of the world on shore. Instead of taking the joke, he looked
confused. A deeper tinge of color reddened his dark cheeks. "I
didn't say so," he answered, a little irritably.
Sir Patrick lifted two of his white, wrinkled old fingers, and
good-humoredly patted the young sailor on the cheek.
"Yes you did," he said. "In red letters."
The little gold lid in the knob of the ivory cane flew up, and
the old gentleman rewarded himself for that neat retort with a
pinch of snuff. At the same moment Blanche made her appearance on
the scene.
"Mr. Brinkworth," she said, "I shall want you directly. Uncle,
it's your turn to play."
"Bless my soul!" cried Sir Patrick, "I forgot the game." He
looked about him, and saw his mallet and ball left waiting on the
table. "Where are the modern substitutes for conversation? Oh,
here they are!" He bowled the ball out before him on to the lawn,
and tucked the mallet, as if it was an umbrella, under his arm.
"Who was the first mistaken person," he said to himself, as he
briskly hobbled out, "who discovered that human life was a
serious thing? Here am I, with one foot in the grave; and the
most serious question before me at the present moment is, Shall I
get through the Hoops?"
Arnold and Blanche were left together.
Among the personal privileges which Nature has accorded to women,
there are surely none more enviable than their privilege of
always looking their best when they look at the man they love.
When Blanche's eyes turned on Arnold after her uncle had gone
out, not even the hideous fashionable disfigurements of the
inflated "chignon" and the tilted hat could destroy the triple
charm of youth, beauty, and tenderness beaming in her face.
Arnold looked at her--and remembered, as he had never remembered
yet, that he was going by the next train, and that he was leaving
her in the society of more than one admiring man of his own age.
The experience of a whole fortnight passed under the same roof
with her had proved Blanche to be the most charming girl in
existence. It was possible that she might not be mortally
offended with him if he told her so. He determined that he
_would_ tell her so at that auspicious moment.
But who shall presume to measure the abyss that lies between the
Intention and the Execution? Arnold's resolution to speak was as
firmly settled as a resolution could be. And what came of it?
Alas for human infirmity! Nothing came of it but silence.
"You don't look quite at your ease, Mr. Brinkworth," said
Blanche. "What has Sir Patrick been saying to you? My uncle
sharpens his wit on every body. He has been sharpening it on
_you?"_
Arnold began to see his way. At an immeasurable distance--but
still he saw it.
"Sir Patrick is a terrible old man," he answered. "Just before
you came in he discovered one of my secrets by only looking in my
face." He paused, rallied his courage, pushed on at all hazards,
and came headlong to the point. "I wonder," he asked, bluntly,
"whether you take after your uncle?"
Blanche instantly understood him. With time at her disposal, she
would have taken him lightly in hand, and led him, by fine
gradations, to the object in view. But in two minutes or less it
would be Arnold's turn to play. "He is going to make me an
offer," thought Blanche; "and he has about a minute to do it in.
He _shall_ do it!"
"What!" she exclaimed, " do you think the gift of discovery runs
in the family?"
Arnold made a plunge.
"I wish it did! " he said.
Blanche looked the picture of astonishment.
"Why?" she asked.
"If you could see in my face what Sir Patrick saw--"
He had only to finish the sentence, and the thing was done. But
the tender passion perversely delights in raising obstacles to
itself. A sudden timidity seized on Arnold exactly at the wrong
moment. He stopped short, in the most awkward manner possible.
Blanche heard from the lawn the blow of the mallet on the ball,
and the laughter of the company at some blunder of Sir Patrick's.
The precious seconds were slipping away. She could have boxed
Arnold on both ears for being so unreasonably afraid of her.
"Well," she said, impatiently, "if I did look in your face, what
should I see?"
Arnold made another plunge. He answered: "You would see that I
want a little encouragement."
"From _me?_"
"Yes--if you please."
Blanche looked back over her shoulder. The summer-house stood on
an eminence, approached by steps. The players on the lawn beneath
were audible, but not visible. Any one of them might appear,
unexpectedly, at a moment's notice. Blanche listened. There was
no sound of approaching footsteps--there was a general hush, and
then another bang of the mallet on the ball and then a clapping
of hands. Sir Patrick was a privileged person. He had been
allowed, in all probability, to try again; and he was succeeding
at the second effort. This implied a reprieve of some seconds.
Blanche looked back again at Arnold.
"Consider yourself encouraged," she whispered; and instantly
added, with the ineradicable female instinct of self-defense,
"within limits!"
Arnold made a last plunge--straight to the bottom, this time.
"Consider yourself loved," he burst out, "without any limits at
all."
It was all over--the words were spoken--he had got her by the
hand. Again the perversity of the tender passion showed itself
more strongly than ever. The confession which Blanche had been
longing to hear, had barely escaped her lover's lips before
Blanche protested against it! She struggled to release her hand.
She formally appealed to Arnold to let her go.
Arnold only held her the tighter.
"Do try to like me a little!" he pleaded. "I am so fond of
_you!_"
Who was to resist such wooing as this?--when you were privately
fond of him yourself, remember, and when you were certain to be
interrupted in another moment! Blanche left off struggling, and
looked up at her young sailor with a smile.
"Did you learn this method of making love in the
merchant-service?" she inquired, saucily.
Arnold persisted in contemplating his prospects from the serious
point of view.
"I'll go back to the merchant-service," he said, "if I have made
you angry with me."
Blanche administered another dose of encouragement.
"Anger, Mr. Brinkworth, is one of the bad passions," she
answered, demurely. "A young lady who has been properly brought
up has no bad passions."
There was a sudden cry from the players on the lawn--a cry for
"Mr. Brinkworth." Blanche tried to push him out. Arnold was
immovable.
"Say something to encourage me before I go," he pleaded. "One
word will do. Say, Yes."
Blanche shook her head. Now she had got him, the temptation to
tease him was irresistible.
encouragement, you must speak to my uncle."
"I'll speak to him," returned Arnold, "before I leave the house."
There was another cry for "Mr. Brinkworth." Blanche made another
effort to push him out.
"Go!" she said. "And mind you get through the hoop!"
She had both hands on his shoulders--her face was close to
his--she was simply irresistible. Arnold caught her round the
waist and kissed her. Needless to tell him to get through the
hoop. He had surely got through it already! Blanche was
speechless. Arnold's last effort in the art of courtship had
taken away her breath. Before she could recover herself a sound
of approaching footsteps became plainly audible. Arnold gave her
a last squeeze, and ran out.
She sank on the nearest chair, and closed her eyes in a flutter
of delicious confusion.
The footsteps ascending to the summer-house came nearer. Blanche
opened her eyes, and saw Anne Silvester, standing alone, looking
at her. She sprang to her feet, and threw her arms impulsively
round Anne's neck.
"You don't know what has happened," she whispered. "Wish me joy,
darling. He has said the words. He is mine for life!"
All the sisterly love and sisterly confidence of many years was
expressed in that embrace, and in the tone in which the words
were spoken. The hearts of the mothers, in the past time, could
hardly have been closer to each other--as it seemed--than the
hearts of the daughters were now. And yet, if Blanche had looked
up in Anne's face at that moment, she must have seen that Anne's
mind was far away from her little love-story.
"You know who it is?" she went on, after waiting for a reply.
"Mr. Brinkworth?"
"Of course! Who else should it be?"
"And you are really happy, my love?"
"Happy?" repeated Blanche "Mind! this is strictly between
ourselves. I am ready to jump out of my skin for joy. I love him!
I love him! I love him!" she cried, with a childish pleasure in
repeating the words. They were echoed by a heavy sigh. Blanche
instantly looked up into Anne's face. "What's the matter?" she
asked, with a sudden change of voice and manner.
"Nothing."
Blanche's observation saw too plainly to be blinded in that way.
"There _is_ something the matter," she said. "Is it money?" she
added, after a moment's consideration. "Bills to pay? I have got
plenty of money, Anne. I'll lend you what you like."
"No, no, my dear!"
Blanche drew back, a little hurt. Anne was keeping her at a
distance for the first time in Blanche's experience of her.
"I tell you all my secrets," she said. "Why are _you_ keeping a
secret from _me?_ Do you know that you have been looking anxious
and out of spirits for some time past? Perhaps you don't like Mr.
Brinkworth? No? you _do_ like him? Is it my marrying, then? I
believe it is! You fancy we shall be parted, you goose? As if I
could do without you! Of course, when I am married to Arnold, you
will come and live with us. That's quite understood between
us--isn't it?"
Anne drew herself suddenly, almost roughly, away from Blanche,
and pointed out to the steps.
"There is somebody coming," she said. "Look!"
The person coming was Arnold. It was Blanche's turn to play, and
he had volunteered to fetch her.
Blanche's attention--easily enough distracted on other
occasions--remained steadily fixed on Anne.
"You are not yourself," she said, "and I must know the reason of
it. I will wait till to-night; and then you will tell me, when
you come into my room. Don't look like that! You _shall_ tell me.
And there's a kiss for you in the mean time!"
She joined Arnold, and recovered her gayety the moment she looked
at him.
"Well? Have you got through the hoops?"
"Never mind the hoops. I have broken the ice with Sir Patrick."
"What! before all the company!"
"Of course not! I have made an appointment to speak to him here."
They went laughing down the steps, and joined the game.
Left alone, Anne Silvester walked slowly to the inner and darker
part of the summer-house. A glass, in a carved wooden frame, was
fixed against one of the side walls. She stopped and looked into
it--looked, shuddering, at the reflection of herself.
"Is the time coming," she said, "when even Blanche will see what
I am in my face?"
She turned aside from the glass. With a sudden cry of despair she
flung up her arms and laid them heavily against the wall, and
rested her head on them with her back to the light. At the same
moment a man's figure appeared--standing dark in the flood of
sunshine at the entrance to the summer-house. The man was
Geoffrey Delamayn.
CHAPTER THE FOURTH.
THE TWO.
He advanced a few steps, and stopped. Absorbed in herself, Anne
failed to hear him. She never moved.
"I have come, as you made a point of it," he said, sullenly.
"But, mind you, it isn't safe."
At the sound of his voice, Anne turned toward him. A change of
expression appeared in her face, as she slowly advanced from the
back of the summer-house, which revealed a likeness to her moth
er, not perceivable at other times. As the mother had looked, in
by-gone days, at the man who had disowned her, so the daughter
looked at Geoffrey Delamayn--with the same terrible composure,
and the same terrible contempt.
"Well?" he asked. "What have you got to say to me?"
"Mr. Delamayn," she answered, "you are one of the fortunate
people of this world. You are a nobleman's son. You are a
handsome man. You are popular at your college. You are free of
the best houses in England. Are you something besides all this?
Are you a coward and a scoundrel as well?"
He started--opened his lips to speak--checked himself--and made
an uneasy attempt to laugh it off. "Come!" he said, "keep your
temper."
The suppressed passion in her began to force its way to the
surface.
"Keep my temper?" she repeated. "Do _you_ of all men expect me to
control myself? What a memory yours must be! Have you forgotten
the time when I was fool enough to think you were fond of me? and
mad enough to believe you could keep a promise?"
He persisted in trying to laugh it off. "Mad is a strongish word
to use, Miss Silvester!"
"Mad is the right word! I look back at my own infatuation--and I
can't account for it; I can't understand myself. What was there
in _you_," she asked, with an outbreak of contemptuous surprise,
"to attract such a woman as I am?"
His inexhaustible good-nature was proof even against this. He put
his hands in his pockets, and said, "I'm sure I don't know."
She turned away from him. The frank brutality of the answer had
not offended her. It forced her, cruelly forced her, to remember
that she had nobody but herself to blame for the position in
which sh
e stood at that moment. She was unwilling to let him see
how the remembrance hurt her--that was all. A sad, sad story; but
it must be told. In her mother's time she had been the sweetest,
the most lovable of children. In later days, under the care of
her mother's friend, her girlhood had passed so harmlessly and so
happily--it seemed as if the sleeping passions might sleep
forever! She had lived on to the prime of her womanhood--and
then, when the treasure of her life was at its richest, in one
fatal moment she had flung it away on the man in whose presence
she now stood.
Was she without excuse? No: not utterly without excuse.
She had seen him under other aspects than the aspect which he
presented now. She had seen him, the hero of the river-race, the
first and foremost man in a trial of strength and skill which had
roused the enthusiasm of all England. She had seen him, the
central object of the interest of a nation; the idol of the
popular worship and the popular applause. _His_ were the arms
whose muscle was celebrated in the newspapers. _He_ was first
among the heroes hailed by ten thousand roaring throats as the
pride and flower of England. A woman, in an atmosphere of red-hot
enthusiasm, witnesses the apotheosis of Physical Strength. Is it
reasonable--is it just--to expect her to ask herself, in cold
blood, What (morally and intellectually) is all this worth?--and
that, when the man who is the object of the apotheosis, notices
her, is presented to her, finds her to his taste, and singles her
out from the rest? No. While humanity is humanity, the woman is
not utterly without excuse.
Has she escaped, without suffering for it?
Look at her as she stands there, tortured by the knowledge of her
own secret--the hideous secret which she is hiding from the
innocent girl, whom she loves with a sister's love. Look at her,
bowed down under a humiliation which is unutterable in words. She
has seen him below the surface--now, when it is too late. She
rates him at his true value--now, when her reputation is at his
mercy. Ask her the question: What was there to love in a man who
can speak to you as that man has spoken, who can treat you as
that man is treating you now? you so clever, so cultivated, so
refined--what, in Heaven's name, could _you_ see in him? Ask her
that, and she will have no answer to give. She will not even
remind you that he was once your model of manly beauty, too--that
you waved your handkerchief till you could wave it no longer,
when he took his seat, with the others, in the boat--that your
heart was like to jump out of your bosom, on that later occasion
when he leaped the last hurdle at the foot-race, and won it by a
head. In the bitterness of her remorse, she will not even seek
for _that_ excuse for herself. Is there no atoning suffering to
be seen here? Do your sympathies shrink from such a character as
this? Follow her, good friends of virtue, on the pilgrimage that
leads, by steep and thorny ways, to the purer atmosphere and the
nobler life. Your fellow-creature, who has sinned and has
repented--you have the authority of the Divine Teacher for it--is
your fellow-creature, purified and ennobled. A joy among the
angels of heaven--oh, my brothers and sisters of the earth, have
I not laid my hand on a fit companion for You?
There was a moment of silence in the summer-house. The cheerful
tumult of the lawn-party was pleasantly audible from the
distance. Outside, the hum of voices, the laughter of girls, the
thump of the croquet-mallet against the ball. Inside, nothing but
a woman forcing back the bitter tears of sorrow and shame--and a
man who was tired of her.
She roused herself. She was her mother's daughter; and she had a
spark of her mother's spirit. Her life depended on the issue of
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