Studies in love and in terror

by Marie Belloc Lowndes

  THE WOMAN FROM PURGATORY

  "... not dead, this friend--not dead, But, in the path we mortals tread, Got some few, little steps ahead And nearer to the end, So that you, too, once past the bend, Shall meet again, as face to face, this friend You fancy dead."

  I

  Mrs. Barlow, the prettiest and the happiest and the best dressed of theyoung wives of Summerfield, was walking toward the Catholic Church. Shewas going to consult the old priest as to her duty to an unsatisfactoryservant; for Agnes Barlow was a conscientious as well as a pretty and ahappy woman.

  Foolish people are fond of quoting a foolish gibe: "Be good, and you maybe happy; but you will not have a good time." The wise, however, soonbecome aware that if, in the course of life's journey, you achievegoodness and happiness, you will almost certainly have a good time too.

  So, at least, Agnes Barlow had found in her own short life. Herexcellent parents had built one of the first new houses in what had thenbeen the pretty, old-fashioned village of Summerfield, some fifteenmiles from London. There she had been born; there she had spentdelightful years at the big convent school over the hill; there she hadgrown up into a singularly pretty girl; and there, finally--it hadseemed quite final to Agnes--she had met the clever, fascinating younglawyer, Frank Barlow.

  Frank had soon become the lover all her girl friends had envied her, andthen the husband who was still--so he was fond of saying and of provingin a dozen dear little daily ways--as much in love with her as on theday they were married. They lived in a charming house called The Haven,and they were the proud parents of a fine little boy, named Francisafter his father, who never had any of the tiresome ailments whichafflict other people's children.

  But strange, dreadful things do happen--not often, of course, but justnow and again--even in this delightful world! So thought Agnes Barlow onthis pleasant May afternoon; for, as she walked to church, this pretty,happy, good woman found her thoughts dwelling uncomfortably on anotherwoman, her sometime intimate friend and contemporary, who was neithergood nor happy.

  This was Teresa Maldo, the lovely half-Spanish girl who had been herfavourite schoolmate at the convent over the hill.

  Poor, foolish, unhappy, wicked Teresa! Only ten days ago Teresa had donea thing so extraordinary, so awful, so unprecedented, that Agnes Barlowhad thought of little else ever since. Teresa Maldo had eloped, goneright away from her home and her husband, and with a married man!

  Teresa and Agnes were the same age; they had had the same upbringing;they were both--in a very different way, however--beautiful, and theyhad each been married, six years before, on the same day of the month.

  But how different had been their subsequent fates!

  Teresa had at once discovered that her husband drank. But she loved him,and for a while it seemed as if marriage would reform Maldo.Unfortunately, this better state of things did not last: he again beganto drink: and the matrons of Summerfield soon had reason to shake theirheads over the way Teresa Maldo went on.

  Men, you see, were so sorry for this lovely young woman, blessed (orcursed) with what old-fashioned folk call "the come-hither eye," thatthey made it their business to console her for such a worthless husbandas was Maldo. No wonder Teresa and Agnes drifted apart; no wonder FrankBarlow soon forbade his spotless Agnes to accept Mrs. Maldo'sinvitations. And Agnes knew that her dear Frank was right; she had nevermuch enjoyed her visits to Teresa's house.

  But an odd thing had happened about a fortnight ago. And it was to thisodd happening that Agnes's mind persistently recurred each time shefound herself alone.

  About three days before Teresa Maldo had done the mad and wicked thingof which all Summerfield was still talking, she had paid a long call onAgnes Barlow.

  The unwelcome guest had stayed a very long time; she had talked, as shegenerally did talk now, wildly and rather strangely; and Agnes, lookingback, was glad to remember that no one else had come in while her oldschoolfellow was there.

  When, at last, Teresa Maldo had made up her mind to go (luckily, someminutes before Frank was due home from town), Agnes accompanied her tothe gate of The Haven, and there the other had turned round and madesuch odd remarks.

  "I came to tell you something!" she had exclaimed. "But, now that I seeyou looking so happy, so pretty, and--forgive me for saying so,Agnes--so horribly good, I feel that I can't tell you! But, Agnes,whatever happens, you must pity, and--and, if you can, understand me."

  It was now painfully clear to Agnes Barlow that Teresa had come that dayintending to tell her once devoted friend of the wicked thing she meantto do; and more than once pretty and good Mrs. Barlow had asked herselfuneasily whether she could have done anything to stop Teresa on herdownward course.

  But no; Agnes felt her conscience clear. How would it have been possiblefor her even to discuss with Teresa so shameful a possibility as that ofa woman leaving her husband with another man?

  Agnes thought of the two sinners with a touch of fascinated curiosity.They were said to be in Paris, and Teresa was probably having a verygood time--a wildly amusing, exciting time.

  She even told herself, did this pretty, happy, fortunate young marriedwoman, that it was strange, and not very fair, that vice and pleasureshould always go together! It was just a little irritating to know thatTeresa would never again be troubled by the kind of worries that playedquite an important part in Agnes's own blameless life. Never again, forinstance, would Teresa's cook give her notice, as Agnes's cook had givenher notice that morning. It was about that matter she wished to seeFather Ferguson, for it was through the priest she had heard of theimpertinent Irish girl who cooked so well, but who had such anindependent manner, and who would _not_ wear a cap!

  Yes, it certainly seemed unfair that Teresa would now be rid of alldomestic worries--nay, more, that the woman who had sinned would live inluxurious hotels, motoring and shopping all day, going to the theatre orto a music-hall each night.

  At last, however, Agnes dismissed Teresa Maldo from her mind. She knewthat it is not healthy to dwell overmuch on such people and theirdoings.

  The few acquaintances Mrs. Barlow met on her way smiled and nodded, but,as she was walking rather quickly, no one tried to stop her. She hadchosen the back way to the church because it was the prettiest way, andalso because it would take her by a house where a friend of hers wasliving in lodgings.

  And suddenly the very friend in question--his name was Ferrier--came outof his lodgings. He had a tall, slight, active figure; he was dressed ina blue serge suit, and, though it was still early spring, he wore astraw hat.

  Agnes smiled a little inward smile. She was, as we already know, a verygood as well as a happy woman. But a woman as pretty as was Agnes Barlowmeets with frequent pleasant occasions of withstanding temptation, ofwhich those about her, especially her dear parents and her kind husband,are often curiously unknowing. And the tall, well-set-up masculinefigure now hurrying toward her with such eager steps played aconsiderable part in Agnes's life, if only as constantly providing herwith occasions of acquiring merit.

  Agnes knew very well--even the least imaginative woman is always acutelyconscious of such a fact--that, had she not been a prudent and aladylike as well as (of course) a very good woman, this clever,agreeable, interesting young man would have made love to her. As it was,he (of course) did nothing of the kind. He did not even try to flirtwith her, as our innocent Agnes understood that much-tried verb; and sheregarded their friendship as a pleasant interlude in her placid,well-regulated existence, and as a most excellent influence on his moreagitated life.

  Mr. Ferrier lifted his hat. He smiled down into Agnes's blue eyes. Whatvery charming, nay, what beautiful eyes they were! Deeply, exquisitelyblue, but unshadowed, as innocent of guile, as are a child's eyes.

  "Somehow, I had a kind of feeling that you would be coming by just now,"he said in a rather hesitating voice; "so I left my work and came out onchance."

  Now, Agnes was very much interested in Mr. Ferrier's work. Mr. Fer
rierwas not only a writer--the only writer she had ever known; he was also apoet. She had been pleasantly thrilled the day he had given her a slimlittle book, on each page of which was a poem. This gift had been madewhen they had known each other only two months, and he had inscribed it:"From G. G. F. to A. M. B."

  Mr. Ferrier had a charming studio flat in Chelsea, that odd, remoteplace where London artists live, far from the pleasant London of theshops and theatres which was all Agnes knew of the great City near whichshe dwelt. But he always spent the summer in the country, and his summerlasted from the 1st of May till the 1st of October. He had alreadyspent two holidays at Summerfield, and had been a great deal at TheHaven.

  When with Mr. Ferrier, and they were much together during the longweek-days when Summerfield is an Adamless Eden, Agnes Barlow made apoint of often speaking of dear Frank and of Frank's love for her,--not,of course, in a way that any one could have regarded as silly, but in anatural, happy, simple way.

  How easy, how very easy, it is to keep this kind offriendship--friendship between a man and a woman--within bounds! And howterribly sad it was to think that Teresa Maldo had not known how to dothat easy thing! But then, Teresa's lover had been a married manseparated from his wife, and that doubtless made all the difference.Agnes Barlow could assure herself in all sincerity that, had Mr. Ferrierbeen the husband of another woman, she would never have allowed him tobecome her friend to the extent that he was now.

  Mr. Ferrier--Agnes never allowed herself to think of him as Gerald(although he had once asked her to call him by his Christian name)--heldan evening paper in his hand.

  "I was really on my way to The Haven," he observed, "for there are a fewverses of mine in this paper which I am anxious you should read. ShallI go on and leave it at your house, or will you take it now? And then,if I may, I will call for it some time to-morrow. Should I be likely tofind you in about four o'clock?"

  "Yes, I'll be in about four, and I think I'll take the paper now."

  And then--for she was walking very slowly, and Ferrier, with his handsbehind his back, kept pace with her--Agnes could not resist the pleasureof looking down at the open sheet, for the newspaper was so turned aboutthat she could see the little set of verses quite plainly.

  The poem was called "My Lady of the Snow," and it told in very pretty,complicated language of a beautiful, pure woman whom the writer loved ina desperate but quite respectful way.

  She grew rather red. "I must hurry on, for I am going to church," shesaid a little stiffly. "Good evening, Mr. Ferrier. Yes, I will keep thepaper till to-morrow, if I may. I should like to show it to Frank. Hehasn't been to the office to-day, for he isn't very well, and he willlike to see an evening paper."

  Mr. Ferrier lifted his hat with a rather sad look, and turned backtoward the house where he lodged. And as Agnes walked on she feltdisturbed and a little uncomfortable. Her clever friend had evidentlybeen grieved by her apparent lack of appreciation of his poem.

  When she reached the church her parents had helped to build, she wentin, knelt down, and said a prayer. Then she got up and walked throughinto the sacristy. Father Ferguson was almost certain to be there justnow.

  Agnes Barlow had known the old priest all her life. He had baptized her;he had been chaplain at the convent during the years she had been atschool there; and now he had come back to be parish priest atSummerfield.

  When with Father Ferguson, Agnes somehow never felt quite so good as shedid when she was by herself or with a strange priest; and yet FatherFerguson was always very kind to her.

  As she came into the sacristy he looked round with a smile. "Well?" hesaid. "Well, Agnes, my child, what can I do for you?"

  Agnes put the newspaper she was holding down on a chair. And then, toher surprise, Father Ferguson took up the paper and glanced over thefront page. He was an intelligent man, and sometimes he foundSummerfield a rather shut-in, stifling sort of place.

  But the priest's instinctive wish to know something of what was passingin the great world outside the suburb where it was his duty to dwell didhim an ill turn, for something he read in the paper caused him to uttera low, quick exclamation of intense pain and horror.

  "What's the matter?" cried Agnes Barlow, frightened out of her usualself-complacency. "Whatever has happened, Father Ferguson?"

  He pointed with shaking finger to a small paragraph. It was headed"Suicide of a Lady at Dover," and Agnes read the few lines withbewildered and shocked amazement.

  Teresa Maldo, whom she had visioned, only a few minutes ago, as leadinga merry, gloriously careless life with her lover, was dead. She hadthrown herself out of a bedroom window in a hotel at Dover, and she hadbeen killed instantly, dashed into a shapeless mass on the stones below.

  Agnes stared down at the curt, cold little paragraph with excitedhorror. She was six-and-twenty, but she had never seen death, and, asfar as she knew, the girls with whom she had been at school were allliving. Teresa--poor unhappy, sinful Teresa--had been the first to die,and by her own hand.

  The old priest's eyes slowly brimmed over with tears. "Poor, unhappychild!" he said, with a break in his voice. "Poor, unfortunate Teresa!I did not think, I should never have believed, that she would seek--andfind--this terrible way out."

  Agnes was a little shocked at his broken words. True, Teresa had beenvery unhappy, and it was right to pity her; but she had also been verywicked; and now she had put, as it were, the seal on her wickedness bykilling herself.

  "Three or four days before she went away she came and saw me," thepriest went on, in a low, pained voice. "I did everything in my power tostop her, but I could do nothing--she had given her word!"

  "Given her word?" repeated Agnes wonderingly.

  "Yes," said Father Ferguson; "she had given that wretched, that wickedlyselfish man her promise. She believed that if she broke her word hewould kill himself. I begged her to go and see some woman--some kind,pitiful, understanding woman--but I suppose she feared lest such a onewould dissuade her to more purpose than I was able to do."

  Agnes looked at him with troubled eyes.

  "She was very dear to my heart," the priest went on. "She was always agenerous, unselfish child, and she was very, very fond of you, Agnes."

  Agnes's throat tightened. What Father Ferguson said was only too true.Teresa had always been a very generous and unselfish girl, and very,very fond of her. She wondered remorsefully if she had omitted to do orsay anything she could have done or said on the day that poor Teresa hadcome and spoken such strange, wild words----?

  "It seems so awful," she said in a low voice, "so very, very awful tothink that we may not even pray for her soul, Father Ferguson."

  "Not pray for her soul?" the priest repeated. "Why should we not prayfor the poor child's soul? I shall certainly pray for Teresa's soulevery day till I die."

  "But--but how can you do that, when she killed herself?"

  He looked at her surprised. "And do you really so far doubt God's mercy?Surely we may hope--nay, trust--that Teresa had time to make an act ofcontrition?" And then he muttered something--it sounded like a line ortwo of poetry--which Agnes did not quite catch; but she felt, as sheoften did feel when with Father Ferguson, at once rebuked andrebellious.

  Of course there _might_ have been time for Teresa to make an act ofcontrition. But every one knows that to take one's life is a deadlysin. Agnes felt quite sure that if it ever occurred to herself to dosuch a thing she would go straight to hell. Still, she was used to obeythis old priest, and that even when she did not agree with him. So shefollowed him into the church, and side by side they knelt down and eachsaid a separate prayer for the soul of Teresa Maldo.

  As Agnes Barlow walked slowly and soberly home, this time by the highroad, she tried to remember the words, the lines of poetry, that FatherFerguson had muttered. They at once haunted and eluded her memory.Surely they could not be

  Between the window and the ground, She mercy sought and mercy found.

  No, Agnes was sure that he had not said "
window," and yet window seemedthe only word that would fit the case. And he had not said, "_she_ mercyfound"; he had said, "_he_ mercy sought and mercy found"--of that Agnesfelt sure, and that, too, was odd. But then, Father Ferguson was veryodd sometimes, and he was fond of quoting in his sermons queer littlebits of verse of which no one had ever heard.

  Suddenly she bethought herself, with more annoyance than the matter wasworth, that in her agitation she had left Mr. Ferrier's newspaper inthe sacristy. She did not like the thought that Father Ferguson wouldprobably read those pretty, curious verses, "My Lady of the Snow."

  Also, Agnes had actually forgotten to speak to the old priest of herimpertinent cook!

  II

  We find Agnes Barlow again walking in Summerfield; but this time she ishurrying along the straight, unlovely cinder-strewn path which forms ashort cut from the back of The Haven to Summerfield station; and thestill, heavy calm of a late November afternoon broods over the roughground on either side of her.

  It is nearly six months since Teresa Maldo's elopement and subsequentsuicide, and now no one ever speaks of poor Teresa, no one seems toremember that she ever lived, excepting, perhaps, Father Ferguson....

  As for Agnes herself, life had crowded far too many happenings into thelast few weeks for her to give more than a passing thought to Teresa;indeed, the image of her dead friend rose before her only when she wassaying her prayers. And as Agnes, strange to say, had grown rathercareless as to her prayers, the memory of Teresa Maldo was now veryfaint indeed.

  An awful, and to her an incredible, thing had happened to Agnes Barlow.The roof of her snug and happy House of Life had fallen in, and she lay,blinded and maimed, beneath the fragments which had been hurled down onher in one terrible moment.

  Yes, it had all happened in a moment--so she now reminded herself, withthe dull ache which never left her.

  It was just after she had come back from Westgate with little Francis.The child had been ailing for the first time in his life, and she hadtaken him to the seaside for six weeks.

  There, in a day, it had turned from summer to winter, raining as it onlyrains at the seaside; and suddenly Agnes had made up her mind to go backto her own nice, comfortable home a whole week before Frank expected herback.

  Agnes sometimes acted like that--on a quick impulse; she did so to herown undoing on that dull, rainy day.

  When she reached Summerfield, it was to find her telegram to her husbandlying unopened on the hall table of The Haven. Frank, it seemed, hadslept in town the night before. Not that that mattered, so she toldherself gleefully, full of the pleasant joy of being again in her ownhome; the surprise would be the greater and the more welcome when Frankdid come back.

  Having nothing better to do that first afternoon, Agnes had goneup to her husband's dressing-room in order to look over his summerclothes before sending them to the cleaner. In her careful,playing-at-housewifely fashion, she had turned out the pocketsof his cricketing coat. There, a little to her surprise, she hadfound three letters, and idle curiosity as to Frank's invitationsduring her long stay away--Frank was deservedly popular with theladies of Summerfield and, indeed, with all women--caused her totake the three letters out of their envelopes.

  In a moment--how terrible that it should take but a moment to shatterthe fabric of a human being's innocent House of Life!--Agnes had seenwhat had happened to her--to him. For each of these letters, written inthe same sloping woman's hand, was a love letter signed "Janey"; and ineach the writer, in a plaintive, delicate, but insistent and reproachfulway, asked Frank for money.

  Even now, though nearly seven weeks had gone by since then, Agnes couldrecall with painful vividness the sick, cold feeling that had come overher--a feeling of fear rather than anger, of fear and desperatehumiliation.

  Locking the door of the dressing-room, she had searched eagerly--adishonourable thing to do, as she knew well. And soon she had foundother letters--letters and bills; bills of meals at restaurants, showingthat her husband and a companion had constantly dined and supped at theSavoy, the Carlton, and Prince's. To those restaurants where he hadtaken her, Agnes, two or three times a year, laughing and grumbling atthe expense, he had taken this--this _person_ again and again in theshort time his wife had been away.

  As to the further letters, all they proved was that Frank had first met"Janey Cartwright" over some law business of hers, connected--even Agnessaw the irony of it--in some shameful way with another man; for, tiedtogether, were a few notes signed with the writer's full name, of whichthe first began:

  Dear Mr. Barlow: Forgive me for writing to your private address [etc., etc.].

  The ten days that followed her discovery had seared Agnes's soul. Frankhad been so dreadfully affectionate. He had pretended--she felt sure itwas all pretence--to be so glad to see her again, though sometimes shecaught him looking at her with cowed, miserable eyes.

  More than once he had asked her solicitously if she felt ill, and shehad said yes, she did feel ill, and the time at the seaside had not doneher any good.

  And then, on the last of those terrible ten days, Gerald Ferrier hadcome down to Summerfield, and both she and Frank had pressed him to stayon to dinner. He had done so, though aware that something was wrong, andhe had been extraordinarily kind, sympathetic, unquestioning. But as hewas leaving he had said a word to his host: "I feel worried about Mrs.Barlow"--Agnes had heard him through the window. "She doesn't look thething, somehow! How would it be if I asked her to go with me to aprivate view? It might cheer her up, and perhaps she would lunch with meafterwards?" Frank had eagerly assented.

  Since then Agnes had gone up to London, if not every day, very nearlyevery day, and Mr. Ferrier had done his best, without much success, to"cheer her up."

  Though they soon became more intimate than they had ever been, Agnesnever told Ferrier what it was that had turned her from a happy,unquestioning child into a miserable woman; but, of course, he guessed.

  And gradually Frank also had come to know that she knew, and, man-like,he spent less and less time in his now uncomfortable home. He would goaway in the morning an hour earlier than usual, and then, under pretextof business keeping him late at the office, he would come back afterhaving dined, doubtless with "Janey," in town.

  Soon Agnes began to draw a terrible comparison between these twomen--between the husband who had all she had of heart, and the friendwhom she now acknowledged to herself--for hypocrisy had fallen away fromher--had lived only for her, and for the hours they were able to spendtogether, during two long years, and yet who had never told her of hislove, or tried to disturb her trust in Frank.

  Yes, Gerald Ferrier was all that was noble--Frank Barlow all that wasignoble. So she told herself with trembling lip a dozen times a day,taking fierce comfort in the knowledge that Ferrier was noble. But shewas destined even to lose that comfort; for one day, a week before theday when we find her walking to Summerfield station, Ferrier's nobility,or what poor Agnes took to be such, suddenly broke down.

  They had been walking together in Battersea Park, and, after one ofthose long silences which bespeak true intimacy between a man and awoman, he had asked her if she would come back to his rooms--for tea.

  She had shaken her head smilingly. And then he had turned on her with atorrent of impetuous, burning words--words of ardent love, of anguishedlonging, of eager pleading. And Agnes had been frightened, fascinated,allured.

  And that had not been all.

  More quietly he had gone on to speak as if the code of morality in whichhis friend had been bred, and which had hitherto so entirely satisfiedher, was, after all, nothing but a narrow counsel of perfection, suitedto those who were sheltered and happy, but wretchedly inadequate to meetthe needs of the greater number of human beings who are, as Agnes nowwas, humiliated and miserable. His words had found an echo in her soreheart, but she had not let him see how much they moved her. On thecontrary, she had rebuked him, and for the first time they hadquarrelled.

  "If you ever sp
eak to me like that again," she had said coldly, "I willnot come again."

  And once more he had turned on her violently. "I think you had betternot come again! I am but a man after all!"

  They parted enemies; but the same night Ferrier wrote Agnes a verypiteous letter asking pardon on his knees for having spoken as he haddone. And his letter moved her to the heart. Her own deep misery--neverfor one moment did she forget Frank, and Frank's treachery--made herunderstand the torment that Ferrier was going through.

  For the first time she realized, what so few of her kind ever realize,that it is a mean thing to take everything and give nothing in exchange.And gradually, as her long, solitary hours wore themselves away, Agnescame to believe that if she did what she now knew Ferrier desired her todo,--if, casting the past behind her, she started a new life withhim--she would not only be doing a generous thing by the man who hadloved her silently and faithfully for so long, but she would also bepunishing Frank--hurting him in his honour, as he had hurt her in hers.

  And then the stars that fight in their courses for those lovers who arealso poets fought for Ferrier.

  The day after they had quarrelled and he had written her his piteousletter of remorse, Gerald Ferrier fell ill. But he was not too ill towrite. And after he had been ill four days, and when Agnes was feelingvery, very miserable, he wrote and told her of a wonderful vision whichhad been vouchsafed to him.

  In this vision Ferrier had seen Agnes knocking at the narrow front doorof the lonely flat where he lived solitary; and through the door hadslipped in his angelic visitant, by her mere presence bringing himpeace, health, and the happiness he was schooling himself to believemust never come to him through her.

  The post which brought her the letter in which Ferrier told his visionbrought also to Agnes Barlow a little registered parcel containing apearl-and-diamond pendant from Frank.

  For a few moments the two lay on her knee. Then she took up the jeweland looked at it curiously. Was it with such a thing as this that herhusband thought to purchase her forgiveness?

  If Ferrier's letter had never been written, if Frank's gift had neverbeen despatched, it may be doubted whether Agnes would have done what wenow find her doing--hastening, that is, on her way to make Ferrier'sdream come true.

  * * * * *

  At last she reached the little suburban station of Summerfield.

  One of her father's many kindnesses to her each year was the gift of aseason ticket to town; but to-day some queer instinct made her buy aticket at the booking-office instead.

  The booking-clerk peered out at her, surprised; then made up his mindthat pretty Mrs. Barlow--she wore to-day a curiously thick veil--had afriend with her. But his long, ruminating stare made her shrink andflush. Was it possible that what she was about to do was written on herface?

  She was glad indeed when the train steamed into the station. She gotinto an empty carriage, for the rush that goes on each eveningLondonward from the suburbs had not yet begun.

  And then, to her surprise, she found that it was the thought of herhusband, not of the man to whom she was going to give herself, thatfilled her sad, embittered heart.

  Old memories--memories connected with Frank, his love for her, her lovefor him--became insistent. She lived again, while tears forcedthemselves into her closed eyes, through the culminating moment of hermarriage day, the start for the honeymoon,--a start made amid a crowd oflaughing, cheering friends, from the little station she had just left.

  She remembered the delicious tremor which had come over her when shehad found herself at last alone, really alone, with her three-hour-oldbridegroom.

  How infinitely kind and tender Frank had been to her!

  And then Agnes reminded herself, with tightening breath, that men likeFrank Barlow are always kind--too kind--to women.

  Other journeys she and Frank had taken together came and mocked her, andespecially the journey which had followed a month after little Francis'sbirth.

  Frank had driven with her, the nurse, and the baby, to the station--butonly to see them off. He had had a very important case in the Courtsjust then, and it was out of the question that he should go with hiswife to Littlehampton for the change of air, the few weeks by the sea,that had been ordered by her good, careful doctor.

  And then at the last moment Frank had suddenly jumped into the railwaycarriage without a ticket, and had gone along with her part of the way!She remembered the surprise of the monthly nurse, the woman's primremark, when he had at last got out at Horsham, that Mr. Barlow wascertainly the kindest husband she, the nurse, had ever seen.

  But these memories, now so desecrated, did not make her give up herpurpose. Far from it, for in a queer way they made her think moretenderly of Gerald Ferrier, whose life had been so lonely, and who hadknown nothing of the simpler human sanctities and joys, and who hadnever--so he had told her with a kind of bitter scorn of himself--beenloved by any woman whom he himself could love.

  In her ears there sounded Ferrier's quick, hoarsely uttered words:"D'you think I should ever have said a word to you of all this--if youhad gone on being happy? D'you think I'd ask you to come to me if Ithought you had any chance of being happy with him--now?"

  And she knew in her soul that he had spoken truly. Ferrier would neverhave tried to disturb her happiness with Frank; he had never so triedduring those two years when they had seen so much of each other, andwhen Agnes had known, deep down in her heart, that he loved her, thoughit had suited her conscience to pretend that his love was only"friendship."

  III

  The train glided into the fog-laden London station, and very slowlyAgnes Barlow stepped down out of the railway carriage. She feltoppressed by the fact that she was alone. During the last few weeksFerrier had always been standing on the platform waiting to greet her,eager to hurry her into a cab--to a picture gallery, to a concert, or oflate, oftenest of all, to one of those green oases which the great townstill leaves her lovers.

  But now Ferrier was not here. Ferrier was ill, solitary, in the lonelyrooms which he called "home."

  Agnes Barlow hurried out of the station.

  Hammer, hammer, hammer went what she supposed was her heart. It was acurious, to Agnes a new sensation, bred of the fear that she would meetsome acquaintance to whom she would have to explain her presence intown. She could not help being glad that the fog was of that dense,stifling quality which makes every one intent on his own business ratherthan on that of his neighbours.

  Then something happened which scared Agnes. She was walking, now veryslowly, out of the station, when a tall man came up to her. He took offhis hat and peered insolently into her face.

  "I think I've had the pleasure of meeting you before," he said.

  She stared at him with a great, unreasonable fear gripping her heart. Nodoubt this was some business acquaintance of Frank's. "I--I don't thinkso," she faltered.

  "Oh, yes," he said. "Don't you remember, two years ago at the Pirola inRegent Street? I don't _think_ I can be wrong."

  And then Agnes understood. "You are making a mistake," she saidbreathlessly, and quickened her steps.

  The man looked after her with a jeering smile, but he made no furtherattempt to molest her.

  She was trembling--shaken with fear, disgust, and terror. It was odd,but such a thing had never happened to pretty Agnes Barlow before. Shewas not often alone in London; she had never been there alone on such afoggy evening, an evening which invited such approaches as those she hadjust repulsed.

  She touched a respectable-looking woman on the arm. "Can you tell me theway to Flood Street, Chelsea?" she asked, her voice faltering.

  "Why, yes, Miss. It's a good step from here, but you can't mistake it.You've only got to go straight along, and then ask again after you'vebeen walking about twenty minutes. You can't mistake it." And shehurried on, while Agnes tried to keep in step behind her, for the slightadventure outside the station became retrospectively terrifying. Shethrilled with angry fear lest that
--that brute should still be stalkingher; but when she looked over her shoulder she saw that the pavement wasnearly bare of walkers.

  At last the broad thoroughfare narrowed to a point where four streetsconverged. Agnes glanced fearfully this way and that. Which of thoseshadowy black-coated figures hurrying past, intent on their business,would direct her rightly? Within the last half-hour Agnes had grownhorribly afraid of men.

  And then, with more relief than the fact warranted, across the narrowroadway she saw emerge, between two parting waves of fog, the shroudedfigure of a woman leaning against a dead wall.

  Agnes crossed the street, but as she stepped up on to the kerb, suddenlythere broke from her, twice repeated, a low, involuntary cry of dread.

  "Teresa!" she cried. And then, again, "Teresa!" For in the shroudedfigure before her she had recognized, with a thrill of incredulousterror, the form and lineaments of Teresa Maldo.

  But there came no answering cry; and Agnes gave a long, gasping,involuntary sigh of relief as she realized that what had seemed to beher dead friend's dark, glowing face was the face of a little child--ablack-haired beggar child, with large startled eyes wide open on aliving world.

  The tall woman whose statuesque figure had so strangely recalledTeresa's supple, powerful form was holding up the child, propping it onthe wall behind her.

  Still shaking with the chill terror induced by the vision she nowbelieved she had not seen, Agnes went up closer to the melancholy group.

  Even now she longed to hear the woman speak. "Can you tell me the way toFlood Street?" she asked.

  The woman looked at her fixedly. "No, that I can't," she saidlistlessly. "I'm a stranger here." And then, with a passionate energywhich startled Agnes, "For God's sake, give me something, lady, to helpme to get home! I've walked all the way from Essex; it's taken me, oh!so long with the child, though we've had a lift here and a lift there,and I haven't a penny left. I came to find my husband; but he's losthimself--on purpose!"

  A week ago, Agnes Barlow would have shaken her head and passed on. Shehad always held the theory, carefully inculcated by her careful parents,that it is wrong to give money to beggars in the street.

  But perhaps the queer illusion that she had just experienced made herremember Father Ferguson. In a flash she recalled a sermon of the oldpriest's which had shocked and disturbed his prosperous congregation,for in it the preacher had advanced the astounding theory that it isbetter to give to nine impostors than to refuse the one just man; nay,more, he had reminded his hearers of the old legend that Christsometimes comes, in the guise of a beggar, to the wealthy.

  She took five shillings out of her purse, and put them, not in thewoman's hand, but in that of the little child.

  "Thank you," said the woman dully. "May God bless you!" That was all,but Agnes went on, vaguely comforted.

  * * * * *

  And now at last, helped on her way by more than one good-naturedwayfarer, she reached the quiet, but shabby Chelsea street whereFerrier lived. The fog had drifted towards the river, and in thelamplight Agnes Barlow was not long in finding a large open door, abovewhich was inscribed: "The Thomas More Studios."

  Agnes walked timorously through into the square, empty, gas-lit hall,and looked round her with distaste. The place struck her as very uglyand forlorn, utterly lacking in what she had always taken to be theamenities of flat life--an obsequious porter, a lift, electric light.

  How strange of Ferrier to have told her that he lived in a building thatwas beautiful!

  Springing in bold and simple curves, rose a wrought-iron staircase,filling up the centre of the narrow, towerlike building. Agnes knew thatFerrier lived high up, somewhere near the top.

  She waited a moment at the foot of the staircase. She was gathering upher strength, throwing behind her everything that had meant life,happiness, and--what signified so very much to such a woman asherself--personal repute.

  But, even so, Agnes did not falter in her purpose. She was stillpossessed, driven onward, by a passion of jealous misery.

  But, though her spirit was willing, ay, and more than willing, forrevenge, her flesh was weak; and as she began slowly walking up thestaircase she started nervously at the grotesque shapes cast by her ownshadow, and at the muffled sounds of her own footfalls.

  Half-way up the high building the gas-jets burned low, and Agnes feltaggrieved. What a mean, stupid economy on the part of the owners of thisstrange, unnatural dwelling-place.

  How dreadful it would be if she were to meet any one she knew--any onebelonging to what she was already unconsciously teaching herself to callher old, happy life! As if in cruel answer to her fear, a door opened,and an old man, clad in a big shabby fur coat and broad-brimmed hat,came out.

  Agnes's heart gave a bound in her bosom. Yes; this was what she hadsomehow thought would happen. In the half-light she took the old man tobe an eccentric acquaintance of her father's.

  "Mr. Willis?" she whispered hoarsely.

  He looked at her, surprised, resentful.

  "My name's not Willis," he said gruffly, as he passed her on his waydown, and her heart became stilled. How could she have been so foolishas to take that disagreeable old man for kindly-natured Mr. Willis?

  She was now very near the top. Only a storey and a half more, and shewould be there. Her steps were flagging, but a strange kind of peace hadfallen on her. In a few moments she would be safe, for ever, inFerrier's arms. How strange and unreal the notion seemed!

  And then--and then, as if fashioned by some potent incantation from thevaporous fog outside, a tall, grey figure rose out of nothingness, andstood, barring the way, on the steel floor of the landing above her.

  Agnes clutched the iron railing, too oppressed rather than toofrightened to speak. Out in the fog-laden street she had involuntarilycalled out the other's name. "Teresa?" she had cried, "Teresa!" But thistime no word broke from her lips, for she feared that if she spoke theother would answer.

  Teresa Maldo's love, the sisterly love of which Agnes had been so littleworthy, had broken down the gateless barrier which stretches its denselength between the living and the dead. What she, the living woman, hadnot known how to do for Teresa, the dead woman had come back to do forher--for now Agnes seemed suddenly able to measure the depth of the gulfinto which she had been about to throw herself....

  She stared with fearful, fascinated eyes at the immobile figure swathedin grey, cere-like garments, and her gaze travelled stealthfully up tothe white, passionless face, drained of all expression save that ofwatchful concern and understanding tenderness....

  With a swift movement Agnes turned round. Clinging to the iron rail, shestumbled down the stairway to the deserted hall, and with swiftterror-hastened steps rushed out into the street.

  Through the fog she plunged, not even sparing a moment to look back andup to the dimly lighted window behind which poor Ferrier stood,--as asofter, a truer-natured woman might have done. Violently she put allthought of her lover from her, and as she hurried along with tighteningbreath, the instinct of self-preservation alone possessing her, shebecame more and more absorbed in measuring the fathomless depth of thepit in which she had so nearly fallen.

  Her one wish now was to get home--to get home--to get home--before Frankgot back.

  But the fulfilment of that wish was denied her--for as Agnes Barlowwalked, crying softly as she went, in the misty darkness along the roadwhich led from Summerfield station to the gate of The Haven, there fellon her ear the rhythmical tramp of well-shod feet.

  She shrank near to the hedge, in no mood to greet or to accept greetingfrom a neighbour. But the walker was now close to her. He struck amatch.

  "Agnes?" It was Frank Barlow's voice--shamed, eager, questioning. "Isthat you? I thought--I hoped you would come home by this train."

  And as she gave no immediate answer, as he missed--God alone knew withwhat relief--the prim, cold accents to which his wife had accustomed himof late, he hurried forward and took her masterfully in
his arms. "Oh!my darling," he whispered huskily, "I know I've been a beast--but I'venever left off loving you--and I can't stand your coldness, Agnes; it'sdriving me to the devil! Forgive me, my pure angel----"

  And Frank Barlow's pure angel did forgive him, and with a spontaneityand generous forgetfulness which he will ever remember. Nay, more;Agnes--and this touched her husband deeply--even gave up her pleasantacquaintance with that writing fellow, Ferrier, because Ferrier, throughno fault of his, was associated, in both their minds, with the terribletime each would have given so much to obliterate from the record oftheir otherwise cloudless married life.