The High Heart

by Basil King

  CHAPTER XV

  We had come to February, 1914. During the intervening months theconditions in which I lived and worked underwent little change. My daysand nights were passed between the library and the Mary Chilton, withfew social distractions, though I had some. Larry Strangways's sister,Mrs. Applegate, had called on me, and her house, a headquarters of NewYork philanthropies, had opened to me its kindly doors. Through Mrs.Applegate one or two other women came to relieve my loneliness, and nowand then old Halifax friends visiting New York took me to theaters andto dinners at hotels. Ethel Rossiter was as friendly as fear of herfather and of social conventions permitted her to be, and once or twicewhen she was quite alone I lunched with her. On each of these occasionsshe had something new to tell me.

  The first was that Hugh had met his father accidentally face to face,and that the parent had cut the son. Of that Hugh had told me nothing.According to Ethel, he was more affected by the incident than byanything else since the beginning of his cares. He felt it too deeply tospeak of it even to me, to whom he spoke of everything.

  It happened, I believe at the foot of the steps of a club. Hugh, who waspassing, saw his father coming down, and waited. Howard Brokenshirebrought into play his faculty of seeing without seeing, and went onmajestically, while Hugh stared after him with tears of vexation in hiseyes.

  "He felt it the more," Mrs. Rossiter stated in her impartial way,"because I doubt if he had the price of his dinner in his pocket."

  It was then that she gave me to understand that if it were not thatMildred was lending him money he would have nothing to subsist on atall. Mildred had a little from her grandfather Brew, being privileged inthis respect because she was the only one of the first Mrs.Brokenshire's children born at the time of the grandfather's demise. Thelegacy had been a trifle, but from this fund, which had never been hisfather's, Hugh consented to take loans.

  "Hugh, darling," I said to him the next time I had speech with him,"don't you see now that he's irreconcilable? He'll either starve youinto surrender--"

  "Never," he cried, thumping the table with his hand.

  "Or else you must take such work as you can get."

  "Such work as I can get! Do you know how much that would bring me in aweek?"

  "Even so," I reasoned, "you'd have work and I should have work, and we'dlive."

  He was hurt.

  "Americans don't believe in working their women," he declared, loftily."If I can't give you a life in which you'll have nothing at all to do--"

  "But I don't want a life in which I'll have nothing at all to do," Icried. "Your idle women strike me as a weak point in your nationalorganization. It's like the dinner-parties I've seen at some of yourrestaurants and hotels--a circle of men at one table and a circle ofwomen at another. You revolve too much in separate spheres. Your womenhave too little to do with business and politics and your men withsociety and the fine arts. I'm not used to such a pitiless separation ofthe sexes. Don't let us begin it, Hugh, darling. Let me share what youshare--"

  "You won't share anything sordid, little Alix, I can tell you that. Whenyou're my wife you'll have nothing to think of but having a good timeand looking your prettiest--"

  "I should die of it," I exclaimed but this he took as a joke.

  That had passed in January. What Ethel Rossiter told me the next time Ilunched with her was that Lady Cecilia Boscobel had accepted herinvitation and was expected within a few weeks. She repeated what shehad already said of her, in exactly the same words.

  "She's a good deal of a girl, Cissie is." My heart leaped and fellalmost simultaneously. If I could only give up Hugh in such a way thathe would have to give me up, this girl might help us out of our impasse.Had Mrs. Rossiter stopped there I might have made some noble vow ofrenunciation; but she went on: "If she wants Hugh she'll take him. Don'tbe under any illusion about that."

  Though my quick mettle was up, I said, docilely:

  "Oh no, I'm not. But if you mean taking him away from me--well, a goodmany people have tried it, haven't they?"

  "Cissie Boscobel hasn't tried it."

  But I was peaceably inclined.

  "Oh, well," I said, "perhaps she won't. She may not think it worth herwhile."

  "If you want to know my opinion," Mrs. Rossiter insisted, as she helpedherself to the peas which the rosebud Thomas was passing, "I think shewill. Men aren't so plentiful over there as you seem to suppose--thatis, men of the kind they'd marry. Lord Goldborough has no money at all,as you might say, and yet the girls have to be set up in bigestablishments. You've only got to look at them to see it. Cissiemarrying a subaltern with a thousand pounds a year isn't thinkable. Itwouldn't dress her. She's coming over here to take a look at Hugh, andif she likes him-- Well, I told you long ago that you'd be wise to snapup that young Strangways. He's much better-looking than Hugh, and morein your own-- Besides, Jim says that now that he's with"--she balked atthe name of Grainger--"now that he's where he is he's beginning to makemoney. It doesn't take so long when people have the brains for it."

  All this gave me a feeling of mingled curiosity and fear when, a fewweeks later, I came on Mrs. Rossiter and Lady Cecilia Boscobel lookinginto a shop window in Fifth Avenue. It was a Saturday afternoon, the daywhich I had off and on which I made my modest purchases. It was a cold,brisk day, with light snow whirling in tiny eddies on the ground. I wasgoing northward on the sunny side. At a distance of some fifty yards Irecognized Mrs. Rossiter's motor standing by the curb, and cast my eyesabout for a possible glimpse of her. Moving away from the window of thejeweler's whence she had probably come out, she saw me approach, andturned at once with a word or two to the lady beside her, who alsolooked in my direction. I knew by intuition who Mrs. Rossiter'scompanion was, and that my connection with the family had been explainedto her.

  Mrs. Rossiter made the presentation in her usual offhand way.

  "Oh, Miss Adare! I want to introduce you to Lady Cecilia Boscobel."

  We exchanged civil, remote, and non-committal salutations, each of uswith her hands in her muff. My immediate impression was one of color, asit is when you see old Limoges enamels. There was more color in LadyCissie's personality than in that of any one I have ever looked at. Herhair was red--not auburn or copper, but red--a decorative, flaming red.I have often noticed how slight is the difference between beautiful redhair and ugly. Lady Cissie's was of the shade that is generally ugly,but which in her case was rendered glorious by the introduction of somesuch pigment, gleaming and umber, as that which gives the peculiar hueto Australian gold. I had never seen such hair or hair in suchquantities, except in certain pictures of the pre-Raphaelitebrotherhood, for which I should have supposed there could have been noearthly model had my father not known Eleanor Siddall. Lady Cissie'seyes were gray, with a greenish light in them when she turned her head.Her complexion could only be compared to the kind of carnation which thewhitest of whites is flecked in just the right spots by the rosiestrose. In the lips, which were full and firm, also like EleanorSiddall's, the rose became carmine, to melt away into coral-pink in theshell-like ears. Her dress of seal-brown broadcloth, on which there wasa sheen, was relieved by occasional touches of sage-green, and thenumerous sable tails on her boa and muff blew this way and that way inthe wind. In the small black hat, perched at what I can only describe asa triumphant angle, an orange wing became at the tip of each tinytopmost feather a daring line of scarlet. Nestling on the sage-greenbelow the throat a row of amber beads slumbered and smoldered with lemonand orange and ruby lights that now and then shot out rays of crimson orscarlet fire.

  I thought of my own costume--naturally. I was in gray, with inexpensiveblack furs. An iridescent buckle, with hues such as you see in apigeon's neck, at the side of my black-velvet toque was my only bit ofcolor. I was poor Jenny Wren in contrast to a splendid bird-of-paradise.So be it! I could at least be a foil to this healthy, vigorous youngbeauty who was two inches taller than I, and might have my share of theadvantages which go with all antithesis.

&n
bsp; The talk was desultory, and in it the English girl took no part. Mrs.Rossiter asked me where I was going, what I was going for, and whetheror not she couldn't take me to my destination in her car. I declinedthis offer, explained that my errands were trivial, and examined LadyCissie through the corner of my eye. On her side Lady Cissie examined mequite frankly--not haughtily, but distantly and rather sympathetically.She had come all this distance to take a look at Hugh, and I was thegirl he loved. I counted on the fact to give poor Jenny Wren her value,and I think it did. At any rate, when I had answered all Mrs. Rossiter'squestions and was moving off to continue my way up-town, Lady Cissie'srich lips quivered in a sort of farewell smile.

  But Hugh showed little interest when I painted her portrait verbally.

  "Yes, that's the girl," he observed indifferently, "red-headed,long-legged, slashy-colored, laid on a bit too thick."

  "She's beautiful, Hugh."

  "Is she? Well, perhaps so. Wouldn't be my style; but every one to histaste."

  "It you saw her now--"

  "Oh, I've seen her often enough, just as she's seen me."

  "She hasn't seen you as you are to-day, and neither have you seen her. Afew years makes a difference."

  He looked at me quizzically.

  "Look here, little Alix, what are you giving us? Do you think I'd turnyou down now--for all the Lady Cissies in the British peerage? Do you,now?"

  "Not, perhaps, if you put it as turning me down--"

  "Well, as you turning me down, then?"

  "Our outlook is pretty dark, isn't it?"

  "Just wait."

  I ignored his pathetic boastfulness to continue my own sentence.

  "And this prospect is so brilliant. You'd have a handsome wife, a bigincome, a good position, an important family backing on both sides ofthe Atlantic--all of which would make you the man you ought to be. Nowthat I've seen her, and rather guess that she'd take you, I don't seehow I can let you forfeit so much. I don't want to make you regret theday you ever saw me--"

  "Or regret yourself the day you ever saw me."

  If I took up this challenge it was more for his sake than my own.

  "Then suppose I accept that way of putting it?"

  He looked at me solemnly, for a second or two, after which he burst outlaughing. That I might have hesitations as to connecting myself with theBrokenshires was more than he could grasp. He might have minutes ofjealousy of Larry Strangways, but his doubt could go no further. It wentno further, even after he had seen Lady Cecilia and they had renewedtheir early acquaintance. Ethel Rossiter had managed that, of coursewith her father's connivance.

  "Fine big girl," Hugh commended, "but too showy."

  "She's not showy," I contradicted. "A thing isn't necessarily showybecause it has bright colors. Tropical birds are not showy, nor roses,nor rubies--"

  "I prefer pearls," he said, quietly. "You're a pearl, little Alix, thepearl of great price for which a man sells all that he has and buys it."Before I could respond to this kindly speech he burst out: "Good Lord!don't you suppose I can see what it all means? Cissie's the gayartificial fly that's to tempt the fish away from the little silveryminnow. Once I've darted after the bit of red and yellow dad will havehooked me. That's his game. Don't you think I see it? What dad wants isnot that I shall have a wife I can love, but that he shall have adaughter-in-law with a title. You'd have to be, well, what I hope youwill be some day, to know what that means to a man like dad. Ason-in-law with a title--that's as common as beans to rich Americans;but a daughter-in-law with a title--a real, genuine British title, assound as the Bank of England--that's something new. You can count on thefingers of one hand the American families that have got 'em"--he namedthem, one in Philadelphia, one in Chicago, one or two in New York--"anddad's as mad as blazes that he didn't think of the thing first. If hehad, he'd have put Jack on to it, in spite of all Pauline's money; butsince it's too late for that I must toe the mark. Well, I'm not goingto, do you see? I'm going to choose my own wife, and I've chosen her.Birth and position mean nothing to me, for I'm as much of a Socialist asever--or almost."

  With such resolution as this there was no way of reasoning, so that Icould only go on, wondering and hoping and doing what I could for thebest.

  What I could do for the best included watching over Mrs. Brokenshire.As winter progressed the task became harder and I grew the more anxious.So far no one suspected her visits to Mr. Grainger's library, and to thebest of my knowledge her imprudence ended there. Further than to wanderabout the room the lovers never tried to elude me, though now and then Icould see, without watching them, that he took her hand. Once or twice Ithought he kissed her, but of that I was happily not sure. It was arelief, too, that as the days grew longer occasional visitors dropped inwhile they were there. The old gentleman interested in prints and thelady who studied Shakespeare came not infrequently. There were couples,too, who wandered in, seeking for their own purposes a half-hour ofprivacy. After all, the place was almost a public one to those who knewhow to find it; and I was quick enough to see that in this verypublicity lay a measure of salvation.

  Mrs. Brokenshire was as quick to perceive this as I. When there wereother people there she was more at ease. Nothing was simpler then thanfor Mr. Grainger and herself to be visitors like the rest, strollingabout or sitting in shady corners, and keeping themselves unrecognized.There was thus a Thursday in the early part of March when I didn'texpect them, because it was a Thursday. They came, however, only to findthe old gentleman interested in prints and the lady who studiedShakespeare already on the spot. I was never so glad of anything as ofthis accidental happening when a surprising thing occurred to me nextday.

  It was between half past five and six on the Friday. As the lovers hadcome on the preceding day, I knew they would not appear on this, and wasbeginning to make my preparations for going home. I was actually pinningon my hat when the soft opening of the outer door startled me. A softstep sounded in the little inner vestibule, and then there came anequally soft, breathless standing still.

  My hands were paralyzed in their upward position at my hat; my heartpounded so that I could hear it; my eyes were wide with terror as theylooked back at me from the splendid Venetian mirror before which Istood. I was always afraid of robbers or murderers, even though I hadthe wrought-iron grille between me and them, and Mr. or Mrs. Daly withincall.

  Knowing that there was nothing for it but to go and see who was there,and suspecting that it might be Mrs. Brokenshire, after all, I draggedmy feet across the few intervening paces. It was not Mrs. Brokenshire.It was a man, a man who looked inordinately big and majestic in thislittle decorative pen. I needed a few seconds in which to gaze, a fewseconds in which to adjust my faculties, before grasping the fact that Isaw Mrs. Brokenshire's husband. On his side, he needed something of thesort himself. Of all people in the world with whom he expected to findhimself face to face I am sure I must have been the last.

  I touched the spring, however, and the little portal opened. It openedand he stepped in. He stepped in and stood still. He stood still andlooked round him. If I dare to say it of one who was never timid in hislife, he looked round him timidly. His eyes showed it, his attitudeshowed it. He had come on a hateful errand; his feet were on hatefulground. He expected to see something more than me--and emptiness.

  I got back some of my own self-control by being sorry for him, giving noindication of ever having met him before.

  "You'd like to see the library, sir," I said, as I should have said itto any chance visitor.

  He dropped into a large William and Mary chair, one of the show pieces,and placed his silk hat on the floor.

  "I'll sit down," he murmured less to me than to himself. His stick hedandled now across and now between his knees.

  The tea things were still on the table.

  "Would you like a cup of tea?" I asked, in genuine solicitude.

  "Yes--no." I think he would have liked it, but he probably rememberedwhose tea it was. "No," he repeated, with decis
ion.

  He breathed heavily, with short, puffy gasps. I recalled then that Mrs.Brokenshire had said that his heart had been affected. As a matter offact, he put his gloved left hand up to it, as people do who feelsomething giving way within.

  To relieve the embarrassment of the situation I said:

  "I could turn on all the lights and you could see the library withoutgoing round it."

  Withdrawing the hand at his heart, he raised it in the manner with whichI was familiar.

  "Sit down," he commanded, as sternly as his shortness of breath allowed.

  The companion William and Mary chair being near, I slipped into it.Having him in three-quarters profile, I could study him without doing ittoo obviously, and could verify Mrs. Brokenshire's statements thatHugh's affairs were "telling on him." He was perceptibly older, in theway in which people look older all at once after having long kept thesemblance of youth. The skin had grown baggy, the eyes tired; the beardand mustache, though as well cared for as ever, more decidedly mixedwith gray. It was indicative of something that had begun to disintegratein his self-esteem, that when his poor left eye screwed up he turned theterrifying right one on me with no effort to conceal the grimace.

  As it was for him to break the silence, I waited in my huge ornamentalchair, hoping he would begin.

  "What are you doing here?"

  The voice had lost none of its soft staccato nor of its whip-lash snap.

  "I'm Mr. Grainger's librarian," I replied, meekly.

  "Since when?" he panted.

  "Since not long after I left Mrs. Rossiter."

  He took his time to think another question out.

  "How did your employer come to know about you?"

  I explained, as though he had had no knowledge of the fact, that Mrs.Rossiter had employed for her boy, Brokenshire, a tutor namedStrangways. This Mr. Strangways had attracted Mr. Grainger's attentionby some articles he had written for the financial press. An introductionhad followed, after which Mr. Grainger had engaged the young man as hissecretary. Hearing that Mr. Grainger had need of a librarian, Mr.Strangways had suggested me.

  I could see suspicion in the way in which he eyed me as well as in hiswords.

  "Had you no other recommendation?"

  "No, sir," I said, simply, "none that Mr. Grainger ever told me of."

  He let that pass.

  "And what do you do here?"

  "I show the library to visitors. If any one wishes a particular book, orto look at engravings, I help him to find what he wants." I thought itwell to keep up the fiction that he had come as a sight-seer. "If you'dcare to go over the place now, sir--"

  His hand went up in a majestic waving aside of this courtesy.

  "And have you many visitors to the--to the library?"

  Though I saw the implication, I managed to elude it.

  "Yes, sir, taking one day with another. It depends a little on theweather and the time of year."

  "Are they chiefly strangers--or--or do you ever see any oneyou've--you've seen before?"

  His difficulty in phrasing this question made me even more sorry for himthan I was already. I decided, both for his sake and my own, to walk upfrankly and take the bull by the horns. "They're generally strangers;but sometimes people come whom I know." I looked at him steadily as Icontinued. "I'll tell you something, sir. Perhaps I ought not to, and itmay be betraying a secret; but you might as well know it from me as hearit from some one else." The expression of the face he turned on me wasso much that of Jove, whose look could strike a man dead, that I had allI could do to go on. "Mrs. Brokenshire comes to see me."

  "To see--you?"

  "Yes, sir, to see me."

  The staccato accent grew difficult and thick. "What for?"

  "Because she can't help it. She's sorry for me."

  There was a new attempt to ignore me and my troubles as he said:

  "Why should she be sorry for you?"

  "Because she sees that you're hard on me--"

  "I haven't meant to be hard on you, only just."

  "Well, just then; but Mrs. Brokenshire doesn't know anything aboutjustice when she can be merciful. You must know that yourself, sir. Ithink she's the most beautiful woman God ever made; and she's as kind asshe's beautiful. I'll tell you something else, sir. It will be anotherbetrayal, but it will show you what she is. One day at Newport--afteryou'd spoken to me--and she saw that I was so crushed by it that all Icould do was to creep down among the rocks and cry--she watched me, andfollowed me, and came and cried with me. And so when she heard I washere--"

  "Who told her?"

  There was a measure of accusation in the tone of the question, but Ipretended not to detect it.

  "Mrs. Rossiter, perhaps--she knows--or almost anybody. I never askedher."

  "Very well! What then?"

  "I was only going to say that when she heard I was here she came almostat once. I begged her not to--"

  "Why? What were you afraid of?"

  "I knew you wouldn't like it. But I couldn't stop her. No one could stopher when it comes to her doing an act of kindness. She obeys her ownnature because she can't do anything else. She's like a little bird thatyou can keep from flying by holding it in your hand, but as soon as yourgrasp is relaxed--it flies."

  Something of this was true, in that it was true potentially. She hadthese qualities, even if they were nipped in her as buds are nipped in abackward spring. I could only calm my conscience as I went along bysaying to myself that if I saved her she would have to bear me outthrough being true to the picture I was painting, and living up to herreal self.

  Praise of the woman he adored would have been as music to him had henot had something on his mind that turned music into poignancy. What itwas I could surmise, and so be prepared for it. Not till he had beensome time silent, probably getting his question into the right words,did he say:

  "And are you always alone when Mrs. Brokenshire comes?"

  "Oh no, sir!" I made the tone as natural as I could. "But Mrs.Brokenshire doesn't seem to mind. Yesterday, for instance--"

  "Was she here yesterday? I thought she came on--"

  I broke in before he could betray himself further.

  "Yes, she was here yesterday; and there was--let me see!--there was anold gentleman comparing his Japanese prints with Mr. Grainger's, and amiddle-aged lady who comes to study the old editions of Shakespeare. ButMrs. Brokenshire didn't object to them. She sat with me and had a cup oftea."

  I knew I had come to dangerous ground, and was ready for my part in theadventure. Had he asked the question: "Was there anybody else?" I wasresolved, in the spirit of my maxim, to tell the truth as harmlessly asI knew how. But I didn't think he would ask it. I reckoned on hisunwillingness to take me into his confidence or to humiliate himselfmore than he could help. That he guessed at something behind my words Icould easily suspect; but I was so sure he would have torn out histongue rather than force his pride to cross-examine me too closely, thatI was able to run my risk.

  As a matter of fact, he became pensive, and through the gloom of thehalf-lighted room I could see that his face was contorted twice, stillwith no effort on his part to hide his misfortune. As he took the timeto think I could do the same, with a kind of intuition in following thecourse of his meditations. I was not surprised, therefore, when he said,with renewed thickness of utterance:

  "Has Mrs. Brokenshire any--any other motive in coming here thanjust--just to see you?"

  I hung my head, perhaps with a touch of that play-acting spirit whichmost women are able to command, when the time comes.

  "Yes, sir."

  He waited again. I never heard such overtones of despair as were in thethree words which at last he tried to toss off easily.

  "What is it?"

  I still hung my head.

  "She brings me money for poor Hugh."

  He started back, whether from anger or relief I couldn't tell, and hisface twitched for the fourth time. In the end, I suppose, he decidedthat anger was the card
he could play most skilfully.

  "So that that's what enables him to keep up his rebellion against me!"

  "No, sir," I said, humbly, "because he never takes it." I went on withthat portrait of Mrs. Brokenshire which I vowed she would have tojustify. "That doesn't make any difference, however, to her wonderfultenderness of heart in wanting him to have it. You see, sir, when anyone's so much like an angel as she is they don't stop to consider howjustly other people are suffering or how they've brought their troubleson themselves. Where there's trouble they only ask to help; wherethere's suffering their first instinct is to heal. Mrs. Brokenshiredoesn't want to sustain your son against you; that never enters herhead: she only wants him not--not"--my own voice shook a little--"notto have to go without his proper meals. He's doing that now, Ithink--sometimes, at least. Oh, sir," I ventured to plead, "you can'tblame her, not when she's so--so heavenly." Stealing a glance at him, Iwas amazed and shocked, and not a little comforted, to see two tearssteal down his withered cheeks. Knowing then that he would not for someminutes be able to control himself sufficiently to speak, I hurried on."Hugh doesn't take the money, because he knows that this is something hemust go through with on his own strength. If he can't do that he mustgive in. I think I've made that clear to him. I'm not the adventuressyou consider me--indeed I'm not. I've told him that if he's everindependent I will marry him; but I shall not marry him so long as heisn't free to give himself away. He's putting up a big fight, and he'sdoing it so bravely, that if you only knew what he's going through you'dbe proud of him as your son."

  Resting my case there, I waited for some response, but I waited in vain.He reflected, and sat silent, and crossed and uncrossed his knees. Atlast he picked up his hat from the floor and rose. I, too, rose, waitingbeside my chair, while he flicked the dust from the crown of his hat andseemed to study its glossy surface as he still reflected.

  I was now altogether without a clue to what was passing in his mind,though I could guess at the age-long tragedy of December's love for May.Having seen Ibsen's "Master Builder," at Munich, and read one or twobooks on the theme with which it deals, I could, in a measure,supplement my own experience. It was, however, the first time I had seenwith my own eyes this desperate yearning of age for youth, or thissomething that is almost a death-blow which youth can inflict on age. Myfather used to say that fundamentally there is no such period as age,that only the outer husk grows old, while the inner self, the vital_ego_, is young eternally. Here, it seemed to me, was an instance of thefact. This man was essentially as young as he had been at twenty-five;he had the same instincts and passions; he demanded the same things. Ifanything, he demanded them more imperiously because of the long, longhabit of desire. Denial which thirty years ago he could have takenphilosophically was now a source of anguish. As I looked at him I couldsee anguish on his lips, in his eyes, in the contraction of hisforehead--the anguish of a love ridiculous to all, and to the object ofit frightful and unnatural, for the reason that at sixty-two the skinhad grown baggy and the heart was supposed to be dead.

  From the smoothing of the crown of his hat he glanced up suddenly. Thewhip-lash inflection was again in the timbre of the voice.

  "How much do you get here?"

  I was taken aback, but I named the amount of my salary.

  "I will give you twice as much as that for the next five years if--ifyou go back to where you came from."

  It took me a minute to seize all the implications contained in thislittle speech. I saw then that if I hoped I was making an impression, orgetting further ahead with him, I was mistaken. Neither had myinterpretation of Mrs. Brokenshire's character put him off the scentconcerning her. I was so far indeed from influencing him in either herfavor or my own that he believed that if he could get rid of me anobstacle would be removed.

  Tears sprang into my eyes, though they didn't fall.

  "So you blame me, sir, for everything."

  He continued to watch his gloved hand as it made the circle of the crownof his hat.

  "I'll make it twice what you're getting here for ten years. I'll put itin my will." It was no use being angry or mounting my high horse. Thestruggle with tears kept me silent as he glanced up from the rubbing ofhis hat and said in a jerky, kindly tone: "Well? What do you say?"

  I didn't know what to say; and what I did say was foolish. I should haveknown enough to suppress it before I began.

  "Do you remember, sir, that once when you were speaking to me severely,you said you were my friend? Well, why shouldn't I be your friend, too?"

  The look he bent down on me was that of a great personage positivelydazed by an inferior's audacity.

  "I could be your friend," I stumbled on, in an absurd effort to explainmyself. "I should like to be. There are--there are things I could do foryou."

  He put on his tall hat with the air of a Charlemagne or a Napoleoncrowning himself. This increase of authority must have made medesperate. It is only thus that I can account for my _gaffe_--the Frenchword alone expresses it--as I dashed on, wildly:

  "I like you, sir--I can't help it. I don't know why, but I do. I likeyou in spite of--in spite of everything. And, oh, I'm so sorry foryou--"

  He moved away. There was noble, wounded offense in his manner of passingthrough the wrought-iron grille, which he closed with a little clickbehind him. He stepped out of the place as softly as he had stepped in.

  For long minutes I stood, holding to the side of the William and Marychair, regretting that the interview should have ended in this way. Ididn't cry; I had, in fact, no longer any tendency to tears. I wasthoughtful--wondering what it was that dug the gulf between this man andhis family and me. Ethel Rossiter had never--I could see it well enoughnow--accepted me as an equal, and even to Hugh I was only another typeof Libby Jaynes. I was as intelligent as they, as well born, as wellmannered, as thoroughly accustomed to the world. Why should theyconsider me an inferior? Was it because I had no money? Was it because Iwas a Canadian? Would it have made a difference if I had been anEnglishwoman like Cissie Boscobel, or rich like any of themselves? Icouldn't tell. All I knew was that my heart was hot within me, and sinceHoward Brokenshire wouldn't have me as a friend I wanted to act as hisenemy. I could see how to do it. Indeed, without doing anything at all Icould encourage, and perhaps bring about, a situation that would sendthe name of the family ringing through the press of two continents andbreak his heart. I had only to sit still--or at most to put in a wordhere and there. I am not a saint; I had my hour of temptation.

  It was a stormy hour, though I never moved from the spot where I stood.The storm was within. That which, as the minutes went by, became rage inme saw with satisfaction Howard Brokenshire brought to a desolate oldage, and Mildred and Ethel and Jack and Pauline, in spite of theirbravado and their high heads, all seared by the flame of notoriousdisgrace. I went so far as to gloat over poor Hugh's discomfiture,taking vengeance on his habit of rating me with the sociallyincompetent. As for Mrs. Brokenshire, she would be over and done with, apoor little gilded outcast, whose fall would be such that even as Mrs.Stacy Grainger she would never rise again. Like another Samson, I couldpull down this house of pride, though, happier than Samson, I should notbe overwhelmed in the ruin of it. From that I should be safe--with LarryStrangways.

  Nearly half an hour went by while I stood thus indulging in fierceday-dreams. I was racked and suffering. I suffered, indeed, from themisfortunes I saw descending on people whom at bottom of my heart Icared for. It was not till I began to move, till I had put on my jacketand was turning out the lights, that my maxim came back to me. I knewthen that whatever happened I should stand by that, and having come tothis understanding with myself, I was quieted.