"It does. I made a grave mistake. In accepting your offer of marriage,
I was of course honest, but I didn't know what it meant; I didn't
understand myself. Of course it's very hard on you that your serious
purpose should have for its only result to teach me that I was
mistaken. If I didn't know that you have little patience with such
words, I should say that it shows something wrong in our social habits.
Yet that's foolish; you are right, that is quite silly. It isn't our
habits that are to blame but our natures--the very nature of things. I
had to engage myself to you before I could know that I ought to have
done nothing of the kind."

She paused, suddenly breathless, and a cough seized her.

"You've taken cold," said Jacks, with graceful solicitude.

"No, no! It's nothing."

Dusk crept about the room. The fire was getting rather low.

"Shall I ring for lamps?" asked Arnold, half rising.

Irene wished to say no, but the proprieties were too strong. She
allowed him to ring the bell, and, without asking leave, he threw coals
upon the fire. For five minutes their dialogue suffered interruption;
when it began again, the curtains were drawn, and warm rays succeeded
to turbid twilight.

"I had better explain to you," said Arnold, in a tone of delicacy
overcome, "this state of mind in which you find yourself. It is
perfectly natural; one has heard of it; one sees the causes of it. You
are about to take the most important step in your whole life, and,
being what you are, a very intelligent and very conscientious girl, you
have thought and thought about its gravity until it frightens you.
That's the simple explanation of your trouble. In a week--perhaps in a
day or two--it will have passed. Just wait. Don't think of it. Put your
marriage--put me--quite out of your mind. I won't remind you of my
existence for--let us say before next Sunday. Now, is it agreed?"

"I should be dishonest if I pretended to agree."

"But--don't you think you owe it to me to give what I suggest a fair
trial?"

The words were trenchant, the tone was studiously soft. Irene strung
herself for contest, hoping it would come quickly and undisguised.

"I owe you much. I have done you a great injustice. But waiting will do
no good. I know my mind at last. I see what is possible and what
impossible."

"Do you imagine, Irene, that I can part with you on these terms? Do you
really think I could shake hands, and say good-bye, at this stage of
our relations?"

"What can I do?" Her voice, kept low, shook with emotion. "I confess an
error--am I to pay for it with my life?"

"I ask you only to be just to yourself as well as to me. Let three days
go by, and see me again."

She seemed to reflect upon it. In truth she was debating whether to
persevere in honesty, or to spare her nerves with dissimulation. A
promise to wait three days would set her free forthwith; the temptation
was great. But something in her had more constraining power.

"If I pretended to agree, I should be ashamed of myself. I should have
passed from error into baseness. You would have a right to despise me;
as it is, you have only a right to be angry."

As though the word acted upon his mood, Arnold sprang forward from the
chair, fell upon one knee close beside her, and grasped her hands.
Irene instinctively threw herself back, looking frightened; but she did
not attempt to rise. His face was hot-coloured, his eyes shone
unpleasantly; but before he spoke, his lips parted in a laugh.

"Are you one of the women," he said, "who have to be conquered? I
didn't think so. You seemed so reasonable."

"Do you dream of conquering a woman who cannot love you?"

"I refuse to believe it. I recall your own words."

He made a movement to pass one arm about her waist.

"No! After what I have said----!"

Her hands being free, she sprang up and broke away from him. Arnold
rose more slowly, his look lowered with indignation. Eyes bent on the
ground, hands behind him, he stood mute.

"Must I leave you?" said Irene, when she could steady her voice.

"That is my dismissal?"

"If you cannot listen to me, and believe me--yes."

"All things considered, you are a little severe."

"You put yourself in the wrong. However unjust I have been to you, I
can't atone by permitting what you call conquest. No, I assure you, I
am _not_ one of those women."

His eyes were now fixed upon her; his lips announced a new
determination, set as they were in the lines of resentful dignity.

"Let me put the state of things before you," he said in his softest
tones, just touched with irony. "The fact of our engagement has been
published. Our marriage is looked for by a host of friends and
acquaintances, and even by the mere readers of the newspapers. All but
at the last moment, on a caprice, an impulse you do not pretend to
justify to one's intelligence, you declare it is all at an end. Pray,
how do you propose to satisfy natural curiosity about such a strange
event?"

"I take all the blame. I make it known that I have
behaved--unreasonably; if you will disgracefully."

"That word," replied Jacks, faintly smiling, "has a meaning in this
connection which you would hardly care to reflect upon. Take it that
you have said this to your friends: what do _I_ say to _mine_?"

Irene could not answer.

"I have a pleasant choice," he pursued. "I can keep silence--which
would mean scandal, affecting both of us, according to people's
disposition. Or I can say with simple pathos, 'Miss Derwent begged me
to release her.' Neither alternative is agreeable to me. It may be
unchivalrous. Possibly another man would beg to be allowed to sacrifice
his reputation, to ensure your quiet release. To be frank with you, I
value my reputation, I value my chances in life. I have no mind to make
myself appear worse than I am."

Irene had sunk into her chair again. As he talked, Jacks moved to a
sofa near her, and dropped on to the end of it.

"Surely there is a way," began the girl's voice, profoundly troubled.
"We could let it be known, first of all, that the marriage was
postponed. Then--there would be less talk afterwards."

He leaned towards her, upon his elbow.

"It interests me--your quiet assumption that my feelings count for
nothing."

Irene reddened. She was conscious of having ignored that aspect of the
matter, and dreaded to have to speak of it. For the revelation made to
her of late taught her that, whatever Arnold Jacks' idea of love might
be, it was not hers. Yet perhaps in his way, he loved her--the way
which had found expression a few minutes ago.

"I can only repeat that I am ashamed."

"If you would grant me some explanation," Jacks resumed, with his most
positive air, that of the born man of business. "Don't be afraid of
hurting my sensibilities. Have I committed myself in any way?"

"It is a change in myself--I was too hasty--I reflected afterwards
instead of before----"

"Forgive me if I make the most of that admission. Your hastiness was
certainly not my fault. I did not unduly press you; there was no
importunity. Such being the case, don't you think I may suggest that
you ought to bear the consequences? I can't--I really can't think them
so dreadful."

Irene kept silence, her face bent and averted.

"Many a girl has gone through what you feel now, but I doubt whether
ever one before acted like this. They kept their word; it was a point
of honour."

"I know; it is true." She forced herself to look at him. "And the
result was lives of misery--dishonour--tragedies."

"Oh, come now----"

"You _dare_ not contradict me!" Her eyes flashed; she let her feeling
have its way. "As a man of the world, you know the meaning of such
marriages, and what they may, what they do often, come to. A girl hears
of such facts--realises them too late. You smile. No, I don't want to
talk for effect; it isn't my way. All I mean is that I, like so many
girls who have never been in love, accepted an offer of marriage on the
wrong grounds, and came to feel my mistake--who knows how?--not long
after. What you are asking me to do, is to pay for the innocent error
with my life. The price is too great. You speak of your feelings; they
are not so strong as to justify such a demand--And there's another
thought that surely must have entered your mind. Knowing that I feel it
impossible to marry you, how can you still, with any shadow of
self-respect, urge me to do so? Is your answer, again, fear of what
people will say? That seems to me more than cowardice. How strange that
an honourable man doesn't see it so!"

Jacks abandoned his easy posture, sat straight, and fixed upon her a
look of masculine disdain.

"I simply don't believe in the impossibility of your becoming my wife."

"Then talk is useless. I can only tell you the truth, and reclaim my
liberty."

"It's a question of time. You wouldn't--well, say you couldn't marry me
to-morrow. A month hence you would be willing. Because you suffer from
a passing illusion, I am to unsettle all my arrangements, and face an
intolerable humiliation. The thing is impossible."

With vast relief Irene heard him return upon this note, and strike it
so violently. She felt no more compunction. The man was finally
declared to her, and she could hold her own against him. Her headache
had grown fierce; her mouth was dry; shudders of hot and cold ran
through her. The struggle must end soon.

"I am forgetting hospitality," she said, with sudden return to her
ordinary voice. "You would like tea."

Arnold waved his hand contemptuously.

"No?--Then let us understand each other in the fewest possible words."

"Good." He smiled, a smile which seemed to tighten every muscle of his
face. "I decline to release you from your promise."

She could meet his gaze, and did so as she answered with cold
collectedness:

"I am very sorry. I think it unworthy of you."

"I shall make no change whatever in my arrangements. Our marriage will
take place on the day appointed."

"That can hardly be, Mr. Jacks, if the bride is not there."

"Miss Derwent, the bride will be there!"

He was not jesting. All the man's pride rose to assert dominion. The
prime characteristic of his nation, that personal arrogance which is
the root of English freedom, which accounts for everything best, and
everything worst, in the growth of English power, possessed him to the
exclusion of all less essential qualities. He was the subduer amazed by
improbable defiance. He had never seen himself in such a situation it
was as though a British admiral on his ironclad found himself mocked by
some elusive little gunboat, newly invented by the condemned foreigner.
His intellect refused to acknowledge the possibility of discomfiture;
his soul raged mightily against the hint of bafflement. Humour would
not come to his aid; the lighter elements of race were ousted; he was
solid insolence, wooden-headed self-will.

Irene had risen.

"I am not feeling quite myself. I have said all there is to be said,
and I must beg you to excuse me."

"You should have begun by saying that. It is what I insisted upon."

"Shall we shake hands, Mr. Jacks?"

"To be sure!"

"It is good-bye. You understand me? If, after this, you imagine an
engagement between us, you have only yourself to blame."

"I take the responsibility." He released her hand, and made a stiff
bow. "In three days, I shall call."

"You will not see me."

"Perhaps not. Then, three days later. Nothing whatever is changed
between us. A little discussion of this sort is all to the good.
Plainly, you have thought me a much weaker man than I am: when that
error of judgment is removed, our relations will be better than ever."

The temptation to say one word more overcame Irene's finer sense of the
becoming. Jacks had already taken his hat, and was again bowing, when
she spoke.

"You are so sure that your will is stronger than mine?"

"Perfectly sure," he replied, with superb tranquillity.

No one had ever seen, no one again would ever see, that face of high
disdainful beauty, pain-stricken on the fair brow, which Irene for a
moment turned upon him. As he withdrew, the smile that lurked behind
her scorn glimmered forth for an instant, and passed in the falling of
a tear.

She went to her room, and lay down. The sleep she had not dared to hope
for fell upon her whilst she was trying to set her thoughts in order.
She slept until eight o'clock; her headache was gone.

Neither with her father, nor with Olga, did she speak of what had
passed.

Before going to bed, she packed carefully a large dress-basket and a
travelling-bag, which a servant brought down for her from the box-room.
Again she slept, but only for an hour or two, and at seven in the
morning she rose.

CHAPTER XXVIII

The breakfast hour was nine o'clock. Dr. Derwent, as usual, came down a
few minutes before, and turned over the letters lying for him on the
table. Among them he found an envelope addressed in a hand which looked
very much like Irene's; it had not come by post. As he was reading the
note it contained, Eustace and Olga Hannaford entered together,
talking. He bade them good-morning, and all sat down to table.

"Irene's late," said Eustace presently, glancing at the clock.

The Doctor looked at him with an odd smile.

"She left Victoria ten minutes ago," he said, "by the Calais-boat
express."

Eustace and Olga stared, exclaimed.

"She suddenly made up her mind to accept an invitation from Mrs.
Borisoff."

"But--what an extraordinary thing!" pealed Eustace, who was always
greatly disturbed by anything out of routine. "She didn't speak of it
yesterday!"

Olga gazed at the Doctor. Her wan face had a dawn of brightness.

"How long is she likely to stay, uncle?"

"I haven't the least idea."

"Well, she can't stay long," Eustace exclaimed. "Ah! I have it! Don't
you see, Olga? It means Parisian dresses and hats!"

Dr. Derwent exploded in laughter.

"Acute young man! Now the ordinary male might have lost himself for a
day in wild conjectures. This points to the woolsack, Olga!"

She laughed for the first time in many days, and her appetite for
breakfast was at once improved.

In his heart, Dr. Derwent did not grieve over the singular events of
yesterday and this morning. He had no fault to find with Arnold Jacks,
and could cheerfully accept him as a son-in-law; but it was easy to
imagine a husband more suitable for such a girl as Irene. Moreover, he
had suspected, since the engagement, that she had not thoroughly known
her own mind. But he was far from anticipating such original and
decisive action on the girl's part. The thing being done, he could
secretly admire it, and the flight to Paris relieved his mind from a
prospect of domestic confusion. Just for a moment he questioned himself
as to Irene's security, but only to recognise how firm was his
confidence in her.

Socially, the position was awkward. He had a letter from Jacks, a
sensible and calmly worded letter, saying that Irene was overwrought by
recent agitations, that she had spoken of putting an end to their
engagement, but that doubtless a few days would see all right again.
Arnold must now be apprised of what had happened, and, as all
consideration was due to him, the Doctor despatched a telegram asking
him to call as soon as he could. This brought Jacks to Bryanston Square
at midday, and there was a conversation in the library. Arnold spoke
his mind; with civility, but in unmistakable terms; he accused the
Doctor of remissness. "Paternal authority," it seemed to him, should
have sufficed to prevent what threatened nothing less than a scandal.
Irene's father could not share this view; the girl was turned
three-and-twenty; there could be no question of dictating to her, and
as for expostulation, it had been honestly tried.

"You are aware, I hope," said Jacks stiffly, "that Mrs. Borisoff has
not quite an unclouded reputation?"

"I know no harm against her."

"She is as good as parted from her husband, and leads a very dubious
wandering life."

"Oh, it's all right. People countenance her who wouldn't do so if there
were anything really amiss."

"Well, Dr. Derwent," said the young man in a conclusive tone,
"evidently all is at an end. It remains for us to agree upon the manner
of making it known. Should the announcement come from your side or from
mine?"

The Doctor reflected.

"You no longer propose to wait the effect of a little time?"

"Emphatically, no. This step of Miss Derwent's puts that out of the
question."

"I see--Perhaps you feel that, in justice to yourself, it should be
made known that she has done something of which you disapprove?"

Arnold missed the quiet irony of this question.

"Not at all. Our engagement ended yesterday; with to-day's events I
have nothing to do."

"That is the generous view," said Dr. Derwent, smiling pleasantly. "Do
you know, I fancy we had better each of us tell the story in his own
way. It will come to that in the end, won't it? You had a disagreement;
you thought better of your proposed union; what more simple? I see no
room for scandal."

"Be it so. Have the kindness to acquaint Miss Derwent with what has
passed between us."

After dinner that evening, Dr. Derwent related the matter to his son.
Eustace was astounded, and presently indignant. It seemed to him
inconceivable that Arnold Jacks should have suffered this affront. He
would not look at things from his sister's point of view; absurd to
attempt a defence of her; really, really, she had put them all into a
most painful position! An engagement was an engagement, save in the
event of grave culpability on either side. Eustace spoke as a lawyer;
his professional instincts were outraged. He should certainly call upon
the Jacks' and utterly dissociate himself from his sister in this
lamentable affair.

"Why, what a shock it will be to Mrs. Jacks!"

"She'll get over it, I fancy," remarked the Doctor drily.

The young barrister withdrew to his room, where he read hard until very
late. Eustace was no trifler; he had brains, and saw his way to make
use of them to the one end which addressed his imagination, that of
social self-advancement. His studies to-night were troubled with a
resentful fear lest Irene's "unwomanly" behaviour (a generation ago it
would have been "unladylike") should bring the family name into some
discredit. Little ejaculations escaped him, such as "Really!" and "Upon
my word!" Eustace had never been known to use stronger language.

When his son had retired, Dr. Derwent stepped up to the drawing-room,
where Olga Hannaford was sitting. After kindly regretting that she
should be alone, he repeated to his niece what he had just told
Eustace. Doubtless she would here very soon from Irene.

"I have already heard something about this," said Olga. "I'm sure she
has done right, but no one will ever know what it cost her."

"That's the very point we have all been losing sight of," observed her
uncle, gratified. "It would have been a good deal easier, no doubt, to
go on to the marriage."

"Easier!" echoed the girl. "She has done the most wonderful thing! I
admire her, and envy her strength of character."

The Doctor's eyes had fallen upon that crayon portrait which held the
place of honour on the drawing-room walls. Playing with superstition,
as does every man capable of high emotional life, he was wont to see in
the pictured countenance of his dead wife changes of expression,
correspondent with the mood in which he regarded it. At one time the
beloved features smiled upon him; at another they were sad, or anxious.
To-night, the eyes, the lips were so strongly expressive of gladness
that he felt startled as he gazed. A joy from the years gone by
suddenly thrilled him. He sat silent, too deeply moved by memories for
speech about the present. And when at length he resumed talk with Olga,
his voice was very gentle, his words all kindliness. The girl had never
known him so sympathetic with her.

On the morrow--it was Saturday--Olga received a letter from Piers
Otway, who said that he had something of great importance to speak
about, and must see her; could they not meet at the Campden Hill House,
it being inadvisable for him to call at Dr. Derwent's? Either this
afternoon or to-morrow would do, if Olga would appoint a time.

She telegraphed, appointing this afternoon at three.

Half an hour before that, she entered the house, which was now occupied
only by a caretaker. Dr. Derwent was trying to let it furnished for the
rest of the short lease. Olga had a fire quickly made in the
drawing-room, and ordered tea. She laid aside her outdoor things,
viewed herself more than once in a mirror, and moved about restlessly.
When there sounded a visitor's knock at the front door, she flushed and
was overcome with nervousness; she stepped forward to meet her friend,
but could not speak. Otway had taken her hand in both his own; he
looked at her with grave kindliness. It was their first meeting since
Mrs. Hannaford's death.

"I hesitated about asking you to see me here," he said. "But I
thought--I hoped----"

His embarrassment increased, whilst Olga was gaining self-command.

"You were quite right," she said. "I think I had rather see you here
than anywhere else. It isn't painful to me--oh! anything but painful!"

They sat down. Piers was holding a large envelope, bulgy with its
contents, whatever they were, and sealed; his eyes rested upon it.

"I have to speak of something which at first will sound unwelcome to
you; but it is only the preface to what will make you very glad. It is
about my brother. I have seen him two or three times this last week on
a particular business, in which at length I have succeeded. Here," he
touched the envelope, "are all the letters he possessed in your
mother's writing."

Olga looked at him in distressful wonder and suspense.

"Not one of them," he pursued, "contains a line that you should not
read. They prove absolutely, beyond shadow of doubt, that the charge
brought against your mother was false. The dates cover nearly five
years--from a simple note of invitation to Ewell--you remember--down to
a letter written about three weeks ago. Of course I was obliged to read
them through; I knew to begin with what I should find. Now I give them
to you. Let Dr. Derwent see them. If any doubt remains in his mind,
they will make an end of it."

He put the packet into Olga's hands. She, overcome for the moment by
her feelings, looked from it to him, at a loss for words. She was
struck with a change in Otway. That he should speak in a grave tone,
with an air of sadness, was only natural; but the change went beyond
this; he had not his wonted decision in utterance; he paused between
sentences, his eyes wandering dreamily; one would have taken him for an
older man than he was wont to appear, and of less energy. Thus might he
have looked and spoken after some great effort, which left him wearied,
almost languid, incapable of strong emotion.

"Why didn't he show these letters before?" she asked, turning over the
sealed envelope.

"He had no wish to do so," answered Piers, in an undertone.

"You mean that he would have let anything happen--which he could have
prevented?"

"I'm afraid he would."

"But he offered them now?"

"No--or rather yes, he offered them," Piers smiled bitterly. "Not
however, out of wish to do justice."

Olga could not understand. She gazed at him wistfully.

"I bought them," said Piers. "It made the last proof of his baseness."

"You gave money for them? And just that you might give them to me?"

"Wouldn't you have done the same, to clear the memory of someone you
loved?"

Olga laid the packet aside; then, with a quick movement, stepped
towards him, caught his hand, pressed it to her lips. Piers was taken
by surprise, and could not prevent the action; but at once Olga's own
hand was prisoned in his; they stood face to face, she blushing
painfully, he pale as death, with lips that quivered in their vain
effort to speak.

"I shall be grateful to you as long as I live," the girl faltered,
turning half away, trying gently to release herself.

Piers kissed her hand, again and again, still speechless. When he
allowed her to draw it away, he stood gazing at her like a man
bewildered; there was moisture on his forehead; he seemed to struggle
for breath.

"Let us sit down again and talk," said Olga, glancing at him.

But he moved towards her, the strangest look in his eyes, the fixed
expressionless gaze of a somnambulist.

"Olga----"

"No, no!" she exclaimed, as if suddenly stricken with fear, throwing
out her arms to repel him. "You didn't mean that! It is my fault. You
never meant that."

"Yes! Give me your hand again!" he said in a thick voice, the blood
rushing into his cheeks.

"Not now. You misunderstood me. I oughtn't to have done that. It was
because I could find no word to thank you."

She panted the sentences, holding her chair as if to support herself,
and with the other hand still motioning him away.

"I misunderstood----?"

"I am ashamed--it was thoughtless--sit down and let us talk as we were
doing. Just as friends, it is so much better. We meant nothing else."

It was as if the words fell from her involuntarily; they were babbled,
rather than spoken; she half laughed, half cried. And Otway, a mere
automaton, dropped upon his chair, gazing at her, trembling.

"I will let my uncle see the letters at once," Olga went on, in
confused hurry. "I am sure he will be very grateful to you. But for
you, we should never have had this proof. I, of course, did not need
it; as if I doubted my mother! But he--I can't be sure what he still
thinks. How kind you have always been to us!"

Piers stood up again, but did not move toward her. She watched him
apprehensively. He walked half down the room and back again, then
exclaimed, with a wild gesture:

"I never knew what a curse one's name could be! I used to be proud of
it, because it was my father's; now I would gladly take any other."

"Just because of that man?" Olga protested. "What does it matter?"

"You know well what it matters," he replied, with an unnatural laugh.

"To me--nothing whatever."

"You try to think not. But the name will be secretly hateful to you as
long as you live."

"Oh! How can you say that! The name is yours, not his. Think how long
we knew you before we heard of him! I am telling the simple truth. It
is you I think of, when----"

He was drawing nearer to her, and again that strange, fixed look came
into his eyes.

"I wanted to ask you something," said Olga quickly. "Do sit down--will
you? Let us talk as we used to--you remember?"

He obeyed her, but kept his eyes on her face.

"What do you wish to ask, Olga?"

The name slipped from his tongue; he had not meant to use it, and did
not seem conscious of having done so.

"Have you seen old Mr. Jacks lately?"

"I saw him last night."

"Last night?" Her breath caught. "Had he anything--anything interesting
to say?"

"He is ill. I only sat with him for half an hour. I don't know what it
is. It doesn't keep him in bed; but he lies on a sofa, and looks
dreadfully ill, as if he suffered much pain."

"He told you nothing?"

Their eyes met.

"Nothing that greatly interested me," replied Piers heavily, with the
most palpable feint of carelessness. "He mentioned what of course you
know, that Arnold Jacks is not going to be married after all."

Olga's head drooped, as she said in a voice barely audible:

"Ah, you knew it."

"What of that?"

"I see--you knew it----"

"What of that, Olga?" he repeated impatiently. "I knew it as a bare
fact--no explanation. What does it mean? You know, I suppose?"

In spite of himself, look and tones betrayed his eagerness for her
reply.

"They disagreed about something," said Olga. "I don't know what. I
shouldn't wonder if they make it up again."

At this moment the woman in care of the house entered with the
tea-tray. To give herself a countenance, Olga spoke of something
indifferent, and when they were alone again, their talk avoided the
personal matters which had so embarrassed both of them. Olga said
presently that she was going to see her friend Miss Bonnicastle
to-morrow.

"If I could see only the least chance of supporting myself, I would go
to live with her again. She's the most sensible girl I know, and she
did me good."

"How, did you good?"

"She helped me against myself," replied Olga abruptly. "No one else
ever did that."

Then she turned again to the safer subjects.

"When shall I see you again?" Otway inquired, rising after a long
silence, during which both had seemed lost in their thoughts.

"Who knows?--But I will write and tell you what my uncle says about the
letters, if he says anything. Again, thank you!"

She gave her hand frankly. Piers held it, and looked into her face as
once before.

"Olga----"

The girl uttered a cry of distress, drew her hand away, and exclaimed
in a half-hysterical voice:

"No! What right have you?"

"Every right! Do you know what your mother said to me--her last words
to me----?"