The Key (Morley Roberts)/Chapter 11

The only one of them who slept tolerably was Felicia, if Lady Hale be excepted, for Lady Hale always slept well, though she woke once or twice in the night and called that insomnia. Felicia, whose feelings were by no means very deep, had soon come to the conclusion that no harm was likely to happen to her. After all, she had only written some silly letters to Sir George, and even if Hector read them, which she did not now believe, the events of the night had put him quite out of her mind, and had established Doctor Courtney there instead.

By the morning she would have been ready to declare that she had never been in love with Hector at all, but that on the whole she had rather disliked him. Her fear of him, though not great, was strong enough to color not only the present but the past as well.

She was the first down-stairs, and the very first thing she did was to go to the library and try the drawer in which Anne had so hastily thrust the letters. It was now locked.

“He has seen them, then,” said Felicia. She set her mouth a little as she spoke. Then she said: “Well, I don't care. But I'm glad to be going away soon. I wish it was the morning train instead of the afternoon one.”

They were going by the two-twenty train from Charing Cross, and would stay the night in Paris. Felicia felt that if she were only abroad nothing mattered. But to see Hector was certainly unpleasant.

It was more unpleasant than she expected, for Anne took coffee in her room and Lady Hale was very late. As a result of this Felicia and Hector had breakfast together. She could not look at him straight, and barely said good morning. In pouring out his coffee she upset it.

“Poor little devil,” thought Hector. He looked worn and preoccupied, but was still sorry for her.

“I suppose you are quite ready to go,” he said, after a long silence.

“Oh, yes,” murmured Felicia.

“You are glad?”

She looked down

“Very glad.”

And all the time she was asking what he would say presently.

“How is Lady Hale this morning?”

“Oh, she is all right.”

“And—Lady Anne?”

“I've not seen her. She will not come down to breakfast, I think.”

“No,” said Hector; “no, perhaps not.”

He rose from the table.

“By the way, Felicia, if you can spare me a few minutes in the library I shall be glad,” he said quietly.

“Ye-es,” said Felicia.

“Before Lady Hale comes down, if possible,” he added.

“I'll come directly,” she murmured, as he left the room.

She wondered nervously what he would say, but she wondered much more how it was she had ever imagined she loved him. Would he ask her anything about the cabinet? For a moment she contemplated betraying Anne. She knew she was a coward. But why should she? It was best to know nothing, to deny everything if he made an accusation. She rose and stared out of the window. Overhead, above the dining-room in which they breakfasted, she heard Lady Hale moving, and talking to her maid.

“I'd better go now,” she said.

As she entered the library Hector, who was seated at the desk, thought she looked absurdly young even now. She moved rather like a sullen schoolgirl expecting a lecture from the master. This attitude enlightened him at once. Whatever had happened, she was not to be reckoned among those who had been sacrificed, even though she had been marked for the slaughter. There was something too childish about her even at the age of twenty-three. Hector felt strangely relieved. He spoke with an air of detachment, though with some gravity.

“Among Sir George's papers, Felicia, I found a packet marked with your initials. As it is sealed, I don't know what it contains, but there are no directions as to what I am to do with it. Do you know?”

“How should I know?” she muttered.

“What does it contain, do you thinks?”

“I don't know,” said Felicia sullenly. If she had put her finger in her mouth Hector would not have been surprised.

“Did you ever write to him?”

Felicia nodded.

“Sometimes.”

“Then these may be your letters,” aid Hector. “Will you be so good as to open the packet and show sufficient of the writing for me to see if it is yours? Here is a knife.”

She cut the string with a shaking hand and took out a letter, while Hector looked on.

“Yes, they are mine,” she said. “You can look at it.”

He cast one glance at it and recognized her writing.

“Do you wish to burn them or take them away?” he asked much more kindly.

“I—I think I'll burn them,” said Felicia.

“Then put them in the fire now,” he said. “Break up the packet. That will do. Put them in the blaze.”

They watched them burning. Then Hector put his hand on her shoulder.

“Felicia,” he said suddenly, “I've asked you no questions, for I've no right to do so.”

She bent her head.

“But you are still very young,” continued Hector, after a little pause, “and you've no one to advise you. Somehow, I think you've been very near to bad trouble. Try and be wise now, my dear girl. If you ever need advice, remember, I'll do my best for you. But perhaps you'll be married soon to my very great friend.”

He was glad to think that he was not concealing so much from Courtney, after all.

“And if you are he'll be wise for you, my dear.”

She cried a little.

“I hope I've not been unkind, Felicia.”

She burst into tears, then.

“I think you're very good. But—but there wasn't any harm in them,” she wailed. Who could tell, now they were burned?

He knew she meant the letters.

“Oh, I understand,” he said hastily. “Bless my soul, child, we're all a little silly some time or another. I'm an awful jackass myself, Felicia.”

“I think I'm a horrid beast,” sobbed Felicia.

“Tut, tut, you were very young,” he answered; “it wasn't your fault.”

Quite involuntarily he glanced at the portrait, and so did she.

She broke out suddenly.

“Well, he was so—so fine, you know.”

He had been splendid.

“I understand,” said Hector. “There, wipe your eyes, Felicia. This little world of ours is a strange place, and we're strange little people.”

But Sir George was in Felicia's mind.

“He wasn't little,” she murmured almost angrily.

She would go to Courtney's arms thinking that. Alive he had been splendid, dead he was almost divine.

“We'll never be done with him,” said Hector to himself. “Never, never!” But he spoke cheerfully to Felicia. “Shake hands, my dear, you'll be all right. Listen, here's Lady Hale now coming chattering down-stairs. She'll burst in on us in a moment.”

And indeed the door opened then to let in Lady Hale.

“I'm so sorry to be late, my dear Hector,” she said, and, of course, you've breakfasted? To be sure, you and Felicia. So sad that Lady Anne is still unwell. I've just seen her. She says she didn't sleep well. Dear me, but I didn't myself. I woke several times. How did you sleep?”

Hector admitted that he, too, had not slept very splendidly.

“However, I hope to make up for it to-night. One's first night in a new room, you know.”

There was a decided knock at the hall door.

“The doctor's knock,” said Lady Hale.

She swept into the hall to see Courtney.

“She is still very unwell, doctor,” she said, as he came in. “I think you had better go up and decide whether she is fit to rise. I do not believe she closed an eye last night. I will ask her if she can see you.”

Courtney shook hands with her and with Felicia, who came out of the library at that moment.

“And Felicia doesn't look as if she had slept, either,” he said, shaking his head.

“Oh, Felicia! To be sure, child, you look quite ghastly. I will see Lady Anne myself, doctor. Hector is in the library.”

So, while she swept up-stairs, they went into the library. Before they went Courtney took Felicia's hand.

“You are sorry to go, Felicia?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Did you sleep?”

“Only a little, Doctor Courtney.”

“Was it because you were going away?”

“I—I suppose so,” said Felicia, dropping her eyes.

This morning she was very grateful to him for loving her, because she felt she did not deserve it. He seemed the last one left to her, for she still feared Hector and even Lady Anne.

“I shall come down to see you in the Riviera,” he said cheerfully. “May I?”

“Of course you may,” she replied, but not in the tone he desired to hear her use.

If Courtney had anything else to add he was prevented from saying it by Hector coming to the open door. The two men shook hands, and Felicia fled.

“Well, old chap,” said Courtney.

“Well, old man,” said Hector.

“Some one else has had a sleepless night,” said Courtney, eying Hector hard.

“I certainly didn't break my record,” answered Hector. “But are you going to see Lady Anne?”

Lady Hale came in and answered that.

“She will see you, doctor. And you must remember that if you think she ought not to get up we shall postpone our departure,” she declared.

“Dear me,” cried Courtney, “you put temptation in my path. But I'll go up at once.”

As he went up the stairs he wondered what she had to tell him. Had she done anything last night, or had she failed, after all?

She was not in bed, but was seated by the fire in a dressing-gown. The blind was up and the window open, and he saw at once that she looked strained and ill. She turned to him eagerly, almost passionately.

“Oh, doctor”

Her voice trembled, and she was shaken. He drew a chair nearer to her and took hold of her hand and felt her pulse. It was nearer a hundred than ninety. Her eyes were dark-circled and her lips white.

“Did you succeed?” he asked presently. But he knew well that she had not.

She replied, after a little pause, with another question: “Have you seen Mr. Durant this morning?”

“Of course; I left him to come up to you.

She stared at him.

“Tell me, did he look ill—or angry?”

Courtney stared in his turn, and yet he understood.

“Ill? No, not ill, but he didn't sleep, he says. Why should he look angry?”

“Did he?” she insisted.

Courtney shook his head. “He looked depressed and tired, but angry, no! Tell me what happened.”

He was very curious to know, and had it not been for Felicia she would have told him the entire truth, keeping back nothing. He had been very kind, and very considerate, and had done more for her than many would have done. And many she would not have dared to trust. He had accepted her word with simple faith, and had shown her real sympathy. And now she had to deceive him, or at the very least to keep some of the truth from him. Yet what did it matter, after all? In this world who knew any one else? She was deceiving every one, and from the point of view of the good people, who are readiest to judge, Felicia, blameful though she might be, was spotless compared with herself. Perhaps she would make a good wife. If fools were not to love and breed, it would soon be an empty world. And he loved her. Anne could, at any rate, tell him something. She had even helped him, it might be.

“I can say one thing,” she murmured. “I know Felicia loves you.”

What was Felicia's notion of love?

But he smiled happily.

“I felt surer of her this morning. She was very sweet to me. Did she tell you?”

What a good fellow he was!

“She told me—last night. We got to be friends.”

“Thank you, Lady Anne; but now tell me about yourself. Did you not do what you wanted?”

She smiled very bitterly.

“I succeeded and I failed.”

But for Felicia she would have succeeded utterly. She told all that she could, considering that she had to leave Felicia out of the story.

“I got—the papers, and then he came down again, and I heard him coming, and I only had time to lock the cabinet and put the letters into a drawer and shut that; then he came in.”

“Humph!” said Courtney. “I'm grieved, I'm greatly grieved. But had you to account for being there?”

She held out her hands, as if to show that that was nothing.

“I said that I could not sleep or lie quiet, and that my fire was out.”

“And did you talk?”

“A little.”

“You seem to think that he suspected something. Did he?”

She nodded nervously.

“Like a fool, I put other papers into the cabinet and left the edge of one of them sticking out. He saw it—and”

Courtney looked very grave.

“Poor child,” he murmured. Even now she seemed but a girl. “And what happened?”

“His face changed, and he went to the cabinet and fingered the paper. And I nearly broke down. He seemed very angry. He almost sent me away.”

Courtney was greatly excited.

“But the letters, Lady Anne; the letters?”

“They were in the drawer.”

He shook his head almost angrily.

“But why didn't you keep them, conceal them?”

“I couldn't, I had no time. It was a heavy packet.”

“But why didn't you stay or come down again when he went?”

She looked at him piteously, and the tears ran down her face.

“I couldn't stay. You see I couldn't. I thought I should cry then before him. I wanted to tell him everything, but I dared not. And even while I was there he half-opened the very drawer I'd put the papers into. He knew something had been done to the drawers.”

“Poor child,” said Courtney. “And so you went up-stairs again? How did you part?”

“He just looked at me,” she said. “And I came up here. He stayed down there for hours, till five, I think, and I heard him walking, walking.”

Courtney rose and walked the room, too.

“Oh, but he's never read the letters, Lady Anne, never. On my life, I know he wouldn't. How could he even know they were yours?”

“If he found them, as I know he has, he knew they were not there before. And who but I—oh, no, he wouldn't read them. He wouldn't need to. They were sealed, but there were my initials on them. And—and he always feared something. I knew that years ago. Oh, how could I face him?”

But Courtney was thinking of the letters. How often bitter trouble came from letters! And here was Sir George Hale, a man of the world if ever a man was, for he knew it like an easy book, had been as big a fool as ever faced disaster in the divorce courts. He heard her speak, and the words came to him at last. He looked at her.

“You face him! Why, yes, you said you wanted to tell him.”

There was the strange need of confession that springs in desolate hearts so often. She sighed bitterly.

“Ah, but that was last night. This is the morning!”

Aye, it was bright morning, there was sunlight in the streets and in the park.

“And I had come to her house, and had gone down in the night like a thief and had opened something. How could I have done it? Even you must despise me.

He answered quite coolly:

“Make your mind easy on that point. I don't, because I understand. Taking it all round, you did right and the best thing that could be done, considering what an infernal mess of it Sir George made.”

He added:

“And I helped, didn't I? I think you were very brave.”

“I shook all over.”

“Then you were all the braver,” he retorted. “Still, what's to be done now?”

“If I'd only done nothing. I see now that that was the wisest thing.”

Courtney stood by the window.

“I don't know, on my soul. But you are sure he knows?”

“How can it be otherwise? He's very quick:”

Yes, it was tolerably certain that Hector knew.

“Yes, I suppose he knows,” he admitted reluctantly. “He certainly didn't sleep much last night. Let's assume he knows. If he did, he suffered.”

She sighed again.

“And, therefore”

“What?”

“Tut, he loves you,” said Courtney.

“Perhaps he did last night.”

“And does still. How could it be otherwise?”

She was very beautiful, and in her sorrow and her shame still looked so young. He broke out almost angrily:

“Why, you don't think him incapable of forgiveness?”

And then she breathed mournfully

“Could you forgive that?”

Courtney stood silent with his chin in his hand.

“Knowing what I know—of you and the other man—I think I could.”

She murmured: “Can I forgive myself?”

He spoke a curious enigma: “If you find it hard—yes. Most people's charity toward themselves is boundless. And you are not deceiving him now.”

“Had I the right to do it? I meant to.”

Courtney spoke in some agitation.

“I think you had the right. I knew—Sir George, better than he thought; better than most.”

“And—and you liked him?”

It was strange to hear her ask that; but Courtney understood. He almost went beyond his opinion in his answer.

“Could any one help it? He had the power of a drug, let's say.”

“Oh, you understand,” said Anne, staring at him, “you do understand!”

“Even over men, mark me, even over men. What women felt—why, I'll tell you I knew of another that he wouldn't so much as speak to. She told me before I knew him, and told her husband, too. I sent them both to the other end of the world for a year. They're back now. She has taken flowers to his grave since.”

“Poor thing,” said Anne.

Courtney smiled.

“Look here, you marry Hector. It's best he shouldn't know that I know anything, but if you wanted me to speak to him I'd do it, though you won't want that. You get up, now, and come down and see him. Get it over. You've courage enough, and you might take a little more bromide half an hour before you're down. Don't take more than the dose, or you'll cry, perhaps. Still, if you did, I know what effect it would have on me.”

She cried a little, now, and looked up at him through her tears.

“You're a very kind man,” she said.

“You've done me a service, too,” he answered seriously. “I'm very fond of Felicia.”

“I don't believe any woman is good enough for a good man,” said Anne thoughtfully.

“I'd like to find a good man, in the technical moral sense, and I'd kill the monster,” laughed Courtney. “Even the best of us are only good for periods. Who's this Hector, now? Bless my heart, I'll swear he's no better than he should be.”

“I'm sure he's not as good as you,” said Anne.

“Felicia will know better some day, I hope. Now, do you feel better?”

Anne nodded.

“A little—but I'm a coward.”

“A woman, you mean. Good-by-or shall I stay in the house till you come down? I'll stay, if you like, just to help you through, if I can.”

“Stay, then,” said Anne.

And Courtney went down-stairs humming. He met Lady Hale in the passage.

“How is she?” she asked anxiously.

“A bit shaken, a bit shaken,” said Courtney. “I suppose it's one of those nervous crises with which you ladies entertain yourselves when you are dull, and by which you help us to get a living. I assure you we don't understand them in the least.”

“But can she get up?”

“Certainly, certainly. She's doing it now. You may make your mind easy about her. What a charming woman she is!”

“That's what Sir George always said,” declared Lady Hale, “but somehow it was only the last year before she went away that I felt it myself. She was always a very nervous woman, of course, but, yes, she's quite charming, really charming. I'll see if she wants anything, the dear.”

“And I'll have a little cackle with Hector, in the meantime,” said the doctor.

He found Hector at the desk, with a lot of papers in front of him.

“Working, old chap?” he asked cheerfully.

“I can't say I'm doing much,” replied Hector. “How did you find Lady Anne?”

Courtney pursed up his lips.

“I can't quite make her out. These women folks will tell everything but the real thing. That's our trouble with them. But the truth is, she's very unhappy, if I know one woman from another in broad daylight.”

Aye! she must be unhappy. Hector knew that.

“I don't believe she shut her eyes last night,” said the doctor. “Look here, old chap, you know I said I believed she liked you quite as well as you deserve to be liked, didn't I? Is there anything wrong between you? For I'm sure you like her better than the next woman, to phrase it so.”

“Wrong! what should there be wrong?” growled Hector.

Courtney put his hand on his shoulder.

“I'd like to see you as happy as I am, old boy. Now, Felicia”

He dilated a little on Felicia, Hector listened gravely.

“But when it comes to the brains and the beauty, which every one must recognize, why, Lady Anne is every bit Felicia's equal,” said Courtney generously, “every bit her equal.”

He felt he was doing the thing handsomely,

“No need to tell me she's beautiful,” grunted Hector. “Why, damn it! man, she's acknowledged to be one of the loveliest women in England.”

“Is that so?” asked Courtney, a little absently. Then he woke up again. “And here's a young author and a private secretary making her unhappy.”

“Don't be an ass!” said Hector.

“It's my opinion you are an ass yourself,” returned Courtney.

“I'm damned miserable,” said Hector.

“What the devil about?”

“Ah, that's it!” said Hector. “About her, to be sure. What else do you suppose?”

“On my soul, I can't see why.”

“I want to marry her.”

“Well?”

“And she won't marry me, I know.”

“I know nothing of the sort,” said Courtney, who began to wonder if he understood.

“I do, then,” returned Hector shortly.

“Your position”

Hector flared.

“My position! What of that? D'ye think I think of my position? I can get where I like, I'm pretty sure of that.”

Courtney felt pretty sure of it, too, if energy and ability meant anything.

“Then hers”

“And that doesn't worry me, either,” snapped Hector. “I tell you, she won't marry me.”

“Then it'll be for want of asking, if I'm any judge,” said Courtney.

“Perhaps you are not,” retorted Hector.

“What's your reason?”

When Courtney asked the question he knew what the true answer was, and was equally sure he wouldn't get it.

“I have reasons, that's enough,” said Hector.

“Then you must have discovered it since yesterday,” replied Courtney. “Have you found out anything against yourself since then? Or have you discovered that your dear old dad was hung for horse-stealing?”

“You can be the most unsympathetic ass, Tom, when you like,” said Hector bitterly.

Courtney smiled.

“My dear chap, I'm not unsympathetic and I'll stake my precious reputation, such as it is, that she'll marry you if you ask her.”

“She might have done so yesterday,” groaned Hector, “but she won't to-day.”

“Try.”

“It won't be any good.”

“You mysterious idiot; I'll not waste my time with you,” declared Courtney. “I'll come in and see you to-night, and if you're not engaged, I'll eat my hat and yours, as well.”

Hector said nothing.

“Are you going to try your luck when she comes down?” persisted the doctor.

“No, but I must see her for a minute or two.”

“Half an hour, you mean. Shall I try and keep Lady Hale away?”

Hector nodded. “Yes, do. Can't you go over her heart or sound her lungs, or something?”

“I might,” said Courtney, “but I never can hear anything for her talking. However, she's as sound as a roach. Why should a roach be sound, by the way? Cheer up, old chap. You're all right. If I come across Lady Anne on the stairs I'll say you want to see her before you go out. You've got an appointment with the prime minister, eh? That will do. Till to-night, old chap?”

As he went, he heard Lady Hale's voice outside, and he said to himself:

“He thinks she won't marry him because he knows. He wishes he didn't know, poor chap. I wonder if he's right, after all.”

Courtney understood all women but Felicia, and would some day understand her, too.

He found Lady Hale and Anne in the hall. Anne was very white.

“Doctor, I don't think you ought to have allowed her to come down,” said Lady Hale, almost severely. “Look at her, just look at her.”

“I'm delighted to look at Lady Anne,” replied Courtney, bowing, “and I assure you she will be all right presently. And now, Lady Hale, while I'm here, perhaps you would let me listen to the apex of your right lung.”

There was nothing in the world the matter with it. Her breathing was as easy as a wind of spring in a leafy wood. Nevertheless, it delighted her to consider it a weak point. She had no weak point in her whole physiology.

“Oh, certainly, certainly,” she cried. “Last time you said it was normal or abnormal, or something, and I was really a little alarmed, you know. You'll go into the library, Anne? There's no one there but Hector.”

The doctor caught Lady Anne's eye and saw how troubled she was. He smiled at her, and gave her a little encouragement.

“And you can come to my room, doctor,” said Lady Hale. She and Courtney went up-stairs together, and Lady Anne opened the library door. She found Hector standing by the desk. He was hardly less pale than she.

He remembered what he had proposed to say to her last night, and her imagined answer. “Oh, by the way, Lady Anne” and “Thank you, Mr. Durant.” That had seemed easy then, but now he had not a word in him. His lips were dry. Hers trembled. She stood before him in silence; she, too, could not speak. He knew everything—everything! She knew that he must know. And even yet he loved her. That was very wonderful, but she knew that it was true. She saw it in his eyes, in his very attitude. It was a little painful, sorrowful comfort to her, but even as she felt that it was, she was even surer that she could not, must not, marry him. And if that was so, why had she come to see him at all? She had told the doctor that she was a coward, and now she felt no coward. Was she not there with him?

And last night she had resolved to tell him the truth, the whole truth. Could she do it? She knew she was doing it now. Let his attitude say what it would, hers, too, was equally, most bitterly, eloquent. The thought saved her much. She had meant to speak, but her resolution to do so had been an impulse of the night. Now it was day; there was the pleasant sunshine of a bright autumnal day in the room. Who could speak such truth in the fair daytime?

For a long time they stood without speaking. Both knew that this silence was the prelude to a conflict. She saw that for all his pain he was strong and very resolute in the depths of him. She knew no less than he that he had made up his mind to put aside her faults of the days that were dead, as well as his own regret. He did not mean Sir George Hale to come between them any more. He would accept her as she was, knowing her nature and most natural sweetness. Accept her? No, it was no matter of acceptance. He would take her. She clenched her hands against his strength, and prayed for power to do what she believed right.

She looked at him and looked away. Then she heard him speak.

“Lady Anne,” he murmured. His voice was low but strong. His heart was sure of her. Oh, but she was white and wan! “Won't you sit down, Lady Anne?”

She would not sit down. She heard her own voice as if it were some one's else:

“No, thank you, Mr. Durant. I do not want to sit.”

It was comforting to her to be able to refuse his little meaningless courtesy. For to her quick mind, seizing with alert apprehension on the smallest points, even that courtesy, seemed as if it put her on a strange footing with him. Perhaps it was not meaningless; perhaps he desired her to be like a stranger. She looked up suddenly and saw again that he meant anything but that. He was so troubled, that was all. And then he would not accept her refusal. He spoke with a certain roughness.

“Sit down, Lady Anne, I beg. You look so ill. You are ill.”

She sank into the nearest chair. Let him have it as he would. This was not the point, after all.

“Oh, no, not ill,” she said.

He walked a pace or two toward her and stared down upon her.

“You didn't sleep!”

“Sleep!” she echoed. It was a confession. She told him she had not slept, that she could not. Her voice said it plainly. And yet she had slept a little toward the dawn.

Then she burst out with: “How could I sleep?”

How could she sleep, with him in the room beneath her, with those letters in his hand?

She had been near to tears, but could shed none. Now she did not fear that she should weep. She turned rigid suddenly and looked dreadful. Hector's heart bled for her and for himself.

“Oh, sleep, no! I didn't, either!”

He acknowledged thereby that he had had the letters, and understood them. His face showed that he spoke the truth, or what was near the truth. If he had slept a little he did not know it. He began to walk to and fro in agitation.

“Yet he made me sit down,” she said to herself.

Above them both the great Sir George had sunlight upon him; he looked splendid, and very much alive. He stood out of the background, stood upon his legs like a man painted by Velasquez. He had a great air of knowledge. Sedgwick would have been proud of his technial [sic] triumph, even though he would have been still obliged to acknowledge his psychological defeat. Both of those whose lives he had so greatly influenced looked up at him in turns when each believed the other did not see. Perhaps he had marred Anne, but Hector knew that what he was, aye! and what he would be, had to be put down to him. And had he marred Anne, after all?

“I want to say something,” said Hector suddenly. Then he choked a little and caught his breath. “Words are so difficult, Lady Anne.”

Ah! the little mean things they are for high passions of men and women in this curiously wrought world of flesh and blood!

“You—you understand,” he cried, in a kind of anger at his own inability. When had Sir George ever lacked the fitting word, the nice, exact phrase, the quick, impetuous epigram? He had been master of many tongues, but ruled his own imperially.

She understood that he was in an agony for want of words to relieve his heart and yet save her pain. Deep, very deep within her, this agony of his seemed foolish and uncaused. The depths of her nature cried aloud that she was worthy and that she loved him.

“You understand?” He said it again. This time he asked it. It became a question.

“Yes, Mr. Durant.”

Her voice was barely audible. Yet was it music, sweet and very painful

“I've much to say, and I can say nothing,” said Hector feverishly. The complexity of his passions tortured him. He found no clear path before him. “Perhaps I can speak some other day.”

But there was something to do now. It had to be done.

“Have you anything to ask me, Lady Anne?”

That seemed cruel to her, and as soon as it was spoken it seemed cruel and clumsy to himself.

“No, no; I beg your pardon. I don't mean that. I didn't mean to say it.”

She was grateful to him then, and very sorry for him. He heard himself say, almost in the tone he had used in imagination the night before.

“I've something for you, Lady Anne. At least, I think so.”

He spoke with his eye upon the window. She saw the working of his throat as he held his head up.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I found some papers last night. Possibly they are yours. They are, at any rate, marked with your initials. Do you think they could be yours?”

She was tempted to declare at once that they could not be hers. Yet had she not told him the truth already, told it in every look, every tone of her voice? And then

How could she swear to them? Was it not possible they were not hers? She had not opened the letters. But she did not speak, and he pulled open the drawer and took out the packet and handed it to her. She laid it on her lap. What should she say? Suddenly she found speech.

“Mr. Durant, they may be mine; but suppose they are not? How can I tell?”

Hector stared at her.

“You can open them.”

“And if I open them and find that they are not mine, what will you do with them?”

He looked at her very steadily, and then smiled, perhaps a little bitterly.

“If you say they are not yours, I'll burn them here, before you.”

He said to himself: “I'm asking her to lie to me, poor thing.”

She knew what he offered her; it was brave and chivalrous of him, it was kind and noble, for she knew that if she said they were not her letters, he would ask her to marry him.

“Give me a knife,” she said. He gave her one from the desk, and she cut the string that held the letters and pulled it through the big red seal.

They were her letters; all of them; every one of them, from the first note she had written to Sir George in Barbados to the last, in which she had broken with him in England. There were those in which she was “his little friend,” those in which she feared him, those in which she seemed to love him, and those written when she knew at last that she did not love him, but Hector. The man had kept every line of hers. She found a leaf or two of myrtle in one letter, and remembered picking it. Alas, alas! It was odorous even now. But now she almost hated the scent of myrtle.

And still she did not speak. While she went through them Hector turned his face away and leaned upon the desk. She was very grateful to him for doing this. How kind he was always! She wavered for a moment like a flame in the wind.

“If he does not know for certain he will ask me to marry him. But if he knows, and still asks, I cannot answer him as I would.”

Then she spoke suddenly.

“They're not mine, Hector.”

“Anne, Anne!”

There was more in his voice than he knew. He half-rose from his chair. She held up her hand.

“No, no, Hector; no. I—I didn't mean it. I'll tell the truth!”

And if he knew the truth, she would never marry him. That was sure, she knew, if nothing beyond him and herself came to help them in this dark hour. And whence could any help come? She accepted all things and spoke very quietly.

“I lied to you when I said they were not mine.”

Was that not joy in his dark face, in spite of his knowledge of her? His instincts told the truth concerning her, at any rate,

“I was a liar,” she cried passionately, “but I want to speak the truth.”

She rose and let the loose letters fall upon the floor. She put her foot upon them and she stood and faced him.

“Hector, they are my letters!”

She saw him put his hand upon the desk to steady himself, and instantly was full of pity, and was angry with herself, and sorry. She spoke again rapidly, passionately, angrily, and pleaded for herself as much as for him.

“Why not? Why not? Are you angry, Hector, are you angry? Why should I not have written to him? Was he not my friend?”

“Oh, yes, he was your friend,” said Hector.

“There was nothing wrong, Hector, nothing. Don't you know it? Say you believe it. If there had been, could I not have said and held to it that they were not my letters at all?”

And he did not answer. She bent down and snatched some of the letters from the floor.

“Oh, will you read them?”

She knew he would not; she was as certain of that as that they were both alive and that Hale was dead. Oh, surer than that, for the very spirit of the man seemed to breathe in his portrait. Every moment he seemed more alive to her. He heard her now!

“You can read them, Hector!”

“No, by God!” cried Hector. “I'll not read them; no, not I! Put them on the fire! Let's have done with them!”

There were rage and joy and anger in his voice. Here and now she had fallen, but then he loved her, and hers was an equal passion. She was very great and very little, and most divine to look at. Color was in her cheeks again, and her eyes were sweet and dewy. But her mouth trembled.

It trembled suddenly because she knew.

“Oh, you hate me!” she cried forlornly. “You hate me!”

“Hate you!” he cried lamentably. “Hate you!”

Then he said:

“If I did, I should be glad this moment, but I've loved you, always, always.”

He came toward her almost savagely. She held out her hand against him, bidding him come no nearer. But she did not do it out of fear. She knew that if he touched her now she would be in the flame.

“I'll never do it,” she cried, answering what was in his mind.

“Never, Anne! What do you mean?”

“You'd ask me to marry you!”

“I would! Oh, I do.”

He said it very quietly, so swiftly changes grew on him. His own quick mind leaped to the thought of marriage, and he found it sweet.

“I will not,” said Anne, “no, I will not. You don't believe me.”

“I do, I do,” he said. “I do believe you.”

Should he lose her for lack of such an oath? He crushed the doubts with in him. But the doubts were full knowledge, and he trod it down. She held up her hand again.

“No, no, you always understood, and now you know.”

He protested furiously.

“Anne, I know nothing.”

But she said, then, that she lied when she vowed there was no harm in the letters. She could not lie. That was good, it was very good.

“You know everything. It's true, Hector, true.”

Her voice fell again from passion into sadness and humbleness. She drooped and leaned upon her chair.

“Why, what's true?” he asked. “It's true I love you, true that you love me. That's truth enough for me. Tell me nothing.”

There was imploring in his voice, but she was relentless now.

“You found me here last night; you never went to bed till dawn, and what you thought as you sat here was true.”

Now the tears ran down her face, and yet she looked him in the eyes till he turned and stared at the cabinet and at the open drawer. Whatever he knew, the fact that Felicia had been with her made all things a mystery.

“But Felicia was with you!

“Yes, she found me here last night before you came down, and”

He interrupted her.

“What does she know?”

It would be hateful if she knew! Anne spared him and herself a little.

“She thinks she knows, but she knows nothing.”

After all, that was not a lie; Anne had confessed nothing to her.

“But she found me, and I had the cabinet open.”

Though he had known it, he still wondered how she had opened it. He looked at it and her. He knew that the lock was a good one, though never once had he seen it open all the time he had worked with Hale.

“Ah, how did you open it?”

She thrust her hand into her pocket and drew out the key.

“There's the key.”

“You had it, then?”

She shook her head wearily. “Oh, it was sent to me.”

He stared at her. “Sent—by whom?”

“By him, as he was dying.”

As he lay dying he had become more merciful, more thoughtful.

“He was sorry then,” she added, and Hector did not understand.

“Sorry for what?”

“That he had kept my—my letters. He wanted me to have them then, and thought that I might get them, perhaps from you. I'd not seen, not spoken, to him for two years.”

And now it was two years since Hector had seen her, since the time he had meant to ask her to be his wife some day and had found her gone.

“You went away then.”

She knew he understood now why she had gone. He kept on saying she had left Sir George this two years.

“You poor child,” he said. And then he added, half-beneath his breath, though she caught it: “I knew it all the time.”

That was not true, but it seemed true now.

“To send you the key! Oh, it was a mad thing. He must have been half-mad. There must have been wiser things But I was away, and so were you”

He only just remembered that. This was another proof that she and Hale had parted long ago.

“Didn't he know you were away?”

But he could not have known it, or he wouldn't have sent the key.

“I think he did not know it,” she answered.

This put her nearer, and the nearer she came to him in his mind the greater right he seemed to have to question her.

“Oh, let it be; but how came it that you and Felicia were on such terms when I came down? You say she found you, and she was no friend of and yet I found her in your arms.”

She smiled bitterly.

“Yes, but if you'd come earlier, and heard her!”

He knew Felicia was capable of violence, that her temper was high and her tongue bitter.

“What happened then?”

She told him everything but the truth about Felicia. Truly she owed the girl nothing, but could not bring herself at first to tell all she knew. As she tried to avoid the central truth, her tongue stumbled, and she knew it. She saw his face grow dark.

“And when she said she would come and tell me, how did you stop her? And why was she so unhappy, so afraid, when I came down?”

Quite unconsciously she looked up at Hale's portrait, and Hector followed her glance and thought he understood at last.

“Oh, even Felicia!” he groaned, and Anne knew that she had betrayed her, after all. But she cried out:

“No, no, not that—but

“But what?”

“He spared her.”

“And why?”

She knew, but could not tell him that. She grew as pale as death, and Hector blazed out with:

“Oh, and I'm in his house and I'm to write his life. His life! Oh, Anne, Anne!”

He sat down at the desk and laid his head upon his arms. She came a little nearer.

“Hector, Hector,” she breathed.

But he did not move, not even when she touched his shoulder timidly. She had feared to meet his eyes, but now when he had turned away from her she was like a child, and wanted the comfort of his face, as though she were in darkness and alone. He shook with dry sobs, and she stood beside him crying.

“I'll tell you everything,” she said. Now she told him how she and Felicia had fought, and how at last she had conquered her. And Hector hated Felicia, not only for her hatred of Anne, but for all she had done. But for her he need never have known, never, never! And now! Yet of a sudden and blindly he reached out his hand and took hers.

“Anne, you will marry me?”

She panted: “No, I cannot.”

For he knew, and knowing, he must remember. With this remembered, would passion ever renew its soul in patient affection, as true love ever should? And yet he believed it, for he turned on her almost savagely, so quick he was, and stared into her eyes.

“You can, you can!”

But still she said: “I cannot.”

Though she cried, yet she was strong. He held his peace for a little while, and considered her attitude. From his point of view, modified infinitely from the more natural and usual one, she had not been to blame. She had been carried off by Hale, by this master of women, and men, too. To judge her without knowing Hale would be easy. The world, which knew nothing of him, could do that. But for those who had fallen under Hale's influence, it was another thing, and she was different. Again and again Hale returned to his mind, for even now the man dominated the present as he had dominated the past. Once more Hector looked at the portrait with bent brows. He wondered dully what Hale would say to them if he could speak.

“Oh, if you had been married to him” he said suddenly.

“But I was not.”

“What of that?” he cried angrily. “And I always loved you, since the first night we met. Then I went”

“Oh, if you had stayed!”

She might have found safety in him. But Hale, endowed with infernal prescience, and discovering business in Trinidad, had sent him away.

“He knew I loved you,” said Hector. “That was why I went to Trinidad. Hale was a devil, a magician. Was it any wonder you loved him, then?”

Aye! it was no wonder, but the wonder was that she had never loved him, never surrendered her soul.

“No, no,” she cried, “I did not, I did not!”

It seemed a shameful thing to say so, but it only declared that she was weak.

“You did not?”

Then she broke down and fell upon her knees beside him, and cried as if her heart would break. He sat down in a chair and drew her toward him without passion, but very tenderly, and she laid her head upon his knees.

“Hector, I think in my heart I always hated him. But he was so wonderful, so strong.”

She remembered what Courtney had said of him, and she made use of it. For it was so true.

“His influence, his presence, was like a drug. It made me afraid and helpless. I was so young and foolish and so wickedly ignorant, and such a man I'd never seen, and he looked at me and knew every thought I had, and there was no flattery he was not king of, and so I got as bewildered as if I were at night in some forest. He frightened me strangely, and then he seemed very strong, and a comfort. I think, yes, I know, he made me feel what I've never got over, that we are all so lonely inside ourselves. And then he showed that he was big and powerful and afraid of nothing, and he broke me down, and then laughed at me and made me angry, and then made me laugh. And presently I was like a fascinated thing, and I hated him, and was afraid, and wished you were there. I felt you would have helped me. I wasn't his equal. And when I tried to get away he made me lose my boat, and then my brother wouldn't go, for Jack said he was the finest man he'd ever seen. Yes, he often says so now.”

Hector knew that it was true, for Jack Pulleine had often raved about Sir George. That was the strange thing; he drew men to him as well as women, and they were not weak men, either, but the best.

“And I forgot everything, Hector, for I'd never seen his wife. Oh, poor thing! She's so happy even now. She, too, says that he was the most wonderful man who ever lived.”

He groaned. Yes, Hale was a magician, one who could play with souls and smile serenely.

“He was damnable,” he cried, and then he stared in front of him. “And yet, and yet”

“What, Hector?”

He answered very quietly.

“Even now I cannot hate him!”

It was very strange to him that he could not, but to her it was the most natural thing in the world. For he was dead, and yet ranked not among the dead, and she could not hate him, either. She never had since the day she broke from him and achieved her difficult freedom.

“I—I understand that,” she murmured.

He put his hand upon her hair, and looked again at the magician on the wall.

“He—he was like an event, like something that had to be, that cannot be helped or avoided. He believed in nothing but life, and feared nothing; even death he did not fear. He was like some incarnation of the essence of life. I ought to hate him, but I can't.” He stroked her hair. “If you had come to me maimed by fire or hurt by an avalanche, Anne”

Aye, it was the same thing! She had been hurt by a demigod, by one without a human soul or human weakness, or by some brilliant splendid Agamemnon. Hale had been no poor creature like Paris and she like no Brieis to any Achilles. Even Achilles proved vulnerable at last, but death itself had hardly wounded Hale. One cannot hate earthquakes or glaciers or volcanoes. And Hale was now made greater by death.

“And now you've come to me.”

He spoke softly, and thought to charm her into acceptance by his comprehension of what she had suffered:

“No, I have not, and I never can.”

“Not though you love me?”

He almost smiled as he spoke.

“Not even though I love you,” she said.

And he answered: “You think I'll accept that now?”

Compared with most men he was not weak. It was only when he compared himself with Hale that he felt so. Hale had beaten him and had robbed him and had triumphed, but even Hale could teach him now.

“You think I'll accept that answer, Ann?”

She rose from the floor and stood apart.

“You must.”

“I do not recognize the word now.”

Such things Hale had said. “Must” may be forerunner of a fact, but it is only to the fact itself that a man should yield. Words as well as men may masquerade and prove to be nothing on unmasking.

“Now?” she asked.

Aye! now, because he knew everything, and had put his house in order very swiftly.

“Do you, then, think me so weak?”

Compared with the other man, he was a child, and she knew it. And yet she had never thought him weak. His was a more equal, a more human strength, and might be fought against. She still meant to fight. For it seemed impossible to yield. She answered almost soberly:

“I cannot marry you; you know it.

“I do not know it, and you will marry me.”

And still though she bled, she struggled. It would not be fair to him.

“I cannot and I will not.”

“Some day you will, though not now. It won't be long, Anne.” He spoke with confidence. “I know what I need for happiness, and I will be happy. When you say 'no' it's not you that say it.”

It was not her desires that spoke, and yet she said it was her love.

“Not I?”

“You think that it's right, because you are not listening to yourself but to others. Folks have told you that it was so easy to do right.”

One, indeed, had certainly taught her that it was easy. By his very teaching she had broken from him. She started as Hector spoke, and turned to the portrait. What would Sir George have told her to do now?

As she stood thinking she looked again at the portrait, and Hector, knowing that she had come to a crisis in her mind, did not speak. He began to understand, very vaguely, or if not to understand, to have a glimmer of dim comprehension. She almost forgot that he was there. She kept her eyes fixed upon the portrait. Once more a little sunlight showed upon it, cloudy sunshine that came and went and gave it an aspect of motion and change. To her eyes the man grew visibly alive, for to it she added her reviving memories. What would he say?

What, indeed, had he said when at last he understood that she desired her freedom? It needed not the “Eheu” on the letters, nor that saying of his on his death-bed reported to her by Courtney: “I loved her the best,” to tell her that so far as this man could love he had indeed loved her. She knew it well, and yet when she declared to him that she would be free, he had accepted her decision, not without emotion, but with a curious gallant dignity. “You are doing right, I see,” he said very simply, “and I want you to do right.”

That was not so easy to understand. But Hale had his creed, as all men have, the best and worst. Now he would say (she almost heard his voice): “You did not love me, and left me, and I owned you were right. Now you love Hector Durant and refuse to be his wife, not because you do not wish to be, but because you think that others would not think you worthy. My dear woman, you are a fool. You think so meanly, too, of the man you love that you believe that he will keep this against you in his heart? And yet you love him! My dear Anne, I've been wasted on you!”

She. remembered him saying that once. She heard the words now: “My dear Anne, I've been wasted on you!” She had not resented them in the least. He had added: “Teaching women wisdom is preaching to the winds, but I still have hopes of you.”

And the portrait smiled above her now. She spoke with it in her mind.

“You think I should marry him?”

A glint of sunlight touched his lips, and her own opened half-eagerly. It was as though he answered. Then a heavy cloud swept over the sky, and the portrait sank back into the wall.

“I'll marry him some day,” she said suddenly to herself. But still she could not acknowledge it. She started from her dream and saw Hector staring at her. His face was very dark.

“What have you been thinking of?” he asked, with heavy brows.

“Oh, what?”

Now she hardly knew. She had been a long journey.

“I was thinking what was right.”

And now she knew.

He almost sneered, for he had not followed her, after all. Jealousy burned within him and blinded his eyes.

“That's easy,” he said.

“When you know it.”

That was a childish thing to say, but now she felt that she did know it. Sir George had helped her, after all, and at the last.

“Aye! when you know it,” said Hector. “But are you sure?”

She answered, still dreaming: “I am sure!”

He burst out on her, and she endured it patiently, smiling at herself.

“Oh, you don't love me! You do not speak the truth. Whom do you love, then?”

Was it still Hale, after all? She did not answer.

“I'm all wrong, because I love you, and yet you say your love me,” he cried bitterly. “You ought to forgive me for knowing. Don't I forgive you something, freely, freely?”

She bowed her head.

“I'll give you time,” said Hector.

She needed none, and wondered how it was that he should be so blind. He did not know that she had come back from her journey with her own soul, that now might be his for the asking. Men are so blind and women wonder, and women are blind and men are in amazement. But still she could not tell him.

“Oh, I'll give you time,” he cried; “but I'll win you yet.”

She was won, and he did not know it.

“There'll be time enough, time enough.”

Something, after all, told him she was gentler, and that made him more gentle. But in other ways he was hard. Even while she looked at the portrait one thing had come to him, perhaps because she looked at it so long and hard; perhaps because her lips moved once as though she spoke to it. The thought of that burned in him once more. It bit like acid.

“I'll not do the biography,” he cried, and she turned to him in great and sudden agitation.

“You'll not do it?”

“No,” he declared, “I cannot, I will not. I must tell Lady Hale. Don't look like that. Can you expect it? I am to praise him, think of him, aye! and lie about him? I'll tell her something and say I cannot.”

“Oh, Hector!”

She spoke like one in great pain, and he stared at her in surprise.

“You wonder at it?”

“No, I don't wonder, but you'll hurt her so.”

Hector looked hard and stern.

“I can't help that.”

Anne came nearer and stood in front of him.

“Hector, she's a sweet woman. Poor thing, she loves you, and—she loved him.”

“Aye,” said Hector, “but I cannot. I shall have to tell her somehow. I must invent some excuse and try not to wound her.”

But Anne knew that he would wound her deeply.

“Hector, I implore you

Hector frowned.

“I should not have thought that you”

Anne cried out, then.

“Oh, I understand, but don't you understand, too?”

She spoke forlornly. Would he understand she owed this to Lady Hale?

“I understand what?”

“She chose you for it, and you accepted, and she's so very sweet, and she loves you, and I”

She caught his arm.

“Don't hurt her, Hector, don't.”

He stood in somber silence. Then he looked up at Hale's portrait.

“Am I never, never to have done with him?” he cried bitterly. “No, I cannot do it, Anne.”

It was hard, she knew. Yet she had told him the truth, a thing infinitely, infinitely harder. She caught him with both hands.

“Hector, he's dead, and I did something harder, and will you refuse me this?”

He flushed crimson, and stared at her.

“I refuse you! Oh, do you ask it? You know what your asking means to me?”

“Yes, yes, I ask it.”

He clutched her hand so that he hurt her, and, suddenly looking up at Hale, he cried out:

“Then I'll do it, Anne!”

And then they heard Courtney and Lady Hale at the door. Hector picked up the letters as they lay and threw them all behind the fire and thrust burning coals upon them, He took up the key of the cabinet, which Anne had dropped upon the desk, and put it in his pocket.

“And before I forget,” said Lady Hale, as she sailed in, “I wonder where that locksmith is, Hector?”

Hector almost laughed.

“Yes, I wonder where he is,” he replied. “Let's have him, by all means.”

Felicia came in.

“Ask Benton if the locksmith has come, Felicia,” said Lady Hale. And Felicia rang the bell.

“I wonder what we shall find,” said Courtney, smiling. “I'm inclined to the belief that it is empty.” He tapped it lightly. “Sounds like a big cavity,” he said jocosely. “What shall we find, Miss St. John?”

Felicia was hardly equal to the situation, though Anne rose to it. She was a much better color; so much better, indeed, that Lady Hale presently noticed it.

“You look ever so much better, my dear,” she declared.

“I told you so,” said Courtney. He glanced at Hector. “Do you think I should have permitted Lady Anne to get up if she was not going to do credit to my decision?”

“I am very much better,” said Anne. Her eyes met Courtney's, and fell again.

“The locksmith is down-stairs, my lady,” said Benton.

“Then let him come up,” replied Lady Hale. “Oh, dear me. I thought I wasn't curious, but I really am, though I am ashamed to be, for my dear husband was so particular about that cabinet that I have known him to rise in the middle of the night, and, declaring that he had left it open, go down to close it. What do you imagine there is in it, Hector?”

Hector bent his brows. “I'm afraid I can't guess, Lady Hale.”

“But, of course, you must look first, Hector.”

“I will,” said Hector.

And Benton brought up the locksmith. Courtney slid over to where Felicia was standing.

“Isn't it very mysterious?” he asked her.

“Oh, yes,” she murmured.

“Are we on the verge of dreadful secrets, do you think?”

She didn't answer. She knew that every one but Lady Hale and himself was well aware that there was nothing in the cabinet of the slightest importance. She wondered not a little if he did not know it, too. But they all watched the man at work.

“Seems a simple enough lock, my lady,” said the locksmith; “and, if it's the original one, any of you ladies could open it with a bent 'airpin.”

He tried several keys in vain, presently decided that it was not so simple as it looked.

“We sha'n't get into the Bluebeard chamber so easily,” whispered Courtney to Felicia.

“I think we might break it open,” said Lady Hale. But that the locksmith looked on as a horrid insult.

“Begging your pardon, my lady, I wouldn't 'ave it said I didn't open it with an 'airpin or a bent nail, and with this 'ere piece of wire, I'll do it or bust; begging your pardon, my lady.”

As he bent the wire he lectured on locks.

“Wonderful things is locks, my lady, very wonderful; but to a man as knows 'em they're like print. Even the 'ardest—and we make 'em very 'ard—can be got over by tender, careful 'andling, and time given, same as persuading of any one to do something. Now, I dare say, the gent as locked this thought it uncommon safe! But me or a good burglar could open it as I said, with an 'airpin. Now”

He put the bent wire in, and nothing whatever happened. He shook his head.

“It's not so easy as it looks,” said Hector.

They all gathered round the smith, who was distinctly ruffled.

“Begging your pardon, sir, it's as easy as one o'clock,” he retorted; “only for some kind of a safety curtain which I don't rightly reckernize.”

As Hector had the key in his pocket, he knew very well that the lock was extremely ingenious, and not by any means to be picked in a moment. He saw no use in waiting for the problem to be solved by the expert, so he quietly dropped the key into the man's bag.

“Have you tried all your keys?” he asked presently.

“Most of 'em, most of 'em, sir,” replied the smith, rubbing his chin hard. Hector looked into the bag and picked out the key again.

“Have you tried this one, for instance?”

The man looked at it, and knew at once that he had never seen it before. But he saw that it was very likely to do what was wanted, however it had got into his bag. “Ah, that key,” he said slowly. “Of course I forgot I 'ad that by me. Now that key, my lady, might easy do it, if it fits. I reckernize the cut of it. That's where knowledge and expertness comes in.”

He inserted the key, there was a snap, and the cabinet came open.

“I told you I'd do it easy,” he remarked, with a proud smile. “That or a bent 'airpin, as I said.”

He stood aside and let the others come up.

They saw the papers which Anne had thrust into the cabinet. On the top of them was the sheet on which Hale had written:

Hector read it out, and poor Lady Hale snuffled.

“The dear!” she said. “And are they to be burned, Hector? And what did he mean by 'unopened,' when they're all loose like that?”

“That's a difficult question,” said Hector; “but I dare say he changed his mind and opened them himself.”

He put the papers back and turned to the locksmith.

“As that key seems to fit very well, I suppose I can have it?” he asked.

The locksmith shook his head slowly.

“I puts a great value on that there key, sir. You see, my lady, it's a very valuable key, and very useful to me in my trade. 'Owsoever, if five shillings ain't too much for a grand key like that, why, it's yours, sir,” he added suddenly.

And Hector gave him the five shillings. The locksmith retired in triumph.

“But 'ow that key got into my bag fair beats me,” he said, as he went down Park Street.

Lady Hale said he was evidently a very clever man, and to that Hector agreed dryly.

“He had considerable self-possession,” said Hector. “I'll say that for him.”

Then Courtney declared that he must go.

“You won't stay for lunch!” exclaimed Lady Hale, as if a doctor had nothing else to do.

“I wish I could,” he said, “but I believe I have five people waiting for me.”

He went over to Lady Anne.

“I hope you will soon be quite well,” he said kindly. “For I declare there's no more the matter with you than with Lady Hale.”

“My right apex is quite—quite normal?” cried Lady Hale.

“Absolutely,” declared Courtney. “I believe I've done a great deal of good to all of you. Even Hector looks better.”

“I really think I am. At any rate, I hope to be,” said Hector. He looked at Lady Anne.

“And so's Miss St. John.”

Courtney went across to Felicia, who was standing by the window. Lady Hale instantly began to talk in a loud voice,

“Felicia, before I go, tell me if I may come to Cannes,” he said. “You know you never would say that in the way I wanted.”

“I—I shall be very glad,” said Felicia.

“Then I'll come. You mean it?”

“I mean it.”

Courtney was a good deal agitated.

“You know last year you told me something that was very painful to me, Felicia.”

She bent her head.

“I remember,” she murmured.

“You said you liked me very much, but that you loved some one who did not love you. And you promised that if you could put his image away from your heart”

She did not say anything when he stopped.

“Can you do it? Am I to come?”

She looked up at him.

“And—and you know what this means to me, Felicia!”

She knew.

“You will marry me, dearest?”

“Yes,” said Felicia. She wished she was a better woman. Perhaps she was. Most certainly she would be. No man could be with Tom Courtney and not discover the best within himself; while as for women, their love is their best, and always must be.

He shook hands again with everybody, and hurt them very much, for he was immensely strong, and went away in a tremendous hurry to save what remained of his waiting patients.

“The doctor is a darling,” said Lady Hale, wringing her hands and making a very wry face, “but I wish his hands were not so strong. Did he hurt you, Anne?”

Anne said that he had hurt her a little, but that she didn't mind in the least.

“And you, Felicia?”

But Felicia had left the room. Hector knew quite well what had happened to her and Courtney in that talk by the window. Perhaps if he suggested it to Lady Hale he might get a little more talk with Anne.

“Don't you know why he nearly squeezed our finger-nails off?” he asked.

“Do I know why?” asked Lady Hale. “Now, how could I know why?”

“Felicia knows,” said Hector; and Lady Hale stared at him. She was very much puzzled.

“Felicia knows?”

“To be sure. Now, when does a man squeeze your hand very hard?” he asked, laughing.

“When he likes you, I imagine,” returned Lady Hale.

“Yes, and when he likes some one else, too,” said Hector significantly. “I mean that he and Felicia”

“Good heavens,” cried Lady Hale, “you don't mean to say so! And I never saw it. Poor, dear, sweet Felicia, I must go and ask her if it is true, at once.”

She fairly bolted, and when the door closed behind her Hector went over to Anne.

“You saw it, Anne?”

“Oh, yes, I saw it.”

“Good old Courtney is very happy. And he doesn't know anything.”

Yet, after all, what was there to know? It was tactless of Hector to say such a thing. When men are tactful and women are wise the peace of the thousand years will be at hand. He began to walk up and down the room.

“I'm not going to ask you anything now, Anne,” he said suddenly. “But I'll do the biography. I won't even say I'll do it for you. I'll do it for Lady Hale. She's a perfect and dear old lady.”

“She is very sweet,” said Anne, sighing.

“She has never suffered, though; never has lived, Anne. There are some who don't, just as there are some who seem born to suffer. I've learned a great deal since yesterday, Anne. I told you I'd ask you nothing, but that won't prevent me saying what I feel. I think you a good and sweet and splendid woman, and I love you better than I ever did. You're going presently, and you'll take my love with you. And I know I have yours.” She never said a word. “I know it. For the present that's enough for me. Some day you will understand what I do. And in the meantime I have to work. It's not pleasant for me. But if I refused to do it she would suffer, and she's always been kind to me. I'm glad you made me see that I couldn't refuse to do it.”

Above them Sir George smiled subtly. For months Hector had to endure that smile, and would, perhaps, come to understand it and all that lay behind it; all that was not good and all that was great and overpowering. Already he knew that the woman was not to blame. Some day, when he recognized that he owed to him Anne's amazing and all-awakened love, he might pardon the man himself. Who was any man that he could blame any other, if he knew his own heart and all its insurgent impulses?

He turned to Anne again. .

“We shall have Lady Hale back again rejoicing,” he said, with a smile. “And then there will be lunch, and they and you will go. But I'm quite happy.”

And in spite of herself she, too, was nearer happiness than she had been since the time that she knew that she loved him. The great struggle was over.

“Are you not happier?” he asked her.

“A little,” she murmured.

“I'll make you quite happy some day.”

He took her hand and kissed it. And then Lady Hale returned, weeping in a loud voice and very full of Doctor Courtney's virtues.

“I shall say the Nunc Dimittis shortly,” she sobbed. “For dear Felicia owns with tears that she is going to marry him.”

She lifted up her voice again and wept, and then called Felicia, who came in looking as if it were a thing to be ashamed of. But then Hector and Lady Anne were there, and knew things. Nevertheless, they both congratulated her.

“You've got the best man I know,” said Hector.

“And a manner equal to a coal-mine,” sobbed Lady Hale; “and he'll be president of the Royal Academy of Physicians very soon, I know. Oh, if only my dear husband had been here to rejoice with me—I should be ready to die at once.”

It seemed to some of them that this was hardly the way to put it. But then Lady Hale rarely put it in the right way. It was only certain that her heart was right.

“And then he'll never, never see the biography,” she declared, with tears, “two volumes and a frontispiece. Think of that, Hector.”

Hector did not know what he was to think of, but he was quite sure that it wouldn't be in two volumes. It took all lunch-time to console Lady Hale when he said so. However, when he asserted recklessly that a biography in two volumes was now vulgar and reserved for second-rate politicians and missionaries she was quite consoled.

“He was much more than a politician,” she declared; “and certainly I would not have him regarded as a missionary, though he was very kind and polite to clergymen. He always said they did him good, and made him laugh, though I've not myself found them amusing, as a rule.”

They all found her amusing, and even Felicia recovered her tongue and chattered freely. But she wondered how things stood between Hector and Lady Anne, and now in her new-found happiness, which was really great the moment it came to her, she was very sorry for Anne, and even tried to believe that she had misjudged and mistaken her. For love is charity, and, when it needs to suffer no more, is very kind indeed.

Then the women went up-stairs to put their things on, and the luggage was brought down into the hall, and the carriage stood at the door.

And presently, as she had so much less to do, Anne came down first, and stood for a little while with Hector in the library by the window which looked across the park.

“May I come to see you soon?” he asked.

She looked at him wistfully, and his heart ached for her.

“Do you—do you really wish it?”

“You know I do.”

She said in a low voice: “If you will, then.”

“You know I love you, Anne.”

She sighed. “Oh, yes.”

“And I know you love me.”

“Do I? What right have I?”

Nothing but the very simple right of human nature; the right that all have to save themselves by clinging to the best within them, and the best that is always in those whom they love. She had no other right, and, if she knew it, needed no other.

“The right to make me happy,” he said, with the divine selfishness of lovers. “And I understand.”

She felt the tears run down her face, and recognized her weakness, which is the strength of true passion. Once she had revolted against strength, and yet had failed. Now she would yield at last; and such yielding would be no failure, surely.

“Yes, I love you.”

He bent his head and kissed her, and knew that she spoke the truth so truly that she was his forever.

“Come, dears, come,” cried Lady Hale. For Lady Anne was going with them as far as Piccadilly.

They went together to the door. There Lady Hale stopped and said in tears:

“You've never done it, dear Hector, but I think I should like you to kiss me. You see, I've never gone away like this before.”

So Hector, whom she loved as if he were her son, bent and kissed her on both cheeks, and she smiled at him again.

“You dear,” he said very tenderly.

And Felicia said in a low voice that he had been very good to her.

But Anne said nothing. Yet, when he went back into the house, he was almost content.