Miss Wilson was suddenly moved not to let him go without an appeal to
his better nature. "Mr. Trefusis," she said, "excuse me, but are you
not, in your generosity to others a little forgetful of your duty to
yourself; and--"

"The first and hardest of all duties!" he exclaimed. "I beg your pardon
for interrupting you. It was only to plead guilty."

"I cannot admit that it is the first of all duties, but it is sometimes
perhaps the hardest, as you say. Still, you could surely do yourself
more justice without any great effort. If you wish to live humbly, you
can do so without pretending to be an uneducated man and without
taking an irritating and absurd name. Why on earth do you call yourself
Smilash?"

"I confess that the name has been a failure. I took great pains, in
constructing it, to secure a pleasant impression. It is not a mere
invention, but a compound of the words smile and eyelash. A smile
suggests good humor; eyelashes soften the expression and are the only
features that never blemish a face. Hence Smilash is a sound that should
cheer and propitiate. Yet it exasperates. It is really very odd that it
should have that effect, unless it is that it raises expectations which
I am unable to satisfy."

Miss Wilson looked at him doubtfully. He remained perfectly grave. There
was a pause. Then, as if she had made up her mind to be offended, she
said, "Good-morning," shortly.

"Good-morning, Miss Wilson. The son of a millionaire, like the son of a
king, is seldom free from mental disease. I am just mad enough to be a
mountebank. If I were a little madder, I should perhaps really believe
myself Smilash instead of merely acting him. Whether you ask me to
forget myself for a moment, or to remember myself for a moment, I
reply that I am the son of my father, and cannot. With my egotism, my
charlatanry, my tongue, and my habit of having my own way, I am fit for
no calling but that of saviour of mankind--just of the sort they like."
After an impressive pause he turned slowly and left the room.

"I wonder," he said, as he crossed the landing, "whether, by judiciously
losing my way, I can catch a glimpse of that girl who is like a golden
idol?"

Downstairs, on his way to the door, he saw Agatha coming towards
him, occupied with a book which she was tossing up to the ceiling and
catching. Her melancholy expression, habitual in her lonely moments,
showed that she was not amusing herself, but giving vent to her
restlessness. As her gaze travelled upward, following the flight of
the volume, it was arrested by Smilash. The book fell to the floor. He
picked it up and handed it to her, saying:

"And, in good time, here is the golden idol!"

"What?" said Agatha, confused.

"I call you the golden idol," he said. "When we are apart I always
imagine your face as a face of gold, with eyes and teeth of bdellium,
or chalcedony, or agate, or any wonderful unknown stones of appropriate
colors."

Agatha, witless and dumb, could only look down deprecatingly.

"You think you ought to be angry with me, and you do not know exactly
how to make me feel that you are so. Is that it?"

"No. Quite the contrary. At least--I mean that you are wrong. I am the
most commonplace person you can imagine--if you only knew. No matter
what I may look, I mean."

"How do you know that you are commonplace?"

"Of course I know," said Agatha, her eyes wandering uneasily.

"Of course you do not know; you cannot see yourself as others see you.
For instance, you have never thought of yourself as a golden idol."

"But that is absurd. You are quite mistaken about me."

"Perhaps so. I know, however, that your face is not really made of gold
and that it has not the same charm for you that it has for others--for
me."

"I must go," said Agatha, suddenly in haste.

"When shall we meet again?"

"I don't know," she said, with a growing sense of alarm. "I really must
go."

"Believe me, your hurry is only imaginary. Do you fancy that you are
behaving in a manner of quite ubdued ardor that affected Agatha
strangely.

"But first tell me whether it is new to you or not."

"It is not an emotion at all. I did not say that it was."

"Do not be afraid of it. It is only being alone with a man whom you have
bewitched. You would be mistress of the situation if you only knew how
to manage a lover. It is far easier than managing a horse, or skating,
or playing the piano, or half a dozen other feats of which you think
nothing."

Agatha colored and raised her head.

"Forgive me," he said, interrupting the action. "I am trying to offend
you in order to save myself from falling in love with you, and I have
not the heart to let myself succeed. On your life, do not listen to me
or believe me. I have no right to say these things to you. Some fiend
enters into me when I am at your side. You should wear a veil, Agatha."

She blushed, and stood burning and tingling, her presence of mind gone,
and her chief sensation one of relief to hear--for she did not dare
to see--that he was departing. Her consciousness was in a delicious
confusion, with the one definite thought in it that she had won her
lover at last. The tone of Trefusis's voice, rich with truth and
earnestness, his quick insight, and his passionate warning to her not to
heed him, convinced her that she had entered into a relation destined to
influence her whole life.

"And yet," she said remorsefully, "I cannot love him as he loves me.
I am selfish, cold, calculating, worldly, and have doubted until now
whether such a thing as love really existed. If I could only love him
recklessly and wholly, as he loves me!"

Smilash was also soliloquizing as he went on his way.

"Now I have made the poor child--who was so anxious that I should not
mistake her for a supernaturally gifted and lovely woman as happy as an
angel; and so is that fine girl whom they call Jane Carpenter. I hope
they won't exchange confidences on the subject."



CHAPTER VIII

Mrs. Trefusis found her parents so unsympathetic on the subject of her
marriage that she left their house shortly after her visit to Lyvern,
and went to reside with a hospitable friend. Unable to remain silent
upon the matter constantly in her thoughts, she discussed her husband's
flight with this friend, and elicited an opinion that the behavior of
Trefusis was scandalous and wicked. Henrietta could not bear this,
and sought shelter with a relative. The same discussion arising, the
relative said:

"Well, Hetty, if I am to speak candidly, I must say that I have known
Sidney Trefusis for a long time, and he is the easiest person to get
on with I ever met. And you know, dear, that you are very trying
sometimes."

"And so," cried Henrietta, bursting into tears, "after the infamous way
he has treated me I am to be told that it is all my own fault."

She left the house next day, having obtained another invitation from
a discreet lady who would not discuss the subject at all. This proved
quite intolerable, and Henrietta went to stay with her uncle Daniel
Jansenius, a jolly and indulgent man. He opined that things would come
right as soon as both parties grew more sensible; and, as to which of
them was, in fault, his verdict was, six of one and half a dozen of the
other. Whenever he saw his niece pensive or tearful he laughed at her
and called her a grass widow. Henrietta found that she could endure
anything rather than this. Declaring that the world was hateful to her,
she hired a furnished villa in St. John's Wood, whither she moved in
December. But, suffering much there from loneliness, she soon wrote
a pathetic letter to Agatha, entreating her to spend the approaching
Christmas vacation with her, and promising her every luxury and
amusement that boundless affection could suggest and boundless means
procure. Agatha's reply contained some unlooked-for information.

"Alton College, Lyvern,

"14th December.

"Dearest Hetty: I don't think I can do exactly what you want, as I must
spend Xmas with Mamma at Chiswick; but I need not get there until Xmas
Eve, and we break up here on yesterday week, the 20th. So I will go
straight to you and bring you with me to Mamma's, where you will spend
Xmas much better than moping in a strange house. It is not quite settled
yet about my leaving the college after this term. You must promise not
to tell anyone; but I have a new friend here--a lover. Not that I am in
love with him, though I think very highly of him--you know I am not a
romantic fool; but he is very much in love with me; and I wish I could
return it as he deserves. The French say that one person turns the cheek
and the other kisses it. It has not got quite so far as that with us;
indeed, since he declared what he felt he has only been able to snatch
a few words with me when I have been skating or walking. But there has
always been at least one word or look that meant a great deal.

"And now, who do you think he is? He says he knows you. Can you guess?
He says you know all his secrets. He says he knows your husband well;
that he treated you very badly, and that you are greatly to be pitied.
Can you guess now? He says he has kissed you--for shame, Hetty! Have
you guessed yet? He was going to tell me something more when we were
interrupted, and I have not seen him since except at a distance. He
is the man with whom you eloped that day when you gave us all such a
fright--Mr. Sidney. I was the first to penetrate his disguise; and that
very morning I had taxed him with it, and he had confessed it. He said
then that he was hiding from a woman who was in love with him; and
I should not be surprised if it turned out to be true; for he is
wonderfully original--in fact what makes me like him is that he is by
far the cleverest man I have ever met; and yet he thinks nothing of
himself. I cannot imagine what he sees in me to care for, though he is
evidently ensnared by my charms. I hope he won't find out how silly I
am. He called me his golden idol--"

Henrietta, with a scream of rage, tore the letter across, and stamped
upon it. When the paroxysm subsided she picked up the pieces, held them
together as accurately as her trembling hands could, and read on.

"--but he is not all honey, and will say the most severe things
sometimes if he thinks he ought to. He has made me so ashamed of my
ignorance that I am resolved to stay here for another term at least, and
study as hard as I can. I have not begun yet, as it is not worth while
at the eleventh hour of this term; but when I return in January I will
set to work in earnest. So you may see that his influence over me is
an entirely good one. I will tell you all about him when we meet; for
I have no time to say anything now, as the girls are bothering me to go
skating with them. He pretends to be a workman, and puts on our skates
for us; and Jane Carpenter believes that he is in love with her. Jane
is exceedingly kindhearted; but she has a talent for making herself
ridiculous that nothing can suppress. The ice is lovely, and the weather
jolly; we do not mind the cold in the least. They are threatening to go
without me--good-bye!

"Ever your affectionate

"Agatha."

Henrietta looked round for something sharp. She grasped a pair of
scissors greedily and stabbed the air with them. Then she became
conscious of her murderous impulse, and she shuddered at it; but in
a moment more her jealousy swept back upon her. She cried, as if
suffocating, "I don't care; I should like to kill her!" But she did not
take up the scissors again.

At last she rang the bell violently and asked for a railway guide. On
being told that there was not one in the house, she scolded her maid so
unreasonably that the girl said pertly that if she were to be spoken
to like that she should wish to leave when her month was up. This check
brought Henrietta to her senses. She went upstairs and put on the first
cloak at hand, which was fortunately a heavy fur one. Then she took her
bonnet and purse, left the house, hailed a passing hansom, and bade the
cabman drive her to St. Pancras.

When the night came the air at Lyvern was like iron in the intense cold.
The trees and the wind seemed ice-bound, as the water was, and silence,
stillness, and starlight, frozen hard, brooded over the country. At the
chalet, Smilash, indifferent to the price of coals, kept up a roaring
fire that glowed through the uncurtained windows, and tantalized the
chilled wayfarer who did not happen to know, as the herdsmen of the
neighborhood did, that he was welcome to enter and warm himself without
risk of rebuff from the tenant. Smilash was in high spirits. He had
become a proficient skater, and frosty weather was now a luxury to him.
It braced him, and drove away his gloomy fits, whilst his sympathies
were kept awake and his indignation maintained at an exhilarating pitch
by the sufferings of the poor, who, unable to afford fires or skating,
warmed themselves in such sweltering heat as overcrowding produces in
all seasons.

It was Smilash's custom to make a hot drink of oatmeal and water for
himself at half-past nine o'clock each evening, and to go to bed at ten.
He opened the door to throw out some water that remained in the saucepan
from its last cleansing. It froze as it fell upon the soil. He looked
at the night, and shook himself to throw off an oppressive sensation of
being clasped in the icy ribs of the air, for the mercury had descended
below the familiar region of crisp and crackly cold and marked a
temperature at which the numb atmosphere seemed on the point of
congealing into black solidity. Nothing was stirring.

"By George!" he said, "this is one of those nights on which a rich man
daren't think!"

He shut the door, hastened back to his fire, and set to work at his
caudle, which he watched and stirred with a solicitude that would have
amused a professed cook. When it was done he poured it into a large mug,
where it steamed invitingly. He took up some in a spoon and blew upon it
to cool it. Tap, tap, tap, tap! hurriedly at the door.

"Nice night for a walk," he said, putting down the spoon; then shouting,
"Come in."

The latch rose unsteadily, and Henrietta, with frozen tears on her
cheeks, and an unintelligible expression of wretchedness and rage,
appeared. After an instant of amazement, he sprang to her and clasped
her in his arms, and she, against her will, and protesting voicelessly,
stumbled into his embrace.

"You are frozen to death," he exclaimed, carrying her to the fire. "This
seal jacket is like a sheet of ice. So is your face" (kissing it). "What
is the matter? Why do you struggle so?"

"Let me go," she gasped, in a vehement whisper. "I h--hate you."

"My poor love, you are too cold to hate anyone--even your husband. You
must let me take off these atrocious French boots. Your feet must be
perfectly dead."

By this time her voice and tears were thawing in the warmth of the
chalet and of his caresses. "You shall not take them off," she said,
crying with cold and sorrow. "Let me alone. Don't touch me. I am going
away--straight back. I will not speak to you, nor take off my things
here, nor touch anything in the house."

"No, my darling," he said, putting her into a capacious wooden armchair
and busily unbuttoning her boots, "you shall do nothing that you don't
wish to do. Your feet are like stones. Yes, yes, my dear, I am a wretch
unworthy to live. I know it."

"Let me alone," she said piteously. "I don't want your attentions. I
have done with you for ever."

"Come, you must drink some of this nasty stuff. You will need strength
to tell your husband all the unpleasant things your soul is charged
with. Take just a little."

She turned her face away and would not answer. He brought another chair
and sat down beside her. "My lost, forlorn, betrayed one--"

"I am," she sobbed. "You don't mean it, but I am."

"You are also my dearest and best of wives. If you ever loved me, Hetty,
do, for my once dear sake, drink this before it gets cold."

She pouted, sobbed, and yielded to some gentle force which he used, as
a child allows herself to be half persuaded, half compelled, to take
physic.

"Do you feel better and more comfortable now?" he said.

"No," she replied, angry with herself for feeling both.

"Then," he said cheerfully, as if she had uttered a hearty affirmative,
"I will put some more coals on the fire, and we shall be as snug as
possible. It makes me wildly happy to see you at my fireside, and to
know that you are my own wife."

"I wonder how you can look me in the face and say so," she cried.

"I should wonder at myself if I could look at your face and say anything
else. Oatmeal is a capital restorative; all your energy is coming back.
There, that will make a magnificent blaze presently."

"I never thought you deceitful, Sidney, whatever other faults you might
have had."

"Precisely, my love. I understand your feelings. Murder, burglary,
intemperance, or the minor vices you could have borne; but deceit you
cannot abide."

"I will go away," she said despairingly, with a fresh burst of tears. "I
will not be laughed at and betrayed. I will go barefooted." She rose and
attempted to reach the door; but he intercepted her and said:

"My love, there is something serious the matter. What is it? Don't be
angry with me."

He brought her back to the chair. She took Agatha's letter from the
pocket of her fur cloak, and handed it to him with a faint attempt to be
tragic.

"Read that," she said. "And never speak to me again. All is over between
us."

He took it curiously, and turned it to look at the signature. "Aha!" he
said, "my golden idol has been making mischief, has she?"

"There!" exclaimed Henrietta. "You have said it to my face! You have
convicted yourself out of your own mouth!"

"Wait a moment, my dear. I have not read the letter yet."

He rose and walked to and fro through the room, reading. She watched
him, angrily confident that she should presently see him change
countenance. Suddenly he drooped as if his spine had partly given way;
and in this ungraceful attitude he read the remainder of the letter.
When he had finished he threw it on the table, thrust his hands deep
into his pockets, and roared with laughter, huddling himself together as
if he could concentrate the joke by collecting himself into the smallest
possible compass. Henrietta, speechless with indignation, could only
look her feelings. At last he came and sat down beside her.

"And so," he said, "on receiving this you rushed out in the cold and
came all the way to Lyvern. Now, it seems to me that you must either
love me very much--"

"I don't. I hate you."

"Or else love yourself very much."

"Oh!" And she wept afresh. "You are a selfish brute, and you do just as
you like without considering anyone else. No one ever thinks of me. And
now you won't even take the trouble to deny that shameful letter."

"Why should I deny it? It is true. Do you not see the irony of all this?
I amuse myself by paying a few compliments to a schoolgirl for whom I
do not care two straws more than for any agreeable and passably clever
woman I meet. Nevertheless, I occasionally feel a pang of remorse
because I think that she may love me seriously, although I am only
playing with her. I pity the poor heart I have wantonly ensnared. And,
all the time, she is pitying me for exactly the same reason! She is
conscience-stricken because she is only indulging in the luxury of
being adored 'by far the cleverest man she has ever met,' and is as
heart-whole as I am! Ha, ha! That is the basis of the religion of love
of which poets are the high-priests. Each worshipper knows that his own
love is either a transient passion or a sham copied from his favorite
poem; but he believes honestly in the love of others for him. Ho, ho! Is
it not a silly world, my dear?"

"You had no right to make love to Agatha. You have no right to make love
to anyone but me; and I won't bear it."

"You are angry because Agatha has infringed your monopoly. Always
monopoly! Why, you silly girl, do you suppose that I belong to you, body
and soul?--that I may not be moved except by your affection, or think
except of your beauty?"

"You may call me as many names as you please, but you have no right to
make love to Agatha."

"My dearest, I do not recollect calling you any names. I think you said
something about a selfish brute."

"I did not. You called me a silly girl."

"But, my love, you are."

"And so YOU are. You are thoroughly selfish."

"I don't deny it. But let us return to our subject. What did we begin to
quarrel about?"

"I am not quarrelling, Sidney. It is you."

"Well, what did I begin to quarrel about?"

"About Agatha Wylie."

"Oh, pardon me, Hetty; I certainly did not begin to quarrel about her. I
am very fond of her--more so, it appears, than she is of me. One moment,
Hetty, before you recommence your reproaches. Why do you dislike my
saying pretty things to Agatha?"

Henrietta hesitated, and said: "Because you have no right to. It shows
how little you care for me."

"It has nothing to do with you. It only shows how much I care for her."

"I will not stay here to be insulted," said Hetty, her distress
returning. "I will go home."

"Not to-night; there is no train."

"I will walk."

"It is too far."

"I don't care. I will not stay here, though I die of cold by the
roadside."

"My cherished one, I have been annoying you purposely because you show
by your anger that you have not ceased to care for me. I am in the
wrong, as I usually am, and it is all my fault. Agatha knows nothing
about our marriage."

"I do not blame you so much," said Henrietta, suffering him to place her
head on his shoulder; "but I will never speak to Agatha again. She has
behaved shamefully to me, and I will tell her so."

"No doubt she will opine that it is all your fault, dearest, and that I
have behaved admirably. Between you I shall stand exonerated. And now,
since it is too cold for walking, since it is late, since it is far to
Lyvern and farther to London, I must improvise some accommodation for
you here."

"But--"

"But there is no help for it. You must stay."



CHAPTER IX

Next day Smilash obtained from his wife a promise that she would behave
towards Agatha as if the letter had given no offence. Henrietta pleaded
as movingly as she could for an immediate return to their domestic
state, but he put her off with endearing speeches, promised nothing but
eternal affection, and sent her back to London by the twelve o'clock
express. Then his countenance changed; he walked back to Lyvern, and
thence to the chalet, like a man pursued by disgust and remorse. Later
in the afternoon, to raise his spirits, he took his skates and went to
Wickens's pond, where, it being Saturday, he found the ice crowded
with the Alton students and their half-holiday visitors. Fairholme,
describing circles with his habitual air of compressed hardihood,
stopped and stared with indignant surprise as Smilash lurched past him.

"Is that man here by your permission?" he said to Farmer Wickens, who
was walking about as if superintending a harvest.

"He is here because he likes, I take it," said Wickens stubbornly. "He
is a neighbor of mine and a friend of mine. Is there any objections to
my having a friend on my own pond, seein' that there is nigh on two
or three ton of other people's friends on it 108 without as much as a
with-your-leave or a by-your-leave."

"Oh, no," said Fairholme, somewhat dashed. "If you are satisfied there
can be no objection."

"I'm glad on it. I thought there mout be."

"Let me tell you," said Fairholme, nettled, "that your landlord would
not be pleased to see him here. He sent one of Sir John's best shepherds
out of the country, after filling his head with ideas above his station.
I heard Sir John speak very warmly about it last Sunday."

"Mayhap you did, Muster Fairholme. I have a lease of this land--and
gravelly, poor stuff it is--and I am no ways beholden to Sir John's
likings and dislikings. A very good thing too for Sir John that I have
a lease, for there ain't a man in the country 'ud tak' a present o' the
farm if it was free to-morrow. And what's a' more, though that young man
do talk foolish things about the rights of farm laborers and such-like
nonsense, if Sir John was to hear him layin' it down concernin' rent
and improvements, and the way we tenant farmers is put upon, p'raps he'd
speak warmer than ever next Sunday."

And Wickens, with a smile expressive of his sense of having retorted
effectively upon the parson, nodded and walked away.

Just then Agatha, skating hand in hand with Jane Carpenter, heard these
words in her ear: "I have something very funny to tell you. Don't look
round."

She recognized the voice of Smilash and obeyed.

"I am not quite sure that you will enjoy it as it deserves," he
added, and darted off again, after casting an eloquent glance at Miss
Carpenter.

Agatha disengaged herself from her companion, made a circuit, and passed
near Smilash, saying: "What is it?"

Smilash flitted away like a swallow, traced several circles around
Fairholme, and then returned to Agatha and proceeded side by side with
her.

"I have read the letter you wrote to Hetty," he said.

Agatha's face began to glow. She forgot to maintain her balance, and
almost fell.

"Take care. And so you are not fond of me--in the romantic sense?"

No answer. Agatha dumb and afraid to lift her eyelids.

"That is fortunate," he continued, "because--good evening, Miss Ward; I
have done nothing but admire your skating for the last hour--because
men were deceivers ever; and I am no exception, as you will presently
admit."

Agatha murmured something, but it was unintelligible amid the din of
skating.

"You think not? Well, perhaps you are right; I have said nothing to you
that is not in a measure true. You have always had a peculiar charm for
me. But I did not mean you to tell Hetty. Can you guess why?"

Agatha shook her head.

"Because she is my wife."

Agatha's ankles became limp. With an effort she kept upright until she
reached Jane, to whom she clung for support.

"Don't," screamed Jane. "You'll upset me."

"I must sit down," said Agatha. "I am tired. Let me lean on you until we
get to the chairs."

"Bosh! I can skate for an hour without sitting down," said Jane.
However, she helped Agatha to a chair and left her. Then Smilash, as if
desiring a rest also, sat down close by on the margin of the pond.

"Well," he said, without troubling himself as to whether their
conversation attracted attention or not, "what do you think of me now?"

"Why did you not tell me before, Mr. Trefusis?"

"That is the cream of the joke," he replied, poising his heels on the
ice so that his skates stood vertically at legs' length from him, and
looking at them with a cynical air. "I thought you were in love with me,
and that the truth would be too severe a blow to you. Ha! ha! And, for
the same reason, you generously forbore to tell me that you were no more
in love with me than with the man in the moon. Each played a farce, and
palmed it off on the other as a tragedy."

"There are some things so unmanly, so unkind, and so cruel," said
Agatha, "that I cannot understand any gentleman saying them to a girl.
Please do not speak to me again. Miss Ward! Come to me for a moment.
I--I am not well."

Ward hurried to her side. Smilash, after staring at her for a moment in
astonishment, and in some concern, skimmed away into the crowd. When
he reached the opposite bank he took off his skates and asked Jane, who
strayed intentionally in his direction, to tell Miss Wylie that he
was gone, and would skate no more there. Without adding a word of
explanation he left her and made for his dwelling. As he went down into
the hollow where the road passed through the plantation on the college
side of the chalet he descried a boy, in the uniform of the post office,
sliding along the frozen ditch. A presentiment of evil tidings came upon
him like a darkening of the sky. He quickened his pace.

"Anything for me?" he said.

The boy, who knew him, fumbled in a letter case and produced a buff
envelope. It contained a telegram.


From Jansenius, London.

TO J. Smilash, Chamoounix Villa, Lyvern.

Henrietta dangerously ill after journey wants to see you doctors say
must come at once.


There was a pause. Then he folded the paper methodically and put it in
his pocket, as if quite done with it.

"And so," he said, "perhaps the tragedy is to follow the farce after
all."

He looked at the boy, who retreated, not liking his expression.

"Did you slide all the way from Lyvern?"

"Only to come quicker," said the messenger, faltering. "I came as quick
as I could."

"You carried news heavy enough to break the thickest ice ever frozen. I
have a mind to throw you over the top of that tree instead of giving you
this half-crown."

"You let me alone," whimpered the boy, retreating another pace.

"Get back to Lyvern as fast as you can run or slide, and tell Mr. Marsh
to send me the fastest trap he has, to drive me to the railway station.
Here is your half-crown. Off with you; and if I do not find the trap
ready when I want it, woe betide you."

The boy came for the money mistrustfully, and ran off with it as fast
as he could. Smilash went into the chalet and never reappeared. Instead,
Trefusis, a gentleman in an ulster, carrying a rug, came out, locked the
door, and hurried along the road to Lyvern, where he was picked up by
the trap, and carried swiftly to the railway station, just in time to
catch the London train.

"Evening paper, sir?" said a voice at the window, as he settled himself
in the corner of a first-class carriage.

"No, thank you."

"Footwarmer, sir?" said a porter, appearing in the news-vender's place.

"Ah, that's a good idea. Yes, let me have a footwarmer."

The footwarmer was brought, and Trefusis composed himself comfortably
for his journey. It seemed very short to him; he could hardly believe,
when the train arrived in London, that he had been nearly three hours on
the way.

There was a sense of Christmas about the travellers and the people who
were at the terminus to meet them. The porter who came to the carriage
door reminded Trefusis by his manner and voice that the season was one
at which it becomes a gentleman to be festive and liberal.

"Wot luggage, sir? Hansom or fourweoll, sir?"

For a moment Trefusis felt a vagabond impulse to resume the language of
Smilash and fable to the man of hampers of turkey and plum-pudding in
the van. But he repressed it, got into a hansom, and was driven to his
father-in-law's house in Belsize Avenue, studying in a gloomily critical
mood the anxiety that surged upon him and made his heart beat like a
boy's as he drew near his destination. There were two carriages at the
door when he alighted. The reticent expression of the coachmen sent a
tremor through him.

The door opened before he rang. "If you please, sir," said the maid in a
low voice, "will you step into the library; and the doctor will see you
immediately."

On the first landing of the staircase two gentlemen were speaking to Mr.
Jansenius, who hastily moved out of sight, not before a glimpse of his
air of grief 174 and discomfiture had given Trefusis a strange twinge,
succeeded by a sensation of having been twenty years a widower. He
smiled unconcernedly as he followed the girl into the library, and asked
her how she did. She murmured some reply and hurried away, thinking that
the poor young man would alter his tone presently.

He was joined at once by a gray whiskered gentleman, scrupulously
dressed and mannered. Trefusis introduced himself, and the physician
looked at him with some interest. Then he said:

"You have arrived too late, Mr. Trefusis. All is over, I am sorry to
say."

"Was the long railway journey she took in this cold weather the cause of
her death?"

Some bitter words that the physician had heard upstairs made him aware
that this was a delicate question. But he said quietly: "The proximate
cause, doubtless. The proximate cause."

"She received some unwelcome and quite unlooked-for intelligence before
she started. Had that anything to do with her death, do you think?"

"It may have produced an unfavorable effect," said the physician,
growing restive and taking up his gloves. "The habit of referring such
events to such causes is carried too far, as a rule."

"No doubt. I am curious because the event is novel in my experience. I
suppose it is a commonplace in yours. Pardon me. The loss of a lady so
young and so favorably circumstanced is not a commonplace either in my
experience or in my opinion." The physician held up his head as he
spoke, in protest against any assumption that his sympathies had been
blunted by his profession.

"Did she suffer?"

"For some hours, yes. We were able to do a little to alleviate her
pain--poor thing!" He almost forgot Trefusis as he added the apostrophe.

"Hours of pain! Can you conceive any good purpose that those hours may
have served?"

The physician shook his head, leaving it doubtful whether he meant to
reply in the negative or to deplore considerations of that nature.
He also made a movement to depart, being uneasy in conversation with
Trefusis, who would, he felt sure, presently ask questions or make
remarks with which he could hardly deal without committing himself in
some direction. His conscience was not quite at rest. Henrietta's pain
had not, he thought, served any good purpose; but he did not want to
say so, lest he should acquire a reputation for impiety and lose his
practice. He believed that the general practitioner who attended the
family, and had called him in when the case grew serious, had treated
Henrietta unskilfully, but professional etiquette bound him so strongly
that, sooner than betray his colleague's inefficiency, he would have
allowed him to decimate London.

"One word more," said Trefusis. "Did she know that she was dying?"

"No. I considered it best that she should not be informed of her danger.
She passed away without any apprehension."

"Then one can think of it with equanimity. She dreaded death, poor
child. The wonder is that there was not enough folly in the household to
prevail against your good sense."

The physician bowed and took his leave, esteeming himself somewhat
fortunate in escaping without being reproached for his humanity in
having allowed Henrietta to die unawares.

A moment later the general practitioner entered. Trefusis, having
accompanied the consulting physician to the door, detected the family
doctor in the act of pulling a long face just outside it. Restraining a
desire to seize him by the throat, he seated himself on the edge of the
table and said cheerfully:

"Well, doctor, how has the world used you since we last met?"

The doctor was taken aback, but the solemn disposition of his features
did not relax as he almost intoned: "Has Sir Francis told you the sad
news, Mr. Trefusis?"

"Yes. Frightful, isn't it? Lord bless me, we're here to-day and gone
to-morrow."

"True, very true!"

"Sir Francis has a high opinion of you."

The doctor looked a little foolish. "Everything was done that could be
done, Mr. Trefusis; but Mrs. Jansenius was very anxious that no stone
should be left unturned. She was good enough to say that her sole reason
for wishing me to call in Sir Francis was that you should have no cause
to complain."

"Indeed!"

"An excellent mother! A sad event for her! Ah, yes, yes! Dear me! A very
sad event!"

"Most disagreeable. Such a cold day too. Pleasanter to be in heaven than
here in such weather, possibly."

"Ah!" said the doctor, as if much sound comfort lay in that. "I hope so;
I hope so; I do not doubt it. Sir Francis did not permit us to tell her,
and I, of course, deferred to him. Perhaps it was for the best."

"You would have told her, then, if Sir Francis had not objected?"

"Well, there are, you see, considerations which we must not ignore in
our profession. Death is a serious thing, as I am sure I need not remind
you, Mr. Trefusis. We have sometimes higher duties than indulgence to
the natural feelings of our patients."

"Quite so. The possibility of eternal bliss and the probability of
eternal torment are consolations not to be lightly withheld from a
dying girl, eh? However, what's past cannot be mended. I have much to
be thankful for, after all. I am a young man, and shall not cut a bad
figure as a widower. And now tell me, doctor, am I not in very bad
repute upstairs?"

"Mr. Trefusis! Sir! I cannot meddle in family matters. I understand my
duties and never over step them." The doctor, shocked at last, spoke as
loftily as he could.

"Then I will go and see Mr. Jansenius," said Trefusis, getting off the
table.

"Stay, sir! One moment. I have not finished. Mrs. Jansenius has asked
me to ask--I was about to say that I am not speaking now as the medical
adviser of this family; but although an old friend--and--ahem! Mrs.
Jansenius has asked me to ask--to request you to excuse Mr. Jansenius,
as he is prostrated by grief, and is, as I can--as a medical man--assure
you, unable to see anyone. She will speak to you herself as soon as she
feels able to do so--at some time this evening. Meanwhile, of course,
any orders you may give--you must be fatigued by your journey, and I
always recommend people not to fast too long; it produces an acute form
of indigestion--any orders you may wish to give will, of course, be
attended to at once."

"I think," said Trefusis, after a moment's reflection, "I will order a
hansom."

"There is no ill-feeling," said the doctor, who, as a slow man, was
usually alarmed by prompt decisions, even when they seemed wise to him,
as this one did. "I hope you have not gathered from anything I have
said--"

"Not at all; you have displayed the utmost tact. But I think I had
better go. Jansenius can bear death and misery with perfect fortitude
when it is on a large scale and hidden in a back slum. But when it
breaks into his own house, and attacks his property--his daughter was
his property until very recently--he is just the man to lose his head
and quarrel with me for keeping mine."

The doctor was unable to cope with this speech, which conveyed vaguely
monstrous ideas to him. Seeing Trefusis about to leave, he said in a low
voice: "Will you go upstairs?"

"Upstairs! Why?"

"I--I thought you might wish to see--" He did not finish the sentence,
but Trefusis flinched; the blank had expressed what was meant.

"To see something that was Henrietta, and that is a thing we must cast
out and hide, with a little superstitious mumming to save appearances.
Why did you remind me of it?"

"But, sir, whatever your views may be, will you not, as a matter of
form, in deference to the feelings of the family--"

"Let them spare their feelings for the living, on whose behalf I have
often appealed to them in vain," cried Trefusis, losing patience. "Damn
their feelings!" And, turning to the door, he found it open, and Mrs.
Jansenius there listening.

Trefusis was confounded. He knew what the effect of his speech must be,
and felt that it would be folly to attempt excuse or explanation. He put
his hands into his pockets, leaned against the table, and looked at her,
mutely wondering what would follow on her part.

The doctor broke the silence by saying tremulously, "I have communicated
the melancholy intelligence to Mr. Trefusis."

"I hope you told him also," she said sternly, "that, however deficient
we may be in feeling, we did everything that lay in our power for our
child."

"I am quite satisfied," said Trefusis.

"No doubt you are--with the result," said Mrs. Jansenius, hardly. "I
wish to know whether you have anything to complain of."

"Nothing."

"Please do not imply that anything has happened through our neglect."

"What have I to complain of? She had a warm room and a luxurious bed to
die in, with the best medical advice in the world. Plenty of people
are starving and freezing to-day that we may have the means to die
fashionably; ask THEM if they have any cause for complaint. Do you think
I will wrangle over her body about the amount of money spent on her
illness? What measure is that of the cause she had for complaint? I
never grudged money to her--how could I, seeing that more than I can
waste is given to me for nothing? Or how could you? Yet she had great
reason to complain of me. You will allow that to be so."

"It is perfectly true."

"Well, when I am in the humor for it, I will reproach myself and not
you." He paused, and then turned forcibly on her, saying, "Why do you
select this time, of all others, to speak so bitterly to me?"

"I am not aware that I have said anything to call for such a remark. Did
YOU," (appealing to the doctor) "hear me say anything?"

"Mr. Trefusis does not mean to say that you did, I am sure. Oh, no. Mr.
Trefusis's feelings are naturally--are harrowed. That is all."

"My feelings!" cried Trefusis impatiently. "Do you suppose my feelings
are a trumpery set of social observances, to be harrowed to order and
exhibited at funerals? She has gone as we three shall go soon enough. If
we were immortal, we might reasonably pity the dead. As we are not, we
had better save our energies to minimize the harm we are likely to do
before we follow her."

The doctor was deeply offended by this speech, for the statement that
he should one day die seemed to him a reflection upon his professional
mastery over death. Mrs. Jansenius was glad to see Trefusis confirming
her bad opinion and report of him by his conduct and language in the
doctor's presence. There was a brief pause, and then Trefusis, too far
out of sympathy with them to be able to lead the conversation into a
kinder vein, left the room. In the act of putting on his overcoat in the
hall, he hesitated, and hung it up again irresolutely. Suddenly he ran
upstairs. At the sound of his steps a woman came from one of the rooms
and looked inquiringly at him.

"Is it here?" he said.

"Yes, sir," she whispered.

A painful sense of constriction came in his chest, and he turned pale
and stopped with his hand on the lock.

"Don't be afraid, sir," said the woman, with an encouraging smile. "She
looks beautiful."

He looked at her with a strange grin, as if she had uttered a ghastly
but irresistible joke. Then he went in, and, when he reached the bed,
wished he had stayed without. He was not one of those who, seeing little
in the faces of the living miss little in the faces of the dead. The
arrangement of the black hair on the pillow, the soft drapery, and the
flowers placed there by the nurse to complete the artistic effect to
which she had so confidently referred, were lost on him; he saw only
a lifeless mask that had been his wife's face, and at sight of it his
knees failed, and he had to lean for support on the rail at the foot of
the bed.

When he looked again the face seemed to have changed. It was no longer
a waxlike mask, but Henrietta, girlish and pathetically at rest. Death
seemed to have cancelled her marriage and womanhood; he had never seen
her look so young. A minute passed, and then a tear dropped on the
coverlet. He started; shook another tear on his hand, and stared at it
incredulously.

"This is a fraud of which I have never even dreamed," he said. "Tears
and no sorrow! Here am I crying! growing maudlin! whilst I am glad that
she is gone and I free. I have the mechanism of grief in me somewhere;
it begins to turn at sight of her though I have no sorrow; just as she
used to start the mechanism of passion when I had no love. And that made
no difference to her; whilst the wheels went round she was satisfied. I
hope the mechanism of grief will flag and stop in its spinning as soon
as the other used to. It is stopping already, I think. What a mockery!
Whilst it lasts I suppose I am really sorry. And yet, would I restore
her to life if I could? Perhaps so; I am therefore thankful that I
cannot." He folded his arms on the rail and gravely addressed the dead
figure, which still affected him so strongly that he had to exert his
will to face it with composure. "If you really loved me, it is well for
you that you are dead--idiot that I was to believe that the passion you
could inspire, you poor child, would last. We are both lucky; I have
escaped from you, and you have escaped from yourself."

Presently he breathed more freely and looked round the room to help
himself into a matter-of-fact vein by a little unembarrassed action, and
the commonplace aspect of the bedroom furniture. He went to the pillow,
and bent over it, examining the face closely.

"Poor child!" he said again, tenderly. Then, with sudden reaction,
apostrophizing himself instead of his wife, "Poor ass! Poor idiot! Poor
jackanapes! Here is the body of a woman who was nearly as old as myself,
and perhaps wiser, and here am I moralizing over it as if I were God
Almighty and she a baby! The more you remind a man of what he is, the
more conceited he becomes. Monstrous! I shall feel immortal presently."

He touched the cheek with a faint attempt at roughness, to feel how cold
it was. Then he touched his own, and remarked:

"This is what I am hastening toward at the express speed of sixty
minutes an hour!" He stood looking down at the face and tasting this
sombre reflection for a long time. When it palled on him, he roused
himself, and exclaimed more cheerfully:

"After all, she is not dead. Every word she uttered--every idea she
formed and expressed, was an inexhaustible and indestructible impulse."
He paused, considered a little further, and relapsed into gloom, adding,
"and the dozen others whose names will be with hers in the 'Times'
to-morrow? Their words too are still in the air, to endure there to
all eternity. Hm! How the air must be crammed with nonsense! Two sounds
sometimes produce a silence; perhaps ideas neutralize one another in
some analogous way. No, my dear; you are dead and gone and done with,
and I shall be dead and gone and done with too soon to leave me leisure
to fool myself with hopes of immortality. Poor Hetty! Well, good-by, my
darling. Let us pretend for a moment that you can hear that; I know it
will please you."

All this was in a half-articulate whisper. When he ceased he still bent
over the body, gazing intently at it. Even when he had exhausted the
subject, and turned to go, he changed his mind, and looked again for a
while. Then he stood erect, apparently nerved and refreshed, and left
the room with a firm step. The woman was waiting outside. Seeing that he
was less distressed than when he entered, she said:

"I hope you are satisfied, sir!"

"Delighted! Charmed! The arrangements are extremely pretty and tasteful.
Most consolatory." And he gave her half a sovereign.

"I thank you, sir," she said, dropping a curtsey. "The poor young lady!
She was anxious to see you, sir. To hear her say that you were the only
one that cared for her! And so fretful with her mother, too. 'Let him be
told that I am dangerously ill,' says she, 'and he'll come.' She didn't
know how true her word was, poor thing; and she went off without being
aware of it."

"Flattering herself and flattering me. Happy girl!"

"Bless you, I know what her feelings were, sir; I have had experience."
Here she approached him confidentially, and whispered: "The family were
again' you, sir, and she knew it. But she wouldn't listen to them. She
thought of nothing, when she was easy enough to think at all, but of
your coming. And--hush! Here's the old gentleman."

Trefusis looked round and saw Mr. Jansenius, whose handsome face
was white and seamed with grief and annoyance. He drew back from the
proffered hand of his son-in-law, like an overworried child from an
ill-timed attempt to pet it. Trefusis pitied him. The nurse coughed and
retired.

"Have you been speaking to Mrs. Jansenius?" said Trefusis.

"Yes," said Jansenius offensively.

"So have I, unfortunately. Pray make my apologies to her. I was rude.
The circumstances upset me."

"You are not upset, sir," said Jansenius loudly. "You do not care a
damn."

Trefusis recoiled.

"You damned my feelings, and I will damn yours," continued Jansenius in
the same tone. Trefusis involuntarily looked at the door through which
he had lately passed. Then, recovering himself, he said quietly:

"It does not matter. She can't hear us."

Before Jansenius could reply his wife hurried upstairs, caught him by
the arm, and said, "Don't speak to him, John. And you," she added, to
Trefusis, "WILL you begone?"

"What!" he said, looking cynically at her. "Without my dead! Without my
property! Well, be it so."

"What do you know of the feelings of a respectable man?" persisted
Jansenius, breaking out again in spite of his wife. "Nothing is sacred
to you. This shows what Socialists are!"

"And what fathers are, and what mothers are," retorted Trefusis, giving
way to his temper. "I thought you loved Hetty, but I see that you only
love your feelings and your respectability. The devil take both! She was
right; my love for her, incomplete as it was, was greater than yours."
And he left the house in dudgeon.

But he stood awhile in the avenue to laugh at himself and his
father-in-law. Then he took a hansom and was driven to the house of
his solicitor, whom he wished to consult on the settlement of his late
wife's affairs.



CHAPTER X

The remains of Henrietta Trefusis were interred in Highgate Cemetery
the day before Christmas Eve. Three noblemen sent their carriages to
the funeral, and the friends and clients of Mr. Jansenius, to a large
number, attended in person. The bier was covered with a profusion of
costly Bowers. The undertaker, instructed to spare no expense, provided
long-tailed black horses, with black palls on their backs and black
plumes upon their foreheads; coachmen decorated with scarves and
jack-boots, black hammercloths, cloaks, and gloves, with many hired
mourners, who, however, would have been instantly discharged had they
presumed to betray emotion, or in any way overstep their function of
walking beside the hearse with brass-tipped batons in their hands.