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 CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 Joseph Whitmore Barry 
 dramatic library 
 
 THE GIFT OF 
 TWO FRIENDS 
 
 OF Cornell University 
 1934 
 
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 •ary 1 02 
 
 IIP 
 
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The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013234525 
 
THE YOKE 
 
EDITIONS IN ENGLAND 
 
 First Impression , 
 Second Impression . 
 Third Impression , 
 Fourth Impression 
 Fifth Impression . 
 Sixth Impression . 
 Seventh Im,pression 
 Eighth Impression 
 
 January IQ07 
 March igo^ 
 April 1QQ7 
 May igoy 
 June iQoy 
 Aug-ust igo7 
 September iqO'^ 
 October iQoy 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 BY 
 
 HUBERT WALES 
 
 Author of "Mr and Mrs Villiers" 
 
 "What! out of senseless nothing to provoke 
 A conscious something to resent the yoke 
 
 Of unpermitted pleasure, under pain 
 Of everlasting penalties, if brokel" 
 
 —Omar Khayyam 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 THE STUYVESANT PRESS 
 
 1908 
 
 ^^ ^D 
 
 !■' I' rn' 'I 't I 
 
Copyright 1908, by 
 
 THE STUYVESANT PRESS 
 
 New York 
 
Publishers' Introduction to the 
 American Edition 
 
 The wide-spread interest which The Yoke has 
 aroused in Europe presages its enthusiastic recep- 
 tion in America. 
 
 To those discriminating readers who desire to 
 consider the inadequacy of our social standards, as 
 applied to the morals of men and women, and who 
 find something more than pruriency and indelicacy 
 in a serious discussion of the sex problem, the 
 Publishers respectfully ofer this book. 
 
 Subtle insinuation has long been esteemed, while 
 more graphic expressfon has been censured. A 
 lucid delineation of the salient issues of a problem 
 is essential in an earnest efort towards a solution. 
 
 Religious teachings, and the ever advancing 
 social standards, have established certain rules, 
 which, while apparently tending towards a higher 
 moral sense, have in reality affected only the dis- 
 passionate. Our ideals lead us to a secrecy amount- 
 ing to hypocrisy. 
 
 V 
 
INTRODUCTION, 
 
 'Man is, to a certain degree, immune from the 
 disfavor of society. Woman may not transgress 
 the rigid moral standards without incurring its cen- 
 sure and ostracism. To sanction the iniquity of 
 man, but demand purity of woman, has become an 
 attitude of society. 
 
 Authors who write sex-problem novels are in- 
 creasing in numbers. So are the readers. As long 
 as the output comes from earnest writers to whom 
 the subject is vital and their treatment virile, writers 
 impelled by the realism of the subject, so long will 
 the public eagerly continue to read in spite of Mrs. 
 Grundy or the over-nice critic. 
 
 The sex-problem is multiform, and varies 
 in individuals as they differ in temperament and 
 environment. The problem presents itself in 
 a great variety of phases, all real, and consequently 
 worthy of portrayal. Perhaps to the great ma- 
 jority it does not present itself as a personal prob- 
 lem at all, but even such fortunate persons cannot 
 ignore its existence or be injured by a knowledge 
 of the temptations which assail the less fortunate 
 of humanity. 
 
 FRANKLIN FOSTER 
 
 VI 
 
Preface 
 
 \T0 MY FRIENDS 
 
 KNOWN AND UNKNOWN 
 
 When he was about to go to Press with the 
 eighth edition of this book, my publisher suggested 
 to me that I might care to take advantage of that 
 issue to meet the attacks which have been so un- 
 sparingly directed upon it. Time was — and not 
 so long ago — when such an opportunity would have 
 drawn an immediate and eager response. For it 
 is not easy — though we sometimes pretend it is — 
 to sit quite still while work which has cost years 
 of thought and months of effort is flagrantly mis- 
 represented by prejudiced critics. Readers of 
 books do not always read reviews; but most of those 
 whom I am addressing will have gathered, at least 
 from hearsay, that The Yoke has not escaped a 
 full measure of hostile comment. Few books, in- 
 deed, of recent years have been so misunderstood; 
 
 I 
 
PREFACE 
 
 few have tempted the prim critics of the sensational 
 Press to so incautious a revelation of their native 
 vocabularies. 
 
 Heated, indiscriminate assaults of such kind did, 
 I confess, at one time send the desire to remove 
 misconceptions, to explain my aims, to strike back, 
 tingling to the point of my pen. But that spirit 
 has passed. I am no longer stirred to any emotion 
 by these things, not even by my most persistent 
 enemy's latest and most subtle goad — "One, Hu- 
 bert Wales." I do not wish reply: there is no 
 need for it. For the public has answered for me. 
 
 It has answered through all the letters of sym- 
 pathy and understanding which have reached me 
 from strangers {some, strangers no longer), it has 
 answered through the spontaneous kindly assur- 
 ances which have been extended to me wherever I 
 have gone, and it has answered, most of all, through 
 the large and increasing welcome which it has given 
 to the book itself. It may be said, perhaps, that 
 any novel dealing with an exceptional theme, es- 
 pecially with sex, will be bought and read from 
 curiosity. That is true to a point. But The Yoke 
 has passed the limit attributable to such an incent- 
 ive. Long ere this its brief flame would have flut- 
 
 2 
 
PREFACE 
 
 tered out had the public not recognised its sincerity, 
 its profound conviction of truth, its earnest en- 
 deavour to set forth a new and less rigorous view — 
 a larger and more liberal view — of some phases of 
 life. 
 
 Still, though I have no reply to make, an ac- 
 knoivledgment is surely due from me. The author 
 of a book comes less immediately in contact with 
 his public than the author of a play, but I have the 
 fancy to regard the persistent demands for editions 
 as so many calls to appear for a moment before the 
 curtain, to make my bow, and to retire again into 
 obscurity. For that moment, then — in this short 
 preface — I stand and look across the footlights; 
 not as a defendant, primed with excuse, refutation 
 and counterstroke, but with gratitude and greeting 
 in my heart to the multitude of balanced readers 
 zvho have shown abundantly that, whether they 
 agree with me or not, they are able to view with 
 a wide mind and to think out without pre-judgment 
 the questions which life presents to them. 
 
 HUBERT WALES 
 
 HiNDHEAD, Surrey 
 October igoy 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 A MAID ! A maid at forty ! 
 
 Angelica laughed a little; not bitterly; rather 
 in sheer amusement at the incongruous association 
 of terms. She was seated at her dressing-table, 
 sipping tea and looking through her letters, clad in 
 a becoming dressing-gown of soft blue nun's 
 veiling. 
 
 That in itself was not insignificant of the 
 progress of time. Among the signs of advancing 
 years none is more marked than the ability that 
 comes with them to rise in the morning without 
 effort. "Get up at seven every day of my life, 
 sir." Yes, old healthy septuagenarian, so you do, 
 and so you should. You are not entitled to seek 
 credit for it. You have had all the sleep your 
 frame requires. It would be an infinite bore to 
 you to remain in bed any longer. Time had been, 
 when, morning after morning, Angelica had had 
 
 5 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 to rush the final stages of her toilet in order to 
 give her father early breakfast before his daily 
 pilgrimages to the City. Now she voluntarily 
 rose at half-past seven for the cup of tea and two 
 thin slices of bread-and-butter which her maid 
 brought her ; when, had she chosen, she could have 
 consumed that light repast without changing from 
 the horizontal. 
 
 Still, though it would not halt for her, Time 
 had dealt kindly with Angelica. The arm which 
 slipped from the loose sleeve of her dressing-gown, 
 as she raised her cup, was soft and round and 
 white, with a little dimple at the elbow. Her 
 hair, it is true, was grey, but it was all grey, and 
 not patchy, and it had chosen a pretty shade, 
 and there was abundance of it. Even now, loosely 
 caught up, it was beautiful ; later in the day, when 
 the somewhat elaborate operation which she 
 carried out morning and evening before the wide 
 mirror in front of her, had been satisfactorily com- 
 pleted, it was of the quality which drew many a 
 passer-by to look round in the street. Angelica 
 was no humbug, dear reader. She liked to look 
 nice and to be admired ; she gave time and thought 
 to the achievement of those ends; and she would 
 
 6 
 
'THE YOKE 
 
 be the last to ask me to persuade you other- 
 wise. And, while we are on the topic, we may 
 very well record that she generally succeeded in her 
 objects. 
 
 She was tall and still slender, but with elegant, 
 wide shoulders and a delicate wealth and symmetry 
 of contour, such as no girl of twenty could dream 
 of possessing. And her movements had that easy 
 grace, her carriage that natural confidence which 
 come also only from the years. Her maidenhood, 
 too, had at least given her that exquisite beauty of 
 cohesion which no mother can have. A soft, calm 
 face, unwrinkled, was illumined by a pair of the 
 deepest and sweetest grey eyes that mortal could 
 wish ever to see. A quiet intelligence, an infinite 
 benevolence and compassion, an all-embracing char- 
 ity looked out from them as clearly as stars from 
 heaven. You would have trusted them, at the first 
 glance, with all you held dearest on earth. 
 
 The matter which had immediately drawn her 
 thoughts to her anomalous condition — a condition 
 which, not unnaturally, was finding an increasingly 
 frequent and insistent lodgment in her mind, with 
 the steady procession of years — was a letter which 
 she held in her hand. It was written on blue-grey 
 
 1 
 
\THE YOKE 
 
 paper, nearly square, and had been drawn from 
 a large oblong blue-grey envelope. The hand- 
 writing was effervescent and irregular, but not 
 without strength, and was distinguished by a great 
 wealth of exclamation points and generally some- 
 what erratic punctuation. The writer was an old 
 friend, ten years her junior, now married and 
 living in Exeter, brimful and bubbling over with 
 all that bound her to her husband. Angelica 
 could remember answering a ceaseless flow of 
 questions, emanating from her active brain, as she 
 held her little hand during a first pilgrimage of 
 the South Kensington Museum. This was the let- 
 ter: — 
 
 "Dearest Angelica, — Be an angel, like your 
 name ! 
 
 "Tom is coming home ! Tom is coming home!/ 
 Can you believe it? He has been in Russia six 
 months, and we were only married a year before 
 he went! I've counted every single day since he 
 went. Times and times I have thought he was 
 coming, but something has always cropped up to 
 prevent him. How I hate business! It is my 
 only rival. Nothing else would keep him away 
 
 8 
 
\THE YOKE 
 
 from me I know. But now he has really started. 
 / had a wire this morning! 
 
 "But he has to spend a week in town on his way 
 through. Think of it! A whole week! While 
 I sit here and wait! I just can't do it, dear, so 
 I want you to be an angel, as I said at the begin- 
 ning, and take me in, and him, too, of course. 
 Don't say you have no room. I shall cry if you 
 do. He arrives on Thursday. I know you will 
 have us if you can. You are always doing some- 
 thing for somebody. 
 
 "How is Maurice? It is years since I saw him. 
 He must have grown quite out of recollection. Is 
 he too big to send love to now ? At any rate, there 
 is heaps for yourself, dear, from your affectionate 
 friend Maude." 
 
 Angelica put the letter back in the envelope 
 with a smile and a slight sigh. How happy they 
 were going to be! She knew they were not 
 sufficiently well provisioned with the goods of this 
 world to stand the racket of an avoidable double 
 hotel bill, and it gave her keen and genuine 
 pleasure to be in a position to shorten their separa- 
 tion by a week. Yet the sigh was perhaps ex- 
 
 9 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 cusable, perhaps inevitable. These things were 
 slipping by her while she did "something for some- 
 body." That was her life. For forty years she 
 had been doing something for somebody — ^never 
 for herself. 
 
 People there are who appear to have been given 
 a special temperamental adaptation for an ascetic 
 and abstinent life ; a life of whole-souled and satis- 
 fying devotion to others; placed in the world, as 
 it were, with that single design by the Creator. 
 Angelica was not one of those. No one knew it 
 better than herself. She longed, utterly and un- 
 alterably, for protective love, for the support of 
 someone stronger than herself, for the deeper ex- 
 pressions of reciprocal passion. 
 
 But Fate had ordered it otherwise. Her mother 
 had lived only long enough, after giving her birth, 
 to call her an "angel"; a word which the sorrow- 
 ing husband had endeavoured to perpetuate at the 
 font. As soon as she had left school, and even in 
 a partial sense before that event, Angelica had 
 taken up her role; in the first years in the cause 
 of the creature comforts of her father, a man of 
 excellent intention and sound probity, but in his 
 later years of somewhat crotchety temper, and a 
 
 10 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 little too apt to take things for granted, without 
 reckoning the trouble to those around him. At 
 twenty the one man had come into her life; a 
 soldier, a man of deep humanity and strong and 
 striking personality; a widower with a little boy 
 of two. Even in the best of circumstances Angelica 
 had known that her marriage must depend upon 
 the initiative of her father; upon some alternative 
 and satisfactory scheme for his welfare ; she would 
 not have voluntarily left him. 
 
 But the best of circumstances had not befallen. 
 Within a year of their meeting, her lover's health 
 had developed disquieting symptoms, which an emi- 
 nent physician had struck her to the heart by diag- 
 nosing as cancer. "A tumour, I fear malignant." 
 So, in cold words, had sounded the knell of her 
 life's happiness. She often heard them still, and 
 she saw the thin lips which had uttered them, nor 
 would she ever forget them. She had taken her 
 part in the nursing, through all the stages of that 
 distressing and terrible malady, not shrinking from 
 scenes which tried the nerves even of the trained 
 hospital nurses. At the end he had died in her 
 arms, and his last conscious words were, "Take care 
 of the kiddie, Angelica." 
 
 II 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 She had made no parade of her sorrow — she 
 was considered to have borne it well — but for all 
 that she had buried her heart in his coffin. Her 
 nature had been too deeply stirred ever to respond 
 in quite the same way again. And therein she 
 felt at times that she had a grievance against the 
 great Giver and the great Taker-away. He had 
 removed from her the possibility of such deep and 
 absorbing love as could make happy a life-long 
 union; but He had not removed — and He ap- 
 peared to have no immediate intention of removing 
 — those fundamental instincts which are the base 
 of all sexual love, however superficially ethe- 
 realised. 
 
 Her original piece of the sugar-cake which 
 sweetens entrance into this world for all humanity 
 — the possibility of joy within her — which she had 
 faithfully looked at, without touching, for forty 
 years — had been a pretty big one, and, it seemed 
 to her, grew bigger with watching. It was in- 
 evitable, in the conditions on which her earthly 
 lot had fallen, that she should sometimes be brought 
 to wish that the Giver had been less generous. 
 No one knew — perhaps no one ever would know, 
 or suspect — what that same generosity had cost her. 
 
 12 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 The vividness of her own imagination occasionally 
 frightened her. And in spite of her vigorous 
 constitution, she had suffered in health, sometimes 
 for months at a stretch — needless breakdowns, 
 it seemed, vexatious and apparently inexpli- 
 cable. 
 
 Five years after her lover's death her father had 
 followed him to the grave. And so, at the age of 
 twenty-five, she had become her own mistress in a 
 more complete sense than it is given to most women 
 to be; with a host of friends but no near relatives, 
 with a comfortable income and a house in Kensing- 
 ton, and with "the kiddie." 
 
 For the last twenty years Angelica had been 
 "doing something" for the kiddie in question. He 
 was now a young man of two-and-twenty "eat- 
 ing dinners" ; a phrase which comprehended, be- 
 sides that interesting process, such legal reading 
 as would satisfy a body of not very stringent exam- 
 iners, and a regular daily attendance at the cham- 
 bers of a practising barrister. He was no finan- 
 cial burden to her; his father had left him suffi- 
 ciently provided for. She would have cheerfully 
 acquiesced had It been otherwise, would have 
 been glad. For in that case she wpqld have felt 
 
 13 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 a stronger right to direct his footsteps over the 
 somewhat quaky ground which he was now ap- 
 proaching, had, indeed, already set foot upon. Not 
 that she had any cause of complaint. Maurice was 
 a good fellow. He fully recognised his indebted- 
 ness to her, genuinely returned the affection she 
 lavished upon him, and cheerfully deferred to her 
 wishes. 
 
 This wholesome adolescence was in part due to 
 his inherent soundness and in part to the sensible 
 up-bringing he had received at Angelica's hands. 
 Her methods had been governed by an intelligent 
 grasp of one or two fundamental truths; particu- 
 larly that no amount of preaching — of "pie-jaw," 
 as it is called — direct or indirect, whether openly 
 from a pulpit, or, worse still, from an arm-chair, 
 or, worst of all, hidden in a story-book, ever bene- 
 fited the mind of youth. Its only probable effect 
 is to drive off Its object at a tangent In precisely 
 the reverse direction from that desired. Didactic 
 methods are an annoyance not to be suffered. It 
 is an open question whether they ever permanently 
 Influenced the conduct of anyone, young or old, 
 except those who unconsciously already occupied the 
 same standpoint as the preacher. The knowledge 
 
 14 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 of good and evil will not reach us through officious 
 human agency. The feeling that a fellow-creature 
 is endeavouring, however cautiously, to turn our 
 mind, not to the knowledge itself, but to his own 
 particular conception of it, produces irritation and 
 revolt. Boy or man has got to find it out, work 
 it out, worry it out for himself. Then he'll see its 
 force. 
 
 Angelica's treatment of Maurice had avoided 
 these mistakes. As he grew up, she had helped 
 him to choose his books, she had given him 
 opportunities of attending places of worship, she 
 had allowed him to watch her own mode of life, 
 while at the same time seeking to gain his respect 
 and affection; finally she had selected the best 
 available mediums for his education; but she had 
 never put pressure on him, and she had never 
 preached. 
 
 Her care of his physical well-being had similarly 
 steered clear of conventional stupidities. Has it 
 ever occurred to you, reader, what pigs we make 
 of our children ? Foolishly doting parents, in the 
 mistaken hope of producing additional vigour, treat 
 them as vessels to be stuffed to their utmost avail- 
 able capacity. The child, under this fond tutelage, 
 
 15 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 finds that a third helping of pudding ranks about 
 equal with winning a race, and considerably higher 
 than a good-conduct mark. Consequently he be- 
 comes permeated with the idea that to eat as much 
 as possible is one of the principal aims of exist- 
 ence. He Is lucky if he can get through life with- 
 out suffering for it. 
 
 Under Angelica's discriminating up-bringing, 
 Maurice had come out, as she saw with pride and 
 thankfulness, a fine, straightforward, upright young 
 Englishman. She believed he had no vices; and 
 if the tendencies and passions incident to all flesh 
 were developed abnormally, or at all, at least they 
 were discreetly veiled from her. 
 
 This was a subject which was giving Angelica 
 considerable concern; not that she feared for his 
 moral welfare — she had no uneasiness about that — 
 but lest, in his thoughtlessness and exclusion from 
 affectionate masculine counsel, he should fall upon 
 material troubles which a lifetime might be insuffi- 
 cient to exorcise. She knew the dangers of the 
 world, especially of a great city, for a young man 
 in his first flush of liberty. 
 
 During his Oxford days these apprehensions had 
 not worried her ; she had felt that he was more or 
 
 i6 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 less safe. It was only during the last few months, 
 since he had come to live permanently in town and 
 to make liberal use of his latch-key, that the perils 
 which surrounded him had come home to her, had 
 perhaps assumed, in her imagination, an even more 
 menacing aspect than the reality warranted. 
 
 How often she had scanned his face anxiously, 
 especially after some evening when he had returned 
 home later than usual, and had longed to utter a 
 word of warning, to give him some friendly counsel 
 from the wisdom of her riper years, and had been 
 held in check by the stern barrier of sex. Even 
 now, as she rose from her seat and set about the 
 business of dressing, she gave a slight sigh, remem- 
 bering that she had not heard his key in the lock 
 the previous night. "He must have been very late," 
 she thought. 
 
 A little after nine she descended the stairs, clad 
 in a gown of thin grey material, which fitted her 
 beautiful figure to perfection and rustled as she 
 moved, one hand holding her letters and her skirts, 
 the fingers of the other lightly touching the rail 
 of the balusters. The breakfast-table, when she 
 reached It, made an inviting display of china and 
 silver and white napery, but the room was ynteti- 
 
 17 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 anted. She sat down behind the coffee-pot and 
 poured out a cup. A second place was laid at the 
 other side of the round table ; and, after waiting a 
 while, she rose and lifted the covers that stood in 
 front of it, helped herself to a whiting, and then 
 took up the dishes and placed them carefully in 
 the hearth. After that she resumed her seat, 
 propped up the Daily Telegraph on th? coffee-pot, 
 and started her solitary meal. 
 
 Presently a maid entered with buttered toast. 
 
 "You had better go and knock at Mr Heelas's 
 door, Mary," she said to her. "I think he can't 
 have heard the gong." 
 
 "He wasn't in his room, ma'am, when I took 
 his tea," said the maid. 
 
 For a moment Angelica's heart stopped beating. 
 Then she said quite calmly: "He has gone out 
 very early. Did he leave any message?" 
 
 "No, ma'am," said the maid. "I don't think 
 he came in last night at all," she added. 
 
 Angelica turned the paper and folded it to her 
 satisfaction. "He must have stayed with Mr 
 Grahame," she said. "Mary, the blue room must 
 be got ready, please. Mr and Mrs Cunningham 
 will be here on Thursday." 
 
 i8 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 The maid went out and closed the door quietly. 
 Then Angelica rose — she had no further appetite 
 — and walked to the window and stood there, with 
 her white hands clasped behind her. Every now 
 and then, as she moved them spasmodically, the 
 firelight set a diamond gleaming. 
 
 And so it had come ! Of course, she had known 
 it must come. And yet. . . . She stood a long 
 time at the window, and after a while a tear 
 dropped unheeded on the plant beneath her. 
 
 19 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 "And let this be a warning to you," concluded 
 the magistrate, "to behave in the future like re- 
 spectable citizens, and not like young hooligans. 
 You are discharged." 
 
 The two young men buttoned their overcoats 
 closely over their evening clothes, took their crush 
 hats, and walked out of the dock and the court, 
 amid a faint murmur, in part suggestive of ap- 
 plause, in part of dissent. They proceeded for 
 some distance in silence. It was not until they 
 had turned into the Strand and become conscious 
 that the passers-by neither knew nor cared whence 
 they had come, that their eyes met. Then one of 
 them — the fat and burly one — ^burst out laughing ; 
 a genuine, hearty peal of boyish mirth. 
 
 "Well, I don't see much to laugh at, Grahame," 
 said his companion, who was not so tall but better 
 built, albeit there was a lurking smile behind his 
 own handsome features. 
 
 "All's well that ends well," said Grahame. 
 
 "Has it all ended well?" said the other. The 
 «0 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 smile was still hovering in his frank eyes. "I can't 
 turn up at Chambers in dress clothes," he added, 
 and the laugh came right out. 
 
 "Of course you can't," replied his friend. 
 "You'll have to go home and send a wire that 
 you're ill or something. They'll get through a day 
 all right without you, Heelas." 
 
 "I can't do that." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Because I'm not ill," said Heelas; "uncom- 
 monly well, thank you." 
 
 There was no priggish intention in his tone to 
 reprove his friend. It was merely a frank state- 
 ment of a fact. 
 
 Nevertheless, Grahame wished he had not voiced 
 the proposition. He covered that private sen- 
 timent, however, with a good-natured smile. 
 "Then you must come to my rooms and borrow 
 a change," he said. "That's the only thing I can 
 suggest." 
 
 He himself was reading for the army, and 
 occupied a pair of comfortably-furnished rooms in 
 the neighbourhood of Cambridge Circus ; a dis- 
 trict, to be sure, rather inconveniently removed 
 from his coach's residence, but central, in his own 
 
 21 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 pleasantly indefinite phrase, "for other things"; 
 the "other things" including, as his friends some- 
 what unkindly reminded him, after the previous 
 night's exploit, a reasonable accessibility to Bow 
 Street. 
 
 Heelas gratefully accepted his offer; and then, 
 seeing the Charing Cross telegraph-office, was re- 
 minded — not for the first time, nor the second, since 
 his encounter with the police — of Angelica. "I 
 must send her a wire," he said. His brow clouded. 
 "I wish this hadn't happened, Grahame. What 
 silly jackanapes we were to attempt that rescue !" 
 
 "Oh, we couldn't have left the other fellows," 
 said Grahame. "We should never have been able 
 to look ourselves in the face again." 
 
 "Pretty difficult to do that, as it is," said Heelas. 
 "What became of the girls?" 
 
 "They got off, too. We were out of luck. 
 That's all. Never mind ; it's an experience. Now 
 it's over, I'm not sorry." 
 
 "I am," said Heelas, thinking of Angelica. 
 "After all," he added, "I don't much care for 
 women of that type. I suppose no one does. It's 
 easy and pleasant in a way, but one feels it's a 
 descent to talk to them." 
 
 22 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "Of course it is," said Grahame. "Everything 
 is a descent, except going to work and coming home 
 again, and reading the evening paper, and talking 
 to one's people about the next-door neighbours, and 
 going to bed and getting up. That's the kind of 
 life I should lead if I were made of skim milk and 
 plaster of paris." 
 
 "Yes," said Heelas, reflectively, as he went into 
 the telegraph-office; "I suppose that's it." 
 
 "Hang it!" he exclaimed, stopping in the door- 
 way and turning almost angrily, "if that's the life 
 we were really intended for, why weren't we made 
 of skim milk? I should have no objection to it 
 personally, not the least. But I object to be made 
 of what I am and to be asked to pretend it is skim 
 milk." 
 
 Therein he was expressing unconsciously — for 
 there was no particular application of the words in 
 his mind — the resentment which is felt, some time 
 or other, by every healthy and sound-minded young 
 man against a social order so incompatible with 
 natural impulse as to compel him to do things he 
 feels to be beneath him. 
 
 Heelas announced to Angelica that he was safe 
 and sound and would be home to dinner, and then 
 
 23 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 went on with Grahame to his chambers. These 
 were on the third floor; and their furnishing ex- 
 pressed, primarily and emphatically, comfort ; some 
 taste, a little art, but chiefly solid comfort. Gra- 
 hame allowed it to be known, when a statement of 
 his views on the subject appeared to be called for, 
 that chairs which were made to look at were 
 strongly repugnant to his soul. Accordingly, in 
 the small space of the sitting-room, there were two 
 capacious easy-chairs and a wide settee, upholstered 
 in dark green tapestry. There was a warm carpet 
 on the floor, bright fire-irons and a bright fire. 
 The plain green walls were hung with a few col- 
 oured sporting prints and some well-executed 
 French mezzotints, representing the undraped fe- 
 male form in varying postures. The mantel held 
 ash-trays and ladies' portraits, and the small side- 
 board a spirit-stand with a syphon and glasses be- 
 side it. 
 
 "Have a pick-me-up?" said the owner, pointing 
 to the latter. 
 
 "Oh, no," said Heelas, almost with disgust. 
 
 "Half a jiffy, then, and I'll find you some tog- 
 gery." 
 
 He went into an adjoining room, while Heelas 
 24 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 seated himself in one of the capacious chairs and 
 listlessly surveyed the familiar apartment. He was 
 an exceptionally good-looking youth and utterly 
 unconscious of it. Perhaps the latter character- 
 istic was partly due to the fact that he was quietly 
 but decidedly shy of the society of ladies. Young 
 ladies especially he found particularly overpower- 
 ing, and he avoided their propinquity almost to the 
 point of discourtesy. To a young man of the age 
 of Maurice Heelas, unless he Is remarkably com- 
 placent, there is something in the atmosphere sur- 
 rounding a young lady which inspires a wholesome 
 awe : she seems so wonderfully dressed, so much at 
 her ease, in a way so old; he feels she must neces- 
 sarily be vain and supercilious, and that she 
 would regard him, at best, as merely experimental 
 matter. 
 
 The only woman with whom Maurice came at 
 all frequently in contact was Angelica. She saw 
 his good looks and admired them whole-heartedly. 
 She was fain to admit, In her inmost soul, that he 
 was a finer animal even than his father. But she 
 admired In a far greater degree his perfect natural- 
 ness, and was careful not to endanger that by any 
 hint on her part of his personal endowment. All 
 
 25 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 she had done was to persuade him to part his hair 
 in the middle, instead of at the side. It fell over 
 his temples in two loose dark brown wisps, and 
 gave a distinction to his straight and regular, but 
 still boyish, features which they might otherwise 
 have lacked. 
 
 Grahame returned in a few minutes, with a morn- 
 ing suit over his arm. He was a round-faced, sol- 
 idly built, cheerful specimen of the genus Briton; 
 lazy and easy-going, but with plenty of native wit 
 in his healthy constitution. 
 
 He laid the clothes carefully over the backs of 
 two chairs. "It's a suit I grew out of a year ago," 
 he announced, tenderly smoothing a crease in the 
 coat-tail. "Nuisance that one will fill out. I like 
 the pattern of those trousers — always did. Rather 
 a neat thing, don't you think so, Heelas?" He 
 held out the approbated garment for closer inspec- 
 tion. "If old Kenyon asks you for the name of 
 your tailor, you can say it's Humphrey, Jermyn 
 Street, and he won't find a better man in Lon- 
 don." 
 
 "Old Kenyon," it may be remarked parenthet- 
 ically, was the eminent barrister to whom Heelas 
 paid daily visits. 
 
 26 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 The latter duly commended the apparel put at 
 his disposal, and then hastily donned it in place of 
 his own. 
 
 "There's no hurry, is there?" said his host, when 
 this process was completed. 
 
 "I don't want to be later than necessary," said 
 Heelas. "Of course I'm hopelessly behind time 
 as it is." 
 
 Grahame had ensconced himself comfortably in 
 one of the big arm-chairs and lighted a pipe. 
 "By-the-bye," he said, "this will get into the papers, 
 of course?" 
 
 "Rather! They would cram it in if they had 
 to leave out a leading article to find space." 
 
 "That's a nuisance," said the occupant of the 
 arm-chair. "It wouldn't do for the Mater to see 
 it. She has queer, old-fashioned notions, and It 
 would upset her. I might wire to Cecil to tell 
 her to hide the sheet. But then the Mater would 
 see the telegram, and want to know what was in it, 
 and that would make it a certainty." He medi- 
 tated a moment. "Suppose I shall have to chance 
 it. It's a nuisance, though. I wouldn't hurt her 
 on any account." 
 
 He relapsed into pensive gloom; and then sud- 
 27 
 
. THE YOKE 
 
 denly brightened. "Look here, Heelas," he said, 
 "you've often promised to spend a week-end with 
 me at Haslemere. Come this week. There's 
 nothing to do. But you would help to smooth 
 down perturbation, if anything got out. You see, 
 you've such a quiet and respectable look; there's 
 nothing rakish about you, Heelas." 
 
 Maurice laughed. "It's awfully good of you," 
 he began. 
 
 "No, it's not. Of course I know it would be a 
 nuisance. But just to help me through." 
 
 Heelas hesitated. He had no adequate excuse ; 
 but his mind went in search of one, as it invari- 
 ably did in the face of an invitation, especially if it 
 involved a meeting with ladies. He remembered 
 Grahame's sister, Cecil, as a girl of fourteen, and 
 his arithmetic pointed to the probability that at 
 the present moment she would be sufficiently over- 
 whelming. The two families had at one time been 
 neighbours In Cumberland Square; but six years 
 ago, after the death of the father, the Grahames 
 had removed to Haslemere; since which time, ex- 
 cept for the friendship of Christopher Grahame and 
 Maurice, the households had almost lost touch with 
 one another. 
 
 28 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "I shouldn't like to desert Angelica," Heelas said 
 at last, rather lamely. 
 
 "It would only be for a couple of days. Or 
 bring her with you. The Mater would be de- 
 lighted." 
 
 "There would be a difficulty about leaving the 
 house, I expect. The servants, you know, and that 
 sort of thing." He clung desperately to Angelica. 
 
 Grahame was too good-natured to be offended, 
 though he saw that his friend was wriggling shame- 
 fully. He thought it was disinclination to face the 
 Police Court episode; which, to do Maurice justice, 
 was not the case. He let him down lightly. 
 "Well, think it over," he said. 
 
 Heelas cheerfully agreed to do that. He had 
 promised to "think over" an invitation before, and 
 knew from experience that it didn't necessarily, or 
 even usually, involve eventual acceptance. He 
 passed Grahame the newspaper which that gentle- 
 man asked for, to save him rising from his com- 
 fortable posture, and then set off briskly for the 
 Temple. 
 
 He returned six hours later and resumed his own 
 clothes. Grahame was out, probably at some point 
 on his self-imposed daily pilgrimage from Bays- 
 
 29. 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 water, but Heelas readily found what he waated. 
 Afterwards he betook himself to the Underground 
 Railway at Charing Cross and entered a District 
 train. He left it at South Kensington Station and 
 walked a little way down the Brompton Road, pres- 
 ently turning into Cumberland Square — a spacious, 
 orderly, tree-embowered enclosure, very bright and 
 fresh just now with soft spring tints. 
 
 There was a central space of shrubbery, green 
 lawn and gravel path, jealously guarded by high 
 railings and locked gates. A large church occupied 
 the east side, fronted by a leafy churchyard, with 
 a vicarage garden at the back. On the north and 
 south sides were substantially-built, grey residences, 
 each with a small, neatly-kept railed garden-space 
 in front of it. Here and there, on the south side, 
 the said garden-spaces were crowded with agents' 
 "To let" boards, jostling one another for promi- 
 nence — somewhat to the detriment, it must be ad- 
 mitted, of the general effect of prosperity and sub- 
 stance. The houses on the west side, facing the 
 church, were of red brick and more modern. Also 
 they lacked the gardens (and the boards) . 
 
 An atmosphere of dignified calm rested upon the 
 square. There were no little boys interrupting its 
 
 30 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 peace; the tradesmen's carts drew up at the area 
 gates only at well-ordered times and without un- 
 necessary clatter. At each of the four corners was 
 a neat iron tablet bearing the words, — 
 
 Organ Music and Other Street 
 Noises are Strictly Prohibited 
 IN THIS Square. 
 
 Even without such prohibition, one would 
 scarcely have conceived even a street noise suffi- 
 ciently audacious to invade its cultured precincts. 
 
 Angelica's house was almost in the middle of 
 those of red brick on the west side. As Maurice 
 approached it, he was aware that his heart was 
 beating faster than it was normally entitled to beat. 
 He suddenly steadied his rather rapid rate of pro- 
 gression and went on more sedately. He paused 
 for a moment before the polished front door, 
 painted a dark green and shining with brass work. 
 Then he took his latch-key from his pocket and 
 quietly — quite quietly — let himself in. 
 
 31 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 Usually, if Angelica did not meet him in the 
 hall, at least she gave him a hail. To-night there 
 was no sound, no Angelica. Maurice had not 
 thought about his clothes during the journey home, 
 but now he became again acutely conscious of them, 
 particularly of his soiled and disordered shirt-front 
 and his muddy boots. As he hung up his hat and 
 overcoat, he tried to persuade himself that he was 
 doing so in the customary manner, without any 
 attempt to avoid a rude disturbance of the pre- 
 vailing silence. But when he went upstairs to his 
 room, he knew that he was walking stealthily, for 
 he realised for the first time that his boots creaked. 
 So did Angelica, as she sat in the drawing-room. 
 
 Maurice changed his shirt, removed his boots, 
 and generally repaired his attire. Then he pre- 
 sented himself in the drawing-room. Angelica was 
 seated before the fire with a book on her knee. 
 She did not rise when he entered; but she looked 
 up and there was even a smile on her face. But it 
 
 32 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 clearly came there as the result of an effort. And 
 she did not speak. 
 
 Maurice would have given his hope of the Bench 
 to have been able to live the previous night over 
 again: not from a selfish shrinking from the re- 
 straint of the present position, but because he saw 
 that he had brought her real pain. For a moment 
 an impulse came over him to throw himself at her 
 feet and beg her forgiveness. But he was not 
 naturally demonstrative, and the moment passed. 
 He walked up to the fireplace and stood with his 
 back to it. 
 
 "I sent you a telegram, Angelica," he said. 
 "Did you get it?" 
 
 "Yes," she replied. "It was thoughtful of you, 
 Maurice. I was anxious. You didn't say where 
 you had been?" \ 
 
 "It was rather difficult," said Maurice. He | 
 paused a moment, and then added, a little whimsi- 
 cally: "I couldn't put in a telegram that I'd spent 
 the night in a police-station." 
 
 "What!" 
 
 The tone and the look expressed something for 
 which Maurice was tbtelly unprepared. It was 
 not horror ; it was not repixgnance ; it was joy. The 
 
 33 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 listlessness had fallen from her ; she was sitting up 
 in the chair, alert and bright-eyed. 
 
 "What?" she repeated. 
 
 "In a police-station," said Maurice again, speak- 
 ing tentatively, rather fearful that the bald and 
 isolated phrase would destroy the unlooked-for 
 effect. 
 
 The book slipped from Angelica's lap, and she 
 sprang at him and caught him by the shoulders 
 and kissed him first on one cheek and then on the 
 other. 
 
 "I'm so glad," she cried. 
 
 Maurice was lost in a maze; but he accepted 
 cheerfully the unexpected good which the gods 
 seemed determined to shower upon him. Then the 
 whimsical side struck him. 
 
 "It's not as comfortable as the Cecil," he re- 
 marked drily. 
 
 Angelica bent down and poked the fire. Not 
 that it required poking, but that she felt the need 
 of some outlet for the superabundant energy surg- 
 ing up in her. 
 
 "Poor boy!" — ^prod. "Did they put you in a" 
 —prod— "cell?" 
 
 How unsatiable is human nature. A few min- 
 34 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 utes earlier Maurice would have been relieved be- 
 yond measure to know that Angelica could take 
 his escapade so lightly. Now he was beginning to 
 feel distinctly aggrieved that his sufferings elicited 
 so little sympathy. 
 
 "No," he said, "they drew the line at that. We* 
 spent the night in a sort of office." 
 
 "Who's 'we' ? Christopher Grahame ?" 
 
 "Yes. It was no more his fault than mine, 
 Angelica," he went on rapidly. "I was every bit 
 as much to blame — perhaps more." 
 
 "Oh, I don't object to Chris, my dear," said 
 Angelica. "I think you might have many worse 
 companions. He's a nice boy. I like him." 
 
 "I'm awfully glad," said Maurice, brightening 
 with genuine pleasure. "You know, I always 
 thought you imagined he was rather — oh — go- 
 ahead." 
 
 "He is rather lazy," said Angelica. "That is 
 his chief fault. Unless he does more work he 
 will be ploughed for Sandhurst, and that would be 
 hard for his mother. I don't think they are very 
 well off, and she is making an effort to get him into 
 the army." 
 
 "Oh, he'll pull through all right," said Maurice, 
 
 35 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 with confidence. "He does much more work than 
 he wants one to think. The last person he would 
 like you to meet would be his coach, because he 
 would give him too good a character. The only 
 thing that worried him about this affair was the 
 thought that some account of it might reach his 
 mother and upset her." 
 
 Angelica stood up again. There was something 
 silken in her skirts which rustled when she moved. 
 "Well, tell me about it," she said lightly. "What 
 mischief had you been getting into ? And are you 
 free now or on bail?" 
 
 "Of course I'm free," said Maurice, quite hurt. 
 "Angelica !" 
 
 "It was a mistake?" 
 
 "Oh, no." He fell back a little precipitately 
 upon his main position. "There's no doubt we 
 were in the wrong. Some fellows were down from 
 Oxford, and they got rowdy outside the Empire, 
 and the police interfered. We tried to rescue them. 
 The rest got away. Angelica — I'm awfully sorry 
 — we had had too much to drink." 
 
 Angelica laughed, actually laughed. "And 
 so it was a real old-fashioned fight. What was 
 it you used to call it at Harrow — a mill? Let me 
 
 3^ 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 look at you and see if there are any scars of battle?" 
 She turned him round to the lamp. "Yes, there's 
 a lump there" — she laid a slender forefinger on the 
 neighbourhood of his cheek-bone — "and a scratch 
 there. You are not discredited, old boy; but you'll 
 live to fight another day." 
 
 The gong had sounded while she was speaking. 
 She placed an arm in his and pressed it happily. 
 Then she picked up her skirts with the other hand, 
 and they went gaily down to dinner together. 
 
 In the calm provided by the meal Maurice ar- 
 rived, without much difficulty, at a consciousness 
 of that which Angelica had feared of him, in con- 
 trast with which his actual escapade had seemed 
 so trifling. The knowledge troubled him, and he 
 fell more and more into silence. Angelica, on her 
 part, was not much inclined to talk. The misery 
 she had suffered from the fancy of some ill-con- 
 sidered and perilous lapse on his part, and the 
 relief with which she had hailed what was, after 
 all, a serious piece of folly, had shown her how 
 deeply his welfare was imbedded in her heart. 
 She was making up her mind to break through 
 that barrier of sex which had held her silent for 
 so many years. She could no longer endure to sit 
 
 37 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 quietly and wait for that which, in the circum- 
 stances of his present environment and complete 
 freedom from restraint, seemed well-nigh inevit- 
 able, without making some effort to prevent it. 
 
 She looked across at him, as he bent over his 
 plate, peeling an orange: handsome, very boyish, 
 very fresh, all unconscious, as it seemed to her, 
 of that black cloud of sin and suffering and degrada- 
 tion which hung over fair youth ; and her thoughts 
 found silent expression, now for his sake, in the 
 yearning within her which was never subdued: 
 "If only his father had lived!" 
 
 But she did not speak until they had left the 
 table and betaken themselves to a cosily-furnished 
 room at the back of the house, called for distinc- 
 tion the "morning-room," but used chiefly in the 
 evenings, when they were alone. Its principal 
 contents were two or three wicker-work chairs, a 
 small table and a Chesterfield couch, arranged in 
 something of a circle about the fireplace, two oil- 
 lamps, burning under crimson shades, a wide 
 Sheraton bookcase, filled with brightly-covered, 
 readable-looking books, and a large and — it must 
 be confessed — ^somewhat untidy writing-desk. 
 
 The latter was Maurice's. When he felt lazy, 
 38 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 he made up his mind to take its disorder seriously 
 in hand on the following day, and, when he felt 
 energetic, did something better worth his time. To- 
 night his mood rather inclined to the former qual- 
 ity. He lighted a pipe, took a current magazine 
 from a shelf, and settled himself comfortably to 
 read it. Angelica had already occupied a chair 
 beneath one of the lamps, with some fancy-work. 
 
 "Maurice," she said, "will you let me ask you 
 a question?" 
 
 "As m.any as you like," said Maurice, dropping 
 his magazine and smiling at her. 
 
 "It's not an ordinary one; it's rather delicate 
 and personal — rather difficult to ask." 
 
 Maurice's expression changed. He looked at 
 her wonderingly, and with a little surprise. "I'll 
 answer it if I can," he said. 
 
 Angelica hesitated for words. "Up to now," 
 she said, slowly, "up to now you have been what 
 is called 'sti-aight' ?" 
 
 Maurice flushed deeply, and turned his face to 
 the fire in front of him. He had all the bashful- 
 ness of youth, and he was supersensitive. The 
 mention of such a subject by a woman appeared 
 to him to border on indelicacy. 
 
 39 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "Yes, I have," he answered, almost sharply; 
 then paused, and added: "That would have been 
 an uncommonly awkward question to answer, if I 
 couldn't have given you that reply." 
 
 "You wouldn't have lied?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 'Would yon, Maurice?" 
 
 "No, I suppose I shouldn't. But still," he per- 
 sisted, "I don't think it was quite fair." 
 
 She crossed to the chair next him, and took his 
 hand. "Don't be cross with me, Maurice," she 
 said softly. "You don't know what it means to 
 me. You don't know what I've gone through to- 
 day on your account." 
 
 Maurice looked at her earnest face. Into those 
 deep, trustable grey eyes. Then he remembered 
 her attitude and expression when he first entered 
 the drawing-room, and his conscience struck him. 
 
 "I'm awfully sorry," he simply said. And he 
 returned the pressure of her hand. 
 
 "You know, dear," Angelica went on, "I hope 
 you know the risks and dangers of a great city like 
 London?" 
 
 He shrank Into his shell again and tried to with- 
 draw his hand, but Angelica clung to it. 
 
 40 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "You must let me talk to you," she said. "I'm 
 nearly twice your age. I've mothered you since 
 you were a toddling mite. There is no man to do 
 it for me. You are fatherless, and friendless but 
 for me. Someone must — and there is no one else." 
 
 "I don't see the necessity," said Maurice, dog- 
 gedly. 
 
 "I want you to know," she went on, without 
 heeding, "that it would break my heart if anything 
 happened to you, anything serious, anything that 
 might ruin you for life." 
 
 Maurice made no response for a time. He was 
 staring into the fire and rippling the edges of the 
 magazine with his thumb. 
 
 "You can trust me, Angelica," he said, at last. 
 
 'To — to refrain?" She hung on her breath for 
 his reply. 
 
 "To take care. Oh, you don't understand," he 
 cried, with sudden excitement, springing up from 
 his chair. "There are some things a man must 
 do, or go mad. You are a woman, Angelica, and 
 you don't understand." 
 
 "I do," said Angelica, quietly. "I am a woman 
 and I do understand. It is because I am a woman 
 that I understand." 
 
 41 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 The words carried all the more force for the 
 simple tone in which they were uttered. Maurice 
 forgot the tempest of self-demand which had flung 
 him from his seat, stood quite still, and looked at 
 her with half-caught comprehension. 
 
 "Why do you men always assume a monopoly 
 of these human attributes?" Angelica continued, 
 after a slight pause. "Why do you arrogate to 
 yourselves the sole need and credit for self-con- 
 quest?" She was speaking slowly and distinctly, 
 without raising her voice. "I have had my bat- 
 tles to fight as well as you. ... I have them 
 still — ^" she suddenly dropped her eyes — "for I 
 have not won them yet." 
 
 The last words were uttered In so low a tone that 
 Maurice hardly caught them, and a soft colour came 
 into her cheeks. 
 
 It was important, perhaps, that he did not miss 
 them, for they produced two very notable and last- 
 ing effects upon him. In the first place, they Im- 
 pressed him with a new and a truer conception of 
 women In general, and increased his respect for 
 them; and, In the second, they enabled him to rec- 
 ognise that Angelica herself. In spite of her grey 
 hairs, was still a very attractive woman. There 
 
 42 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 is nothing — nothing in this world — ^which so surely 
 brings home a woman's youth to the mind, which 
 shouts it with so clear and cogent a voice, as the 
 knowledge that the fervours and passions of hu- 
 manity are still awake in her. 
 
 Except for the light colour in her cheeks, 
 Angelica had changed in no outward particular in 
 the last few minutes: the lamplight fell softly on 
 her grey hair, gleamed on her smooth, white 
 shoulders, and picked out the diamonds on her 
 clasped hands. But by her confession she was re- 
 pictured, once and for all, on Maurice's mental 
 retina. He saw in her, for the first time, some- 
 thing besides a foster mother, a kind guardian, an 
 amiable and atrophied husk of what might have 
 been, long ago, before he was born, pulsating 
 womanhood. The scales fell from his eyes and 
 she was transfigured before him; throbbing with 
 unabated youth, subject to its joys and its pains, 
 conscious in herself of that living fire which seethed 
 in his own veins. 
 
 From that moment there occurred a subtle 
 change in the relationship of these two. It was 
 evidenced by Maurice's very next action. He re- 
 sumed his vacated chair, and, of his own accord, 
 
 43 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 took her hand and pressed it. He expressed noth- 
 ing in words, and for some minutes there was 
 silence between them. 
 
 At last Angelica took up her thread again. 
 
 "I want you to promise me, Maurice," she said, 
 "not that you won't (I wouldn't ask that of you) 
 but that you will remember that I am human, and 
 can understand and sympathise with you, and that 
 you will talk to me honestly if you are tempted to 
 do anything rash." 
 
 "That's nearly the same thing, isn't it?" said 
 Maurice. "It means I can't go out at night — 
 not alone, that is — or with Grahame or other fel- 
 lows." 
 
 Angelica thought a moment. "Yes, it means 
 that, Maurice — ^without telling me." 
 
 Maurice laughed a little. "I'm to come and 
 ask leave for a night off ?" he said. 
 
 She looked up and met his glance with her own, 
 perfectly frank, with Irresistible appeal and trust 
 in it. "Yes," she answered. 
 
 Still Maurice temporised. "That's rather a 
 large order," he said. "Supposing a man met me 
 in town and suggested dining there and going to a 
 music-hall, am I to say I can't without leave?" 
 
 44 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "I only ask you to fulfill the spirit," said 
 Angelica, simply. 
 
 There was a pause. Maurice rose and knocked 
 the ashes from his pipe; then slowly filled and 
 lighted it again. He did it with unusual thorough- 
 ness. He took out his knife and scraped away 
 the bottom ash, and then closed it again with a 
 click. Nevertheless, during the process he had 
 made up his mind. 
 
 "You know what you are asking, Angelica?" 
 he said. 
 
 "I've told you." 
 
 "And you still ask it ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Very well, then ; I give you my promise. Now 
 let's talk of something else." 
 
 He went to his desk and deliberately sat down 
 with his back to her. He was afraid of being 
 thanked. There was no fear that Angelica would 
 make a fuss. But he knew that she would be very 
 sweet; and, with his new-gained knowledge, he 
 wasn't sure that he felt up to meeting her eyes, 
 if she looked at him as she could look. So he 
 pulled a sheet of paper towards him and wrote to 
 an imaginary person to say that he should be 
 
 45 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 pleased to meet him, as suggested, on the follow- 
 ing day, to discuss the matters that were outstanding 
 between them. And a little later, when Angelica 
 wasn't looking, he surreptitiously tore it up and 
 dropped it in the waste-paper basket. 
 
 It was almost an hour before his usual time when 
 he got up to go to bed. 
 
 "I'm tired," he said. "Didn't get much sleep 
 last night" — with a slight laugh. "You'll excuse 
 me, won't you, Angelica ? Good-night." 
 
 He was tired. There was a droop about him 
 as he walked slowly to the door and out. So it 
 seemed to Angelica. 
 
 She stood a few minutes in front of the fireplace, 
 looking down into the red glow. . . . She had 
 won a respite. But, after all, to what end? He 
 would lead the man's life. Some woman, sooner 
 or later — 
 
 Some woman, sooner or later? She took a 
 breath. Some woman? There was that at the 
 tail of the thought which affected her violently. 
 The room reeled and spun. She dropped suddenly 
 and heavily into a chair. 
 
 46 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 Mrs Cunningham came down the hall, moving 
 her small person quickly by dint of fast, small 
 steps. She was slightly short-sighted, and this 
 gave an appearance of peering to her rather roguish 
 brown eyes. 
 
 "You are quite a dear," she said to Angelica, 
 who came out of the morning-room to meet her, 
 "quite the veriest dear in the world," and she 
 stretched out both her hands and put up her soft 
 glowing face. 
 
 "I think the shoe is on the other foot," said 
 Angelica. "It is very sweet of you to come. It 
 is much too long since we have seen you." Then, 
 drawing back and scanning her, "Why, how well 
 you look! I think matrimony suits you, Maude." 
 
 "Of course it does," said Maude; "it suits every- 
 one." She seated herself without ceremony in one 
 of the wicker chairs in the morning-room. "Or 
 perhaps I ought to say it used to suit me," she 
 added, laughing. "I suppose I've been living on 
 
 memories." 
 
 47 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "That isn't always a very satisfying diet," said 
 Angelica, softly. She closed the door and came 
 to sit by her friend. 
 
 The latter edged adroitly away from the 
 subject of memories. "No, it isn't," she said. 
 "Imagine a husband whose business is liable to 
 take him away at any moment for six months at 
 a time ! I really wish I had wasted a little." She 
 surveyed her dainty, plump person with disappro- 
 val. "Then, when he saw me, he would be sorry 
 perhaps. And, before I married, I thought it 
 wouldn't matter much !" 
 
 "Neither it does," said Angelica, smiling. "You 
 are much happier really; you quarrel less and ap- 
 preciate one another more." 
 
 "We never quarrel," said Mrs Cunningham, em- 
 phatically. 
 
 "Never?" 
 
 "One doesn't count small differences about 
 quite absurd things," said the little wife, 
 honestly. "For instance, there was a hat of 
 mine — " 
 
 "Oh, I don't want to hear the details," said 
 Angelica, laughing. "It's those quite absurd things 
 that make all the mischief." 
 
 48 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "Anyhow, we didn't quarrel," persisted the 
 matron, sturdily. 
 
 "You hadn't time," said Angelica. 
 
 Mrs Cunningham screwed up her eyes in a quaint 
 little way of her own — partly the result of her 
 short sight — and looked closely at her hostess. 
 "Angelica, you are becoming quite cynical in — 
 in—" 
 
 "In my old age?" said Angelica. "Am I? 
 I don't think so, dear. You mustn't take me too 
 seriously. What time do you expect your hus- 
 band?" 
 
 "He gets to Charing Cross at two forty-four." 
 She hesitated. "It's very silly, Angelica, but I'm 
 really quite nervous about meeting him." 
 
 "Shy? Well, of course," said her hostess. 
 "But it won't last long." 
 
 "It's not merely that. There's something else. 
 You see, when he went away — ^we had been married 
 some time — and we hoped — that — that — " 
 
 "I see," said Angelica. "And the hope is not 
 going to be fulfilled?" 
 
 "No," replied Mrs Cunningham, quickly, de- 
 lighted to be relieved of more explicit expression. 
 "Isn't it disappointing?" 
 
 49 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "Good gracious!" said Angelica, suddenly. 
 "How long were you married — I mean, before he 
 went away?" 
 
 "Nearly a year," said the representative of wed- 
 lock; and she peeped up at her hostess with that 
 quaint contraction of her features, and with rather 
 a defensive gleam in her merry brown eyes. 
 
 "Why, what were you doing all that time ?" cried 
 Angelica, laughing. 
 
 Mrs Cunningham was adequately shocked. 
 "You are really almost indelicate," she complained, 
 "especially for a — for a — " 
 
 "For an old maid?" suggested Angelica. 
 
 "No, no." Yet she knew she had only been 
 searching for a less objectionable synonym. "An- 
 gelica" — suddenly — "why don't you marry?" 
 
 Angelica was about to put her off with a light 
 reply; then she changed her mind and looked at 
 her frankly. 
 
 "Do you know, Maude, that is a very foolish 
 question." 
 
 "You have never met anyone nice enough?" 
 
 "Indeed, I have; but none that could appeal to 
 me — sufficiently. Except, of course — " She 
 stopped. 
 
 50 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "Oh!" said Mrs Cunningham, pathetically, "will 
 you never outlive that?" 
 
 "Never," said Angelica. "I don't want to." 
 
 "But still," persisted the little matron, "people 
 are sometimes able to feel again — not quite the 
 same, perhaps — ^but very much." 
 
 Angelica looked at the bright, glowing face — at 
 this moment full of solicitude for what she believed 
 to be her happiness. Again she hesitated, and 
 again she decided to answer her seriously. 
 
 "Well, you have tried matrimony for a whole 
 year, Maude," she said, "to say nothing of the 
 six months that don't count. Would you honestly 
 tell me that 'not quite the same' is good enough? 
 Good enough to set one's seal to a life-long bond?" 
 
 Mrs Cunningham gave her earnest consideration 
 to the question. 
 
 "No, perhaps not in your case," she said, at last; 
 "but I think it is for people who have to." 
 
 People who have to! She uttered the words in 
 a thoroughly matter-of-fact tone, as thousands utter 
 them daily. She had no idea how they grated on 
 Angehca. 
 
 "After all," she summed up reflectively, "you 
 are very happy. You have all you want." 
 
 51 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 There was a faint suggestion of the interrogative 
 in each statement, but Angelica passed it by. 
 
 "I can't bear to think there are people who 
 believe they 'have to,' " she said. "Don't ever let 
 your daughters think that, Maude." 
 
 "I haven't got a daughter," said Maude, dole- 
 fully. "Why did you remind me of it again? I 
 was almost forgetting." 
 
 She contrived to make of herself quite a pathetic 
 little figure, composed of a base of genuine trouble 
 and a considerable superstructure of sham. But 
 the sham was of the flimsy quality which is not 
 intended to deceive. 
 
 "Are you really worrying about it, dear?" said 
 Angelica, gently. "I don't think you need. But 
 why didn't you tell him at once in one of your let- 
 ters?" 
 
 "I intended to," said Maude, penitently; "but 
 there was always such a lot to say, and I forgot. 
 No, I didn't," she corrected honestly, "I put it off. 
 I thought — oh, I don't know what I thought !" 
 
 "Little goose I Well, he has probably forgotten 
 all about it by this time." 
 
 Maude shook her head. "Oh, no, he hasn't," 
 she said decidedly. "He went away quite hap- 
 
 5» 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 pily. He thought it was quite sure. So did I." 
 The dismal memory took her hand to her pocket; 
 but having extracted an exquisite little piece of 
 cambric, she decided after all not to use it. Only 
 Angelica was aware of the faint but pungent per- 
 fume which she always connected with Maude. 
 "He would have been so proud," concluded the 
 latter, stretching the handkerchief from corner to 
 corner, as if to make sure that it was square. 
 
 "You mean 'pleased'?" said Angehca. 
 
 "Yes, pleased, of course; and proud, too — ^very 
 proud," reasserted the wife. 
 
 The distinction was not worth pursuing; but 
 Angelica's mind travelled back to some of the 
 tragedies, little and big, which had floated across 
 her ken, in connection with parentage. It is so 
 easy to lose all sense of proportion. Adjust it ac- 
 curately, and is there a more pathetic or ridiculous 
 object than a man who is proud of having become 
 a father ? Proud of having achieved a feat which, 
 under God, is found perfectly easy of accomplish- 
 ment by a farmyard rooster I Dame Nature, who 
 pitilessly pursues her inexorable purpose in laden 
 slums, through shamed, homes and over broken 
 hearts, may well be conceived to smile at man's 
 
 53 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "pride" in his share of her work, when it happens 
 to have been carried out with the pomp and cir- 
 cumstance of matrimony and in accordance with his 
 wishes. 
 
 After lunch Mrs Cunningham set off in fluttering 
 spirits to meet her husband. An hour or two later 
 Angelica heard a cab draw up outside the house. 
 There was a ring at the door-bell and a sound of 
 luggage being moved ; and then Maude came into 
 the drawing-room, flushed and happy, followed by 
 a broad and muscular but rather short man, with 
 a kindly expression, well-marked features, and a 
 light, drooping moustache. The disappointment 
 had evidently been overcome, for the barometer in 
 both their countenances stood at "set-fair." 
 
 Angelica rose. "So you have got him, Maude," 
 she said, smiling. 
 
 "Got him without hope of escape," said the cap- 
 tive, shaking hands and laughing cheerily in a 
 resonant voice of honest bass. "This is remark- 
 ably good of you, Miss Jenour." 
 
 Tom Cunningham was an excellent example of 
 the type of humanity which supplies the bulk of 
 modern Britain — sincere to the backbone, strong- 
 principled, orthodox, unimaginative. A nation 
 
 54 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 might be built on much worse material, but It has 
 its obvious limitations. It is not the bigot who 
 bars the advance of enlightened ideas in what are 
 called moral questions. He is transparently what 
 he is — narrow, noisy and negligible. It is the 
 tremendous mass behind him of ordered orthodox 
 thought. It says little, does little; it simply is. 
 It won't argue, won't be convinced, won't change, 
 can't change. We hate it; we know its wrong- 
 headedness, its infinite stupidity. It stands in our 
 way and makes us rage. But we admire it, we are 
 almost proud of it, for its transparent sincerity and 
 its magnificent stolidity. 
 
 Angelica told her guest that she was very pleased 
 to see him, and asked him if he had had a com- 
 fortable journey; to which he replied with a 
 guarded affirmative, and went on to relate certain 
 incidental experiences mildly satirical of modern 
 methods of travel. All of which came out in a 
 flowing, easy voice, and was accompanied almost 
 continuously by his mellow laugh, like the roll of 
 drums behind sonorous wind instruments playing an 
 air. Angelica gave due recognition to these jeux 
 d'esprit, and then tactfully relieved them of her 
 
 55 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 society by suggesting that Mrs Cunningham should 
 herself show her husband his room. 
 
 "It is quite possible," she warned them, "that 
 dinner may be dragged forward to some unconscion- 
 able hour. I told Maurice to get theatre-tickets 
 for one or two nights ; and as to-night would be the 
 least convenient, he will probably choose it." 
 
 "Oh, really, Miss Jenour," demurred the man 
 of commerce, "you mustn't entertain us. We are 
 simply interlopers and very thankful for a shelter." 
 
 "The obligation is on our side," replied Angelica, 
 brightly. "We should never see anything at all 
 if it weren't for our visitors. We are much too un- 
 enterprising to go alone." 
 
 There was nothing particularly funny in the re- 
 mark. Nevertheless, Mr Cunningham's rich laugh 
 floated deprecatingly back to Angelica as he left the 
 room on his way upstairs. 
 
 56 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 Angelica took up some fancy-work and sat down 
 before the fire. She lifted a black silk bag lined 
 with pale yellow from beside her chair, and, after 
 patient search, extracted from it the materials she 
 required, and then, having held her needle to the 
 light and threaded it, set diligently to work to 
 blend arbitrary colours upon the petals of an im- 
 possible flower. The drawing-room was imme- 
 diately beneath the blue room, and, as she worked, 
 she could hear footsteps moving in the room above, 
 and the muffled sound of voices. No words 
 were distinguishable, but she could tell perfectly 
 plainly when the man was speaking and when the 
 woman. 
 
 Suddenly she started violently and sat bolt up- 
 right in her chair. The voices were still an indis- 
 tinct murmur, but a new quality had come into the 
 tones — a quality which pierced the intervening plas- 
 ter and woodwork as if it had been paper — a joy- 
 ous, nervous tension. Words came on the edge 
 of a half-caught breath, especially in the treble 
 
 57 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 tones. And the short laughs were no longer quite 
 spontaneous. But in those also there was joy — 
 deep, underlying, quivering joy. 
 
 The effect on Angelica was electrical. A tremor 
 swept through her ; all the blood in her veins shiv- 
 ered back to her heart and left her cold. A moment 
 before she had been calmly doing fancy-work. 
 Now — by a subtle, slight change in the note of 
 barely audible voices — she was trembling with un- 
 controllable excitement and agitation. 
 
 She could have spared herself in a measure — 
 spared a temperament strung so exquisitely that 
 even so small an influence set the strings tumult- 
 uously vibrating — ^by leaving the room. In a 
 measure only; for remembrance would have 
 called imagination to its aid and have still kept 
 her on the rack. But she did not leave the room ; 
 she could not; the electric wires had been joined, 
 the current was surging through her, and she was 
 utterly in its grip. On the contrary, she listened. 
 She was incapable of meanness — she never thought 
 of it — only her own storming instincts imperiously 
 claimed that much recognition. She was moved 
 by something stronger than herself. This she 
 would have; this, at least, she would have. All 
 
 58 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 the beaten-down nature of her forty years of re- 
 pression found vent In this poor outlet. So she 
 listened — listened with straining ears. 
 
 Her imagination became almost preternaturally 
 vivid. She saw into the room above as clearly as 
 if she had been standing within It. The whole 
 scene was reproduced In living colours on the retina 
 of her brain. Every movement, every sound con- 
 veyed its accurate meaning to her. It did not sur- 
 prise her at the time that it should be so — as it did 
 in the retrospect — she assumed it as a perfectly 
 ordinary faculty. 
 
 Presently came a sound she was waiting for — 
 which she knew must come. . . . But the pro- 
 jected thought did nothing to diminish the effect 
 of the thought externalised In actuality. She 
 gripped the elbows of the chair to steady and sup- 
 port herself. She was not merely trembling; she 
 was shaken through and through. Her blood 
 seemed to be staunched at her heart and to have 
 ceased to flow. She ground her teeth, but could 
 not save them from chattering. And though she 
 strove to check It, a low moan — as from a child in 
 pain — was wrung from her. 
 
 :This was actual physical suffering. She hardly 
 
 59 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 noticed that. She was in a thraldom which made 
 it nothing. What gripped her with passionate 
 resentment was that its violence prevented her 
 taking further draughts from the well whose 
 bitter-sweet waters had caused it. The moments 
 were flying, and she could no longer hear. She 
 set her will with all her might, and at last obtained 
 a temporary respite. . . . The voices had become 
 intermittent and monosyllabic. She heard but 
 for the briefest moment. Then the agitation 
 surged over and through her again and again and 
 again. 
 
 There were no further respites. By the time 
 the attack had spent its force there was silence in 
 the room above. For the space of, perhaps, a 
 minute, Angelica sat quite still, her face pale and 
 strained, still trembling slightly. Then, slowly, 
 she bowed her head into her hands and sobbed. 
 For the first time since she was a child she wept 
 for herself. And now and then the tremors seized 
 her once more and shivered through her, like squalls 
 on a still lake. 
 
 She thought of the barren past and the barren 
 future. There was this joy in the world — for all 
 
 60 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 she knew, a greater than existed in any world, now 
 or to come — and she was not to know it. 
 
 A wave of bitterness swept over her. She was 
 a maid. There were thousands of maids such as 
 she; not created to that end by their Maker, but 
 forced to be such by the conditions of existence 
 which man had set up. Who had a right to say to 
 her and her sisters that they must never live to the 
 fulness of their inheritance, must never eat of the 
 tree of knowledge, bitter though it might often be, 
 but sometimes very sweet? Who had a right to 
 graft upon the world arbitrary social forms, which 
 involved this callous discarding of the overplus of 
 women ? For a man there was some relief, a cer- 
 tain tacit license, objectionable as such, but still 
 existing. But for a woman? Let her re- 
 nounce her freedom, let her give herself up 
 wholly and unconditionally into the keeping and 
 control of another; that irrevocable bond, or — 
 nothing. 
 
 Gradually this vehement mood dropped from 
 her and her thoughts ran in quieter channels. But 
 the sense of injustice remained. She knew it was 
 wrong that she should be sitting there, demanding 
 to live to the ends of her womanhood, and be met 
 
 6i 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 by the fiat that she must first of all enter into 
 a contract which was possible only at the price 
 of being false to her intellect and her soul, 
 and unfair to whomsoever might accept it. She 
 knew that was wrong, because her instinct told her 
 so. 
 
 But she did not inveigh against Eternal Purpose. 
 Only it occurred to her to wonder — ^perhaps for the 
 first time in her life — if that purpose had neces- 
 sarily been correctly interpreted by man. One did 
 not give a child cake to watch its poor efforts to 
 keep it from its mouth. Human instincts were 
 given us for some end beyond supplying an exer- 
 cise for the ascetic faculties. "If a thing is pleas- 
 ant it is wrong." That appeared to express the 
 sum product of human endeavour to penetrate 
 divine intention. One had grown into the habit of 
 assuming it to be right. . . . Was It? . . . 
 Was it? 
 
 Angelica started from her seat, struck by the 
 sudden vigour of the thought. It fired her blood 
 and quickened her intelligence with a new light. 
 She saw the false premise, the distorted conception 
 of the Creator's infinite beneficence, upon which 
 man's dictum was founded. 
 
 62 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "What ! out of senseless nothing to provoke 
 A conscious something to resent the yoke 
 
 Of unpermitted pleasure, under pain 
 Of everlasting penalties, if broke ! " 
 
 He never did, and He never would. That yoke 
 is of man's fashioning. 
 
 It has lain heavily on your tender neck, Angelica. 
 For five-and-twenty years — all your adult life 
 — you have carried it without question, as part 
 of the manifold human ills to which you were 
 born. Now it occurs to you to ask "Why?" 
 And for that — ^just for that — my readers are 
 beginning to shake their heads at you ; they whose 
 yoke has perhaps been light. Some of them have 
 stopped reading about you already. They think 
 you are going to turn out to be what they would 
 call, with the Christian charity that distinguishes 
 them, a "bad woman." Those are the quite im- 
 maculate ones, whose white robes such as you and 
 I can scarcely presume to touch. There are a few, 
 I am glad to say, who will continue to believe in 
 you, whatever you do. But even they might not 
 all be able — much as they would regret it — 'to go 
 on calling upon you. You see, in this world we 
 have to be so careful about what other people 
 
 63 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 may think; they might possibly misinterpret our 
 high-minded motives. There is something due to 
 ourselves, you understand; we must never forget 
 ourselves. 
 
 So you must be cautious, dear. Nothing will 
 your own sex, at any rate, less easily forgive than 
 the raising, ever so little, of that chafing collar. 
 Married women and elderly spinsters you must 
 particularly beware of. It is they whose silence is 
 virulent, whose "charity" a careful compound of 
 noxious subtleties. Perhaps it is not to be won- 
 dered at. They themselves have suffered from 
 their sex. They have known the struggles, per- 
 haps the fright ; but with a little luck, perhaps with- 
 out, they have come through the danger zone. 
 And when it comes to the turn of another, don't 
 they have their revenge. 
 
 I know a lady very gentle, very sweet. If you 
 should meet her, you will agree with me. One 
 day she heard that a little maid-servant had been 
 dimly suspected of making some poor tentative 
 attempt to ease her neck. The change in her was 
 startling. With heart and eyes and voice as hard 
 as Pharaoh's she exclaimed, "She shouldn't have 
 been kept a day." And yet that same lady had 
 
 64 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 retained In her service for months a woman known 
 to be a thief and a liar. 
 
 Oh, you matrons ! You comfortably married 
 matrons I Whenever I hear a remark of that 
 sort, I think of a temperance lecturer with a private 
 bottle of spirits behind the scenes, with which to 
 refresh himself in the intervals of his oratory. 
 
 Angelica was still standing by the window, 
 whither the vivid thought which flung her from her 
 seat had carried her, when she heard the door open. 
 She turned her head and saw Maude enter. An- 
 gelica was surprised to see her look so composed. 
 
 But that Is the miracle of marriage. Men and 
 women still throbbing from passionate scenes can 
 join a breakfast-party and talk unconcernedly of 
 current events. Day after day there is that going 
 on in millions of homes which stirs human beings 
 to their utmost depths, and yet — on the surface — 
 non-existent. It is a very wonderful thing. It is 
 not always understood how wonderful It is. Here 
 is this world and all the superficial things of It, the 
 things we talk about and work about and spend 
 our lives about; but underneath — hardly recog- 
 nised, hardly hinted at — Is the deep unchanging 
 power which moves it all. 
 
 65 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 Maude, on her part, however, saw signs in 
 Angelica which did not speak of composure. 
 
 "Why, what is the matter, dear?" she asked 
 anxiously. "You look as if — " 
 
 "Do I?" said Angelica. "Perhaps I have. 
 Is there any law which forbids it?" she asked, 
 smiling. 
 
 The other waited and studied her friend through 
 serious brown eyes. 
 
 "Will you tell me?" she asked. "Can I help 
 you?" 
 
 "You can't, dear," said Angelica. 
 
 Maude was puzzled. What could Angelica — 
 Angelica who had apparently everything she could 
 wish for; adequate means, a comfortable home, 
 freedom from care, years that hung lightly on her, 
 an attractive personality and a sympathetic nature 
 that made her universally beloved — ^what could 
 Angelica find to weep about? 
 
 "Tom will be down directly," she said presently. 
 "He is unpacking. We had such a lot to tell each 
 other." 
 
 Angelica said nothing. 
 
 66 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 Among the first-fruits of Maurice's promise to 
 Angelica was an acceptance of Grahame's invita- 
 tion to spend the ensuing week-end at Haslemere. 
 He knew that, to keep going on the new lines, he 
 would have to break the monotony of life wher- 
 ever he saw an opportunity. Moreover, now that 
 Angelica had the Cunninghams to keep her com- 
 pany, he was denuded of even the semblance of an 
 excuse for refusing. 
 
 It cannot be said, for all that, that he approached 
 the business with any exuberance of spirits. He 
 looked upon it very much in the sense of a duty, 
 due indeed principally to himself, but also in a 
 minor degree to Angelica and to Grahame. He 
 had strung himself up to the point of undertaking 
 it, and he meant, if he could, to go through with it 
 creditably. 
 
 Such was his condition of mind as he sat in the 
 railway carriage opposite Grahame and stared out 
 of the window at the slowly-moving birch woods, 
 
 67 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 while the train laboured up the long hill from 
 Guildford. 
 
 When a place has long been known by report 
 but never seen, the mind necessarily forms some 
 picture of it, often quite arbitrarily, upon which to 
 project its thoughts. So vivid may this become 
 that, even after the place has been actually beheld, 
 the imagined form of it sometimes returns to the 
 brain in place of the reality. Maurice without the 
 least foundation had conceived Mrs Grahame's 
 house as a bright, many-gabled, lattice-windowed 
 modern building, partly pebble-dashed and sham- 
 timbered, backed by pine woods and approached 
 by a new road. Consequently, his ideas needed 
 considerable reorganising when Grahame led him 
 to his mother's actual residence. 
 
 It stood in the main street of the village, its long 
 side flush with the pavement — so flush that the 
 lower windows demanded a series of short muslin 
 blinds, to screen the rooms from the casual eyes of 
 pedestrians. It was neatly painted and cared for, 
 though the old red brick showed some signs of 
 decay. The side facing the street was prolonged 
 by a high brick wall, which guarded a leafy garden. 
 This garden extended in an L shape to the back of 
 
 $8 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 the house, where there was an open view of the 
 heather and pines. At the point where the wall 
 joined the building proper, the former was pierced 
 by a narrow archway, blocked with a green door. 
 You passed through this and along a short flagged 
 path to the main entrance, which faced the garden 
 through a lattice porch. 
 
 On entering the house, Maurice was met by 
 an unexpected indulgence. There were no im- 
 mediate signs of his hostesses. Grahame seemed 
 to be equally gratified, though for a different 
 reason. 
 
 "The old people may be asleep," he said below 
 his breath. "If we could manage to see Cecil alone 
 for a moment we should get to know what line 
 to take." 
 
 He cautiously opened the library door and 
 looked inside. Finding the room empty he was 
 about to close it again, when he was struck by 
 a thought which took him up to the newspaper 
 rack. He ran his hand over three Queens, the last 
 Christmas number of the Graphic, several Quivers, 
 and innumerable copies of Weldon's Practical 
 Needlework. With a slight laugh at this unprofit- 
 able find he came away and looked into the 
 
 69 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 dining-room. That also was empty. Then he 
 crossed the hall and, with even greater precaution, 
 peeped into the drawing-room. He pushed his 
 head further inside and looked round the corner. 
 Then he flung the door wide open. 
 
 "All out, apparently," he said, resuming his 
 ordinary tone. "Well, come in, Heelas." 
 
 He caught sight of a maid descending the stairs. 
 "Is Miss Grahame out?" he said to her. 
 
 "Yes, sir," replied the maid. "She went out 
 about three o'clock with Mrs Grahame and Miss 
 Gaskell. They expected to be back before you 
 came, sir." 
 
 Grahame turned back into the drawing-room. 
 "That means meeting them all in a bunch," he 
 said to Heelas. "We must make the best of it." 
 
 Then, as the maid was disappearing, he shouted 
 again to her. "Jane." 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Bring me all the newspapers that haven't been 
 burnt." 
 
 "All of them, sir?" said Jane. 
 
 She wasn't surprised, neither had she failed 
 to hear. She repeated the request without any 
 reason whatever; an irritating habit which from 
 
 70 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 some men would have provoked a sarcastic reply. 
 But Grahame was not of that type. 
 
 "Yes, every one of them," he said briskly, "and 
 as quickly as you can." 
 
 She returned presently with four copies of the 
 Morning Post; or, rather, with three and a portion, 
 for the fourth had evidently done partial duty as a 
 fire-lighter. There was also the previous Satur- 
 day's number of the Haslemere Gazette, carefully 
 preserved in the kitchen after the less important 
 organs had gone the way of all newspapers. 
 
 "Now," said Grahame, sitting down with the 
 papers on his knee, after the door had closed be- 
 hind Jane; "it was Monday night, wasn't it? That 
 would make it Tuesday morning. So it would be 
 in Wednesday's paper." He went through the 
 pile. "Monday's — that's no use; Thursday's — a 
 bit of it — the advertisement sheets; all Friday's, 
 and" — he picked up the last — "Tuesday's." He 
 looked up with a whimsical smile. 
 
 "Are you sure?" said Heelas. 
 
 "Look at them yourself, old chap." He tossed 
 him over the pile. "There are three things that 
 may have happened to it," he went on sagely; 
 "Cecil may have it; the Mater may have it, to 
 
 71 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 produce quietly when she thinks it expedient; 
 or it may have been burnt in the ordinary course. 
 I should say the chances are about equal all 
 round." 
 
 He got up and stood with his back to the fire, 
 one hand in his pocket, the other on his hip, and 
 looked down amiably at Heelas, as the latter turned 
 the papers. His face expressed the comprehensive 
 good-will which made his nature so lovable. The 
 next moment he gathered up the papers from 
 Maurice's knee and placed them under a couch with 
 elaborate stealth. There were voices in the hall. 
 He opened the door and went out. 
 
 "Hello, mother!" Maurice heard him say. 
 "Frolicking about as usual ! I never knew anyone 
 like you." 
 
 There followed a quick twitter of female voices, 
 slightly breathless and expostulatory, but pitched 
 in a tone — so he thought, with relief — indicating 
 the very best of spirits. 
 
 Then came the expected incursion — ^which 
 Maurice awaited in the centre of the drawing-room 
 carpet, in an attitude which he devoutly hoped 
 might represent, but which he was painfully con- 
 scious did not, graceful ease: two elderly ladies, 
 
 72 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 still breathless and bonneted, accompanied by 
 Grahame. In these Heelas had no difficulty in 
 recognising Mrs Grahame and her sister, Miss 
 Gaskell, Six years had changed them very little. 
 Both were then, as now, slight and brisk and 
 white-haired (Miss Gaskell, as became a spinster, 
 perhaps a little the slighter and brisker of the two) , 
 both were pleasant-featured. He was to learn too, 
 presently, that they could each of them still talk 
 as volubly as ever upon subjects in which he would 
 experience the same difficulty as of yore to become 
 absorbed. 
 
 You may be inclined to think, perhaps, that 
 they had rather a slow time of it up at Haslemere. 
 At once disabuse your mind of any such impression. 
 They were merry, these elderly ladies; oh, but 
 they were giddy ! (in a strictly pious and decorous 
 way). Dear me, the tea-fights and the whist- 
 drives (they occasionally included a representative 
 of the male sex) , the bazaars and garden-parties, 
 such fun and frolic as never was ! And the good 
 works they did amidst of it all! Their circle 
 of friends was remarkably extensive. Some of 
 them, they were obliged to admit, were a little 
 peculiar in their ways. The Haslemere people, it 
 
 73 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 may be interjected, for the benefit of those who 
 do not know it, are the sort who go in for high art 
 and the simple life, and afFect slovenly dressing, 
 and furnish their houses with gimcrack severity. 
 But though our two ladies did not omit to subject 
 these details in private to adequate comment and 
 criticism, they prided themselves that in general 
 principle they were sufficiently broad-minded to 
 glance over them with becoming charity. 
 
 Mrs Grahame played the leading role on all 
 occasions, by virtue of her matronship, and also, 
 if the truth must be told, by virtue of her purse- 
 strings. Indeed, they were real good souls; but 
 one had been unfortunate, and the other failed to 
 recognise the sacrifices her sister was making for 
 her. (And what sacrifice can an amiable spinster 
 lady make greater than holding her tongue?) 
 Their father, a man of sanguine temperament, had 
 died before the commercial enterprises in which 
 he had launched his capital had sufficiently de- 
 veloped to affect the death duties. So his mar- 
 ried daughter was left dependent upon her hus- 
 band, and his unmarried one upon that personal 
 possession which was the only endowment of a 
 certain milkmaid of nursery-rhyme. Unfortu- 
 
 74 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 nately it cannot be denied in the face of bald fact 
 — whatever the aspersion cast upon the gallantry 
 of mankind — that this was a property which had 
 not proved of a freely negotiable character. Con- 
 sequently, when her sister was left a widow, she 
 readily acceded to the latter's request to lighten 
 her bereavement by making her a long visit — a 
 visit which was steadily developing into perma- 
 nent residence, if, indeed, it had not already fairly 
 earned that description, having lasted nearly seven 
 years. The arrangement involved the tacit con- 
 dition, which we have hinted was perhaps not 
 quite adequately appreciated by Mrs Grahame, that 
 she should be willing largely to efface herself and 
 to play a complementary second fiddle. So far as 
 was consonant with that, she shared with her sister 
 the joys and cares of her position and her house- 
 hold. Both, as we have seen, were enthusiastically 
 alive to neighbourly and social obligations, both 
 were high authorities In all that concerned domes- 
 tic service, both took a deep interest in the 
 welfare of Cecil and a deeper one in that of 
 Christopher. 
 
 Mrs Grahame came quickly up to Maurice with 
 outstretched hand. 
 
 75 
 
^HE YOKE 
 
 She was full of apologies for not having been in 
 to greet her guest; but, really, Mrs Joppling had 
 been so hospitable, and Mr Joppling had been so 
 full of anecdote, and Miss Cameron had made them 
 laugh so much, that the time had slipped by before 
 they realised it. Miss Cameron was Mr Jop- 
 pling's niece, and such a nice girl, so jolly and 
 bright. It was a pity that — (Here an unhappy 
 passage in Miss Cameron's history was parenthet- 
 ically suggested in a tone parenthetically subdued. ) 
 Finally she welcomed Maurice very warmly to her 
 house "in the wilds." She added facetiously that 
 in a household of lone women a gentleman was 
 especially persona grata. 
 
 Miss Gaskell also said (when Mrs Grahame had 
 quite finished) that she was very pleased to meet 
 him again, and what a pity it was that he didn't 
 come oftener to Haslemere. The handshake with 
 which she accompanied this sentiment suggested 
 almost boisterous camaraderie. If Maurice had 
 supposed (it implied) that he was likely to find her 
 a crotchety old maid he must forthwith correct his 
 ideas. 
 
 The prolixity of these various remarks gave 
 Maurice so long to think of a satisfactory rejoinder, 
 
 76 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 that he found the task unexpectedly easy when the 
 time came. He couldn't follow Mrs Grahame in 
 her encomiums of the Jopplings and their connec- 
 tions, never having heard of the Jopplings before ; 
 but he said that it was his own loss not to have 
 been to Haslemere hitherto, and that he had no 
 idea there was such beautiful country so near Lon- 
 don. Which sentiment, he gathered, from the 
 smiles with which it was received, was quite the 
 right one to express. 
 
 Then they all sat down; and the ladies at once 
 pleasantly included Maurice in the family circle 
 by untying the strings of their bonnets and re- 
 moving them. It was only mid-April and there 
 was a bright fire in the hearth, but the sun had 
 been exceptionally powerful that day. Mrs Gra- 
 hame thought so, at any rate, and Miss Gaskell 
 was of the same opinion. They had both noticed 
 it particularly, they said, hurrying home from the 
 Jopplings. 
 
 Maurice's glance wandered round the bright 
 chintz-covered furniture, and out through the long 
 French windows to the spring tints in the garden, 
 and finally rested on a clump of pine in the dis- 
 tance. It came back the next moment to Mrs 
 
 77 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 Grahame, whose voice demanded him; but he 
 furtively drew a breath of relief. It might have 
 been much worse. If this had been all, he would 
 have been almost happy. But through everything 
 that had taken place — the greetings, the explana- 
 tions, the final settlement to ordered peace — he 
 had been conscious that his ordeal was not yet 
 over. Indeed, the most dreaded part of it re- 
 mained to be faced. The Daughter of the House 
 (he thought of her in capitals) had still to make 
 her appearance. 
 
 Her delay puzzled him, and for a time it had 
 given him a fluttering hope. There might be 
 some afternoon and evening engagement, promis- 
 ing at any rate a temporary respite. But his ears, 
 kept eagerly open for • some possible support of 
 that delectable hypothesis, not only received none, 
 but were finally ruthlessly smitten by the chance 
 announcement that the lady of too-certain age was 
 actually in the house. He had visions of her 
 arraying herself with increasing splendours, in 
 order to make her eventful appearance completely 
 dismaying. 
 
 The door opened. His heart jumped, but he 
 kept his attention politely riveted on what Mrs 
 
 78 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 Grahame was saying, and then turned his head 
 quite quietly. He believed he knew something of 
 young ladles. But if he could possibly help it, 
 he did not think this one would have the slightest 
 reason to suppose that he was in any way impressed 
 or moved by her magnificence. However, it was 
 only the maid with the tea. It was placed on a 
 small table by the window; and still the stage 
 waited. 
 
 The calm — not to say the indifference — ^wlth 
 which the others awaited the approaching incur- 
 sion seemed to him almost offensive. Mrs Gra- 
 hame was telling him a merry yarn. He retained 
 considerable portions of it, and felt sure he would 
 be able to comment intelligibly If a pause occurred 
 unexpectedly. Furthermore, he fed the Incidental 
 hope that this sprightly mood was Inconsistent with 
 the private possession of Wednesday's paper. 
 Miss Gaskell was an interested and appreciative 
 listener to the story, which she had heard a dozen 
 times before, and occasionally punctuated It with 
 an explanatory observation in an unobtrusive tone. 
 Grahame was looking through the "Travel" replies 
 in the Queen, wondering whether he should go 
 to Paris or the Engadine for his next holiday. 
 
 79 
 
TH^ YOKE 
 
 Each and all, in short, were behaving precisely as 
 if there were no apparition momentarily liable to 
 burst upon the peace. 
 
 Then, while he was still feeling the vague resent- 
 ment which flowed from this condition of affairs, 
 the apparition was externalised. That exactly ex- 
 presses the effect. He had not heard her enter. 
 Merely he became aware that a tall and slender 
 young lady, with something artistic in her air, was 
 present in the room, was, in fact, coming across it 
 remarkably gracefully. 
 
 80 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 No one would have thought of calling Cecil 
 Grahame pretty. The word would not have been 
 in the least appropriate. She might have been said 
 to be exquisite. The whole suggestion was of 
 delicacy; her features clear and rather pale, very 
 finely wrought in an oval outline. Her fair hair 
 swept across her brow in one loose wave. It ap- 
 peared to Maurice to be commendably simple. We, 
 who know better, know that it was the art that 
 conceals art. 
 
 "I'm so sorry," she said. The natural culture 
 that was part of her being inflected her voice. 
 "There was a letter I had to write before post- 
 time. Aren't you going to say 'How-do-you-do' 
 to me, Chris?" 
 
 "Tea has only just come in, dear," said Mrs 
 Grahame, after Christopher had adequately recog- 
 nised his sister's existence. "You remember Mr. 
 Heelas?" 
 
 She extended a slender hand and smiled pleas- 
 antly and naturally. 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "If Mr Heelas remembers me," she said. 
 "Otherwise my memory will become shocking." 
 
 Maurice realised instinctively that the attitude 
 of polite indifference which he had intended to 
 adopt towards her was unnecessary. She was 
 plainly without the least suspicion of affectation. 
 So he actually allowed his dark eyes to dwell upon 
 her amicably, and brought himself to say, — 
 
 "It's very jolly to meet you again." 
 
 Whereupon Cecil made a mental note that he 
 was remarkably good-looking, and a further one 
 that he didn't know it. Moreover, when she had 
 taken her place behind the tea-things, where she 
 always officiated, and Maurice had resumed at- 
 tention to Mrs Grahame's diverting story (Mrs 
 Grahame's stories were never suffered to lapse 
 through interruption — they were merely held 
 temporarily in abeyance) , she gave him a longer 
 and more comprehensive look than she had ever 
 bestowed on him in his boyhood days. Incident- 
 ally she tried to connect this calm and refined and 
 rather shy person with the ferocious young gentle- 
 man whose wild exploit was recorded in the sheet 
 of a newspaper reposing in the bottom drawer in 
 her room. 
 
 82 
 
\THE YOKE 
 
 Presently the conversation became general, and 
 Christopher got up lazily to hand the tea, dropping 
 the Queen with a flop beside his chair. His truck 
 with it was not extensive. It consisted of a careful 
 perusal of the "Travel" replies, a passing glance 
 at Miss Hoare's beautiful women, and a hasty 
 run through the advertisements, on the chance of 
 discovering something particularly pungent. 
 
 "You might be holding my lump in, Cecil," he 
 said, as he took two cups. 
 
 She looked up with inquiry and slight expostula- 
 tion. "Holding it in, Chris ?" 
 
 "You know, I told you. I've got past the 
 actual sugar stage; but I like a lump held in for a 
 minute or two and then taken out again." 
 
 This aroused general protest, as being beyond 
 the reasonable duties of the dispenser of tea. Even 
 Mrs Grahame, though it evoked her mirth, took 
 sides against her son. 
 
 "My dear boy, you really can't expect Cecil to 
 do that for you," she said. 
 
 "Well, you see, mother," said Christopher, "it's 
 really my misfortune in not having a taste to fit 
 the only size that lumps of sugar are made. ,Will 
 you have muffin, or what?" 
 
 83 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "I rather agree with you," said Cecil, with her 
 calm smile. "Loaf-sugar should be graduated or 
 made in smaller blocks." 
 
 She fished out, not without patient search, a 
 broken piece and dropped it in his cup. It is an 
 operation by no means ungraceful when the opera- 
 tor has a light and dainty hand; a conclusion 
 which Maurice, somewhat to his own surprise, was 
 sufficiently observant to arrive at. Cecil did not 
 overwhelm him and close him up, as some of her 
 sex did; she was too natural to do that. He felt 
 with regard to her as one feels on entering an 
 exceptionally polished and pristine hall, that an 
 unusually protracted communion with the door-mat 
 is demanded, and that, even so, it is insufficient. 
 A sum in simple addition made her barely twenty, 
 but he found it extraordinarily difficult to accept 
 its evidence. She seemed so very much at her ease, 
 so utterly self-possessed, so quietly elegant, so 
 graceful, so cultured. She made him wish he could 
 look in the glass to see if his hair were tidy. He 
 wondered also if "awfully jolly" — an expression 
 he had just used — was really admissible in a draw- 
 ing-room. 
 
 After tea the two elder ladies picked up their 
 84 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 bonnets and gloves, and various small para- 
 phernalia they had brought in their hands, and 
 beat a quiet retreat. A silence, attributable 
 partly to reaction after their vivacious conversa- 
 tion, and partly to the knowledge of a somewhat 
 difficult subject unbroached, succeeded their de- 
 parture. 
 
 "I suppose," said Christopher, presently, draw- 
 ing his chair closer to the fire, "I suppose you 
 don't happen to know, Cecil, what has become of 
 Wednesday's paper?" 
 
 There was a slight pause. "I know where one 
 sheet of it is," said Cecil, calmly. 
 
 Both young men sat forward in their chairs, 
 and, after deciding that the fire needed prodding, 
 Christopher said, "Where?" 
 
 He had taken the poker in his hand, but he sus- 
 pended it for the reply. 
 
 "In my bottom drawer upstairs," said Cecil. 
 "It was too bad of you, Chris," she went on 
 quickly. "If mother had seen it, she would never 
 have got over it. I've been on thorns ever since, 
 lest somebody should tell her. This afternoon I 
 found out from Muriel Cameron that the Jopplings 
 knew." 
 
 85 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 Christopher attacked the fire with boisterous 
 energy, and the operation gave Maurice an oppor- 
 tunity to look at himself through untinted spec- 
 tacles, in the light of Cecil's protest. It required 
 those rays to show him the essential selfishness of 
 their exploit. He was the first to speak. 
 
 "I'm awfully sorry. Miss Grahame," he said. 
 "We were thoughtless imbeciles." 
 
 "Oh, it really didn't matter very much in your 
 case," said Cecil, turning to him. The frank peni- 
 tence in his face confirmed that note in her mental 
 memoranda and added another. "Mother has 
 rather prim ideas, poor dear, and she is too 
 old to change them. Angelica would understand 
 — or 'Miss Jenour' I suppose I ought to call her 
 now." 
 
 "She will always be 'Angelica' to me," said 
 Chris, dropping the poker and standing up, "and 
 nothing else." 
 
 "I haven't asked after her," said Cecil. "I used 
 to love her in the Cumberland Square days, and 
 I'm sure I should still. Everyone does. It would 
 be delightful to see her again." 
 
 "Well, Cumberland Square is still in existence," 
 said Maurice, "and Angelica still lives there. She 
 
 86 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 seems just the same to me as she did six years ago, 
 and I think she would to you." 
 
 He wondered, after he had got into bed that 
 night, if the words amounted to an invitation. 
 
 "Do you remember the day we all went to the 
 Zoo together?" said Cecil, becoming reminiscent. 
 "Chris insisted on riding on the elephant, so 
 Angelica took him. I knew perfectly well at the 
 time that she didn't much want to, and I've often 
 felt for her since. I wouldn't ride on that ridicu- 
 lous animal, before all those staring people, how- 
 ever much a noisy little boy might clamour." 
 
 "Did I do that?" said Chris. "Just like me. 
 I know the kind of hateful little imp." 
 
 The reminiscence provoked others, which suc- 
 ceeded one another so pleasantly that Maurice 
 forgot, for the time being, at any rate, that the 
 environment was not such as his soul loved, that 
 he had come to the house from a sense of duty, 
 and that he cherished a well-grounded and in- 
 grained antipathy to young ladies. 
 
 When eventually they made a move to dress for 
 dinner, Christopher lingered a moment behind with 
 his sister. 
 
 "Cecil, you're a brick," he said. 
 
 87 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 And Maurice, who was waiting in the hall, knew 
 that he put his arm round her and kissed her. 
 
 The older ladies wore black at dinner, but Cecil 
 appeared in a soft pink amalgamation of silk and 
 lace, and looked calm and elegant. Her clothes 
 were made to hang rather loosely upon her, not 
 in a slovenly or careless manner, nor yet with a 
 loud proclamation of high art, but with simple 
 grace and good taste. 
 
 During the meal there were several passages 
 which appear worthy of some reference. To begin 
 with — or, rather, after the removal of the fish — 
 Grahame had a fore-quarter of lamb placed in 
 front of him — calmly, deliberately placed in front 
 of him without explanation or apology. He looked 
 at it with speculative interest for a few moments, 
 as a professor might view an unfamiliar biological 
 specimen, and then candidly burst out laughing. 
 
 Mrs Grahame glanced round the lamp a little 
 anxiously. 
 
 "What's the matter, Chris?" she said. 
 
 "The matter!" said Chris. "Well—" His 
 explanation got no further, the sight of the thing 
 in front of him again becoming too much for his 
 gravity. 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 Mrs Grahame got up, laughing, and trotted 
 round to the other end of the table. She wanted 
 to take the carving-knife, but that was an indignity 
 which Chris would not suffer. He sent it away 
 ostentatiously to be sharpened, while his mother 
 explained the usually accepted methods of dealing 
 with the problem before them. 
 
 "My dear mother," he said, "you must begin 
 at the beginning. I don't even know what it is; 
 I don't know what animal it comes off." 
 
 So Mrs Grahame began at the beginning; and 
 the matter becoming presently a trifle involved, 
 chiefly through Chris's Interruptions, Miss Gaskell 
 also rose from her seat, to lend such additional 
 assistance as lay In her power. Cecil, who made 
 no pretence to be an authority, took no actual 
 part in the discussion, but she leaned forward and 
 watched the proceedings with quietly interested 
 eyes, and lips hovering on the brink of a laugh; 
 and occasionally interjected a remark to correct 
 an obvious verbal flaw. Maurice was left for the 
 moment in splendid Isolation at the other end of the 
 table. 
 
 Eventually the maid returned with the knife. 
 Chris gave it his approval. And so, with Mrs 
 
 89 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 Grahame on one side of him, pointing and instruct- 
 ing, and Miss Gaskell on the other, also pointing 
 and instructing, and a maid standing ready with 
 a spare dish, the shoulder was finally removed in 
 triumph and carried away amid the plaudits of the 
 company. After that achievement it was a rudi- 
 mentary business to sever the remainder into such 
 portions as could be placed upon plates without 
 public scandal. 
 
 Mrs Grahame returned to her seat, a little 
 flushed, and quietly reverted to the subject she 
 was discussing with Maurice before this incident — 
 namely, the extreme heat of the previous summer. 
 It had tried her severely, she informed him. She 
 thought there was nothing more trying than 
 excessive heat. The perpetual thirst that accom- 
 panied it was so difficult to bear. But that trouble, 
 it appeared, had latterly been much assuaged by 
 the discovery of a remedy which gave great re- 
 lief. 
 
 "I don't know if you know it," she said. "If 
 you don't, you should take a note of it: the juice 
 of a lemon mixed with honey and a little cinnamon. 
 A teaspoonful quenches the thirst almost imme- 
 diately." 
 
 90 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 Maurice said he was sure It must be very 
 effective and that it was kind of her to tell him 
 about it. 
 
 "But, good gracious, mother," exclaimed Chris- 
 topher, who had caught her last words, "you don't 
 expect a man to waste a thirst on a teaspoonful of 
 lemon syrup !" 
 
 Mrs Grahame looked at him a little severely. 
 She didn't care to have her pet specifics guyed, even 
 by Christopher. For a few moments there was 
 rather an awkward silence. 
 
 "I found it very comforting even in influenza," 
 said Miss Gaskell, dutifully coming forward to 
 fill the breach. "Have you suffered much from 
 influenza, Mr Heelas?" 
 
 Maurice thought he had had it once, but he 
 wasn't sure if it hadn't been only a bad cold. 
 
 "Oh, you couldn't mistake it," said Miss Gaskell, 
 solemnly. (Maurice realized that he had treated 
 a serious subject far too lightly.) She went on 
 to detail the symptoms, with special relation to 
 their manifestation in her own case, which Maurice 
 gathered had been in some respects abnormal, and 
 as such found peculiarly interesting by medical men. 
 This involved some correction by Mrs Grahame 
 
 91 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 of alleged small inaccuracies. ("I think it was 
 only loi on the first day, Carrie dear; it was on 
 the second you were 102.") And so the matter of 
 the lemon syrup was safely bridged over. 
 
 The subject of influenza reminded Miss Gaskell 
 of an amusing incident which had happened to a 
 lady at Bournemouth. But this was a tale which 
 Mrs Grahame knew also. She intervened gaily 
 and continued it, Miss Gaskell quietly dropping 
 out. Maurice laughed heartily, so did Cecil, so 
 did Miss Gaskell. Mrs Grahame was pleased, 
 because, as she remarked, she liked to see people 
 merry. She said she thought a good laugh did one 
 all the good in the world. It had always seemed 
 to her that it was a real misfortune to lack a sense 
 of the ludicrous. One gathered that she herself 
 had been happily endowed by Providence with a 
 peculiarly keen susceptibility in that respect. 
 
 Later in the evening, during dessert, she remem- 
 bered a story with a moral. She had a way of 
 remembering stories with morals when the day was 
 far spent. The story was not a long one, but the 
 moral was. It was the longest moral Maurice 
 had ever heard. In delivering it, Mrs Grahame 
 did not look at her audience, but down at her small 
 
 92 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 ringed hands, which were fingering the remnants 
 in her dessert-plate; and she spoke in low, level 
 tones, quietly but didactically. She was one of 
 those persons who believed implicitly in the value 
 of the spoken word and never stuck at voicing 
 things. 
 
 Once Maurice completely lost the thread, and 
 went hot at the thought that she might stop sud- 
 denly and expect him to reply. But the even tones 
 flowed on. Then it occurred to him that, although 
 she had begun by addressing him particularly, she 
 was now directing her remarks to the company at 
 large. And on looking round, he observed that 
 this was a fact which the company at large suffi- 
 ciently recognised. All were looking more or less 
 uncomfortable and trying not to show it. Chris- 
 topher was leaning back in his chair gazing at the 
 ceiling, with an appearance about his lips suggest- 
 ing a strong but restrained inclination to whistle. 
 Cecil was making patterns on the inside of a piece 
 of orange-peel with her fork. Miss Gaskell's 
 countenance expressed reverent assent, in front of 
 a little — a very little — boredom. 
 
 It was evident that Mrs Graham conceived her- 
 self to be executing a duty ; not an agreeable one, 
 
 93 
 
THE JOKE 
 
 perhaps, but for that reason all the more demanded 
 of her. Weaker souls might have shrunk from 
 speech; but she was not weak. There were three 
 young people at the table, and it was necessary to 
 their well-being that certain matters should be kept 
 prominently before them. What better time, 
 surely, for such a purpose, than during dessert, in 
 the calm of the evening? 
 
 However, all things must come to an end, even 
 stories with morals. Mrs Grahame brought her 
 exordium to a close amidst an impressive silence. 
 After a discreet interval she quietly rose and with- 
 drew with the other ladies, pleasantly conscious of 
 a task well done. 
 
 Maurice closed the door carefully behind her. 
 And, the meal being thus concluded, — 
 
 "For these and all His mercies," said Chris- 
 topher, piously. 
 
 94 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 "Have a cigarette, Cecil?" 
 "I really don't care about it, Chris." 
 "Well, don't do it to please me, my dear girl," 
 said Chris, cheerfully. "I honestly think I would 
 just as soon you didn't." 
 
 He passed the cigarettes to Maurice, then took 
 one himself and closed the case. Having carefully 
 placed an ash-tray between himself and Heelas, he 
 stretched himself out on a wide, comfortable- 
 looking sofa and pulled a copy of the Sporting 
 Times from his pocket. For the moment, how- 
 ever, he resisted the temptation to read it In the 
 face of his visitor. 
 
 "What's going to be done this afternoon?" he 
 asked Impersonally. "Such a fine day — It seems 
 a pity to stay Indoors." 
 
 This was Sunday afternoon and they were sit- 
 ting in the apartment which, in his mother's pres- 
 ence, Chris called vaguely "the other room," and, 
 out of It, "the smoke-room," and which she her- 
 self referred to as "the library." There was, in 
 
 95 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 fact, some little difference of opinion in the mat- 
 ter. Chris contended that "library" was ostenta- 
 tious and misleading, while Mrs Grahame took the 
 njt unreasonable ground that "smoke-room" was 
 an inappropriate name for a room which was only 
 used as such on her son's occasional week-end visits. 
 Accordingly the question remained in suspense — 
 so far, that is, as the household generally was con- 
 cerned. Mrs Grahame regarded it as finally set- 
 tled, and alluded quite freely and without ap- 
 parent difficulty to the "library" in the hearing of 
 the objector — in the latter case. Indeed, perhaps 
 a little more freely and incisively than other- 
 wise. 
 
 The room which supplied the bone of contention 
 was furnished In a slightly out-of-date but com- 
 fortable fashion ; tall mahogany bookcases, a pedes- 
 tal writing-desk, leather-covered armchairs a little 
 worn, a Turkey carpet a little faded. 
 
 No one replying to Christopher's remark, he 
 launched the proposition to which it was designed 
 as introductory. 
 
 "I have been thinking," he said, "that if 
 Heelas took my bicycle you could show him some 
 of the country, Cecil." He unfolded the Sporting 
 
 96 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 Times and laid it on his knee. "I would come 
 myself," he explained, "but of course if I did you 
 couldn't have my machine, Heelas." He was evi- 
 dently comfortable as to the incontestable soundness 
 of his excuse. 
 
 Just at first Maurice had no misgiving. The 
 arrangement seemed patently out of the question. 
 He expected Cecil to laugh it off, as the ingenious 
 artifice of a lazy brother. Then, to his horror and 
 amaze, he saw that she was seriously considering 
 it, that, in fact, she was going to agree. For a 
 moment a wild thought of firmly refusing to de- 
 prive the reclining and obviously "settled for the 
 afternoon" Christopher of his bicycle shot into 
 his brain. The next, the gross discourtesy to Cecil 
 of such a transparent subterfuge was apparent. He 
 pulled himself together. If the thing had to be 
 gone through he must make the best of it; though 
 what he was going to find to talk about, for two or 
 three hours, to this elegant and fashionable young 
 lady, he hadn't the faintest conception. 
 
 "Imagine Chris being inspired with such a prac- 
 ticable idea!" said Cecil. "How long has it been 
 evolving, lazy-bones? I'm quite agreeable." She 
 didn't realise in the least that she was dropping a 
 
 97 
 
{THE YOKE 
 
 bombshell. "What do you say?" she asked, turn- 
 ing to Maurice. 
 
 He was quite aware that she consciously avoided 
 his surname. She had used it once or twice dur- 
 ing the last twenty-four hours, though not without 
 some difficulty. In fact, he had been a little sur- 
 prised to find that the family with one accord had 
 elected to promote him to that dignity since he last 
 had intercourse with them. 
 
 "I'm not much of a performer on a bicycle," he 
 replied, with an attempt to laugh. "It's some time 
 since I rode one. But I hope I shouldn't disgrace 
 you." 
 
 He didn't succeed in hiding his reluctance so com- 
 pletely that it failed to reach Cecil's intelligence. 
 She attributed it to its right cause, but it made her 
 flush just perceptibly. 
 
 "The machines are in a shed behind the house," 
 said Chris, becoming restless. "Cecil will show 
 you." He fingered the pink paper affectionately. 
 
 "Oh, then I'll go and see if they want pumping 
 up," said Maurice. 
 
 The next move rested with Cecil, but she hesi- 
 tated to make it. Her emotions were a little 
 mixed. They included some pride, but also a cer- 
 
 98 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 tain sympathetic recognition of Maurice's readiness 
 to take his diffidence by the horns. 
 
 "You might take him over Hindhead," said 
 Christopher, to whom this hitch was a trifle per- 
 plexing. "You get a good idea of the country 
 from the top." 
 
 "Very well," said Cecil at length, but rather 
 slowly. "But I must change my dress first. I 
 won't be long." She was standing near the win- 
 dow, looking out, and she added, as if in excuse for 
 her action, "How lovely it is!" 
 
 "Yes, it's a lovely afternoon," said Chris, en- 
 thusiastically. 
 
 He drew a long breath of candid relief as the 
 door eventually closed behind the other two, leav- 
 ing him at last in a position to turn his attention to 
 the Sporting Times. 
 
 During the inevitable adjustments which pre- 
 cede every cycle excursion (Cecil's front tyre was 
 down and Chris's saddle needed lowering) there 
 seemed some reason to fear that Maurice's mis- 
 givings as to the conversational product of the out- 
 ing might be fulfilled. Neither of them was 
 naturally loquacious, and the beginning had not 
 
 99 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 been auspicious. Constraint had raised its chilling 
 head, making them both conscious that, even in the 
 practical references to nuts and tubes, they were 
 engaged in the distasteful business of "making con- 
 versation." 
 
 Matters mended, however, when they started. 
 Bicycles, in such circumstances as these, have one 
 very distinct advantage over any other means of 
 locomotion in that they provide frequent excuse, 
 if not actual necessity, for keeping otherwise than 
 abreast. During the twists and turns, the ups 
 and downs, through Haslemere and Shottermill, 
 they were too much engaged with the management 
 of their machines to have been able to talk, except 
 in quick exclamations, even had they wished. 
 Thus, by the time they reached the long ascent of 
 Hindhead and were obliged to dismount, they had 
 bridged the worst and were able to take their asso- 
 ciation in some degree as a matter of course. 
 
 Cecil showed her companion, as they passed 
 them, the houses of the various notabilities that 
 stood on the hillside. A popular publisher lived 
 here ; there was the abode of a distinguished oculist ; 
 there again was the famous stockade erected by 
 an eminent scientist to keep his neighbours at arm's 
 
 100 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 length, neighbours who persisted in hustling him 
 on this wild forest-land he had thought to make 
 his own. Near the summit was the house of the 
 novelist who had given the world Micah Clarke, 
 and with that enthralling story revived the his- 
 torical romance. Finally there was the hill-top 
 — the very "hill-top" which had inspired and seen 
 the productions of the novels which bore that title, 
 though the hand which had penned them would 
 write no more. 
 
 These were all things which Maurice found gen- 
 uinely interesting; so much so that, as they ncared 
 the end of their tedious walk, he was talking natu- 
 rally and even animatedly. 
 
 "Did you ever try to write?" asked Cecil. 
 
 "Nothing but opinions on cases," he replied with 
 a laugh, "and those Counsel usually turns into his 
 own words before they go to the client." He 
 paused and became momentarily pensive. "Except 
 three verses once," he added honestly. 
 
 Cecil turned a quick glance on him. "To a 
 lady?" she inquired. 
 
 Maurice flushed slightly. "Well, none that I 
 ever spoke to," he said. 
 
 "Will you show me them?" asked Cecil. 
 
 lOI 
 
\THE YOKE 
 
 "Good gracious, no!" cried Maurice, horrified, 
 "even if I hadn't burnt them, which I have, long 
 ago. Which way are we going ?" 
 
 They decided to take the Farnham Road, and 
 almost immediately had begun the swift, exhilarat- 
 ing three-mile freewheel. Shouting something, 
 Cecil whizzed past Maurice, a white flash of float- 
 ing drapery. Less experienced both with his ma- 
 chine and of the road, he took the descent more 
 cautiously. For all that, he was distinctly under 
 the impression that he was "letting her go." His 
 hubs hummed and the air met him with a cutting 
 rush. But a receding speck at the other end of 
 an occasional straight stretch was all the glimpse 
 he got of Cecil until he reached the bottom. There 
 he found her dismounted and waiting for him by 
 the "Pride of the Valley," a little flushed, but quite 
 composed and elegant. 
 
 "Safe and sound?" he said, jumping off and 
 looking at her. "I'm awfully glad. But you 
 make me feel rather like a lame duck." 
 
 "Oh, I'm very foolish," admitted Cecil. "But 
 I never can resist that hill, and it makes my fingers 
 ache to hold the brakes." 
 
 At this point there was a choice of four routes, 
 
 I02 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 each looking equally tempting. After a little hesi- 
 tation they continued towards Farnham, proceed- 
 ing sedately along a level road bordered by pine 
 and birch. Cecil kept glancing at a sequence of 
 small lanes that ran into the main highway from 
 the left. 
 
 "I feel sure that if we took one of these bye- 
 roads," she said, "we should come out on the 
 Frensham Road. We could get home from there. 
 It would be better than going back the same way." 
 
 "I'm quite willing to make the experiment," said 
 Maurice. By this time he was becoming enthusias- 
 tic of the gem-like scenery, which was continually 
 breaking upon them in some new phase. 
 
 So they wheeled round the next turning. It led 
 them beside a high garden-wall and then through 
 a pine wood. Up to this point it was rideable, 
 with care. But out of the wood they emerged 
 upon a wide upland of heath, rising to a consid- 
 erable height, and the road became a mere sandy 
 track worn among the heather. They dismounted 
 and looked at one another, and both voted without 
 hesitation for advance. There was a romantic sug- 
 gestion in the prospect; too enchanting to be left 
 unpursued. 
 
 103 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "It can't be very far," said Cecil. 
 
 They pushed their machines to the top of the hill, 
 and then paused to take breath. Over on the other 
 side, at the distance of about a mile, was the main 
 road to Frensham. It was a mild afternoon ; and 
 Maurice, for his part, felt lazy. It was uncom- 
 monly pleasant up here. He glanced at his com- 
 panion tentatively. Could Cecil Grahame sit on 
 the heather? The thought seemed to border on 
 the irreverent; but, even as it passed through his 
 mind, he saw her drop her bicycle and sink lightly 
 on a small hummock. 
 
 "I must rest," she said. "Besides, it's so lovely 
 here." 
 
 Immediately below them was a small lake, lonely 
 and quite still, fringed on two sides by the pine 
 wood they had come through. It was seen across 
 the heather, which surrounded them on all sides 
 and struck the eye, at this time of the year, less 
 by its purples than by its cloudy greens, which 
 merged eventually, with wonderful continuity of 
 effect, into the deeper cloudy greens of the pines. 
 Mixed with It was bracken and a little gorse ; and, 
 ringing all, trees, mostly evergreen, trees innumer- 
 able, over hill and valley, as far as the eye could 
 
 104 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 reach — not disfigured, but rather enhanced through 
 contrast, by the red roof of a house, just protrud- 
 ing, here and there. Behind them — it seemed a 
 great way off — the summit of Hindhead hfted it- 
 self conspicuously out of the surrounding country. 
 
 Maurice breathed his reHef and dropped down 
 gratefully beside Cecil. It was pleasant to relax 
 his limbs. There appeared to be no need to talk; 
 solitude and scenery blot out conventional necessi- 
 ties. He removed his cap and let the light breeze 
 flow through his hair; then pushed back the wisps 
 on either side of his brow — a futile habit, since they 
 immediately fell forward into place. In the course 
 of these proceedings he realised, somewhat ab- 
 ruptly, that he was enjoying himself. 
 
 "Don't you want to smoke?" said Cecil, pres- 
 ently. 
 
 He did, but he hadn't dared to ask. Cecil even 
 rendered assistance in screening the wind while he 
 lighted a cigarette. Really, she was becoming won- 
 derfully human ; and the remarkable thing was that 
 he accepted her as such quite calmly. He sat with 
 his knees drawn up and his hands loosely folded 
 across them, and quietly surveyed the scene in front 
 of him. 
 
 105 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "It's really very pretty," he said meditatively, 
 with the studious care of youth to avoid commit- 
 ting itself to too great raptures. "It makes me 
 feel almost ashamed not to have seen it before. 
 I've been to Italy and to Norway. And this is 
 only forty miles from town." 
 
 He spoke because he was moved to, not for the 
 purpose of "making conversation." 
 
 "Does that mean you will come again?" asked 
 Cecil. 
 
 Maurice continued to gaze at the little lake, 
 through his rising smoke wreaths, with an absorbed 
 expression. "That depends whether I'm wanted 
 or not," he said. 
 
 A few hours earlier he would have answered the 
 same question by "I hope so," or "I shall do my 
 best," with the private intention to leave the matter 
 at that. 
 
 "Of course you will be wanted," said Cecil, turn- 
 ing upon him with sudden animation. "What an 
 absurdly modest creature you are ! Do you think 
 we have all changed into frigid strangers in the last 
 six years?" 
 
 Maurice turned his head and looked at her. 
 
 "You have changed," he said, with a slight ac- 
 io6 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 cent on the pronoun, and the next moment was 
 struck by the audacity of the subject. 
 
 "I have added an inch or two in height," said 
 Cecil, smiling. "That was scarcely within my con- 
 trol." 
 
 "I don't mean that," said Maurice. 
 
 "And I have put my hair up and let down 
 my frocks," continued Cecil. "Do you object to 
 that?" 
 
 "Something more," he persisted. 
 
 "Well, what?" 
 
 She flattened her palms on the heather on either 
 side of her, leant back on them, and looked at 
 him. 
 
 "It's very difficult to explain," said Maurice, 
 picking at the feathery stalks between his knees. 
 "It's awfully cheeky of me to have begun the sub- 
 ject. Do you mind?" he asked suddenly. 
 
 "I shouldn't ask if I did. I want to know." 
 
 He knocked the ash from his cigarette, then 
 abruptly met her glance. "You have matured 
 altogether," he said, almost hurriedly; "grown 
 more unapproachable somehow. For instance, I 
 have become 'Mr Heelas.' " 
 
 "Would you prefer to be 'Maurice' ?" 
 107 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "I'm more used to it," said he. 
 
 Cecil sat up and smiled whimsically. "Young 
 ladies — " she began. "I'm a young lady, you un- 
 derstand?" she interjected. 
 
 "I know that," said Maurice. "That is pre- 
 cisely the point." 
 
 "Young ladies," proceeded Cecil, "in things of 
 that kind have to follow the lead of their natural 
 guardians. We are not expected to think or act 
 for ourselves. It is all laid down in the great 
 social ordinance. You mustn't blame me for the 
 absurdities of a code which I don't believe in but 
 have to obey." 
 
 Maurice lighted a new cigarette from the stump 
 of the old one and returned to his contemplation of 
 the scenery. Many young men, similarly situated, 
 would have playfully begged for at least a tempo- 
 rary and experimental return to the familiar 
 method of address. Perhaps Cecil would not have 
 been entirely displeased had Maurice done so. 
 Haslemere, for all its natural charm, was not 
 precisely a stimulating centre of existence, and Mrs 
 Grahame's circle of friends, in spite of their con- 
 ventional culture, were remarkable neither for their 
 youth nor originality. Some foolish, trifling badi- 
 
 lo8 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 nage with a handsome youth might perhaps have 
 served as an alleviating interlude. But all she 
 could detect in Maurice's profile was a mind which 
 had passed naturally from a subject not worth dis- 
 cussing. His calm abstraction slightly — ^very 
 slightly — ^piqued her. 
 
 "You ought to have been an artist," she said 
 presently. 
 
 He turned his head. "Why?" he asked. 
 
 "You look like one." 
 
 Maurice laughed. "That's a woman's reason," 
 he said. 
 
 "Of course it is. What a foolish thing to 
 say. Besides, you are interested in beautiful 
 things." 
 
 "I admire scenery," he admitted. 
 
 "So you are glad I made you come?" 
 
 "Yozi made me come!" said Maurice. 
 
 "Well, perhaps it was Chris. But you didn't 
 very much want to, did you ?" 
 
 She was smiling; but Maurice flushed. He felt 
 indignant. "I don't think it's fair to say that," 
 he said. 
 
 But Cecil was inexorable. "Did you?" she re- 
 peated. 
 
 109 
 
[THE YOKE 
 
 "No, I didn't." 
 
 "But you're glad you came?" 
 
 He dared to hesitate. 
 
 "You're glad you came?" 
 
 "Yes, I am." 
 
 "Well, don't be cross. And pull me up, please. 
 It's time we were going." She held out two slim 
 gloved hands. 
 
 When they had descended to the road Maurice 
 looked at his watch and announced that it was 
 nearly five. Almost at the same moment they 
 came to a sandy bye-road, where was a large board, 
 directing — ^by means of a finger pointing down the 
 pleasant, leafy recesses of the lane — to the Fren- 
 sham Pond Hotel, and incidentally referring to the 
 numerous advantages to be derived from a tem- 
 porary sojourn there. The course was obvious. 
 They went to the hotel, and had tea in the verandah 
 overlooking the larger lake. 
 
 The romantic situation made Maurice suddenly 
 expansive. 
 
 "When a gem of an Inn!" he said. "Do you 
 know what strikes me about it?" 
 
 "No," said Cecil, pulling off her gloves; "unless 
 that it would make a good subject for a painting?" 
 
 II 10 
 
\THE YOKE 
 
 "That it would be an ideal spot to spend a honey- 
 moon." 
 
 "I didn't know you knew there were such 
 things," said Cecil, witheringly. 
 
 They went back through Churt, avoiding Hind- 
 head by a long detour, and arrived home about half- 
 past six. They found Christopher in the garden, 
 pretending to weed a rose-bed. 
 
 "Hello, you two!" he said. "You've missed 
 tea." 
 
 "We've had it," said Cecil, "at Frensham." 
 
 "Bona-fide travellers !" He dragged out a long 
 string of chickweed with the hoe, from a place 
 where it wasn't visible, and left it in another where 
 it was. "Did they make you swear an affidavit?" 
 
 "What have you been doing, Chris?" asked 
 Cecil, innocently. 
 
 "I hung about," said Chris. "The afternoon 
 slipped away. I almost fancy I must have gone 
 to sleep." 
 
 m 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 Maurice's visit to Haslemere was the precursor 
 of others. The ice once broken, it became a pleas- 
 ure to go there. During the heat of the London 
 summer, especially, it was an unquestionable asset 
 ■ — this invigorating upland where one could revive. 
 Once or twice Angelica accompanied him, to the 
 great joy of Mrs Grahame and Miss Gaskell, who 
 found her an exquisite listener. There is nothing 
 strikingly heroic in being such. Yet she had been 
 born with no greater aptitude than you and I, 
 reader, to listen attentively to wordy moral plati- 
 tudes or intricate stories about people she did not 
 know, or to pass unchallenged didactic opinions 
 with which she was not in sympathy, but which 
 it would have served no purpose to impugn. She 
 had simply the faculty of discovering quickly 
 what would give others most pleasure, and adapted 
 herself by the knowledge with unconscious selfless- 
 ness. 
 
 So the elder ladies monopolised Angelica's com- 
 pany on the occasions of her short visits. It was 
 
 112 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 an arrangement which was found decidedly tan- 
 talising by Cecil. Sometimes she felt almost 
 angry with Angelica for her complacency. True, 
 she was at liberty to sit in the drawing-room as 
 long as she wished and to listen, with Angelica, 
 to her mother's discourses. But that was not 
 precisely what she wanted. She would have liked 
 to have taken her up to her room and kept her 
 there an hour or two, to have shown her her 
 clothes and talked to her, alone and unimpeded, 
 of the hundred and one things which a girl yearns 
 to pour Into responsive ears. In her childhood 
 she had always found it possible to open her heart 
 to Angelica far more unreservedly than to her 
 mother. Instinctively she knew that she could 
 do so still. But Mrs Grahame talked on, and Miss 
 Gaskell punctuated, and Angelica listened, and 
 Cecil fretted. 
 
 If Angelica herself shared these feelings In any 
 degree, no one was permitted to suspect It, not even 
 Maurice. Her hostesses, at any rate, had no reason 
 to believe, and certainly they did not believe, that 
 she found their society any less delightful than they 
 found hers. 
 
 As a consequence of this renewal of friendship. 
 
iTHE YOKE 
 
 however, Christopher and Cecil, twice during the 
 season, spent two nights at Cumberland Square and 
 "did" theatres. Then, indeed, Cecil was able to 
 revel in a sweet waste of intimate confabulations. 
 Her affection for Angelica grew into a kind of 
 worship, such as a younger woman not uncommonly 
 gives to an elder whom she trusts and admires. 
 She had the most profound respect for her judg- 
 ment in all things, and her somewhat independent 
 spirit was almost enthusiastically willing to be 
 guided by the elder woman's calm advice. She 
 would wait anxiously for Angelica's verdict on some 
 point of feminine difficulty and became quite ex- 
 ultant if it favoured her hopes. 
 
 "Don't say I was wrong, Angelica," she would 
 plead; "don't, if you can possibly help it." 
 
 Angelica's answers were always quite impar- 
 tially given; but as Cecil's actions and opinions 
 were guided by a pretty sound and clear intuition, 
 it happened that they usually coincided with her 
 wishes; a circumstance which I am not prepared 
 to say — for Cecil was undeniably human — was 
 uninfluential in the development of her homage. 
 
 Their most intimate, most thoroughly enjoyable 
 and satisfactory conversations took place late at 
 
 114 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 night, when respectable people, such as you and 
 I and Mrs Grahame, would be asleep in our beds. 
 
 "How those women chatter!" said Chris to 
 Maurice, sitting in the morning-room one night 
 after the theatre and listening to the continuous 
 murmur of voices in the room above them. 
 
 "I suppose we appear to be doing the same to 
 them," said Maurice, who was eating a sandwich. 
 "I've often noticed, when you are not in the room 
 and can only hear voices, you get the impression 
 that people are talking a heap more than you do 
 when you can follow the words." 
 
 "Yes, very likely," said Chris. "When you 
 think about it, two people sitting together are gen- 
 erally saying something. Jove, what a funny 
 thing it is that there should always be something 
 to say — always. Up there, for instance — what- 
 ever it is, it wouldn't matter if they didn't say it — 
 but they are saying it." 
 
 'How do you know it wouldn't ? What do you 
 suppose they are talking about?" 
 
 "Clothes," said Christopher, without hesitation. 
 
 "Angelica wouldn't talk long about that," said 
 Maurice, decidedly. 
 
 "Well, she is always well dressed." 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "So are you, but you don't talk about it." 
 
 "Oh," said Chris, "a man who talks about his 
 clothes — !" Words failed him to express his 
 abysmal contempt. "Love affairs, perhaps?" 
 
 "Angelica!" said Maurice, in astonishment. 
 "Oh, no. Not her own, at any rate." 
 I It was on the tip of Christopher's tongue to put 
 a leading question on the subject of Angelica's his- 
 tory. But he was a youth of delicate perception, 
 and it occurred to him — as it had occurred to him 
 on similar previous occasions — that it would pos- 
 sibly fail in taste. So he kept silence. 
 
 "And I don't suppose your sister has any," con- 
 cluded Maurice. 
 
 "Well, the neighbourhood is not quite con- 
 genial," observed Chris, thoughtfully; "the doctor 
 is married, and so is the parson, but the Mater 
 knows two retired colonels, who are widowers. 
 She says they are awfully funny fellows, but I don't 
 think Cecil has a sense of humour. We'll say the 
 play, then." 
 
 Maurice finished his sandwich and lighted a pipe. 
 "We stopped talking about that a quarter of an 
 hour ago," he said. 
 
 "And what has been the subject since?" 
 u6 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "Them." 
 
 Christopher helped himself to another sand- 
 wich. "Us?" he suggested. 
 
 Maurice blew a ruminative cloud of smoke — not 
 uncharged with pleasant fancy. Things had 
 pushed on a little since that first bicycle ride, re- 
 corded in the last chapter. There had been other 
 rides, and opportunities of conversation apart from 
 rides, in the course of which he had discovered 
 unexpected traits in Cecil. She had no objection 
 to "awfully jolly." In fact, you could talk to her 
 as you were accustomed to talk to other people; 
 perhaps even more easily than to some — Mr Ken- 
 yon, K.C., for example. Her horizon extended 
 considerably beyond the commonplace and the 
 obvious, and included in its broad sweep percep- 
 tions almost daringly advanced. There were times, 
 indeed, when she still seemed somewhat empyreal 
 and unapproachable, as, for instance, when she 
 came down in the evening dressed for the theatre 
 — on which occasions he had to keep on reminding 
 himself that it was the same person who sometimes 
 sat on the heather — but he had long ago found out 
 that she was not the artificial and self-centred 
 "young lady" of his imagination. Over and above 
 
 117 
 
\THE YOKE 
 
 all this — as inducing to his proper appreciation of 
 her — it had begun to dawn upon him, considerably 
 to his surprise, that she gave signs of no especial 
 aversion to the society of Maurice Heelas — a small 
 item of knowledge which encourages the self-esteem 
 of the best of us. 
 
 So his mind dwelt not ungratefully upon Chris- 
 topher's last conjecture. But he decided to be 
 sceptical. "I don't think it's the least likely," he 
 said. 
 
 "What will you bet?" said Chris. 
 
 "Sixpence," said Maurice, cautiously. 
 
 "I never plunge," said Chris. 
 
 "Not often." 
 
 "Honestly, I haven't betted, Heelas, since I 
 dropped that fiver on Cat's-eye. I don't think it's 
 fair to the Mater. Well, let us say half-a-crown. 
 You can't object to that. You ought to lay me 
 odds." 
 
 "Right you are," said Maurice. "I'll soon find 
 out." 
 
 He jumped from his seat and ran half-way up 
 the first flight of stairs. 
 
 "Angelica 1" he called. 
 
 He had to call again before Angelica opened the 
 ii8 
 
\THE YOKE 
 
 door. She was wrapped in the thin, pale-blue 
 dressing-gown, whose loose folds, edged with deep 
 lace, fell to her feet. 
 
 "We want to know what you are talking about?" 
 said Maurice, calmly. 
 
 "What!" 
 
 Angelica came slowly forward, smiling her aston- 
 ishment. As she did so, Maurice was suddenly 
 struck by her beauty. It had never impressed him 
 in the same way before. It was only, indeed, since 
 the night of their memorable conversation after 
 his encounter with the police, that he had been 
 able to see in her a being capable of possessing 
 physical beauty. Since then he had recognised it, 
 but at no time quite as now. There was something 
 in the grace and dignity of her carriage, as she came 
 slowly forward, something, too, in the soft contour 
 of her neck and cheek, which made him thrill with 
 admiration. 
 
 "To settle a silly dispute," he said, changing 
 instinctively his off-hand tone. 
 
 "Why, what rubbish have you been talking 
 about?" said Angelica, half laughing. 
 
 She leant over the balustrades and pressed upon 
 them to speak to him, unconsciously displaying the 
 
 lift 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 tender moulding of her woman's form. Maurice 
 received a species of shock. This was Angelica 
 — no beautiful stranger, but Angelica, with whom 
 he had lived for nearly twenty years. Angelica, 
 whom he had never seen till now. The remem- 
 brance of her gentle confession flowed through him 
 like wine, as he looked up at her, bending towards 
 him — gracious, supple, very womanly. He seemed 
 to have no other sense than vision. He hadn't 
 heard what she said. For a few moments he stood 
 and gazed at her foolishly, then took his eyes away 
 with an effort and abruptly turned and began to 
 descend. 
 
 "It doesn't matter," he said huskily. "Never 
 mind, Angelica." 
 
 "But— stop," cried Angelica. "Stop. I'll tell 
 you, Maurice." She looked through the open door 
 beside her. "What was it, Cecil? What were we 
 talking about?" 
 
 "Mr Bernard Shaw," replied Cecil, from the 
 bedroom. 
 
 "Mr Bernard Shaw," called Angelica down the 
 stairs. 
 
 "Mr Bernard Shaw," repeated Christopher, in 
 the morning-room. "Then I pay." 
 
 1 20 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 Now, during these months — the months that 
 followed his first Haslemere visit — Maurice had 
 honestly kept faith with Angelica. That Is to say, 
 he had not put himself into the way of temptation 
 — or, to put the matter more accurately, he had 
 given himself no chance of yielding to the tempta- 
 tion within him. That must not be regarded as 
 suggesting that there was anything vicious In his 
 composition. We have set up so austere a 
 standard in these days, that the mere possession 
 of human instincts may quite possibly be con- 
 demned as evidence of vicious proclivities. I 
 firmly believe that even eating, if it were not neces- 
 sary to sustain life, would be arbitrarily catalogued 
 as a vice, solely because it Is capable of conferring a 
 certain amount of physical pleasure. A great deal 
 of confusion results from the slovenly use of terms. 
 One sees references to the "Instinct of cruelty" 
 and the "instinct of revenge." Those are vices. 
 There are only two instincts implanted in hu- 
 manity; one is to sustain life, the other is to per- 
 
 121 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 petuate it. All others, so called, may be brought 
 under one of those heads. There is nothing im- 
 moral in either of them. Particularly they include 
 the appetites. I fearlessly assert that there is no 
 vice in the temperate gratification of any appe- 
 tite. 
 
 Maurice was interested in his profession and 
 anxious to succeed in it. Stirring visions came to 
 him at times — usually while he was lying awake 
 in bed — of Maurice Heelas, K.C., leading in a 
 cause celehre. Occasionally, when he was quite 
 alone, he would put his right foot on a chair, rest 
 his right elbow on the raised knee, and extend his 
 right forefinger, with the hand palm uppermost. 
 On those occasions he conceived himself to be wear- 
 ing a silken robe, which made a pleasing sound 
 as he rustled — a little late — into the front bench. 
 Then he would straighten an imaginary wig with 
 his left hand, and slowly wag the extended right, 
 to point a series of penetrating questions, which 
 would leave a recalcitrant hostile witness in a 
 condition of stuttering and helpless confusion. 
 Phrases made memorable by famous cross- 
 examinations stuck in his mind — "Would you be 
 surprised to learn — ?" and "Pull yourself to- 
 
 122 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 gether, Mr Pigott." There didn't appear to be 
 anything particularly brilliant in them; he be- 
 lieved he could invent others equally striking — 
 even (the thought seemed to border on sacrilege, 
 and came, so to speak, below his breath) — even 
 more so. He placed no limits to his wings. Some- 
 times, listening in the Courts, he became justly in- 
 dignant with eminent Counsel because they neg- 
 lected to make obvious points — points which, as 
 he had clearly seen from the beginning, their whole 
 cross-examination was directed to bring out. 
 There were no such omissions in the cases he con- 
 ducted in his bedroom. Every point was clinched, 
 hammered, driven firmly and relentlessly home; 
 until the most eel-like witness became a mere 
 pitiable object, upon whom the judge looked sol- 
 emnly and the jury cast glances of scarcely-veiled 
 amusement. He could hear the slight murmur of 
 spontaneous applause (instantly suppressed) amidst 
 which he would resume his seat, and could sympa- 
 thetically appreciate the thankless office confront- 
 ing his "learned friend" who would rise to re- 
 examine. 
 
 "And now, sir, will you kindly explain to his 
 lordship and the jury how you reconcile that in- 
 
 123 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 teresting admission with the precisely contrary 
 statement you made ten minutes ago?" He would 
 have reached some such thrilling moment as that, 
 when the saying about "castles in the air" would 
 recur to him. Then the chair would be kicked 
 aside in disgust, he would straighten himself 
 soberly, and the whole realistic histrionic exercise 
 would be branded, summarily and contemptuously, 
 as "tomfoolery." Possibly it was. Yet there is 
 little ambition if there are no fairy fancies; and 
 many a castle in the air has come eventually to be 
 built on solid ground. The youth who has dreams 
 and is prone to histrionic exercises in his bedroom 
 may be safely expected to go further than the one 
 who tramps stolidly along, absorbed by the day 
 and the mediocrity thereof. 
 
 By this time Maurice had passed his final 
 examination for the Bar, but he was not eligible 
 to be "called" until another year had expired. 
 In the meanwhile, he employed his time in watch- 
 ing cases in the Courts, and by a diligent attend- 
 ance at the chambers of Mr Kenyon, K.C., to 
 learn the practice. Had he been less in earnest 
 about his work he would probably have been 
 tempted to "slack" this portion of his career. 
 
 124 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 He was under no authority which could have been 
 effectually exercised, and he had not to look for- 
 ward to his profession as a means of livelihood. 
 But he knew that it was no use to have dreams 
 if you were not prepared to go through the mill. 
 No man, however great his abilities, ever reached 
 a position of eminence, in any walk of life, who 
 had not done his share of hard work. 
 
 Thus, by the time the Courts rose In August, he 
 was able to enjoy a holiday with a good conscience. 
 He went to Norway first, with two fellow law 
 students — enthusiastic fishermen like himself. 
 Afterwards he joined Angelica, who was visiting 
 In Scotland. Towards the end of September they 
 returned to town together. 
 
 It was then, as the long autumn evenings 
 stretched Into winter, that Maurice felt, in dead 
 earnest, the steady pinch of his promise to 
 Angelica ; or, to lay the blame in its proper quarter, 
 of a social system established in callous disregard 
 of natural law. Hitherto the demand of the 
 forces within him had been spasmodic and tem- 
 porary; fierce while it lasted, but possible to be 
 overcome and forgotten. Now it began to lie on 
 him heavily and continuously. Day after day In 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 the midst of all the affairs of life, he was conscious 
 of a tremendous, underlying necessity — constant, 
 unrelaxing — to live, to have done with restraint, 
 to take his hand off the brake and run freely into 
 the open plains of Eden. 
 
 It was not to be expected, perhaps, that he could 
 accept this condition of things with a complacent 
 spirit. It seemed to him to be a wanton and avoid- 
 able affliction. A physical malady he would have 
 submitted to philosophically, as part of the human 
 heritage. But this was not a malady. On the 
 contrary, it was a condition of vigorous, effer- 
 vescent health. He asked nothing of Providence 
 but to be allowed to live calmly, to do his daily 
 work undistracted, to lay, unhampered, the foun- 
 dations of his future. That was not permitted 
 him. Man born of woman, he was stung by the 
 call of sex. 
 
 Angelica, who was constantly anxiously on the 
 watch for signs of restlessness in him, recognised 
 what he was going through with acute distress. 
 She racked her brains for means to vary his life. 
 They dined in town and went to theatres, lunched 
 in town and went to picture-galleries; on Sundays 
 they made long expeditions into the CQuntry; she 
 
 12^ 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 encouraged him to have the Grahames and other 
 friends to the house, and to return their visits. 
 Maurice entered into these diversions with spirit. 
 He was as anxious as Angelica to bluff his senses 
 into quietude. But the underlying necessity was 
 not thereby induced to take its departure. More- 
 over, Angelica herself — she may or may not have 
 suspected it — had become an unsettling influence, 
 especially since the night when she had appeared 
 on the landing in her dressing-gown. They played 
 tedious games of dummy bridge; but he saw her 
 soft, fair neck and shoulders across the table. And 
 her gently-moving bosoms spoke to him with her 
 words, "I have not won them yet." 
 
 The climax came one evening in early Novem- 
 ber. They were sitting in the morning-room. They 
 had finished their game at bridge, and Maurice, 
 after cursorily glancing at the evening paper (which 
 he had already read), had thrown it down beside 
 his chair, and for some time had been staring rather 
 gloomily into the fire. Suddenly he got up and, 
 without speaking, went out of the room. He re- 
 turned in a few minutes with his coat on and his 
 hat in his hand. He was rather pale, but his face 
 was set. 
 
 127 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "I am going out, Angelica," he said, in a voice 
 that was obviously steadied with difficulty. 
 "Don't sit up for me. I may be late." 
 
 Angelica rose slowly and turned towards him. 
 Her face had blanched and was drawn with sudden 
 pain. 
 
 For a moment she was silent, unable to speak. 
 Then she said, in a low voice, "Where are you 
 going, Maurice?" 
 
 He could not look at her. It was harder even 
 than he had expected. "I shall go and find 
 Grahame," he said huskily. "We shall probably 
 go to the Empire. We may — " He hesitated, 
 then grappled with himself and finished almost 
 fiercely, "We may make a night of it. I promised 
 to tell you." 
 
 "Oh, Maurice — must you?" 
 
 There was exquisite volume of appeal and dis- 
 tress in the tense, low tones. She took a step 
 towards him. 
 
 "Oh, for heaven's sake, Angelica, don't look at 
 me like that," he pleaded. He didn't misunder- 
 stand her, nor pretend to. "I've tried — I've tried 
 hard — for your sake. I wish I were made of any- 
 thing but flesh and blood. I wish I were made of 
 
 128 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 wax and wool, sawdust, shavings, anything, any- 
 thing. "Yes," he said, low, but quite clearly. 
 "Yes— I must." 
 
 Angelica was outwardly calm now. Her face 
 was still pale, but the strained lines had left 
 it. 
 
 "Try a little longer, dear," she urged softly. 
 
 "What's the use?" said Maurice, looking away. 
 "One can't go on. Now or a month hence — what 
 difference can it make?" 
 
 It was her own thought — the comprehension of 
 inevitableness which had followed the flush of re- 
 lief when her first fright had proved to be ground- 
 less, and which had never left her. "Some woman, 
 sooner or later." But she tried to forget it, tried 
 to trample it under. 
 
 "You may marry," she said. "That is what 
 we are told to do." She felt the vanity of the 
 words, as exemplified by her own case, even as she 
 uttered them. 
 
 Maurice turned his eyes upon her. "Marry!" 
 he said. 
 
 "It Is the recognised means of meeting these 
 difficulties." 
 
 "Marry!" repeated Maurice, almost with de- 
 129 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 rision. "Why, I haven't even been 'called.' Be- 
 sides, I'm not in love." 
 
 "You may be soon." She came quite close to 
 him. "Maurice dear, try, for my sake, to be brave 
 a little longer. Try, try." 
 
 Maurice bent his eyes upon the ground. He 
 was very much moved. "You've been awfully 
 good to me," he said. "It's horrible to hurt you. 
 But it would be no good to promise what I couldn't 
 carry out. I know I couldn't. Do you under- 
 stand, Angelica? It's every day — every hour 
 almost. I don't want it — this craving — I hate it 
 — but it won't be driven away — it won't let me 
 alone." 
 
 She laid her hand gently on his arm. "Poor 
 boy! I know." The words fell on his ears very 
 softly. 
 
 "But — but — " she cried suddenly, straining her 
 hands in a convulsive clasp, "I can't let you do this, 
 Maurice — I can't bear it." 
 
 Maurice looked up a little reproachfully. "I 
 don't think you are quite fair to me," he said. 
 
 "I know," she said, "I know I only asked you 
 to tell me — ^to promise to tell me. I said that 
 should be all. You have behaved quite honestly, 
 
 130 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 Maurice. But — ^but — I thought — What did I 
 think ? Oh, wait — ^wait — ^let me think !" 
 
 She had fallen back a pace and dropped a hand 
 heavily on the edge of a table. Maurice made a 
 movement to her assistance, but with the other 
 hand she motioned him back firmly. 
 
 She was keeping control of herself only by a 
 powerful effort of will. Under a calm exterior she 
 was deeply agitated. She must come to a decision 
 now and irrevocably. The thought which had 
 hovered over her mind as a vague possibility dur- 
 ing the last six months must be squarely faced as a 
 concrete question, to be answered once and for all 
 in the next few minutes. There was one way to 
 save Maurice — one only. The yoke that had lain 
 heavily on her all the days of her womanhood, 
 that even now was bearing upon her — that yoke 
 could be broken. 
 
 She had carried her own burden so long that 
 she had become used to its weight. It was 
 difficult to conceive herself relieved of it. Had 
 there been that alone to be considered, she would 
 unquestionably have gone on carrying it. She 
 was prepared, against her judgment, but in accord 
 with custom and convenience, to live out her 
 
 131 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 artificial life. She knew that if Maurice executed 
 his purpose and closed the front door behind him, 
 she would be maid, not at forty only, but at fifty, 
 at sixty — if she lived so long — to the end of her 
 days. She would die without having lived, duly 
 complete her allotted span in opposition to Nature, 
 having faithfully carried out the arbitrary will of 
 man. 
 
 It was not her own feeling which had power to 
 influence Angelica, as she stood with her hand on 
 the table, her features set in the calm of exerted 
 will, her grey hair massed in deep waves about 
 her head — ^well as it might have done — ^not the 
 certainty of what Maurice would leave behind were 
 he to close the front door; it was the fear — the 
 accumulated, poignant fear — of that which he 
 might meet ahead. 
 
 "Don't think I am doing this," he said, speaking 
 earnestly, "because I expect to find pleasure; or 
 because I wish to. It's not that. It's because I 
 must; because life is impossible otherwise." 
 
 "Think of the danger you run," said Angelica, 
 still leaning upon the table. Her words came 
 with difficulty. "I want you to think of 
 that." 
 
 132; 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "I don't forget," said Maurice. "It's a risk 
 one has to take." 
 
 "Perhaps for a lifetime, Maurice," pleaded 
 Angelica, "utter breakdown, utter ruin, utter 
 misery." 
 
 "I can't help it," cried Maurice. He took a 
 step back into the hall, with a sudden determina- 
 tion to end the interview. "It's as bad to drag 
 on. I can't work. I can't sleep. I'm mad. 
 Angelica, I must go." 
 
 He was moving to the front door. In another 
 moment it would clang behind him. The fact 
 burst upon Angelica with a flash of realisation, as 
 though there had been no preparation. She started 
 after him to the door of the sitting-room. In that 
 final second she had made up her mind. 
 
 By a supreme effort she forced herself to speak 
 quietly. "No," she said. "Stay. You sha'n't 
 suffer. Stay." 
 
 133 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 Maurice closed the door of the morning-room. 
 It seemed unfamiliar to him. He had the feeling 
 that he had never been in it in his life before. He 
 laid his hat and coat on a chair mechanically. 
 
 Angelica had sunk into a seat and bowed her 
 head in her hands. She was trembling. The 
 same violent agitation had seized her as when the 
 Cunninghams had unconsciously made her cog- 
 nisant of their happy reunion. She had riven the 
 yoke, and every strained muscle was still quivering 
 after the effort. 
 
 Maurice gazed at her through an atmosphere of 
 unreality; and suddenly he felt mean — ^utterly, 
 despicably mean. He had driven her to do some- 
 thing she did not wish to do. In the queer mist 
 that had enveloped him he wasn't quite sure what 
 it was ; but whatever it might be, she did not wish 
 to do it — he knew that from her attitude. 
 
 Then, all at once, she looked up. The strain 
 and stress had vanished; she was calm; she was 
 smiling. More than that, there was something in 
 
 134 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 her face he had never seen there before, nor in any 
 other woman's — something new and delicious — a 
 slightly quivering light in her soft grey eyes. It 
 made him thrill. With a bound of the heart he 
 realised the subtle change that had taken place in 
 their relationship. Hitherto foster-mother and 
 child, guardian and ward ; they were now man and 
 woman, as they had stood in Eden. 
 
 "Come and sit here," she said — "here, very near 
 me, and let us talk." 
 
 He obeyed quietly. He seemed to be walking 
 on air. 
 
 "Maurice," she said, after a slight pause, "do 
 I seem to you to be very old?" 
 
 "Good gracious! no," cried Maurice. He for- 
 got for how short a time he could have replied so 
 emphatically. "Old! You are perfectly lovely, 
 Angelica." 
 
 Angelica blushed slightly with pleasure. "I 
 used to be good-looking," she said, "years ago. 
 But now I have grown grey-haired — and you are 
 so young." She looked at him a little pensively. 
 
 "I'm twenty-two," said Maurice; "a very long 
 way from the nursery, dear," He bent towards 
 her. 
 
 -^3S 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "What did you say?" said Angelica. 
 
 "A very long way from the nursery," repeated 
 Maurice. 
 
 "I thought you said something else?" 
 
 "So I did," replied Maurice, stoutly. 
 
 "I like you to say it," said Angelica; "I'm glad." 
 She paused. "Tell me this: have you ever looked 
 upon me as anything but a sort of mother to 
 you?" 
 
 Maurice hesitated. 
 
 "Have you ?" repeated Angelica. 
 
 Suddenly he slipped from his seat, knelt beside 
 her, and took her two hands in his. "Yes, I have, 
 — often, often." 
 
 Angelica drew in her breath. She closed her 
 eyes and dropped her head on the back of the chair. 
 A shiver went through her. The rings on her 
 fingers bit into the flesh. Then, opening her eyes, 
 she spoke very low, "Could I make up for — for 
 those others?" 
 
 "Make up for them? Make up for them?" 
 Maurice repeated the words in a sort of hushed 
 whisper, hardly daring to push them to their utter- 
 most meaning. Then, with a gesture of com- 
 plete self-abasement and homage, he pressed 
 
 136 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 his lips upon the white hands that lay within his 
 own. 
 
 He got up. "Forgive me," he said. "I've 
 been a brute. I don't know what I've been think- 
 ing of." 
 
 Angehca didn't look up. "You don't under- 
 stand," she said. 
 
 "Yes, I do," exclaimed Maurice. "I know 
 that you are willing to sacrifice yourself to save 
 me. You've brought me up, cared for me, 
 devoted yourself to me all my life — which I've 
 never half returned, never half appreciated — and 
 now, to keep me from harm, you are ready to 
 do even this. Oh, I can't say what I feel. I 
 feel so utterly, horribly little ! and you are so 
 splendid." 
 
 "It's not a sacrifice," cried Angelica, almost pas- 
 sionately. "I should have less compunction if it 
 were. I want it. I want it more than anything 
 in earth or heaven. But — but — ■ Oh, I'm not 
 sure, I'm not sure." Again her hands went over 
 her face. And she shook. 
 
 Maurice stood perfectly still. For a while he 
 could not fully grasp the wonderful thing that was 
 happening — had happened. Life seemed to have 
 
 137 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 opened a new heaven and a new earth. A paradise 
 undreamt-of lay before him. 
 
 Then, in a voice which came from within him, 
 though he hardly recognised it, he said, "Why, 
 Angelica ? Why are you not sure ?" 
 
 "Whether it is right," said Angelica. "Whether 
 we ought to allow ourselves to do this." 
 
 Abruptly Maurice found himself. The utter 
 joy of it, the transcendent happiness that had sud- 
 denly come to be his — that was poured at his feet 
 like golden pieces — flooded and surged through 
 him. 
 
 "I know it is right," he cried. "I don't care 
 for all the books that ever were written, or all the 
 sermons that ever were preached — I know it Is 
 right." 
 
 Angelica removed her hands. She smiled at 
 him a little. "Perhaps the wish is father to the 
 thought," she said. "Come back here, where you 
 were before." She pointed to the place on the 
 carpet where he had been kneeling. 
 
 Maurice obeyed her. She laid her hand on his 
 smooth dark hair and gently stroked it. 
 
 "Will you despise me forever?" she said. 
 
 "Despise you, Angelica !" 
 138 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "I suppose many men have said that," returned 
 Angelica, quietly, "in just the same tone. And 
 yet they have despised." 
 
 "Men are horrible," said Maurice. 
 
 "Is this one horrible, I wonder?" She sep- 
 arated strands of his hair with her fingers. "Not 
 now. But will he some time be ?" 
 
 Maurice stretched out his arms till his hands 
 met behind her waist. 
 
 "Oh, Angelica, do believe me," he pleaded. 
 
 She was in evening dress. She could feel his 
 breath on her bosom. 
 
 "I think I'm going to try to," she said. "No, 
 not yet." She pushed back his eager face. "Will 
 you always be true to me, always be content with 
 me, never again seek to endanger your health and 
 your career and your self-respect, never, never be- 
 come one of those who can make a trade of the 
 tenderest of human ties?" 
 
 "Yes," cried Maurice, straining towards her; 
 "a hundred million times yes." 
 
 "You know what you are saying? You know 
 what you are promising?" 
 
 "Yes," said Maurice again, firmly, deliberately. 
 
 A moment more she held him at arm's length, 
 
 139 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 and looked deeply into the ardent, handsome face 
 which was framed between her palms. 
 
 Abruptly she dropped her hands. "Then you 
 may kiss me," she said. 
 
 Maurice paused at the gate of Eden to give a 
 happy laugh. "Why, I've often kissed you be- 
 fore," he said. 
 
 "But not as you are going to do now," said 
 Angelica. 
 
 With sudden abandon, her arms went out and 
 over him. Her eyes were shining. "Oh, my 
 dear! my dear!" she cried. All the might of her 
 pent-up womanhood filled the reiteration of the two 
 little words. 
 
 Maurice drew her firmly to him and kissed her 
 on the mouth. Then, slowly, his lips travelled 
 downwards, lingered over her neck and shoulder; 
 and stayed there. 
 
 140 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 When people are happy there is little to tell of 
 them. And for the next few months Angelica and 
 Maurice were very happy. Indeed, lest that phrase 
 should be misleading, we may inform those of our 
 readers whose hearts may prompt a friendly con- 
 cern in their welfare, that their lives have continued 
 to run to this day in peaceable channels. Their 
 respective courses have not been unaffected by cer- 
 tain extraneous events; but of those in due season., 
 
 This, of course, is not at all as it should be. 
 However unusual a book may be, at least it is 
 expected to align its eventual teaching with estab- 
 lished thought. The author is painfully conscious 
 that, in being happy after so grievous a deviation 
 from accepted modes, Angelica and Maurice quite 
 fail to meet standard requirement, and that in re- 
 cording the fact he is seriously presuming upon the 
 public patience. They should have come to an 
 early death or dragged out the remainder of their 
 existence In suitable misery. That is the Invariable 
 experience of books. But it is not — and we may 
 
 141 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 thank God for it — it is not the invariable experi- 
 ence of life. 
 
 Deeply, therefore, as he regrets the pain the 
 statement must bring, he is compelled, as a con- 
 scientious narrator, to record that these two people 
 were in sober truth supremely happy. Angelica 
 steadily recovered her health and spirits. She was 
 relieved of anxiety for Maurice, and her own per- 
 sonal and physical circumstances were wonderfully 
 improved. Her sound constitution, in spite of so 
 many years of unnatural conditions, responded vig- 
 orously, now that the check on normal development 
 was withdrawn, and gave her not only glowing 
 health but rejuvenation. Beyond that, she was 
 conscious of a lively mental exaltation. Her life 
 was no longer meaningless, the reproach of en- 
 during maidenhood was removed, she had fulfilled 
 her destiny, she was a woman. 
 
 The perception of all these changes became ex- 
 quisite, however, only through the knowledge, 
 which each day made clearer, that Maurice was 
 benefited to as great an extent as herself by their 
 new relations. The fits of depression, of morose- 
 ness almost, which had begun to grow upon him, 
 passed away. He felt like a man who had been 
 
 14a 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 shackled to a heavy weight, and who suddenly finds 
 the chains snapped and himself free of the incubus. 
 It was very sweet to Angelica to watch his gradual 
 return to a natural and healthy state of mind, to 
 note the new and vigorous enthusiasm which he 
 put into everything he took up. He would come 
 home at night, fresh from some battle of wits in 
 the Courts, and unfold his ambitions with frank, 
 boyish ardour. She did not check them, only 
 attempted to order them into logical sequence. 
 She believed in his future; but she did not lose 
 sight of the probable difficulties and disappoint- 
 ments he would have to encounter. It was at 
 this period that Mr Kenyon first began to take 
 that practical interest in his career which led 
 eventually to his employing him to "devil" in his 
 chambers. 
 
 Even their games of "double-dummy" lost their 
 old characteristic tedium. They laughed over one 
 another's mistakes like a pair of babies. 
 
 "Oh, I say, Angelica, you've trumped your owfl 
 trick!" 
 
 "May I take it back?" said Angelica. 
 
 "Certainly not. Good gracious! you won the 
 last two rubbers!" 
 
 143 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "Then I must have played brilliantly," she re- 
 torted gaily, "because you've had all the honours." 
 
 "Merely ornamental," said Maurice, referring 
 to the stake. 
 
 "I don't think they are at all ornamental," said 
 Angelica, surveying the scoring-block with a smile, 
 "unless you can contrive to make better figures." 
 
 Maurice amended a few of them. This was in 
 the middle of a hand. 
 
 "By-the-bye," he said, tapping the block with 
 the blunt end of his pencil, "what are we playing 
 for?" 
 
 "Not for love," replied Angelica, laughing, "un- 
 less you'll let me take that card back." 
 
 "Twopence-halfpenny?" suggested Maurice. 
 
 "It will be heads I win and tails you lose, if we 
 do," said Angelica, "because I haven't got a purse, 
 and I really can't go and fetch it now." 
 
 "All right," said Maurice, dropping the pencil, 
 "nothing." 
 
 Which, it may be remarked parenthetically, was 
 their customary stake. Neither of them had any 
 of the gambling spirit. Occasionally, rather by 
 way of a joke, or if there were others at the table" 
 to whom it was a condition of enjoyment, they 
 
 144 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 played for something exceedingly mild, and, in the 
 case of one another, settled up if they happened to 
 have the necessary coppers. The question of the 
 morality of a pecuniary stake at cards is one which 
 is being perpetually canvassed. Probably its very 
 continuance is due to the fact that no general answer 
 is possible. It depends as much upon income as 
 upon temperament. If there is a consciousness of 
 excitement produced by the desire to gain, it is un- 
 doubtedly vicious. One has to discover the extent 
 to which one's worldly means or native cupidity 
 make it possible to go without such excitement. 
 Few people, probably, can play bridge innocuously 
 for more than fivepence a hundred. 
 
 Angelica yawned during the next hand, and at 
 the conclusion of the rubber she said it was after 
 eleven and that she was going to bed. Maurice 
 sprang up from the scoring-card as she was moving 
 to the door. 
 
 "You are always in such a hurry," he said. 
 
 He kissed her; then put both his arms round 
 her and spoke in he- ear. 
 
 "A week!" cried Angelica, with a quick laugh. 
 "Forty-eight hours. Yes — yes — the night before 
 last. Your arithmetic is getting shocking, Maurice; 
 
 145 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 you'll have to go back to school." Suddenly she 
 took his face between her hands and kissed him 
 fondly. 
 
 A few mornings later — it was in D'ecember — 
 Angelica came down with an open letter in her 
 hand. It was from Mrs Grahame; and its gist, 
 when finally extracted, was the announcement of 
 the intention of the writer and her sister to redeem 
 an old promise by spending a day at Cumberland 
 Square — a promise so old that Angelica, for her 
 part, had forgotten all about it. Mrs Grahame's 
 letters were characteristic, however, so we will beg 
 the reader's indulgence to transcribe this one in its 
 entirety : — 
 
 "My dear Angelica, — ^You will be sorry to 
 hear that my dear Annie (Miss Gaskell) has been 
 suffering severely of late from what we supposed 
 to be neuralgia. After vainly endeavouring to re- 
 lieve it by home remedies we called in Dr Bryce, 
 who prescribed a tonic. She took it for more than 
 a fortnight without, I am sorry to say, the least 
 alleviation. He now thinks it well that she should 
 see a dentist. Living in the wilds here, as it were, 
 
 146 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 shut off from all sources of information, It has been 
 very difficult to select a really reliable man. The 
 one I have been accustomed to visit I have com- 
 pletely lost confidence in. He stopped a tooth for 
 me two years ago most unsatisfactorily and caused 
 me needless pain. Therefore I applied to Dr Bryce 
 for advice. He has suggested a dentist in Brook 
 Street, of whom he speaks in high terms. I feel 
 very nervous at being obliged to be guided by 
 second-hand information In a matter so Important, 
 but I really should not have felt satisfied to allow 
 my sister to go to a man who had bungled in my 
 own case. Our appointment Is for Thursday at 
 1 1 .30. Annie Is very plucky, and would have been 
 willing to go alone. But, though one naturally 
 shrinks from the ordeal, I feel it my duty to be 
 with her at a time which under any circumstances 
 would be very trying, and especially so In the case 
 of a total stranger. Should you be in town on that 
 day we should like afterwards to pay you our too- 
 long-deferred visit. We should reach Cumberland 
 Square (D.F.) a little before one, but I am afraid 
 I should have to beg to catch the 5.55 train home, 
 as I find I am very liable to take cold if I stay out 
 late at this time of year. 1 hope you will not 
 
 147 
 
.THE YOKE 
 
 shrink from providing lunch for two people who 
 may be ravenous after an early breakfast. We all 
 send our cordial love. — Yours affectionately, 
 
 "Caroline E. Grahame." 
 
 "It finishes with the very best skittish," said 
 Maurice, to whom Angelica had been reading the 
 letter at the breakfast-table. "Luckily she's not 
 here; so we don't have to laugh." 
 
 "You shouldn't make fun of her, Maurice," said 
 Angelica; "she is very earnest and quite sincere. 
 I really don't know if it would be fair to let her 
 come." 
 
 "Why?" said Maurice. 
 
 "She would be so terribly upset if she knew." 
 
 The sequence of ideas induced in Maurice by this 
 observation could be followed by its outward effect ; 
 first a contemplative smile, then a broader one, 
 finally an outright laugh of sheer enjoyment. 
 
 "She would," he said profoundly. 
 
 In the end Angelica, in spite of herself, was 
 obliged to smile too. 
 
 "But how can you get out of It?" said Maurice, 
 jabbing for a ball of butter. 
 
 "I hardly know," said Angelica. "I suppose 
 148 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 one could manage to be out of town that day. 
 There are lots of people I ought to go and see." 
 
 Maurice slowly spread his butter on a piece of 
 toast. "I don't think you need carry conscience 
 to that extreme, Angelica," he said. "I don't sup- 
 pose there's anyone in the world much less likely to 
 contaminate the old lady than you." 
 
 He took a bite out of the toast and at the same 
 moment happened to catch Angelica's glance, and 
 was surprised to find that she was regarding him 
 with eyes moist with mute acknowledgment. It 
 is a poor comment upon mankind that, when a 
 woman has bestowed the utmost she can upon one 
 of them, she should be continually on the alert 
 for signs that she is losing his respect, continually 
 grateful for evidences that she is not. And it 
 would probably make little difference to her to be 
 told, what is perhaps a platitude, that respect which 
 is capable of being withdrawn in such circumstances 
 is emphatically not worth having. 
 
 Reassured by Maurice's decided opinion, An- 
 gelica dismissed her scruples; with the result that 
 at a quarter to one on the following Thursday the 
 two ladies duly arrived. They were in good spirits, 
 
 149 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 but suffering from slight winter indisposition, man- 
 ifested by a quantity of wraps, subdued but rather 
 insistent coughs, and, in Mrs Grahame's case, by 
 a mysterious private preparation which she intro- 
 duced into her food. The first part of their visit 
 was occupied by a full and precise account of their 
 interview with the dentist. This was conveyed to 
 Angelica, it may be scarcely necessary to state, 
 through the medium of Mrs Grahame. She re- 
 lated verbatim, and without undue haste, what the 
 dentist had said, what Miss Gaskell had said, and 
 what she herself had found it advisable from time 
 to time to Interject. She carefully recapitulated — 
 to bring Angelica up to date — ^the first rough im- 
 pressions which had been exchanged in the cab on 
 the way to Cumberland Square, and then proceeded 
 to give judicious tongue to the further considered 
 Impressions which were now available. Incident- 
 ally she touched gracefully upon Miss Gaskell's 
 fortitude in trying conditions; remarks which 
 Miss Gaskell listened to in deprecatory and 
 slightly embarrassed silence. Having thus put 
 Angelica on a level with themselves, the subject 
 could of course be discussed in its various bearings 
 with mutual enjoyment. Its ramifications were by 
 
 150 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 no means exhausted when they descended to the 
 dining-room. 
 
 Angelica gave them champagne at lunch. She 
 was very fond of it, so was Mrs Grahame, so was 
 Miss Gaskell; and they all said so. Some people 
 say they are not fond of champagne, that they look 
 upon whisky-and-soda as infinitely preferable ; they 
 are slaves to custom — ^when custom puts it on the 
 free-list. Under its genial influence it became pos- 
 sible at length to change the subject. By the end 
 of the meal it had drifted to servants; a subject 
 which Mrs Grahame treated with fluency and with 
 many dubious shakes of her head. Her pessimistic 
 view was strengthened by a recent experience of her 
 own. Angelica gathered that she had been obliged 
 to dismiss one of her maids in distressing circum- 
 stances. It appeared she had been seen, as 
 late as half-past eight at night, in a lonely lane, 
 in the company of a member of the other 
 sex. That was of course a situation which called 
 for prompt and decisive action on the part of Mrs 
 Grahame. 
 
 Angelica said she was sorry she had been so 
 inconvenienced. "But I think sometimes," she 
 added, "we are inclined to be rather harsh with 
 
 151 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 our servants. There are always two sides to a 
 question." 
 
 "My dear, there can only be one to that," said 
 Mrs Grahame, solemnly. 
 
 Miss Gaskell was also understood to express the 
 view, in slightly different terms, that there could 
 only be one to that. 
 
 Angelica said no more. She knew the inutility 
 of words in certain circumstances — indeed, in most. 
 
 They returned to the drawing-room. Where- 
 upon the two visitors produced work-bags, from 
 which they extracted coils of knitting. They were 
 making woollen vests for the Kaslemere Guild of 
 Needlework. They said (through Mrs Grahame) 
 that they thought everyone should always have 
 some occupation; that time was too precious to 
 spend In idleness; that it was not the purpose for 
 which we were put upon earth and given hands. 
 Their hostess's hands at the moment were empty; 
 of which Mrs Grahame was quite aware. 
 
 Angelica accepted the quiet rebuke and procured 
 some fancy-work. Then she looked at the clock 
 — without sighing, without any outward token of 
 weariness, without, indeed, any inward recognition 
 that she felt, or was likely to feel, weary. Still, 
 
 152 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 she looked at the clock. It was ten minutes to two. 
 Tea was at four. Two hours and ten minutes of 
 solid, uninterrupted conversation! Angelica bent 
 her head to her work, and asked if Christmas was 
 bringing a great many social festivities at Hasle- 
 mere. 
 
 Festivities accounted for the first half-hour ; some 
 friends of Mrs Grahame, whom Angelica had met 
 once, many years before, occupied the second. 
 Then Angelica rose and changed her seat. The 
 second seat was no more comfortable than the first, 
 nor was it any better placed; simply the necessity 
 for movement of some kind had become impera- 
 tive. She glanced out of the window. The square 
 wore its accustomed atmosphere of peaceful dignity 
 — in the grey winter afternoon it amounted almost 
 to solemnity. Two ladles were leaving a house on 
 the north side; otherwise it was empty. If only 
 she could have walked once round It — once to the 
 church and back again ! 
 
 Her visitors did not appear to find It at all Irk- 
 some to sit in one position a whole afternoon ; they 
 worked placidly and talked placidly, and were en- 
 joying themselves thoroughly. Mrs Grahame, 
 seeing Angelica looking out of the window, said 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 how much nicer it was to have an open space and 
 trees to look upon, rather than merely the opposite 
 side of a street. Then she asked if their old house 
 was occupied, and by whom. Then she launched 
 upon a sea of reminiscence. This was punctuated 
 by subdued sighs or by amused, semi-pensive laughs 
 and "Oh, dear, dears!" according to the nature of 
 the resurrected matter. Angelica found herself 
 here upon more favourable terms. The conversa- 
 tion quite frequently referred to things in which 
 she had taken a personal interest. She reminisced, 
 and Miss Gaskell reminisced. She joined in the 
 mirth and echoed the sighs; and in this pleasant 
 revelry the afternoon gradually wasted away. At 
 four o'clock came tea. After tea came Maurice. 
 
 He had hurried home on purpose to see the 
 visitors from Haslemere. It had not been very 
 easy to do it, since a case in which he was interested 
 was reaching a crucial point at the time he had been 
 obliged to leave. But he recognised that it was 
 his business to be back in time to greet a lady who 
 had often been his hostess, and who besides was the 
 mother of Christopher and Cecil. 
 
 "It's Maurice!" said Mrs Grahame, with some 
 surprise. (The family had reverted by this time 
 
 154 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 to the Christian name.) "Can you get away from 
 the office as early as this, Maurice?" 
 
 "Oh, well, I thought I should like to see you," 
 said Maurice, shaking hands briskly. "But I don't 
 go to an office, Mrs Grahame." 
 
 He then shook hands with Miss Gaskell and 
 inquired after her neuralgia. With Angelica he 
 exchanged a glance of greeting, but no words. 
 
 Mrs Grahame quietly bided her time during 
 these proceedings. There was a matter on her 
 soul, however, which she had no intention should 
 remain unexpressed. She didn't like to be cor- 
 rected. Moreover, she had used the wrong word 
 deliberately, knowing the right one. 
 
 "My dear husband," she said, inclining her head 
 reverently, "went to an office all his life, and he 
 invariably called it such." 
 
 "Perhaps it was one," said Maurice, principally 
 because it seemed to be the only thing to say. 
 
 "It was a room," said Mrs Grahame, bridling, 
 "with chairs in it and a large desk covered with 
 papers. But I suppose you would consider It be- 
 neath you to call such a room an office?" 
 
 Maurice took it quite good-humouredly. "It's 
 awfully strange," he said, "how words, meaning 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 practically the same thing, often convey quite dif- 
 ferent impressions. There's a man's digs, for in- 
 stance — the place where he puts up, you know — 
 to call them 'chambers' sounds rather dignified; 
 'apartments' seems sea-sidy and gimcrack; 'rooms' 
 is between the two; 'lodgings' is utterly beyond 
 thought." 
 
 "Will you have some tea, Maurice?" said 
 Angelica, interposing to release him. 
 
 "I don't see any," said Maurice, looking round. 
 
 "I can easily send for It, you stupid boy," she 
 said, laughing. "It has only just gone down." 
 
 Now whether it was the particular tone of 
 Angelica's voice as she said this, or the momentary 
 flash of mutual understanding when Maurice first 
 entered the room, or the slight irritation left by the 
 "office" question, or whether It was merely her 
 unfortunate inability in any circumstances to keep 
 her fingers out of other people's pies — ^whatever 
 the cause, Mrs Grahame suddenly conceived a 
 duty. It was a duty which most people would 
 have shirked; of that she was fully conscious. It 
 was also a duty which most people would have 
 considered to infringe good taste. But Mrs Gra- 
 hame soared above questions of taste where duties 
 
 156 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 were concerned. She took up her knitting and for 
 a few moments plied her needles in thoughtful 
 silence ; then she coughed lightly and began. 
 
 "I have sometimes wondered, Angelica," she 
 said, in the low, even tones she adopted on such 
 occasions, keeping her eyes bent upon her knitting 
 and occasionally turning the work, "if you have 
 considered the wisdom, now that Maurice is no 
 longer a boy, of continuing to live alone together. 
 It frequently happens that things remain hidden 
 from ourselves which are plain to others, and so I 
 feel that I owe it to you, as an old friend, to speak 
 frankly. We sometimes allow an indiscreet posi- 
 tion to grow upon us unconsciously, as it were. 
 During Maurice's boyhood the arrangement was 
 a suitable and excellent one; but since he has be- 
 come a man, and especially since he has come to 
 live permanently in London, it is difficult for your 
 friends to avoid recognising that the position is 
 no longer the same. You are not old, nor even 
 elderly, and you have retained your good looks 
 almost unimpaired. You are still a very attrac- 
 ive woman." (Mrs Grahame felt herself con- 
 scientiously justified by the facts in throwing in 
 this sugar-plum.) "You mustn't suppose that I, 
 
 157 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 or any of your friends, could for a moment impute 
 the least indiscretion to either of you. But there 
 are neighbours, acquaintances, those who know you 
 less well, who might receive a different impression. 
 That is a consideration which should not be ig- 
 nored. I do think we owe it to ourselves to see 
 that there should be no occasion for comment, how- 
 ever unworthy. This subject has troubled me of 
 late and I have given much thought to it. My 
 own feeling is that the most satisfactory solution 
 of your difficulty would be to engage a discreet 
 companion to live with you — preferably an elderly 
 widow lady. Such a course would have a three- 
 fold advantage. It would remove your position 
 from the risk of misconception and provide you 
 with pleasant companionship during Maurice's ab- 
 sences; and, at the same time, it would make you 
 the means of relieving one of the most painful of 
 all classes of distress — ^perhaps the most so of any 
 — that of cultured penury." 
 
 Mrs Grahame ceased — quietly as she had begun 
 — and there supervened one of those pauses which 
 only she was capable of producing, and which she 
 distinctly enjoyed. They suggestedthat she had been 
 effective, that her words had not fallen on dull ears. 
 
 158 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 When it had lasted sufficiently long for the 
 subject to be decently changed, Miss Gaskell said, 
 a little tremulously, that she wondered how long 
 it would take to drive to Waterloo. 
 
 Maurice cleared his throat and replied that he 
 thought about three-quarters of an hour, allowing 
 for possible blocks and for comfortable time at 
 the station. 
 
 Thereupon all was thrown into a breathless 
 fluster of preparation for departure — hurried 
 storing away of knitting paraphernalia, trippings 
 up and down stairs, wrapping and rewrapping of 
 numberless woollen comforts, urgent whistles for a 
 cab. 
 
 When Maurice returned to the drawing-room 
 after packing the visitors into a four-wheeler (a 
 hansom was considered unsafe) he found Angelica 
 kneeling before the fire, brushing the hearth. He 
 went and knelt beside her. Her disengaged hand 
 was hanging down. Maurice curled his fingers 
 round the tips of hers and squeezed them. After 
 a time, still continuing to brush the bars, Angelica 
 gently returned the pressure. 
 
 159 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 When Christopher Grahame proposed to walk 
 abroad, considerable preparation was called for. 
 His patent-leather boots had to be inspected, 
 dusted, and drawn upon his feet, his tie to be re- 
 tied, his overcoat to be carefully picked and 
 brushed; his silk hat had to undergo an operation 
 involving the employment of a velvet pad, a silk 
 handkerchief and a warm fire ; finally his hands had 
 to be enveloped in a pair of grey gloves. It 
 occupied from ten to twenty minutes, according 
 to the anterior condition of the various articles of 
 attire. 
 
 He completed these various processes to his 
 satisfaction one afternoon early In January, about 
 three weeks after his mother's visit to Cumber- 
 land Square, picked up an umbrella, so tightly 
 rolled that It looked like a toy in his vigorous grasp, 
 and eventually emerged upon the already lighted 
 streets. He walked down Shaftesbury Avenue 
 and threaded his way across Piccadilly Circus with 
 the assured ease of the native Londoner. He car- 
 ried his head high and walked with an exuberant 
 
 1 60 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 step. He had just heard that he had passed reason- 
 ably well into Sandhurst. The occasion, therefore, 
 was one for some natural lightness of heart. 
 It was also one, as he conceived, for some legitimate 
 indulgence in temporal delights. Accordingly, 
 he was on his way to the Temple, to enlist the 
 co-operation of Maurice Heelas in that enterprise. 
 Maurice had unaccountably failed him of late. To- 
 day he was firmly determined to accept no refusal. 
 
 When he reached Mr Kenyon's chambers it was 
 five o'clock. Maurice was seated with the latter's 
 clerk in a dingy and rather musty room lined with 
 books. The clerk was reading the evening paper ; 
 Maurice was writing at a table beneath an incan- 
 descent gaslight, with open volumes surrounding 
 his blotting-pad and standing on the floor beside 
 him, his places kept by the table legs. 
 
 "Sit down, Grahame," he said, looking up as 
 the latter entered. "I can't talk just yet." 
 
 Grahame obeyed, and addressed himself amiably 
 to the clerk. 
 
 "Oh, don't talk, there's a good fellow," said 
 Maurice; "this is beastly ticklish." 
 
 "Right you are," said Grahame, cheerfully. 
 "Anything in the paper, Mr Burkinshaw?" 
 
 i6i 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 Mr Burkinshaw politely handed him a portion 
 of it. Christopher was coming to an end of the 
 more interesting of the advertisements, when an 
 inner door suddenly opened and Mr Kenyon him- 
 self appeared. He was a tall, good-looking man 
 of fifty, with clean-cut features and thin dark hair. 
 He nodded to Grahame, whom he had seen in his 
 chambers before, and stood for a few minutes in 
 conversation with his clerk. Then he looked at 
 Maurice. 
 
 "What are you doing, Heelas?" he said. 
 
 "I'm writing the opinion for Campbell's," said 
 Maurice. "I don't think they've much of a case, 
 sir." 
 
 "Neither do I; but just worth fighting, per- 
 haps." 
 
 "Belloc V. Foster is dead against them," said 
 Maurice, "and so is Hart v. Pritchard." 
 
 "Yes, but isn't there one of Whitley's decisions 
 which favours them to some extent?" 
 
 "Smith V. Cummings," said Maurice; "that was 
 overruled on appeal." 
 
 "Was it?" The barrister became suddenly alert. 
 "Let me look." 
 
 Maurice handed him the volume of Reports. 
 He put on a pair of eye-glasses and read the judg- 
 
 162 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 ment. "Yes," he said, replacing the book on 
 the table, "that's unfortunate. What are you 
 saying?" 
 
 "I'm making it rather gloomy," said Maurice. 
 
 "I'm afraid so," said Mr Kenyon. 
 
 He put on his hat. "I am not coming back," 
 he said to his clerk, and passed through the outer 
 door. 
 
 "National Anthem," said Grahame, rising with 
 relief. "You'll have to chuck it, Heelas. Mr 
 Burkinshaw isn't going to stay much longer." 
 
 "A few moments only," said Mr Burkinshaw, 
 folding his paper. "I rarely remain later than 
 half-past five during recess." 
 
 "Only when Mr Kenyon does," commented 
 Chris, mentally. He handed back his share of the 
 paper, with thanks. 
 
 "Not at all," said Mr Burkinshaw. "Remark- 
 able case this Clapham poisoning affair." 
 
 "Regular Bluebeard," said Chris. 
 
 "Quite so," said Mr Burkinshaw. "I remarked 
 to my wife that it resembled one of those tales from 
 the Arabian Nights." 
 
 He completed his preparations for departure, 
 leaving Maurice with no alternative but to fol- 
 low his example. With the keys in his hand he 
 
 163 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 politely ushered the two young men into the cor- 
 ridor. 
 
 Out in the court Grahame broke his news. 
 
 Maurice stopped dead. "Good man!" he cried 
 enthusiastically. 
 
 "I got in forty-second," said Grahame. "Oh, 
 it'll do !" 
 
 "Rather!" said Maurice. "My dear fellow, 
 I'm most awfully glad." He couldn't have been 
 more genuinely pleased had he just scored a vic- 
 tory In his first case. "I told Angelica you meant 
 to get In." 
 
 They turned into the Strand. "I've been think- 
 ing," said Grahame, "that a little decorous dissipa- 
 tion should celebrate the event." 
 
 Maurice laughed. "Oh, yes, I suppose so. But 
 what do you mean exactly ? I don't want to drink, 
 Grahame." 
 
 "Not unreasonably," said Grahame. "We'll 
 go to the club and have a game of billiards; then 
 dinner somewhere and a music-hall ; a little supper 
 afterwards, perhaps. We'll leave the rest to in- 
 spiration." 
 
 "I scarcely see my way through all that," said 
 Maurice, with a laugh, "especially the inspiration. 
 But I don't mind making a beginning." 
 
 164 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 Accordingly he despatched a telegram to 
 Angelica, announcing his intention to remain in 
 town until late in the evening. She read it with- 
 out the least misgiving. She would have been 
 sorry, possibly her pride would have been hurt by 
 so abrupt an intimation, but she would not have 
 been anxious had the telegram told her he was 
 going to stay away a week. 
 
 They played two games of billiards, and after- 
 wards dined at a small restaurant in Soho; one 
 for which Grahame felt a peculiar affection, re- 
 garding it as a discovery of his own. Its prin- 
 cipal merits were a really excellent cuisine, a lack 
 of display, and comparatively moderate charges. 
 There were private rooms in it where you could 
 dine undisturbed, served by a waiter who could 
 be relied upon not to return after leaving the cof- 
 fee. This was an advantage of which Grahame 
 had more than once informed Maurice; adding 
 that it was useful to know a really good place 
 in case of emergency — so many men didn't. They 
 split a bottle of Goulet '93. Neither of them 
 could have detected any difference between '93 and 
 '95. But they cheerfully paid three shillings a 
 bottle more for the former, Grahame remarking 
 that it was necessary to be very careful how 
 
 165 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 you "touched" '95, which was an "unequal" 
 year. 
 
 After dinner they turned into one of the larger 
 music-halls. They decorously sat through the first 
 ballet, and then, at Grahame's suggestion, took, a 
 "stroll behind." Maurice knew exactly what this 
 meant. But he hadn't the heart, on this evening, 
 to fail his friend. Moreover, he felt perfectly 
 secure against even mental unfaithfulness to 
 Angelica. The "stroll behind" had only been in 
 progress a few minutes, when they met two ladies 
 of Christopher's acquaintance, to whom he pre- 
 sented Maurice with some playful elaboration by 
 an assumed name. The ladies knew it to be as- 
 sumed and did not resent it. They were of the 
 demure school. That is to say, their hair was 
 parted in the middle and drawn over their temples, 
 and they viewed the world in general, and our two 
 friends in particular, with bent heads and raised 
 eyes. Their dresses — if one may be guilty of 
 paradox — ^were of ostentatious simplicity. 
 
 "Have you just come up?" said the one whom 
 Maurice found was assigned to his peculiar charge. 
 
 "Up where?" said Maurice. 
 
 "Up to town." 
 
 "Oh, no," said Maurice, "I live here." 
 166 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 The upward glance became exceedingly sly. 
 "Who are you getting at?" she asked facetiously. 
 "Do you think I shouldn't remember you? I've 
 never seen you before." 
 
 "I don't often come to music-halls," said Mau- 
 rice. "I used to come occasionally at one time, 
 but not lately." 
 
 "Turned over a new leaf," said the girl, laugh- 
 ing. "And now you can't be good any longer, so 
 you're going to turn back again. It's only human 
 nature, isn't it?" She cast him a very compre- 
 hensive glance. "Well, what are you going to ask 
 me to have?" 
 
 The four of them drifted into a raised room at 
 the back of the auditorium. There was a bar at 
 one corner ; the remaining floor space was occupied 
 by easy-chairs and small circular tables. From 
 here they had a difficult glimpse of the stage over 
 the heads and between the shoulders of the people 
 in front. A waiter supplied their table with the 
 liquids which Maurice had duly applied for, and 
 conversation proceeded vivaciously. But the com- 
 mon mental ground on which the two parties 
 met was appreciably of limited extent. The flow 
 of gaiety was kept up, so far as Maurice was 
 concerned, by an effort which constantly held in 
 
 167 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 view an inevitable reaction; while the repartee of 
 the ladies, though very ready, contained little that 
 was strikingly original. They consistently met 
 spirited sallies by asking to be given "a chance" ; 
 they repeatedly referred to the fact that they 
 were not "born yesterday"; and they hinted 
 more than once that Christopher was "a bit 
 thick." 
 
 Maurice was no spoil-sport. He had joined 
 Grahame to show his appreciation of the latter's 
 success, and he had not the least intention to be a 
 wet blanket. He maintained his share of the 
 conversation to the best of his ability and kept a 
 laughing face; but inwardly he was shivering — 
 shivering to remember that only a few months ago 
 he was actually in the jaws of this. He looked 
 around him — at the well-dressed men, callous and 
 blase, moving leisurely about, or sitting with a 
 polished boot upon a neighbouring chair, flicking 
 cigarette-ash to the floor ; at the women, all of one 
 class, powdered, flamboyant, bold-eyed. It was in- 
 conceivable almost, so he felt now, that all this 
 could ever have appealed to him, that he could have 
 seen it at any time otherwise than as it was. 
 
 When the pace began to fail Grahame ordered 
 a fresh supply of liquid stimulant, and when the 
 
 i68 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 effect had again worn off — by which time the hall 
 was thinning — he suggested going somewhere to 
 supper. Silence, which is merely uncomfortable 
 among ordinary casual acquaintance, is unendur- 
 able between people met as were these, a dreaded 
 thing to be warded off by all arms. With silence 
 comes thought. If you don't laugh you must cry, 
 or come near it. So Grahame's suggestion was ac- 
 claimed with relief, and the stream of chaff and 
 chatter flowed on with fresh vigour as they all 
 rose and moved into the auditorium. On the stairs, 
 the simple black skirts were modestly flourished, 
 to disclose well-turned ankles and a wealth of white 
 lace frilling. In such order they emerged upon 
 the street, the very picture of joyous insouciance, 
 the two demure ladies, each beside her cavalier, 
 rippling along, with rustling under-silks, glancing 
 upward. 
 
 They entered a restaurant of the splendid type' — 
 streaming lights without, soft shades and sumptu- 
 ousness within, where obsequious attendants in 
 gorgeous liveries, with nothing to do, stood about 
 in the vestibule. Maurice could never pass these 
 people without a sense of shame. He knew that 
 we have no right to turn thinking human beings 
 into gilded automatons for our aggrandisement; 
 
 169 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 that to pay fellow-creatures to make us obeisance 
 is undiluted vulgarity. 
 
 So far as that goes, he knew, or, at least, he 
 suspected in his inmost soul — though he didn't dare 
 to think too closely about It — that one-half of 
 humanity has no moral title to require the other 
 half to wait upon it. Most of us who happen to 
 have been born with the means, or with the oppor- 
 tunity or ability to acquire the means, to secure 
 these services, take them as a matter of course. 
 And it may perhaps be said. In our favour, that 
 we have been given hands and minds capable of 
 better employment, employment more generally 
 beneficial than trivial labour, which would other- 
 wise be lost or Interrupted. So far we may salve 
 our consciences. But we are not content to stop 
 there — we are not content merely to bend the 
 bodies of our fellows to our services ; we must de- 
 grade their spirits also — as these automatons. 
 Even bishops — heads of great religious orders — 
 are not ashamed to set up stiff-backed mutes, with 
 arms precisely folded, on the box seats of their 
 carriages. 
 
 And then we are surprised that they revolt, 
 surprised at social upheavals and reigns of ter- 
 ror, surprised that our own domestic servants are 
 
 170 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 difficult to obtain. We forget that household 
 service in its present form is literally imprison- 
 ment, whose victims are under constant surveil- 
 lance, are deprived of fresh air and exercise, can- 
 not raise their voices even in the parts of the house 
 particularly assigned to them without reproof, 
 must wear a livery of servitude and are permitted 
 social intercourse and recreation only at fixed 
 weekly intervals, under restrictions. It is rather 
 difficult to realise all that is implied by that — the 
 feeling of being caged, bottled up under one roof 
 from day to day and week to week and month to 
 month. We could lighten it; but we have be- 
 come so inured to being waited upon that we are 
 ashamed to perform even small mechanical offices 
 for ourselves. Consternation reigns in a family 
 at the mention of the shocking possibility of 
 the house being temporarily left without someone 
 — a dependent someone — to "open the front door." 
 It is that, and that alone, which keeps maids within 
 doors during the whole of a bright summer after- 
 noon. 
 
 Practical relief from commonplace daily neces- 
 sities we may be entitled to receive from those in 
 a humbler position, but not this magnification of 
 our importance at the expense of our fellows. 
 
 171 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 Yet such is the httleness of humanity that the for- 
 mer is less hardly dispensed with. We can pri- 
 vately wash up our own tea-things at a pinch, but 
 we cannot carry the tray a few yards in the pres- 
 ence of a visitor. Similarly, our supper-party — 
 for the interruption of whose sprightly progress 
 during this digression we ask the reader's forgive- 
 ness — found an abundance of automatons in the 
 vestibule and a paucity of waiters in the restau- 
 rant. The manager knew his patrons; better to 
 wait for your supper. If your consequence is ade- 
 quately recognised, than a quickly-served meal and 
 no kow-tow. 
 
 He would have been horrified by any comparison 
 with those inferior places of refreshment where 
 people actually shout for attendance ; but, neverthe- 
 less, there was quite a suggestion of a scramble in 
 the handing and removal of the various dishes. 
 The intervals between the courses were especially 
 Irksome to Maurice, for he looked upon the 
 completion of the meal as all that now divided him 
 from the fair fulfilment of his compact with 
 Grahame. So he was considerably disconcerted to 
 gather from his companion's remarks that he was 
 supposed to have committed himself to further ad- 
 ventures. 
 
 172 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "Oh, I'm not coming home with you," he said, 
 hastily. 
 
 "What!" The girl shot at him a quick flash of 
 indignation — of anger. 
 
 "I'm awfully sorry," said Maurice. "I didn't 
 know you were assuming that." 
 
 "But you've been talking to me all evening." 
 
 Maurice couldn't deny it. Moreover, he had a 
 sudden vivid perception of the matter from the 
 girl's point of view. 
 
 "You think I've treated you badly?" he 
 said. 
 
 "Well, what do you think?" 
 
 He meditated. 
 
 "Would you still think so," he asked a little 
 dubiously, "if I gave you — well — a couple of 
 sovereigns?" 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 "For a present." 
 
 "For nothing at all?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Not even a kiss?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Treated me badly!" cried the girl, with vivid 
 irony. "Not much ! I should think it was a bit 
 of all right." 
 
 173 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "Even better than if I came with you?" ven- 
 tured Maurice. 
 
 "Oh, I don't know," she said guardedly. 
 
 "Wouldn't you prefer my room to my com- 
 pany ? You may as well confess. It won't make 
 any difference." He bent a little towards her, 
 smiling calmly. 
 
 "Oh, well," she admitted, "I'm rather tired; 
 and one doesn't get much rest at nights." 
 
 "Shake hands, then," said Maurice. He took 
 her hand and left the two coins in the palm. "Now 
 we are both satisfied. ... I wish you hadn't 
 to do it." 
 
 "So do I," said the girl. 
 
 She looked at him, for the first time, with some 
 genuine feeling, as a being who possessed heart and 
 soul as well as a body. Then another aspect of 
 the matter struck her. 
 
 "But don't you mant to kiss me?" she asked, 
 with a note of incredulity. 
 
 "Not in the least," said Maurice, laughing. 
 
 Suddenly her manner changed. Her profes- 
 sional powers had come into question. She was 
 on her mettle. She glanced round the room to see 
 if they were watched. Finding that most of the 
 other parties had already left and that those who 
 
 174 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 remained were too preoccupied to observe their 
 secluded corner, while Christopher and his com- 
 panion were engaged in vivacious conversation on 
 their own account, she propped her plump fore- 
 arms, bare to the elbow, on the table, and rested 
 her chin on her hands. Then she leaned towards 
 Maurice and pouted her lips, smiling seductively. 
 
 "Kiss me nicely," she said, "there's no one look- 
 ing." 
 
 Maurice hesitated. He did not want to wound 
 her feelings. She was decidedly pretty, too — 
 just now even winsome — and she was not painted, 
 only lightly powdered. He would not have 
 objected to kiss her. On the other hand, he had 
 no desire to do so. Angelica had forged him 
 impervious armour against such blandishments. 
 He felt no glow of his blood at the prospect. It 
 would have been a gratuitous distraint on his 
 self-respect. So he found refuge in a pious 
 deception. 
 
 "Oh, no," he said, "that might cost you your 
 night's rest." Then, without giving her time to 
 reply, he said to Christopher, "Are you ready, 
 Grahame? We are nearly the last." 
 
 Chris was on excellent terms with himself by 
 this time. 
 
 175 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "Ready!" he cried gleefully. "I'm ready for 
 anything — any mortal thing. So's Lucy. Aren't 
 you, Lucy? Lord, you do look ripping when you 
 smile like that!" He snatched her hand. 
 
 "Rather!" said Lucy, finishing her wine. "Say 
 the word. If you're very good I'll let you kiss me 
 presently." Then she burst out laughing. 
 
 "If he's like his friend," said Maurice's com- 
 panion, "he'll tell you he doesn't want to." 
 
 "What! Oh, naughty!" said Lucy, bending to 
 Maurice with her most alluring air. "You 
 wouldn't say that to me, dear?" 
 
 "I've forgotten the trick of it," he answered 
 mendaciously. 
 
 "Don't you believe him," said Chris. 
 
 "Not much!" she cried indignantly. "Forgot- 
 ten the trick! Have you forgotten it?" 
 
 "Not half!" said Christopher, gaily. "Neither 
 that nor another. Oh, the bill !" as a waiter re- 
 spectfully presented that document. He dug his 
 hand Into his pocket. 
 
 "I'll settle up," said Maurice. 
 
 Christopher remonstrated, but eventually, after 
 a brief controversy, gave way. 
 
 He dropped behind the girls as they were 
 leaving the restaurant and walked beside Maurice. 
 
 176 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "You're coming to see them home, old chap," 
 he said, in a tone of affectionate confidence which 
 such seasons beget. 
 
 "Is that the inspiration?" asked Maurice, 
 smiling. 
 
 "It is the inspiration," replied Christopher, 
 beaming. 
 
 "Not a very original one!" laughed Maurice. 
 "Well, I contracted out of it, didn't I?" 
 
 "You're not coming?" 
 
 "No, I think not." 
 
 "Rather rough on the girl, though." 
 
 "Oh, I've made it all right with her," said 
 Maurice. 
 
 "What a weird sort of fellow you are, Heelas," 
 said Grahame, momentarily sobering. "I wish I 
 was built in the same way; it would save one such 
 an infernal lot of worry." 
 
 He hailed a hansom when they reached the 
 street, and, after a little spirited discussion as to 
 the method of seating, the three squeezed into it. 
 
 "You're a good sort," said Maurice's late com- 
 panion, turning towards him, as she stepped up. 
 "I wish you were coming," and added, in a whisper, 
 " — for yourself." 
 
 177 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 "Dear Heelas, — If you have an hour to spare 
 any afternoon will you come in and see me? I 
 want to talk to you. — Yrs. 
 
 "C. Grahame." 
 
 It was a characteristic note. Christopher's 
 letters seldom extended beyond the first side of a 
 sheet of paper, and when they did they expressed 
 what he had to say without embellishment or the 
 smallest regard for the delicacies of composition. 
 The same little word could recur four or five times 
 in as many lines without giving him pause; he 
 didn't know what a split infinitive was; and his 
 method of choosing prepositions was apparently 
 to pick them from a hat. Since, in addition, his 
 handwriting had never acquired any definite 
 formation, the result was frequently such as to 
 produce in the mind of a stranger considerable 
 misconception of the qualities and attainments of 
 his correspondent. In short, to vary a schoolboy 
 phrase, Christopher was "not such a fool as he 
 wrote." 
 
 178 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 Maurice read the few cramped, round words 
 with some perplexity. February was well ad- 
 vanced by this time, and he had supposed that 
 Grahame had gone to Sandhurst; whereas the note 
 was dated from his old quarters in town. It was 
 unlike him, too, to write ; usually he came round to 
 the Temple to make his communications by word 
 of mouth. 
 
 He put the note back in its envelope and laid it 
 beside his breakfast plate. 
 
 "Something must be wrong," he said aloud. 
 
 "Wrong with whom?" said Angelica. 
 
 "With Grahame," said Maurice, removing the 
 covers ; "he wants me to go and see him. Hooray, 
 it's kidneys." 
 
 "Well, why shouldn't he? Does that imply 
 mental derangement?" 
 
 "I thought he was at Sandhurst," replied 
 Maurice. "Besides, he's not given to writing 
 notes." 
 
 "Perhaps he wants you to help him to celebrate 
 his success again," said Angelica, smiling. She put 
 out a hand and took the plate which Maurice 
 handed to her. She was in excellent spirits, a soft 
 glow of health about her, in a bright morning- 
 gown. 
 
 179 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "Oh, that solitary night!" said Maurice, with 
 prodigious affectation of long-suffering. "You are 
 really quite unkind about it, Angelica." 
 
 "I should like you to have more of them," said 
 Angelica, quietly. "I think they do you good. 
 You have been working too hard lately." 
 
 "Nonsense !" said Maurice. "I'm not the least 
 likely to do that. And I don't care a straw for 
 music-halls. I can never quite understand what 
 it is about them that appeals to cultivated men." 
 
 "Oh, but I can," said Angelica, " — to a man 
 who is working his brain during the day, especially. 
 It's the relaxation, the freedom, the relief of taking 
 his mind for a time from things that matter and 
 letting it drift among empty trifles. He doesn't 
 feel inclined to follow the intricacies of a play; 
 besides, the order and restraint are irksome to him. 
 You are doing without all this to spend your even- 
 ings with me and sometimes to take me to a theatre 
 and to dine at people's houses and have them here 
 and play domestic bridge, like a staid old gen- 
 tleman." There was rather a wistful expression 
 in her soft grey eyes. "Are you sure you are 
 happy, Maurice?" 
 
 He took her hand and held it. "Awfully 
 happy," he said, " — awfully — awfully." 
 
 1 80 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 Angelica breathed a sigh of content. "Some- 
 times it seems aknost too good to be true," she 
 said. 
 
 "What does?" said Maurice. 
 
 "That we can do this, live in this way, which 
 most people would consider so frightfully immoral, 
 and yet be so utterly happy and each retain our self- 
 respect and respect of one another." 
 
 "What makes me so thankful," said Maurice, 
 "is that we have had the luck to find it out. I'm 
 tremendously glad I was obstinate that night." He 
 paused, and then asked a little diffidently in a lower 
 voice, "Are you, Angelica?" 
 
 She didn't answer, but after a momentary inter- 
 val, rose suddenly and wrapped him convulsively 
 in her arms. 
 
 It happened to be Saturday. So Maurice had 
 a free afternoon to devote to Chris — a circum- 
 stance of which the latter had possibly taken ac- 
 count when he penned his note. Maurice went up 
 to Shaftesbury Avenue immediately after lunch. 
 As he made his way along the pavements filled 
 with eager City men hurrying homeward, he was 
 conscious of increasing vague uneasiness on his 
 friend's account, and this feeling deepened as he 
 mounted the broad stone steps leading to Gra- 
 
 i8i 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 hame's rooms. In response to his light knock the 
 latter called to him to come in, and he opened the 
 door of the sitting-room. Christopher was sitting 
 in the corner of the settee, his head resting upon a 
 cushion, one leg extended along the seat, smoking 
 a cigarette. There was a small stand beside him 
 with an ash-tray upon it, but no book nor paper 
 nor magazine, nor sign of any occupation beyond 
 the rather uninteresting one of watching his smoke 
 wreaths. Apparently he had been brooding. 
 That was as much unlike him as the writing of the 
 note. 
 
 "Did I disturb you?" said Maurice. "You 
 weren't asleep, were you ?" 
 
 "Oh, Lord, no!" said Christopher. "It's good 
 of you to come round, Heelas. Sit down. The 
 cigarettes are on that little table " 
 
 Maurice sat down and lighted a cigarette. He 
 was confirmed in his misgiving by Grahame's 
 appearance. There was a change in him. The 
 old happy, cheery expression had gone — gone, it 
 appeared to Maurice, irrevocably — ^and had been 
 replaced by that of a man much older. His skin 
 was grey beneath the familiar warm colouring, 
 his round cheeks were thinner, his eyes were grave 
 and steady. In a line, his face had the unmistak- 
 
 182 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 able stamp of one who had suffered — suffered 
 mentally. 
 
 Maurice went straight to the point. "Some- 
 thing is wrong?" he said. 
 
 "Yes," said Chris. 
 
 Maurice waited. 
 
 "Can't you guess?" Chris asked. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "I've been caught — ^badly." 
 
 "Caught?" said Maurice, scarcely apprehending. 
 
 "The other night, you remember — " 
 
 Maurice sat up in his chair, gripping the 
 elbows. "What do you mean?" he asked 
 hoarsely. 
 
 "It's It—it— it." 
 
 "The worst?" The words came hardly above 
 his breath. 
 
 "The very worst," said Chris. 
 
 There was a dull pause. Something like ice had 
 run through Maurice. This was a thing he had 
 heard of, thought of, knew the terrors of, but had 
 never come to close quarters with. 
 
 He pulled himself together. "Perhaps you 
 are wrong," he said. "Have you seen a doc- 
 tor?" 
 
 183 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "I've seen two. I thought the first might be 
 an ass." 
 
 "The second confirmed him?" 
 
 "Oh, yes. There's no doubt, old chap. Pitch 
 me another cigarette." 
 
 Maurice did so, and there was a further interval 
 of silence. 
 
 "Of course Fm done for the army," said Chris, 
 presently. 
 
 "What does the doctor say?" asked Maurice, 
 following his own line of thought. 
 
 "He says he can cure me in time — sort of cure 
 me — ^but it'll take a long time. I ought never to 
 marry." 
 
 "Did he say so?" 
 
 "He hinted it. I shall have to keep away from 
 women's society — to be a sort of outcast from my 
 fellows — get a reputation for a misogynist." 
 
 "You can live unmarried without all that. That 
 needn't follow." 
 
 "Not for you, perhaps. You're a lucky 
 dog, Heelas. You seem to have been born with- 
 out the usual human weaknesses. I wish to 
 goodness they'd rigged me out in the same 
 way." 
 
 Maurice felt a hypocrite. But his lips were 
 184 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 sealed. It was the worst thing he had ever had 
 to suffer for Angelica. 
 
 "In the meantime," continued Chris, "I've got 
 to go on living — If the sort of existence I shall 
 have to lead for the next year or two can be called 
 living." He glanced round the comfortably fur- 
 nished room. "The Mater fixed me up here — 
 she has done everything, in fact — her level utmost 
 — she has been splendid. She was keen on the 
 army. And now I've lost it." 
 
 He paused. 
 
 "Flatly," he burst out suddenly, "I can't tell the 
 Mater. I'll kill myself rather." 
 
 Maurice got up and stood with his back to the 
 fire. He dug his hands into his pockets and looked 
 at his friend. 
 
 "Don't talk like that," he said, "it won't do any 
 good. Let us look the thing steadily In the face 
 and see what's best to be done." 
 
 "I'm not talking wildly," said Christopher, 
 examining the lighted end of his cigarette. "The 
 Mater's not one of the understanding sort. You 
 know that. She would rather have me dead than 
 like this, I think. I believe It truly." 
 
 "/ don't," said Maurice, firmly; "I don't for 
 a single moment," He spoke quite honestly, and 
 
 185 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 not merely to inspire Christopher. He was fully 
 conscious of Mrs Grahame's prejudices, but he 
 could not doubt that her deep attachment to her 
 son would prove stronger even than they. 
 
 "This is the worst of all," proceeded Chris- 
 topher, still blowing small specks of ash from his 
 cigarette. "Anything else she might have got over, 
 in time — ^but not this. This puts me outside the 
 pale." 
 
 "It's always the worst of all," exclaimed 
 Maurice, with sudden vigour, "among people who 
 set up for judges of conduct — always — always. 
 I've never been able to understand why. Other 
 things seem worse, but it's always the worst of 
 all." 
 
 "It has to be, I suppose," said Grahame, dully. 
 "If it became the fashion to wink at it, the social 
 system would have to be fixed up on a different 
 basis." 
 
 "That means that the objection, at the bottom, 
 is practical and not moral." 
 
 "Of course it is." 
 
 "But they don't know that — these people with 
 views. Mrs Grahame doesn't know it?" 
 
 "Oh, Lord, no!" said Christopher. 
 
 Maurice walked to the window and looked out. 
 i86 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 Men were still hurrying along in the street below 
 on their way home, eager to catch the 3.4 at Vic- 
 toria, instead of being obliged to wait for the 3.15. 
 He had seen this same stream often before with- 
 out being conscious of any special characteristic 
 of it. To-day he was struck — as humanity in gen- 
 eral always strikes us in the face of a private calam- 
 ity — by its callousness, its shallowness. What 
 mattered it to them, so long as they got quickly 
 home to their poultry pens or their slips of garden 
 in the suburbs, that a boy full of promise, full of 
 health, full of lovable qualities, had been struck 
 down, at the very outset of his career, by a terrible 
 and avertible malady? 
 
 He went back to his seat and took another cigar- 
 ette. "It's no good saying I'm sorry," he said, 
 "the word is preposterously feeble. One feels ut- 
 terly mad, somehow, that such a thing should hang 
 on a chance." 
 
 "Of course everyone knows the chance is there," 
 said Christopher, dully. "Twenty fellows come 
 off fairly free. I happen to be the twenty-first. 
 They had a system in the Roman armies, hadn't 
 they, of making every tenth man pay the penalty 
 for the fault of the whole? I always thought It 
 was moderately rough on number ten." 
 
 187 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 He dropped his head on the cushion and blew 
 a cloud of smoke into the air. 
 
 "I suppose I have been a pretty bad lot," he said 
 meditatively, as he watched it disperse. 
 
 "Don't talk rot," cried Maurice, fiercely, sitting 
 forward in his chair, "don't talk utter rot, Gra- 
 hame. No one I loiow, or ever met, has less of 
 the bad lot at the bottom of him. You've gone as 
 reasonably straight as a man can." 
 
 "Some people would call it uncommonly 
 crooked," said Grahame, with a wry smile. 
 
 "And look here, Grahame," continued Maurice, 
 speaking earnestly, "don't get an exaggerated Idea 
 of what you have to go through. Every moment 
 you can save, in making up your mind to it as 
 an inevitable nuisance and tackling it with that 
 idea, is a pure gain. There are things that are 
 worse." 
 
 "What are they?" 
 
 "Oh, lots. Some much worse. Cancer, say." 
 
 "Men don't nudge one another and point across 
 the street and say 'That man has cancer.' I tell 
 you, Fm a leper; I'm made unfit to mix with decent 
 people ; the very thought of oneself becomes loath- 
 some." 
 
 "That's all nonsense," said Maurice. "The 
 i88 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 thing itself is not so bad if it's treated properly. 
 It's really only troublesome because of the senti- 
 mental and moral effect, which you exaggerate 
 ludicrously at present, and the practical incon- 
 venience, which we must think about and find some 
 way to get over. These sort of worries often look 
 very big at first, but they come down tremendously 
 when you get your mind fairly broken in to the 
 new situation." 
 
 He spoke, it must be owned, appreciably more 
 optimistically than he felt. 
 
 "It's no good, Heelas," said Grahame, calmly. 
 "It's good of you to make the best of it. But 
 I'm done, so far as this world goes. If there's 
 another, they may give me a second chance. I've 
 paid pretty early." 
 
 "I wish you wouldn't take that view of it, 
 Grahame," said Maurice, with keen distress. 
 
 "How can I possibly take any other?" Some 
 of the pent-up agony in Chris found vent. "It's 
 not a view — 'tis a fact. I wish to heaven it 
 wasn't!" Suddenly he got up and strode to the 
 window, threw up the sash and put his head out. 
 
 Maurice followed him. There was a pause. 
 
 "Grahame." 
 
 Chris slowly drew in his head. 
 189 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "You are not seriously thinking of that?" 
 
 "Of what?" 
 
 "Of putting an end to it?" 
 
 Chris stood by the open window, the cold air 
 sweeping in upon him, his young, round face lined 
 and drawn with pain. 
 
 "Why not?" he said. "What single induce- 
 ment has life to offer? What prospect of anything 
 but misery and degradation ? Think of the future 
 — an outcast — a pariah — condemned and disowned 
 by my own mother! Think of it, man. Why 
 should I cling to this beastly body that has become 
 hateful to me, that I despise and detest?" 
 
 Maurice laid a hand on his arm. "You are 
 not yourself," he said. "Come away from that 
 window." 
 
 "Leave me alone, Heelas." Chris shook him 
 off, and again stretched his head through the open- 
 ing and looked down upon the street below. 
 
 "Mysterious suicides," he muttered. "You 
 often read of mysterious suicides, Heelas. They 
 don't give the reason In the paper. Thank Heaven 
 for that! ... I should make a queer mess of 
 that fellow's topper." 
 
 Maurice put both his arms round him and 
 attempted to draw him gently back, Chris tried 
 
 190 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 to shake him off again, but Maurice resolutely re- 
 tained his hold. 
 
 "Leave me alone," repeated Chris, petulantly. 
 
 "Not until you come away from the window," 
 said Maurice, firmly. 
 
 Grahame screwed himself round, grasped Mau- 
 rice by the collar-bone and forced him back. 
 
 "Take your hands off," he demanded, angrily. 
 
 "Not until you come away," persisted Maurice, 
 beginning to pant. 
 
 He made a sudden effort and dragged Chris a 
 foot or two from the open window. The action 
 was fatal. Grahame had reached a pitch of ner- 
 vous excitement which could brook no such arbi- 
 trary treatment. He wrapped his arms about 
 Maurice and swung him violently back towards the 
 window. 
 
 "If you will, you shall," he shouted. 
 
 He was suddenly outside himself, dominated by 
 forces beyond his control. Every other thought 
 was overwhelmed in the single desire to hurl 
 himself and his friend to the hard pavement, forty 
 feet below. Maurice felt it, knew it, in the tense 
 grip that bound him. From vague anxiety for his 
 friend he was plunged in a vivid moment into the 
 stern consciousness that only his physical strength 
 
 191 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 could avail to save either of them. They reeled, 
 hovered over the window, then with a swirl and a 
 thump they were in the centre of the room; the 
 little table with the cigarettes upon it cracked down 
 and a chair beside it, and they were at the win- 
 dow again. Not a word was uttered. In silence, 
 their breath came deeply, strenuously; in silence, 
 their boots scraped on the polished boards at the 
 edge of the carpet. Chris was the heavier of the 
 two, but the lack of suiScient food and sleep 
 during the last week or two had weakened 
 him. With a great effort he raised Maurice, 
 lifted him slowly from his heels to his toes. Then 
 his strength failed. Maurice held him. They 
 swayed inward, tottered a step, two steps; Mau- 
 rice's head shaved the marble mantel. Then they 
 fell together, with a crash, among the fire-irons on 
 the hearth. 
 
 Chris was sobered by the fall. He picked him- 
 self up stiffly and gave a hand to Maurice, who 
 was underneath. They were both slightly dazed. 
 Maurice had been cut below the cheek-bone by the 
 brass fender. He dabbed the place slowly with a 
 pocket-handkerchief. 
 
 "I'm sorry, Heelas," said Chris. 
 
 "It's all right," said Maurice, simply. 
 192 
 
rUE YOKE 
 
 "Not for that scratch; I mean for trying to 
 murder you." 
 
 "I know," said Maurice. 
 
 They quietly recovered the scattered cigarettes; 
 then set the little table on its legs and sat down 
 on either side of it. 
 
 "I can't think what happened to me," said Chris. 
 "I didn't know what I was doing. I suppose it 
 must make rather a mess of you when one beastly 
 thought goes on drumming on your brain for days 
 and weeks without stopping. 
 
 "Of course it does," said Maurice, "there's no 
 doubt about that. I think I'll have some whisky 
 or brandy," he added, getting up, "if you've got 
 any." 
 
 "Sorry, old chap; it's in the cupboard. What 
 a wild beast to come and see ! I'm glad we didn't 
 go — I mean, I'm glad you didn't go." 
 
 "Don't keep harping on that note, Grahame," 
 said Maurice. "Sha'n't you have any?" — he was 
 pouring out the spirit. Chris shrugged his shoul- 
 ders. "You know we are not entitled to take our 
 lives. Whatever happens they are not ours to 
 take. We hold them on trust." 
 
 "I can't see it," exclaimed Grahame, emphati- 
 cally, "I never could. I didn't ask for this body; 
 
 193 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 I didn't want it; it was forced upon me. Why 
 should I respect it?" 
 
 "We often have presents given us that we cer- 
 tainly didn't ask for, and that we don't want and 
 don't like. But we don't throw them on the fire. 
 We should feel mean brutes if we did." 
 
 "Yes, but if the present had a malignant microbe 
 inside it, we should pretty soon have it in the big- 
 gest and deepest fire we could find." 
 
 "It's not one of those things you can demonstrate 
 by reason," said Maurice. "It's an Instinct; it's 
 something we feel. A man who has been bom 
 with suiEcient Income to live upon can logically say 
 to himself, 'I've had life forced upon me ; I've had 
 money forced upon me; there's no reason why I 
 should do anything.' But If he simply lives — lives 
 perfectly morally, but uselessly — he can't help 
 losing his self-respect. He has got the feeling that 
 he Is betraying a trust." 
 
 "Yes, of course," said Chris; "life Is a pleasant 
 thing to that fellow. What he feels Is, that he 
 has had an uncommonly handsome thing done to 
 him, and that he's doing absolutely nothing In 
 return." 
 
 "I don't think It's merely that," said Maurice. 
 "We might make the income only just enough to 
 
 194 
 
JHE YOKE 
 
 keep him clear of starvation, and the feeling would 
 still be the same." 
 
 "At any rate he starts clear," said Chris, "and 
 not with a big detriment. If I were to consent 
 to go on living, in present circumstances, to go on 
 doing the work which I'm presumably desired to 
 do, I should consider it an act of uncommon mag- 
 nanimity. In the case of a man who has a family 
 depending upon him, I'll admit there may be some- 
 thing in your ideas; though, even so, he has been 
 forced to acquire the family by the necessities stuck 
 within him; it hasn't been of his own free will. 
 He never has a choice; he's driven — driven — 
 driven — from the cradle to the grave, by the force 
 that is working everjrwhere to some unknown end 
 of its own. Most people think it's a serious end. 
 To my mind it appears to be the finest practical 
 joke that ever was heard of — for those who play 
 it. Man is made to think he's enjoying himself, 
 when all the time he's quietly preparing the climax. 
 The great idea is to lead us on till we cover the 
 earth, cover every inch of it, and jostle one another 
 for a foothold. Think what a comical sight that'll 
 be! Side-splitting. It's only by setting up arbi- 
 trary marriage-laws, and cultivating artificial no- 
 tions of morality, and providing vicious outlets — 
 
 195 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 calling for the sacrifice of platoons of feminine 
 victims and occasional masculine ones, like me — 
 that we are able to keep the jest within bounds 
 of any kind, and prevent ourselves becoming ut- 
 terly, abjectly ridiculous. There's another way 
 of spoiling the joke, which we are only just begin- 
 ning to learn — that's to take the bait cautiously 
 and leave the hook. When it's fully developed 
 the laugh will be on our side. I'm sorry I sha'n't 
 be here to join in." 
 
 "I can't make you out, Grahame," said Maurice, 
 a little anxiously. "I never heard you talk like 
 this before. I didn't know you could." 
 
 "Neither did I," said Grahame, breaking up a 
 coal with his foot, "until a week or so ago." 
 
 Maurice set to work to grapple with this mood 
 with all his energy, and eventually succeeded in 
 bringing Chris round to a more normal frame of 
 mind. By that time the afternoon was well ad- 
 vanced, and he got up to leave, feeling more at 
 ease, for the time, on his friend's account. 
 
 "It has done me a heap of good having you to 
 talk to, Heelas," said Chris, as they separated; 
 "but it hasn't been much of a game for you, I'm 
 afraid, and it nearly cost you your life. Jove, 
 I mustn't think of that!" he added quickly, with 
 
 196 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 sudden fear of himself in his face. "The devil of 
 a thing like this is that you have to tackle it alone, 
 hide it, except with a man you know absolutely 
 well." 
 
 Maurice was struck by a difficulty. "Angelica 
 knows you sent for me," he said. "What shall 1 
 say?" 
 
 "I don't mind her knowing," said Chris, after 
 a moment's reflection. "In fact, I think I should 
 like her to. She is one of the few who understand. 
 If the world were made of Angelicas it would be 
 liveable in, even for me." 
 
 Maurice hung at the door, with his hat on, and 
 surveyed his friend earnestly. 
 
 "Don't," he pleaded, "don't, Grahame. If you 
 won't think of yourself, think of your people, think 
 of your friends, think of me." 
 
 "All right," said Chris, and his face lighted all 
 at once with a delightful beam of his old sunny 
 smile, "I'll try." 
 
 197 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 It was half-past five when Maurice reached 
 home. He looked in all the sitting-rooms for 
 Angelica, but she was in none of them, so he went 
 upstairs. He knocked at the door of her bedroom. 
 Receiving no answer he opened it and went inside. 
 It was empty. 
 
 Maurice always entered this room with a kind 
 of reverence. Everything in it was sacred in his 
 eyes: the plain pink wallpaper, hung with a few 
 water-colours — amateur efforts, the gifts of friends, 
 but creditable as such; the soft muslin curtains, 
 sprinkled with a pattern of dog-rose; the suite of 
 Sheraton furniture; the dressing-table, standing 
 across a corner by the window, with its wide oval 
 mirror and bright array of silver brushes and 
 trinkets; the shining brass bedstead, swathed with 
 warm coverings. Moved by a sudden impulse, he 
 lifted a corner of the swan's-down quilt and pressed 
 it to his lips. 
 
 He turned guiltily at the sound of a footstep. 
 Angelica, in furs, was standing behind him, glow- 
 ing from a walk. 
 
 198 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "Silly boy!" she said. But the indulgent smile 
 which accompanied the words, and the suspicion 
 of moisture in each of her eyes, sufficiently contra- 
 dicted them. 
 
 "Does it really mean so much to you, Maurice?" 
 she asked softly. 
 
 "More now than ever," said Maurice. 
 
 Angelica removed her jacket, and stood in front 
 of the mirror, drawing pins from her hat. Maurice 
 half sat and half leaned upon the edge of the 
 bed. 
 
 "More now than ever?" repeated Angelica. 
 "Why, Maurice?" 
 
 "I've been to see Grahame this afternoon," said 
 Maurice. 
 
 Angelica placed her hat on the dressing-table 
 and lightly puffed out her hair with the tips of her 
 fingers. 
 
 "Oh, yes, I'd forgotten," she said. "And what 
 did he have to say? Anything that I can be 
 allowed to hear?" 
 
 "Something very serious," said Maurice. 
 
 Angelica turned round sharply. She looked at 
 him with quick anxiety. 
 
 "My dear boy, what have you done to your 
 cheek?" 
 
 199 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "Oh, that's nothing," said Maurice. "I want 
 to talk to you about Grahame." 
 
 "Yes?" said Angelica. 
 
 "He's in awful trouble," said Maurice. 
 
 "What sort of trouble?" 
 
 "It's his health." 
 
 Angelica turned pale. She stood quite still and 
 waited, without speaking. 
 
 "You must guess," said Maurice. "I can't tell 
 you." 
 
 She looked deep into his face. "Was it that 
 evening?" she said, a quick terror in her voice, 
 " — that evening that you spent together, after he 
 had passed for Sandhurst? Was it that?" 
 
 Maurice made no reply. 
 
 There was a tense pause. Angelica stood 
 gripping the brass rail of the bed-foot, her rings 
 biting red marks into the white flesh. Acute 
 distress stood in her eyes and strained her whole 
 frame. 
 
 "Are you sure, Maurice?" she said, slowly. 
 
 "Yes," said Maurice, simply; "there's no doubt 
 about it. His career is ruined." 
 
 Angelica turned aside without a word, and 
 dropped into a low chair, trembling. A long silence 
 followed. Maurice had not stirred from his posi- 
 
 200 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 tion on the bed-edge. His hands were in his 
 pockets; he had rarely looked at Angelica during 
 their short colloquy. 
 
 "Oh, Chris!" she murmured softly at length. 
 "Poor, poor Chris ! With all his brightness and 
 sunniness and freshness, and his youth and his 
 happy prospects and his generous heart — that he 
 should have been caught in the vortex!" Tears 
 stood in her eyes. 
 
 Maurice suddenly left his place and came round 
 to where she was sitting. 
 
 "Look here, Angelica, what is to be done ? You 
 can always see so clearly. So far as I am con- 
 cerned, I made the best of it to Grahame, but I 
 simply can't think— I simply can't imagine." 
 
 "Just how bad Is It?" asked Angelica. 
 
 "He won't be admitted to the army, Mrs Gra- 
 hame can't be told, and he has no means," re- 
 sponded Maurice. 
 
 "No," agreed Angelica, half mechanically, her 
 brows bent in thought, "Mrs Grahame can't be 
 told." 
 
 "Then what on earth is he to do?" 
 
 "Well, if he can't go into the army," said 
 Angelica, calmly, "he must do something else." 
 
 "But what?" said Maurice. "He is too old to 
 
 201 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 make an absolute beginning in almost anything. 
 The time has passed while he has been reading for 
 the army. Then the reason which applies against 
 the army will apply against other things. And, of 
 course, for the next year or two he won't be good 
 for much — certainly not for anything like con- 
 tinuous work. But the big, the supreme problem 
 is Mrs Grahame." 
 
 "Yes, I understand all that," said Angelica, still 
 thinking. "It is a difficult situation. But there 
 must be some way of escape." 
 
 "He sees only one," said Maurice. 
 
 She looked up sharply. "Do you — " 
 
 "Yes," said Maurice. 
 
 "Oh, how terrible! how terrible!" 
 
 Her face was strained with the keenest pain. 
 
 "Maurice, we must prevent that at all costs. 
 Did he seem to think of it deliberately?" 
 
 "It's hard to say," said Maurice. "He was 
 changeable, strange, utterly unlike himself. I had 
 rather a difficult time with him. But I left him 
 calmer. I think he is safe for the immediate 
 present ; but the trouble is going to be to tide over 
 the time until we can get his affairs settled on a new 
 basis." 
 
 "Poor Chris!" said Angelica again very softly, 
 
 202 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 gazing with moist eyes out of the window. "Poor, 
 poor boy!" 
 
 But it was not her nature to rest satisfied with 
 unavailing compassion, or to be dismayed by ap- 
 parently insuperable obstacles. Presently she 
 turned to Maurice with an air of quiet briskness. 
 
 "Well, now," she said, "let us take these difficul- 
 ties in order. To begin with, there is Mrs Gra- 
 hame. She must be told the truth ; that the doctor 
 won't pass him for the army." 
 
 "It is the truth, of course," said Maurice, 
 meditatively, "the pure and simple truth. But 
 will she be satisfied without details? You know, 
 she's frightfully keen on anything to do with 
 human ailments and talks reels of amateur medi- 
 cine." 
 
 "She will have to be satisfied if no details are 
 forthcoming," said Angelica. "It Is quite as 
 necessary for her own sake as for his that she 
 should be kept In the dark. Although Chris is 
 no worse a son or a man for this misfortune, she 
 wouldn't be able to realise It, and It would be a 
 terrible trouble to her to know the whole truth. 
 The main point is that the reason he has to give up 
 the army will not be In any doubt." 
 
 "No," said Maurice, slowly, "no — of course, it 
 203 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 (vouldn't." He plumped down into a cane-seated 
 chair and clasped a knee between his hands. 
 "Jove, I believe that's the way out," he added, 
 brightly; "even if we have to invent a varicose 
 vein." 
 
 "Then, as to what is to become of him until he 
 recovers his health," proceeded Angelica, calmly; 
 "Mrs Grahame will probably want him to go to 
 Haslemere. But that would hardly be judicious, 
 if it could be avoided. If it is not practicable for 
 him to continue in his present rooms, he could come 
 and live with us." 
 
 "You're a brick," said Maurice, fervently. 
 "But I don't believe he would come — I'm afraid 
 not." 
 
 "At any rate, make him understand that we 
 want him to; tell him that you would like it and 
 that I should like it; don't let him feel that there 
 need be any trouble or difficulty about the next 
 year or two." 
 
 "And what is he to do afterwards?" said 
 Maurice. "What about the future?" 
 
 "Oh, that seems foolish," replied Angelica. 
 "There must be many things still open to him. 
 How old is he?" 
 
 "Nearly twenty, I think," said Maurice, 
 204 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "You say it as gloomily as if he were forty," 
 said Angelica, with a laugh. "Now, let us think. 
 Begin with the law. What have you to say about 
 that?" 
 
 "The Bar?" said Maurice. 
 
 "Oh, yes. I don't know why it should be so, 
 but the solicitor's profession is not one for which 
 one has much respect." 
 
 "I think the feeling is," said Maurice, "that it's 
 unnecessary; you oughtn't to have to employ a 
 solicitor. There is no natural need for him." 
 
 "Well, is he too old for the Bar?" asked 
 Angelica. 
 
 "No," replied Maurice, laughing slightly at the 
 necessity to make the admission, "as a matter of 
 fact, he's not. There's no age limit. Men often 
 get called quite late in life." 
 
 "There, you see !" cried Angelica, triumphantly, 
 "the very first thing I suggest!" 
 
 "I rather fancy it would suit him, too," con- 
 tinued Maurice, reflectively. "I've thought so 
 several times. In fact, I believe he has said as 
 much. Oh, you are perfectly splendid, Angelica," 
 he cried, springing up with sudden boyish enthu- 
 siasm, seizing one of her hands in each of his own, 
 and smiling upon her gratefully and happily. 
 
 205 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "You've made the whole thing seem absolutely 
 simple and straightforward. I feel a lot more 
 cheerful about him already. I'll go and see him 
 again to-morrow and make him understand — make 
 him." 
 
 "Yes, go the first thing in the morning," said 
 Angelica, "directly after breakfast. He mustn't 
 be allowed to brood. Bring him back with you to 
 lunch. He'll try to get out of it, but don't let 
 him. Insist. If nothing can make him come, stay 
 with him instead; but remember that I shall be 
 alone, and tell him so, and tell him that I told you 
 to tell him so." 
 
 "I expect he won't like to meet you," said 
 Maurice. "He says he's a leper, an outcast." 
 
 "Then tell him," said Angelica, with one of her 
 exquisite smiles, "to come and make my acquaint- 
 ance, because he evidently doesn't know me." 
 
 Maurice lifted the white hand he held in his 
 right, with an old-world gesture of homage and 
 admiration, and touched it lightly with his lips. 
 
 "I think he'll come," he said. 
 
 2.66 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 As Maurice crossed Piccadilly Circus on the fol- 
 lowing morning, a deep-toned clock in the distance 
 slowly struck ten. It would not have been audible 
 on another day of the week. To-day it was pene- 
 trating and reverberant; the only sound to chal- 
 lenge Maurice's own footsteps. The roar of 
 vehicles for a brief space had ceased from troubling, 
 and such good people as walked in that direction 
 on their way to places of worship had not yet 
 emerged from their homes. 
 
 The influence of this unaccustomed silence is 
 usually a depressing one ; but Maurice, on the pres- 
 ent occasion, was far from being so affected by 
 it. He passed lightly across the intersecting 
 roadways, only thankful to be spared, for once, 
 the always impending shocks of diagonal traffic. 
 The partial lifting of a cloud that has been hang- 
 ing over us produces a degree of buoyancy we 
 should never have experienced had the cloud noti 
 fallen. The supreme ecstasy of painlessness is hid- 
 den from us until a violent spasm of toothache 
 lulls. Similarly, Angelica's clear perception and 
 
 207 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 vigorous practical purpose had reacted on Mau- 
 rice's spirit in proportion to his previous depression. 
 
 He was informed by the steward of the building 
 in which Grahame's rooms were situated that the 
 latter was not yet up. He never rang for his 
 breakfast earlier than ten on Sundays, and often 
 not before eleven. Maurice ran upstairs, whistling 
 softly. There was a lobby, four feet square, con- 
 necting Chris's small suite. The bedroom door 
 faced him as he entered; that of the sitting-room 
 was on the left. After a momentary hesitation he 
 knocked boisterously on the former. Receiving 
 no answer he burst in with a laugh. 
 
 "Wake up, you froust!" he cried. "I've come 
 half across London — " 
 
 He stopped. There was still no response. The 
 room was in the semi-darkness produced by a. 
 drawn blind intercepting the daylight. Maurice 
 walked over and pulled it up. Then he looked at 
 the bed. 
 
 It was empty. The covers were undisturbed; 
 Grahame's pyjamas lay folded beneath the pillow. 
 The room in other respects was similarly neatly 
 disposed. It had not been slept in. 
 
 Without waiting to recognise his fears Maurice 
 opened the door communicating with the sitting- 
 
 208 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 room. He was met by a glare of electric light. 
 Here again the blind had not been raised. Chris 
 was seated in an easy-chair, with his head bent 
 wearily on his chest. 
 
 "Grahame," said Maurice; then quickly, "Chris! 
 Chris I" 
 
 The second name was a shout — a cry. 
 
 Maurice had never seen anyone dead before. 
 But he knew it — ^knew it absolutely — ^without mov- 
 ing a step nearer, without lifting that heavy head 
 or feeling for the still pulse. He was surprised 
 at his own calmness. He was conscious that he 
 had turned very white; but he did not faint, he 
 did not lose his head nor behave wildly in the first 
 flush of horror, of grief. He took in every detail. 
 He knew exactly what had occurred and how it 
 had occurred. He saw the hypodermic syringe on 
 the floor beside the chair; he noticed that on 
 the little table, which still held the cigarettes, there 
 now stood a small bottle with the cork out ; he even 
 observed that there was a note propped on the 
 mantelpiece, addressed to himself. 
 
 These minutias were photographed on his 
 consciousness, as he stood at the door, in instant 
 company with the great, staring, stony fact of 
 death itself. He was left with as little doubt 
 
 209 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 about the means of the tragedy as of its complete- 
 ness. It always seemed to him afterwards that 
 his immediately succeeding actions were performed 
 in a dream. He went up to the quiet figure in the 
 chair, lifted his left arm and rolled back the sleeve. 
 He saw nothing unusual. Then he turned up the 
 left trouser. On the white inner skin were the 
 small blood spots he expected to find. He quietly 
 replaced the trouser and walked out on to the 
 stairhead, called up the steward and sent him for 
 a doctor. Then he came back into the room and 
 closed the door. And, suddenly, the mechanical 
 power that had kept him going appeared to snap 
 like the spring of a watch, and he came back Tvith 
 a whirl and a rush to clear consciousness and black, 
 blinding fact. He knelt down beside Chris — 
 dropped down beside him in utter abandon of 
 despair — leaned his elbows on the arm of the chair 
 and broke into deep, choking sobs. 
 
 His life had fallen mainly upon easy, happy 
 lines. Things had run smoothly with him. Never 
 before had he known his capacity to feel. He re- 
 vealed himself to himself in the tumultuous force 
 of the emotion that gripped him and shook him. 
 The lot of an orphan without kindred elicits our 
 sympathy, but at least he Is spared the recurring 
 
 2IO 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 shocks of the loss of those near and dear to him. 
 Though even there, even on the score of the trouble 
 itself, he is the loser as well as the gainer. Mau- 
 rice's present pain was an eventual asset. A man 
 has not lived till he has suffered. There is a 
 strength that comes from tribulation which can 
 come no other way. 
 
 He was oppressed (as everyone is, as everyone 
 necessarily must be, in the face of the death of one 
 who has been a near and intimate companion) by 
 inability to grasp it — to realise the inexorable truth 
 that he should never again see Chris's bright smile, 
 never hear his cheery voice nor his jolly laugh. 
 Never. Never. It seemed incredible that fate 
 could hold in its bosom, and suddenly precipitate 
 upon him, anything so awful as that. 
 
 He raised one of the limp hands and pressed it 
 between his own. "Chris, are you never going to 
 speak again?" he said hungrily, tears staining his 
 cheeks; addressing his friend in death — ^under the 
 direction of some delicate intuition — ^by the per- 
 sonal name he had never used in his lifetime. 
 "Oh, I can't believe It ! Speak. Speak. Lift up 
 your head. Get up. Get up. Oh! Oh-h!" He 
 dropped his head in his hands and groaned in the 
 utter misery of this first, stunning sorrow. 
 
 211 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 Presently he went on speaking more calmly. 
 "Yes, you've paid, old boy — faithfully, squarely 
 paid. This is the price which the Nonconformist 
 Conscience demands for what you did, and you've 
 honestly settled up. Nothing else would appease 
 them — quiet streets, well governed cities — ^no — 
 the pound of flesh, the pound of flesh. And so 
 you've paid it them — you and thousands of 
 others." 
 
 "And yet," he shouted, springing up in a sudden 
 fury of anger and despair, "and yet they hope for 
 heaven!" 
 
 Just as he had plumbed a depth of grief hitherto 
 unknown to him, so now he realised unsuspected 
 intensity of resentment. He tramped the room 
 with clenched hands, his blood in a white heat of 
 indignation against the forces that had slain his 
 friend. He projected a single-handed crusade 
 against that grim body which again and again had 
 hurled back brigades and platoons. At that mo- 
 ment he would have enjoyed — exquisitely enjoyed 
 — to have had some smug, self-righteous individual 
 by the throat and to have wrung the life out of 
 him. 
 
 He stopped at last before the mantelpiece and 
 took Chris's note from it. He touched it tenderly, 
 
 212 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 as some sacred thing, and broke the seal with a 
 sense of something like sacrilege. It contained a 
 single sheet of notepaper, three parts covered with 
 the childish, cramped handwriting and short 
 phraseology of his friend. 
 
 "Dear Heelas," — it ran — "I'm sorry, but I 
 can't stick it out after all. You bucked me up 
 this afternoon. But I've been looking at facts 
 since you went. If there was a gleam anywhere 
 I would hold on, but there isn't. So the sooner 
 the better. It's no good shivering on the brink. 
 I can't say I want to do it. As a matter of fact, 
 I'm in a dead funk. I'm going to use morphia. 
 It's the simplest thing I can think of. It sends 
 you to sleep, and you don't wake. That's what 
 I've wished for every time I've gone to bed, since 
 I knew. 
 
 "I talked a lot of rot this afternoon — I've for- 
 gotten quite what — but anyway it must have been 
 rot. I was in a bad temper. I don't want you 
 to think I'm going to take the jump in that sort 
 of spirit. It's altogether different now I've made 
 up my mind. My present sentiments spell peace 
 and goodwill towards all men. 
 
 "If you should happen to meet the girl again 
 213 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 don't let her think I blamed her. Very likely she 
 didn't know. They often don't. Whether she 
 did or not, I'm too sorry for her to feel angry. It 
 won't be long before she follows me. Lord, 
 Heelas, they do have a shocking time ! 
 
 "Well, that's about all I have to say. The only 
 thing that makes me sorry is the idea that you may 
 be so — ^you and Cecil — and the Mater, of course, 
 but she's different. I hope Cecil won't think I've 
 treated her shabbily. It's sure to look like it. 
 
 "Good-bye, old chap. Moriturus te salutat. 
 I always fancied that phrase. — Your affectionate 
 friend, C. Grahame. 
 
 "Pinch anything of mine you have a fancy for." 
 
 As Maurice was slowly returning this letter to 
 its envelope he heard a footstep in the lobby. 
 There was a quick knock, and he looked up and 
 saw the doctor at the door — a young man with a 
 small light moustache and a kindly, intellectual 
 face. 
 
 "Oh," said Maurice, slightly nervously, "it's 
 good of you to come so quickly." He looked at 
 Chris. "I'm afraid you can't be of any use, can 
 you ?" 
 
 The doctor came and stood in front of the chair, 
 214 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 and looked gravely at the motionless figure In 
 it. 
 
 "Dear me !" he said. "Dear me !" 
 
 He applied the usual tests in silence. 
 
 "He has been dead some hours," he said, 
 straightening himself. "May I — Are you a 
 relative?" 
 
 "No," replied Maurice; "merely a great friend. 
 He has no relatives in London. He was out of 
 health, and so I came to see him early this morn- 
 ing, and this is how I found him." 
 
 The doctor picked up the syringe, and sniffed 
 at the bottle on the table. Then he rolled up 
 Chris's left trouser, as Maurice had done, and 
 rolled it back again. 
 
 "Do you know why he did it?" he said. 
 
 "Yes," replied Maurice. "So will you, before 
 long." 
 
 The doctor understood. He had already sus- 
 pected. 
 
 "It's a pity," he said. "He was a fine young 
 fellow to be caught in that way. It's a pity." 
 
 "It's always a pity," said Maurice. 
 
 "Yes, it's always a pity," the doctor agreed. 
 "But you'll never alter it." 
 
 "I mean. to try," said Maurice. 
 215 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 The doctor looked at him with sharp interest, 
 struck by the sudden intensity of his tone. 
 
 "My dear young man," he said kindly, "devote 
 your energies to something better worth your while. 
 England has made up its mind. In cases of this 
 kind it has only one thing to say — and it will go 
 on saying it until long after you and I are in the 
 grave — 'Serves him right.' If fifty times as many 
 lives were sacrificed as actually are, it would say it 
 just as hard." He glanced at the still form in the 
 chair. "I'm older than you are, and very likely I 
 have had more experience. I've learnt, at all 
 events, that there are some causes which, however 
 righteous and just they may be, cannot get even 
 a hearing. Your moralist doesn't take into ac- 
 count the physical composition of man and his 
 physical necessities. He won't take It into ac- 
 count, and it's a waste of breath to ask him to." 
 
 "They're narrow-minded idiots!" exclaimed 
 Maurice. 
 
 "Ah, now you are beginning to call names," said 
 the doctor, smiling. "That will never advance 
 you a step." 
 
 "You didn't know what a good sort he was," 
 cried Maurice, brokenly. "If there is a heaven, 
 I'll bet a hundred to one he has gone there." 
 
 2l6 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 The doctor looked at him with kind professional 
 solicitude. "This has been a bit of a shock to 
 you," he said. "You never had to do with any- 
 thing of the sort before." 
 
 "No," replied Maurice. 
 
 "I thought not. Now, you had better go home. 
 I will do what is necessary, with the help of the 
 steward. Get out into the country this afternoon, 
 and come and see me to-morrow, if you can, be- 
 tween two and three. Communicate with his 
 friends, of course." 
 
 "There will have to be an inquest?" 
 
 "Oh, yes. You can leave all that with me. 
 There need be very little publicity. The papers 
 are always discreet in cases of this kind." 
 
 He picked up Maurice's hat and umbrella and 
 put them in his hand. 
 
 "You're awfully kind," said the latter, half 
 mechanically. He took a last glance at Chris. 
 He was still in the same position, hunched up in 
 the chair, his head bowed on his chest. "It's 
 difficult to realise, isn't it, that only a few weeks 
 ago he was one of the happiest and jolliest fellows 
 in the world? Yes, I'll -ome to-morrow." 
 
 He left the room quietly and went down the 
 stairs and out into the street. For some time he 
 
 217 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 walked on automatically, guided only by habit. 
 His faculties were all focussed on the tragedy he 
 had left behind him. And now that he was 
 removed from the visual evidence of it, the 
 difficulty of realising, of fixing upon his mind the 
 barren, absolute fact, was greater than before. 
 He struggled with it, struggled to make himself 
 understand. A very eternity seemed to have 
 elapsed since he had received Chris's short note on 
 the previous morning; and yet it was barely 
 twenty-four hours. All the real suffering of his 
 life had been crowded into them. He knew he 
 looked older, must look older. Men don't grow 
 by gradation, but are jerked Into age by a series 
 of shocks. It is part of the perpetual scheme of 
 things, that we are made capable of deep attach- 
 ment to our fellows, whose successive removal 
 beats time on our brows, until we have been broken 
 to the point at which we ourselves must add to the 
 furrows of those who came after. 
 
 When Maurice came back to a full consciousness 
 of his surroundings he found that he was in 
 Piccadilly, that It had begun to rain, and that his 
 umbrella was up. If he had had any definite idea 
 about the method of his return home, it had been 
 to walk down to Charing Cross and take a District 
 
 218 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 train. Now that he was so far advanced in the 
 right direction, however, he determined to continue 
 on foot. He glanced irresolutely at one or two 
 empty hansoms, but immediately went on again 
 when the cabman seemed to be stopping. He 
 shrank from the confinement. He felt an impera- 
 tive need to go on walking, even in the rain, to 
 walk as long and as far as he could, right out of 
 his trouble. After all, his news would grow no 
 worse from keeping. 
 
 He chose the Green Park side of the street, for 
 quietness and to avoid opposing umbrellas. After 
 passing Hyde Park Corner he ran into numbers of 
 people returning from various places of worship 
 — some well-to-do, some of a humbler class. He 
 glanced mechanically at several of the groups as 
 they passed him. They were chatting brightly, 
 most of them, laughing — often, evidently, at their 
 own discomfiture in being caught by the rain. He 
 had frequently seen such groups before without 
 being struck by any special characteristic of them. 
 To-day they brought home to him forcibly a very 
 interesting truth about his fellow-creatures, a truth 
 that has been curiously missed by many profound 
 thinkers: namely, how happy they all are — taken 
 as a whole, how marvellously, exuberantly happy! 
 
 219 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 It was half-past twelve when eventually he 
 reached Cumberland Square. He met Angelica in 
 .the hall. 
 
 "I was too late," he said. 
 
 Angelica stopped. 
 
 "Dead?" 
 
 "Dead." 
 
 She turned white to the lips and shuddered 
 physically. 
 
 "Oh-h!" she moaned. "This horrid, horrid 
 world!" 
 
 220 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 That same afternoon saw Maurice arrive at 
 Waterloo and enter the two-o'clock train for 
 Haslemere. None of us, I suppose, will envy him 
 the mission that was taking him there. Angelica 
 had wanted to go with him, and Maurice in his 
 heart would have been infinitely thankful for her 
 support. But the very disinclination for the task 
 which he felt himself told him how much it would 
 cost her to share it, and he had obstinately refused 
 to let her come. It was very sweet to Angelica to 
 allow herself at last to be overruled; not because 
 of the pain she would be spared, but because of the 
 knowledge it brought her of Maurice's strength- 
 ening and deepening character. 
 
 And yet it may be doubted whether he faced his 
 journey to-day with much greater reluctance than 
 he had done that first one to the same destina- 
 tion, taken in company with Chris nearly a year 
 before. His misgivings, at all events, were of a 
 different quality. He had grown older since then ; 
 not so much in actual time, but in the knowledge of 
 the world and in knowledge of himself. Personal 
 
 221 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 diffidence had very little to say to his present con- 
 cern. He had not overcome it — possibly it Is 
 never entirely overcome by one originally put 
 under Its yoke — ^but he had learnt to see it In Its 
 proper relative importance, and at least had con- 
 trived to push it into a secondary position as an 
 Influence on his actions. As he watched once more 
 the lines of birches creeping past, on the long 
 gradient to Haslemere, his thoughts were no longer 
 of himself and the ordeal in front of him, but 
 of Mrs Grahame and Cecil. He was genuinely, 
 deeply distressed by the knowledge of the ex- 
 quisite pain he must Inflict upon them. He was 
 feeling, not "how awkward it will be to tell !" but 
 "how terrible it will be to hear !" 
 
 There was a walk of half a mile from the station 
 to Mrs Grahame's house — a walk which he took 
 to-day in the midst of that subtly pervading odour 
 of bad cigars peculiar to Sunday afternoons In the 
 country. When he reached the house and pushed 
 open the door In the garden wall and walked up 
 the short flagged path — everything silent, bright, 
 peaceful — he felt like a dynamiter stealing Into 
 a sleeping dwelling to destroy it. The maid who 
 admitted him said that Mrs Grahame was at home, 
 but, recognising him, added confidentially that 
 
 222 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 she was lying down upstairs. So too, it appeared, 
 was Miss Gaskell. Miss Grahame, however, was 
 in — and, presumably, awake. Maurice, accord- 
 ingly, asked to be allowed to see her, and was 
 shown into the drawing-room. 
 
 It may be supposed that he was relieved to find 
 his interview was to be with Cecil. That was far 
 from being the case. Of the two, he felt now it 
 would have been less difficult to tell Mrs Grahame. 
 He hated the thought of hurting Cecil. And here, 
 let it be said, he was no longer free from personal 
 concern In the matter. He fancied he must ever 
 after remain In her mind a messenger of woe, whose 
 coming she would instinctively dread. 
 
 Well, that must be borne. His news must be 
 told, and to Cecil. She did not keep him long in 
 suspense. Fortunately for him she was not one 
 of those members of her sex who allows a visitor 
 to kick his heels for a quarter of an hour, and 
 eventually appears with the statement vividly 
 placarded upon her that the Interval has been 
 spent In Intimate communion with a toilet-table. 
 Cecil always looked well, but the effort which had 
 gone to achieve that result was never obtrusive. 
 Maurice had time only to walk to the window, to 
 stare for a moment mechanically at the clump of 
 
 223 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 pine on the distant hill-top, and to turn round. 
 He could feel his heart beating quickly, but he 
 was thoroughly master of himself. Then the door 
 opened and she came in, quietly, with a gentle 
 rustle of skirts. She was wearing a gown of soft 
 rose-coloured material, and looked infinitely fresh 
 and fragrant, infinitely like some new-petalled 
 tea-rose. Oh, heaven! to take it cruelly in one's 
 hand and crush it ! 
 
 "This is really delightful of you, Maurice," she 
 said, smiling, coming forward with the graceful 
 elegance that was Inseparable from her. "You 
 can't Imagine how welcome you are. Mother and 
 Aunt Annie make Sunday a day of rest in a literal 
 sense, and I was getting desperately tired of my 
 own society." 
 
 Maurice took her hand. Then he laid his other 
 on the top of it. 
 
 "Cecil, I'm awfully sorry — It's best to get It 
 over — I've got some bad news." 
 
 She turned slowly very pale. The gentle, 
 shielding tone told more than the words. It is 
 possible that, even then, she knew; that, even then, 
 her sub-conscious mind stretched out and grasped 
 the uttermost. 
 
 "It is about Chris?" she said on the edge 
 224 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 of a breath, staring at him with frightened 
 eyes. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Is he ill?" 
 
 Maurice said nothing. He pressed her hand 
 more closely. For a moment she looked away, 
 then her eyes met his again, wildly, fearfully. 
 
 "Dead?" she breathed. 
 
 The word hung on the air while she waited for 
 the denial that did not come. She kept her gaze 
 on his face, staring straight at him, as the seconds 
 passed, with unseeing eyes. He dropped his own ; 
 he could not look at her. Her hand was still 
 clasped in his, and he felt it quiver. Then, after 
 a time, while he still looked down, there broke 
 from her — so low that only the utter silence made 
 it audible — the most exquisitely pathetic sound he 
 had ever heard in his life, half moan, half sob. 
 She swayed a little, and he put an arm round her 
 to keep her from falling. But she gently released 
 herself, walked without assistance to a couch 
 and sat down on it, resting her head upon the 
 cushion. 
 
 Maurice went to the door, intending to fetch 
 some stimulant. She divined his purpose, how- 
 ever, and interposed. 
 
 225 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "It isn't necessary," she said. "Don't go into 
 the hall. Mother may hear you. Wait a little." 
 
 He came back obediently, pulled up a chair and 
 seated himself beside her. Minutes ticked on with- 
 out either speaking — three, four, five. Cecil was 
 resting with closed eyes ; Maurice was staring dully 
 at the carpet between his feet. 
 
 "It was an accident?" said Cecil at last, in a 
 low voice. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Not? — " She lifted her head sharply, a new 
 fear in her face. 
 
 "Yes, it was that, Cecil," replied Maurice, stead- 
 ily. "I went to see him this morning, and I found 
 him — sitting in a chair. I don't think he can 
 have suffered any pain. He was simply asleep — 
 and he didn't want to wake." 
 
 "He — didn't — want to?" 
 
 "He hadn't been well for some time," Maurice 
 answered. "The doctors wouldn't pass him for 
 the army and it weighed on him." 
 
 "There must be something more," said Cecil, 
 calmly. "You must tell me everything, Maurice. 
 I would rather know." 
 
 Maurice sat with his elbows on his knees and 
 his chin on his hands, still staring at the carpet. 
 
 226 
 
'THE YOKE 
 
 He had foreseen this difficulty from the beginning 
 — from the moment the obligation upon him to 
 break the news had become apparent. To tell her 
 was beyond thought. And yet, how was he to 
 explain his silence? She was gazing intently at 
 him, her face composed now, but still pale, her 
 eyes dark and tense, and heavy with unshed tears. 
 
 "There is no more," said Maurice at length. 
 "I have told you the simple truth, Cecil; he was 
 out of health — very much out of health — and it 
 weighed on him." 
 
 "But it must have been something so terrible 
 to lead to — to this. And, If so, why weren't we 
 told? How is it that only you knew? It seems 
 so strange, so — so — so very odd." 
 
 In spite of her more or less successful effort to 
 find an innocuous last word, it was plain that she 
 only half believed him, and that she resented being 
 kept in the dark. 
 
 "I understand just how you must feel," said 
 Maurice. "But you know that some illnesses have 
 the effect of making the patient very sensitive about 
 them. He can't bear to have them mentioned, to 
 have them known." 
 
 "But he told you." 
 
 "He told me yesterday." 
 227 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "Yesterday!" said Cecil, sharply. "You saw 
 him yesterday?" 
 
 "Yes," said Maurice. 
 
 "Then you must have had some inkling of what 
 was in his mind? You couldn't have seen him so 
 recently as that without noticing some change in 
 him, unless you were very blind. Oh, why didn't 
 / see him yesterday ? Could you do nothing — you 
 are a man — could you make no effort at all to help 
 him and save him?" 
 
 She spoke very bitterly, her distracting grief find- 
 ing vent — as it so often does — in unreasoning anger 
 against the instrument immediately responsible for 
 it. Moreover, Maurice had been unconsciously 
 but inevitably feeding her sense of Injury. In 
 times of family bereavement, there Is nothing more 
 calculated to add gall to our cup than to find that 
 an outsider — be he never so intimate a friend — is 
 in possession of Information with regard to one of 
 our own flesh and blood which has not been 
 vouchsafed to ourselves. 
 
 "Yes, I did notice a change in him," Maurice 
 replied, without resentment; "he looked fagged, 
 and was very depressed at first and occasionally 
 excited. I stayed with him some time, and when 
 I left he seemed in better spirits and more like 
 
 228 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 himself. Perhaps I ought to have insisted on 
 spending the night with him, but it would have 
 looked rather like an officious intention to watch 
 him, and he might — " 
 
 He stopped. A voice was speaking in the hall — 
 a voice which they both recognised. They waited, 
 looking at one another, with indrawn breaths. 
 
 "It's mother," said Cecil, faintly. "She will 
 come in here. Maurice, I can't tell her. Will 
 you?" 
 
 "Yes," said Maurice, quietly, getting up. 
 
 He accepted the office as a matter of course. 
 It was a task for all that which a man twice his age 
 might have tried to avoid without shame — to tell 
 a mother of the sudden death of her only son. 
 Cecil fully realised that, and as she saw him get up 
 she was conscious of a sudden, powerful revulsion 
 of feeling in his favour, a revulsion which swung 
 the pendulum far beyond where it had ever stood 
 before. She was proud — in the midst of her ex- 
 quisite sorrow, she was glad and proud that there 
 was a man in the world who, in the face of the 
 contumely she had just cast upon him, was ready 
 to stand up unhesitatingly and do this for her. 
 
 There were a few seconds of suspense and then 
 the door opened. Mrs Grahame had tidied herself 
 
 229 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 after her sleep and looked neat and smiling and 
 refreshed. 
 
 "Oh, it's you, Maurice," she said, coming In 
 briskly. "I thought I heard a man's voice. Is 
 Chris in the library?" 
 
 "No," replied Maurice, quietly; "Chris is not 
 with me." 
 
 "Dear, dear! that young gentleman is getting 
 into my bad books. It must be a month since we 
 saw him. Well, it's pleasant to be vouchsafed a 
 glimpse of one of you. We are three poor, lone 
 women, and we don't like to be forgotten." 
 
 "I am afraid you mustn't credit me with any 
 merely sociable intentions to-day," said Maurice. 
 "I have come down on a very sad errand, Mrs 
 Grahame. Chris cannot come any more." 
 
 For a moment or two Mrs Grahame gazed at 
 him sharply, mystified and inclined to be offended. 
 
 "But why?" she said suddenly, in the quick 
 tones she used when she was displeased. "Is he 
 in some disgrace? Has he done something to 
 make me ashamed of him? Don't speak in rid- 
 dles, Maurice." 
 
 "He is out of the reach of shame and disgrace," 
 said Maurice. "There are no such words where 
 Chris has gone." 
 
 230 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "Maurice! Maurice!" 
 
 "He Is happy — I am sure he Is happy." 
 
 "But what are you saying to me? I don't 
 understand you." She looked at her daughter, but 
 gathered no relief from her mien. She had begun 
 to weep softly. Mrs Grahame's voice rose to a 
 shout. "Cecil, what Is he saying to me? Is he 
 mad? Are you both mad? Cecil! Cecil! Spealc!" 
 
 "Yes, mother, yes," said Cecil, getting up and 
 talcing her hand. "I am here. Don't look like 
 that, dear. Perhaps, in some way we can't under- 
 stand, It is best." 
 
 "Dead!" cried Mrs Grahame, all at once 
 breaking the bands that swathed her comprehen- 
 sion. "Dead! Dead! My boy dead!" 
 
 There was a second, two, three seconds, of utter 
 silence. Mrs Grahame's hands trembled up- 
 ward, and the jewelled fingers picked into the 
 trim white locks on either side of her head. 
 Then those two young people, broken so sud- 
 denly to deep pain, heard the most terrible of all 
 sounds — 
 
 "The shrill-edged shriek of a mother." 
 
 Maurice jumped forward and caught her as she 
 fell^ He laid her on the couch. 
 
 231 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "Get some brandy," said Cecil, beginning to 
 unfasten the neck of her bodice. 
 
 Her face was bloodless, save for a faint tinge 
 of colour in her lips. For one sickening moment 
 Maurice thought she was dead. But, after a time, 
 the spirit they poured between her lips induced a 
 slight return of warmth. She did not readily re- 
 gain consciousness, however. She opened her eyes 
 once, and apparently dimly recognised them, but 
 immediately closed them again. And there was 
 a sigh in her pulse. 
 
 "I think you had better go for the doctor," said 
 Cecil. "He lives at the other end of the village. 
 Anyone will show you the way. I am afraid it 
 is her heart. We have always known it was 
 weak." 
 
 "I broke it too roughly," said Maurice. 
 
 "No, no; you couldn't have done it more gently. 
 She was obliged to have the shock. No one could 
 have saved her it." 
 
 He went off, and after chasing the doctor to a 
 house half a mile from his own and interrupting a 
 pleasant social gathering in which he was taking 
 a leading and admired part, eventually secured 
 him and brought him back with him. By that 
 time Mrs Grahame had been got upstairs to her 
 
 232 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 own room. The doctor remained with her about 
 twenty minutes, and then Maurice heard a maid 
 show him out and close the front door behind him. 
 For a long while after that he was left alone in the 
 library with his pipe and his gloomy meditations. 
 But before he had to start for the station to catch 
 his train, Cecil came downstairs to speak to him. 
 
 "You must go now, Maurice," she said. 
 
 "Shall I stay the night?" he asked. 
 
 "Oh, no, it isn't necessary. The doctor says 
 there is no immediate cause for anxiety. But I 
 am afraid he thinks rather gravely of her." She 
 put her slim, white hand into his. "I'm sorry I 
 spoke unkindly, Maurice. It was very mean of 
 me. I think I hardly knew what I was saying just 
 then. You have been very good to us; you have 
 done everything you possibly could." 
 
 "Very good to you !" echoed Maurice. "I feel 
 like a murderer who has burst into a happy house 
 and devastated it." 
 
 He went into the hall and put on his coat. 
 
 "You will come again?" said Cecil. "Often — 
 just the same ? We shall want you more than ever 
 now. You won't let yourself lose sight of us be- 
 cause — because Chris has gone?" 
 
 "Not I," said Maurice, fervently. 
 233 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 When he got to the door he turned and saw her 
 standing in the centre of the hall — a tall, slender 
 figure, very young, utterly sad, yet instinct with 
 quiet dignity in every line of her form. His whole 
 nature welled up for her, and he broke out spon- 
 taneously, — 
 
 "I'm frightfully sorry for you, Cecil." 
 
 Tears sprang to her eyes. "Oh, don't speak 
 like that," she said. "It makes me cry, and I 
 can't afford to cry yet, while mother Is ill." 
 
 "I wish — " said Maurice, and hesitated. 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "I wish I were your brother, Cecil." 
 
 That made her laugh, and he was glad he had 
 said it. 
 
 As she walked slowly up the stairs to her 
 mother's room, Cecil wondered if she wished it too. 
 
 234 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 When Maurice reached home he found 
 Angelica seated at the piano, finding expression of 
 her pensive spirit in Chopin's Nocturne in G major 
 — the still, small voice from the soul of things. 
 He opened the drawing-room door gently — not to 
 mar the effect of one of the tender notes softly 
 dropping on the air. Angelica went on till the 
 last chord hushed off the strings, and then quietly 
 closed the piano and turned round. 
 
 "I always think there's a culmination of that 
 theme," said Maurice, "which we shall only hear 
 on the other side. We couldn't bear it here; it 
 would drag the soul out of us too soon." 
 
 "How have you got on?" 
 
 "Oh, it has been an awful shock to Mrs Gra- 
 hame. I didn't know her heart was weak. Did 
 you?" 
 
 "What has happened?" said Angelica, quickly. 
 
 "She was unconscious for some time, and the 
 doctor doesn't take an altogether rosy view. Oh, 
 Angelica, it's frightfully rough on Cecil." 
 
 "Poor girl — yes," said Angelica. "I'll go down 
 
 235 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 She got up. "I think it's rather 
 rough on Maurice too. You look pale, old boy." 
 So saying, she put a hand on each of his shoulders, 
 looked solicitously into his face, and kissed him. 
 "Come down and have some supper." 
 
 She duly went to Haslemere the next day, and re- 
 ported, on her return, that Mrs Grahame had ral- 
 lied somewhat, but that she was still in a precarious 
 state of health. Moreover, since recovering con- 
 sciousness she had begun to ask questions. That 
 was a difficulty which had had to be met. The doc- 
 tor had said emphatically that to submit her, for 
 the present, to the further shock of learning that 
 Chris's death had been self-inflicted would be to 
 run a risk for which he was not prepared to accept 
 the responsibility. So half-truths were resorted to. 
 She was told that Chris had been suffering severely 
 in his health, and that he had died from an over- 
 dose of morphia. She was allowed to assume, if 
 not explicitly told, that the malady had been of a 
 kind to cause acute physical pain, and that the 
 morphia had been taken to relieve it. 
 
 There are those who take the quite reasonable 
 position that a falsehood can be justified by no cir- 
 cumstances. In the present case, the truth 
 would have carried with it, not improbably, Mrs 
 
 236 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 Grahame's death. It was the plain question 
 whether human life is worth preserving at the price 
 of deceit. That is at least a debatable point; but 
 at any rate Cecil and her aunt adopted unhes- 
 itatingly the pretty general view that it is. 
 
 They were assisted in carrying it out by the brief 
 and formal character of the inquest. Maurice and 
 the steward were the only witnesses called in addi- 
 tion to the doctors, and the former's account of 
 Chris's behaviour on the Saturday afternoon gave 
 a charitable jury sufficient excuse to record a ver- 
 dict of temporary insanity. This was a relief to 
 them, not only for itself but because Mrs Grahame 
 had insisted from the first upon seeing him, and, 
 had the funeral involved special features, it would 
 not have been wise or desirable to have moved him 
 from London to his family home. As it was, he 
 was taken to Haslemere. And so the mother 
 looked her last on her son, before he was laid in 
 Mother Earth. 
 
 From that time, though it could not be said 
 from day to day that she grew appreciably weaker 
 in health, yet she failed to improve. The desire 
 of life had become feeble; the spirit had gone out 
 of her. The hold which elderly people have on 
 existence, especially those whose constitutions 
 
 237 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 have never been robust, is frequently, if not 
 generally, dependent on external circumstances. 
 They get into the habit of living, as they get into 
 the habit of doing other things. As a break in 
 domestic routine disturbs their composure, so a 
 sharp sentimental affliction sucks up the springs 
 of their vitality. We have noted that Chris's 
 death had been to Maurice the first of that series 
 of shocks which jog mortals into age. In Mrs 
 Grahame's case it became sorrowfully apparent to 
 those about her that it was likely to prove to be 
 the last. 
 
 Yet, beyond the cardiac weakness, she could be 
 said to be suffering from no actual malady, and., 
 after keeping her room about a week, she came 
 down one morning draped In shawls, leaning heav- 
 ily on Cecil's arm. Her friends and neighbours, 
 who came to express their condolences, were 
 startled by the change in her. From a middle- 
 aged, active matron she had become, in these few 
 days, an old woman. 
 
 During this period, Angelica's and Maurice's 
 visits made almost the only breaks in the monot- 
 ony of Cecil's life. She sat with her mother, 
 talked to her, worked with her, read to her, played 
 games of cribbage and backgammon with her; 
 
 238 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 tried her utmost, through all, to infuse the spirit 
 of her young, glowing life into the tired frame. 
 Miss Gaskell could relieve her of the worries of 
 household management and of many of the prac- 
 tical duties of nursing, but she could not take her 
 place with her mother. They found that Mrs 
 Grahame fretted If Cecil remained long out of her 
 sight. It was her daughter she needed. 
 
 One day when Maurice came down, Cecil went 
 to the station to meet him. 
 
 "I want you to take me a walk before we go 
 in," she said. "Will you? Right up on one of 
 the commons. I feel I want air — a whole month's 
 air In a few breaths." 
 
 "Have you never been out since — since then?" 
 Maurice asked. 
 
 "Never beyond the village," said Cecil. 
 
 They went on to Blackdown — that wild upland 
 of heather and gorse, unharnessed as yet to the 
 uses of man — and looked down from its solitude 
 over the wide expanse of fertile meadow-land 
 towards Guilford, and, turning, saw behind them 
 the whole panorama of pine-clad hills, culminating 
 in the long line of the Hog's Back and the com- 
 manding summit of Hindhead. For an hour they 
 filled their lungs with the pure air and their eyes 
 
 239 
 
(THE YOKE 
 
 with the scene amidst which a great poet had 
 chosen to live and to die. 
 
 On their return they found Miss Gaskell again 
 alarmed about her sister. Mrs Grahame had 
 fainted while sitting in a chair, and Dr Bryce had 
 been hastily sent for. He was leaving the house 
 as Cecil and Maurice came in. 
 
 "Another slight attack," he said, in answer to 
 Cecil's quick inquiry; "we must expect them until 
 her strength returns. I would not say there is 
 cause for definite alarm ; but she needs care — great 
 care. As soon as she is strong enough to bear a 
 journey we must get her away for a change. In 
 the meantime, keep her as bright and cheerful as 
 you can; amuse her, entertain her; try to get her 
 to take an interest in things about her. I will 
 come and see her again in the morning." 
 
 That was in March. During the bright, crisp 
 weeks of early spring, amid the manifold signs of 
 returning life about her, she appeared to gain a 
 slight renewal of energy ; but this disappeared with 
 the approach of summer, when the dust began to 
 collect on the trees, and the heat, which she had 
 always found trying, sucked the freshness out of 
 the earth. Slowly but still perceptibly, as the hot 
 days dragged through, her weakness increased. 
 
 240 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 It may perhaps be doubted whether Cecil noticed 
 it, in her patient daily ministrations — ^whether 
 she saw how surely the sands were running out 
 — ^but it was fully apparent to Angelica and to 
 Maurice, whose visits were separated by suffi- 
 cient intervals to throw changes into relief. 
 Among them, none was more indicative of the 
 approaching deeper change than the wonderful and 
 subtly pathetic softening of her nature. She was 
 able, now, to find excuses even for people whose 
 views and aims and habits of life were most 
 radically opposed to her own ; could recognise their 
 possibly good motives and honest endeavour. 
 Her solemn shake of the head for those of 
 whom she failed to approve no longer obtruded 
 itself. She was amiable, kind, quiet, and most 
 surely dying. 
 
 • She lingered on through June and July, 
 but in the early part of August her life ebbed 
 away. 
 
 "It doesn't seem the least bit right to say that 
 she died," Cecil wrote to Angelica; "she just faded 
 out of life. The day before, we thought she was 
 even better. She came downstairs for several hours 
 and talked about Chris quite calmly and quietly, 
 which she very rarely could do." 
 
 241 
 
{THE YOKE 
 
 When she received this letter Angelica was visit- 
 ing in North Devon. Maurice was in the Chan- 
 nel Islands with a party of friends. So far as any 
 arrangements for the future were definitely made 
 at that time, they expected to meet in town in 
 September. But Angelica had soon evolved an- 
 other scheme. 
 
 "I am going to take a cottage down here," she 
 wrote to Maurice, "and ask Cecil to come and stay 
 with us. (Of course you will come too, or provide 
 a very good excuse. But whether you come or 
 not, I am going to ask Cecil.) Poor child, it is 
 grievous to think of what she has gone through, 
 the last six months. Probably she won't be able 
 to leave for the present — ^there are always things 
 to be done — but perhaps by September she could 
 come. It will be lovely here then. The cottage 
 I want to get, if I can, is near Lynton, overlook- 
 ing the sea. There are trees about it, and the 
 garden is flattened out of a hillside which runs 
 right down to the beach. There is a lovely view 
 of the bay and the red sandstone cliffs curving 
 round it and the pines. I am sure it will do her 
 good, if we can make her come. I shall go to- 
 morrow about the cottage. I'm so afraid of it 
 being snapped up if I wait. So if I get it, and 
 
 242 
 
(THE YOKE 
 
 Cecil refuses to come, imagine me with an eight- 
 roomed cottage on my hands." 
 
 A week later she wrote : — 
 
 "I've got the cottage — four guineas a week. I 
 don't think it's exorbitant, there's quite a lot of 
 room in it — five bedrooms and two sitting-rooms, 
 besides a good-sized hall and a very useable 
 veranda on the sea side. Of course it is quite 
 simply furnished, but comfortably — ^nothing to jar 
 at all seriously, don't be afraid. It can be worked 
 by two servants. I shall send for one of the maids 
 from Cumberland Square and try and find an- 
 other locally. I've taken it from the ist of Sep- 
 tember, but Cecil can't come until the loth. Miss 
 Gaskell is going to stay with some friends on that 
 day, and Cecil doesn't like to leave her alone by 
 coming away earlier. She writes quite brightly at 
 the prospect of coming — I'm so glad It occurred 
 to me. By-the-bye, could you trust any of those 
 friends of yours to take care of her? If so, bring 
 him with you and let them meet. Imagine me 
 turning matchmaker! But If ever marriage was 
 'the best of all ways,' it seems to be such In Cecil's 
 case now." 
 
 Maurice's friends, however, had to return to 
 their respective homes or to other bourns in the 
 
 243 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 early days of September, and so he arrived at 
 Lynton in solitary state. Angelica, by then, was 
 installed in her cottage. For a week they were 
 alone there together. The weather was perfect. 
 They walked along the undulating, picturesque 
 cliffs, they explored the breezy Exmoor scenery, 
 they sat on the beach or in the garden of the cot- 
 tage and read Lorna Doone for the second time. 
 It was a week which was destined to remain mem- 
 orable to Angelica. 
 
 One night she said abruptly, "Maurice, your hair 
 wants cutting. You had better go to town and 
 have it done." 
 
 "To toivn?" said Maurice, amazed. 
 
 "Yes; and, since you will be there, you can 
 take advantage of the fact to bring Cecil back with 
 you." 
 
 244 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 It came about, therefore, that when Cecil Gra- 
 hame alighted from her train at Waterloo, on the 
 morning of the loth of September, she found 
 Maurice waiting for her on the platform. At this 
 time she was necessarily the victim of that curious 
 convention called "going into mourning." It 
 lingers doggedly, as customs will, though few of us 
 probably, if asked, would really wish our friends 
 to express — one cannot say their grief at our de- 
 parture, because the thing is not dependent on grief 
 — but their recognition of It, by this lugubrious 
 parade of "sombre black." Still, we are advancing. 
 We have got rid of the plumed hearses and the 
 mutes. Some day — it is not too much to hope — 
 we may get rid of the "mourning." 
 
 In the meantime. It holds but slightly diminished 
 sway; and so, as Cecil had lost both her mother 
 and her brother, she had duly dressed herself in 
 black. Her deep sorrow could not be intensified 
 by it; neither could It be lessened. Simply custom 
 required her to advertise the fact that she had suf- 
 fered recent bereavement, and she had obeyed it. 
 
 245 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 Maurice had been waiting her arrival somewhat 
 nervously ; vaguely expecting to see her tearful and 
 drooping, hardly knowing how his greeting should 
 be voiced. Therefore he was considerably re- 
 lieved, when the train had discharged Its burden, 
 to espy her, among the crowd, coming towards him 
 with a frank smile. 
 
 "I really think you are the kindest creature in 
 the world," she said, "to come all this way to meet 
 me." 
 
 "Oh, good gracious, nothing of the sort!" he 
 expostulated. "I had some other things to do." 
 
 "What were they?" said Cecil, firmly. 
 
 "They wouldn't interest you," said Maurice, 
 hurrying on towards the cab-rank with her hand- 
 baggage; "to get my hair cut and things of that 
 sort." 
 
 Cecil, following breathlessly in his wake, laughed 
 with genuine enjoyment, as she had not done for 
 months, laughed with merry derision. 
 
 She pressed him unmercifully. "I want to 
 know what 'the things of that sort' are?" 
 
 Maurice hailed a hansom. "Where are your 
 things?" he said, avoiding the point. "At the 
 back? How many? Two. All right. Jump in 
 —I'll find them." 
 
 246 
 
(THE JOKE 
 
 He helped her into the cab, placed the small 
 things on the footboard, and darted away after the 
 heavy luggage. 
 
 "Now," said Cecil, returning to the charge 
 when he had taken his seat by her side, "tell me, 
 please, how you have spent every minute of your 
 time since you came to town ?" 
 
 "Well," said Maurice, submitting — perhaps not 
 altogether unwillingly, for there was a subtle de- 
 light in it — to be cross-examined, "I arrived at six 
 last night." 
 
 "Went to Cumberland Square?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Had dinner?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "What then?" 
 
 "Read a book," said Maurice, "a poor one, and 
 went to bed." 
 
 "Honour bright?" said Cecil, quizzing him. 
 
 "Absolutely." 
 
 "What was it called?" 
 
 "I've forgotten," said Maurice, after think- 
 ing. 
 
 "Very feeble," said Cecil. "However, we will 
 give you the benefit of the doubt. What time did 
 you have breakfast?" 
 
 247 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "Nine," said Maurice, cautiously, "nine to half- 
 past." 
 
 "That means half-past. You would read the 
 paper at the same time, so it would take you till 
 ten. There was no hurry, you see, as my train 
 didn't arrive till half-past eleven." 
 
 "But I had to get my hair cut," Maurice re- 
 minded her quite indignantly. 
 
 "You really did have it cut?" 
 
 He took off his hat. "Can't you see?" he said, 
 tenderly smoothing the proof of his words. "The 
 man who did it was one of those fellows who take 
 a little hand-glass when they've finished and show 
 you all round the back. I said it was just as I 
 liked it., I wonder if anybody ever says anything 
 else?" 
 
 "That was about half-past ten?" 
 
 "About," said Maurice, feeling himself getting 
 edged into a corner. 
 
 "In Bond Street?" 
 
 "No, at Harrods'." 
 
 "Twenty minutes from Waterloo. What did 
 you do with the other forty?" 
 
 "I went downstairs and bought some cigar- 
 ettes. You can't get any decent cigarettes at 
 Lynton," he added, with a really creditable 
 
 248 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 attempt to invest the statement with adequate 
 gravity. 
 
 "The return fare from Lynton is at least three 
 pounds, and Harrods deliver post free. I hope 
 you'll never have such a weak case as this to con- 
 duct In court, Maurice." She was thoroughly 
 enjoying herself . "What next?" 
 
 "I went down to the smoke-room for half an 
 hour." 
 
 "And then?" quite breathless, her eyes spark- 
 ling as she looked at him. 
 
 "Oh, I drove to Waterloo," cried Maurice, 
 relinquishing his last breastwork with a sort of 
 laugh, which Cecil instantly covered with the 
 brighter ring of triumph that had been breaking 
 on her lips. 
 
 "It's perfect nonsense, all the same, Cecil," 
 Maurice continued quickly, "to try to make out 
 that it means the least bit of hardship or self- 
 sacrifice for me to come and meet you. It's a relief 
 to see town again after six weeks' exile. I've had 
 quite a good time here and enjoyed every bit of it. 
 Even now, though you're trying to make me look 
 foolish, I'm enjoying it tremendously. And I'm 
 most awfully thankful to find you so decently well 
 and cheerful." 
 
 249 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 The horse, with a jingle, swung them from side 
 to side through the quick turns of Mayfair. 
 
 Cecil suddenly and spontaneously took hold of 
 Maurice's arm and pressed it. "You're so good 
 to me, Maurice," she said. 
 
 Now, at this gentle, unexpected pressure, 
 Maurice felt a decided thrill — ^there was no doubt 
 about it, it was clearly and unmistakably a thrill — 
 and it somewhat alarmed him. He knew, from 
 instinct and from books, that in such circum- 
 stances people were liable to feel thrills; but he 
 was not at all prepared for such an experience him- 
 self. He thought that Angelica had made him 
 immune from them, as she had from Chris's 
 temptations. Yet it was utterly delicious ; and for 
 a few moments he held himself very still — as you 
 might if a robin had perched on your shoulder — 
 lest she should withdraw her hand. 
 
 "Of course that's all rot," he said, in a voice 
 that was suddenly slightly constrained. "I don't 
 the least mind receiving my due if I've really done 
 anything to earn it — nobody does — especially from 
 you — but I haven't got the conscience to accept it 
 in regard to this, much as I should like. I've sim- 
 ply been pleasing myself." 
 
 Cecil did withdraw her hand, but slowly, 
 250 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 quietly — not in such a way as to convey the 
 impression that she thought she had received a 
 rebuff. So Maurice felt that his conduct of the 
 little circumstance had not been amiss. And 
 therein possibly he was justified. For when a 
 woman makes a trifling advance it is not so easy to 
 hit that exquisite mean between too great a fervour 
 of appreciation, which may frighten her, and so 
 elaborate a show of nonchalance as will wound her 
 pride. 
 
 "I don't mean this time only," said Cecil, be- 
 coming pensive. "I was thinking of how you have 
 behaved always, ever since I knew you — ^you and 
 Angelica." 
 
 "How long is that?" said Maurice, bustling on, 
 eager to keep her thoughts from her trouble. 
 
 "Since I've known you?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "How long have I been alive?" she replied. 
 
 "Yes; well, how long have you? I'm twenty- 
 three." 
 
 "You can ask me that question now," said Cecil, 
 smiling, "but you mustn't in ten years." 
 
 "Of course I know you are about twenty or 
 twenty-one," said Maurice, "but I'm not sure 
 which." 
 
 251 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "I was twenty-one last week," she answered. 
 
 "Last week! Good Heavens! And we never 
 knew or never remembered ! Why — " He pushed 
 up the trap with his umbrella. "Stop at the first 
 jeweller's," he said to the driver. 
 
 "I shall be really angry if you do," cried Cecil, 
 turning upon him sharply. "I'm not joking, Mau- 
 rice. I shall be very, very cross." 
 
 "Then I am afraid I shall have to submit to 
 It," replied Maurice, calmly, "much as it will pain 
 me. We can't let your twenty-first birthday pass 
 without recognising the fact. Angelica would be 
 awfully upset." 
 
 The cab pulled up and he jumped out. "Come 
 along," he said. 
 
 "No," said Cecil, firmly, "I sha'n't, I really 
 sha'n't, Maurice. You are making me feel so un- 
 comfortable." 
 
 "All right, then, stay where you are," he said 
 gaily, and disappeared into the shop. 
 
 He emerged in about five minutes and again 
 took his seat by her side. 
 
 "From Angelica and me," he said, slipping a 
 small package into her hand. "And I hope you'll 
 have the very best of luck for all the rest of your 
 life, Cecil, if only to square the balance." 
 
 252 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 She made no reply, but slowly unfastened the 
 string from the box which he had given her, lifted 
 the lid, and took out a red morocco case. She 
 Opened it and revealed a small diamond and pearl 
 brooch lying on a bed of plush. 
 
 "Don't blame me for the design," said Maurice, 
 with a laugh. "There wasn't much choice. I 
 wish I had known before we crossed Picca- 
 dilly." 
 
 Few women are so free of vanity that they can 
 look at a pretty piece of jewellery, when it is pre- 
 sented to them for their own, without some show 
 of emotion. In Cecil's case. It took a peculiar 
 form. She saw, not only the sparkling toy, but 
 all that lay behind it. Her fortitude, bravely 
 sustained until that moment, gave way before 
 this spontaneous kindness. First one tear, and 
 then a second, fell among the packings on her 
 lap. 
 
 "Oh, what an ass I am!" exclaimed Maurice, 
 bitterly vexed with himself. 
 
 Cecil dashed away the tears. "No, you're 
 not," she cried, looking at him with shining eyes, 
 "you're not an ass, Maurice. You are much too 
 good and kind, and that is what made me cry, like 
 a goose. I think," she said, beginning to laugh, 
 
 253 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "I must be like that man in one of Gilbert and 
 Sullivan's operas, who says he 'only yields to kind- 
 ness.' It's a dear!" she exclaimed fervently, look- 
 ing at the brooch. "I shall love it." 
 
 She continued to gaze at it for some moments 
 with a sort of childish delight. Then she closed 
 the case and returned it to its box. 
 
 She gave it back to Maurice. "Take care of it 
 for me," she said, "until we get to Lynton," 
 
 It was a long journey from Paddington, but it 
 did not appear particularly so to either of them. 
 For one thing, the heavy passenger traffic at that 
 date was chiefly in the reverse direction, and so, 
 for the major portion of the time, they had their 
 compartment to themselves, which allowed them 
 to talk without constraint. Cecil did not repeat 
 her slight breakdown. Indeed, the reaction after 
 the long strain of the last half year induced a 
 superficial buoyancy beyond her normal wont. 
 Youth, unless it has been broken by a childhood 
 of wretchedness, submits hardly to be subdued for 
 months to a minor key, and eagerly seeks the first 
 outlet for its ebullient spirit. Cecil looked steadily 
 forward: she struggled to refuse to let her mind 
 look back. She felt that she wanted never to see 
 the house at Haslemere again — never, never again. 
 
 254 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 She was going into a new country, among new 
 scenes and new faces — but the faces were of old 
 and dear and tried friends — and the knowledge 
 stole into her soul like myrrh and rose from it again 
 and again in delicious gushes, flowing through her 
 with a warm glow of joyous surety. And then 
 suddenly, in the midst of an outburst, she would 
 think that it was not right of her to be so light- 
 hearted, that Maurice would misunderstand her, 
 and she would check herself. 
 
 But Maurice not only understood her perfectly 
 well, but did everything he could to encourage and 
 incite her. If ever she gazed for a few moments 
 thoughtfully out of the window, he recalled her to 
 the present with some inconsequent remark that 
 arrested by its very irrelevancy. He talked non- 
 sense to the utmost that was in him. And, all the 
 while, he was quite conscious that, although he 
 might be doing his duty, he was having an excellent 
 time. 
 
 "Do you know that Angelica has turned match- 
 maker, Cecil?" he said suddenly, to break one such 
 pensive period. 
 
 "Angelica !" 
 
 "She thought it would be a good Idea if I got 
 down to Lynton some nice, honest, sober, trust- 
 
 255 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 worthy friend of mine, warranted quiet in double 
 harness, with a view to eventualities." 
 
 Cecil blushed and laughed. "You are trying to 
 make fun of me, Maurice. I don't think it's kind 
 of you." 
 
 "I'm as serious as a judge," said he, "as some 
 judges," he corrected, with a lively recollection 
 of certain uproariously recognised jocularities from 
 the bench. 
 
 "But — ^but you haven't — Oh, dear!" said Cecil, 
 laughing, and stopped. 
 
 "Oh, no, he is not waiting there — you needn't 
 be alarmed. The truth is, I can't conscientiously 
 say that any of my friends fully answers the de- 
 scription." 
 
 "You are incorrigible this afternoon, Maurice," 
 said Cecil, "but I'm glad there won't be any 
 strangers. I'm very selfish, but I want to have 
 you both to myself, especially Angelica." 
 
 "Thank you," said Maurice, with exaggerated 
 umbrage. "That's the worst of having Angelica to 
 live with; one always has to play second fiddle." 
 
 "Oh, it will all be lovely, I know !" exclaimed 
 Cecil, fervently. 
 
 "Well, I think you will exclude the drawing- 
 room wall-paper," said Maurice. 
 
 256 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "I wouldn't mind any wall-paper, or anywhere, 
 or anything, with Angelica," said Cecil. 
 
 Maurice changed his tone. "Are you so fond 
 of her?" he said. 
 
 "Oh, yes," she answered, with the air of stating 
 a fact so inevitable and self-evident as scarcely to 
 need expression. 
 
 Maurice in his turn became pensive. "I'm so 
 glad," he said, after several seconds had elapsed. 
 
 Angelica met them at Lynton with a small pony- 
 trap which she drove herself. 
 
 "Tired out?" she said, looking into Cecil's 
 face. 
 
 "No," said Cecil, "not a bit tired. Maurice has 
 been a splendid companion. I never knew he was 
 so amusing." 
 
 Maurice was getting the luggage out. 
 
 "Oh, don't let him think he is a humorist," said 
 Angelica, laughing, "or he'll give us a terrible 
 time." 
 
 The pony was of the sort that women drive — 
 fully master of the situation, regulator of the pace 
 and institutor of the halts. He was quite unen- 
 cumbered by a sense of dignity. There was a 
 certain spring beside the road, at which he 
 regarded himself as having a prescriptive right, 
 
 257 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 whatever his passengers' urgency, to stop and 
 drink. Angelica had weakly admitted his claim 
 when he first put it forward, and thereafter had 
 become his slave. On the present occasion, having 
 satisfied a very trifling thirst, he availed himself of 
 his mistress's temporary preoccupation with Cecil 
 to transfer his muzzle to the surrounding grass and 
 begin to browse. 
 
 "Oh, look here, Angelica," cried Maurice, 
 stretching forward and snatching the whip, 
 "there's a limit to everything." 
 
 "Don't whip him, Maurice," said Angelica. 
 "Poor old boy, he has a heavy load, remember." 
 
 "He's the most thorough-going humbug that 
 ever breathed," replied Maurice, administering, 
 however, a castigation hardly more severe than 
 Angelica herself might have found heart to apply. 
 
 By such means they eventually covered the two 
 miles a little faster than they could have walked 
 it, and reached the cottage just as the sun was 
 setting behind the line of cliff to the west. The 
 windows of the house caught the light and reflected 
 it in vivid colour. 
 
 "It's a perfect Paradise," exclaimed Cecil, en- 
 thusiastically. 
 
 All the evening she kept up her spirits, but when, 
 258 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 following her old custom, she went into Angelica's 
 room after undressing, she stole into her arms, put 
 her head upon her shoulder, and let herself weep. 
 For a while we may leave her there, well assured 
 that whatever of comfort, whatever of strength 
 and hope human lips and human sympathy can 
 give, that she received in full measure. 
 
 259 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 Cecil looked up from the book she was reading 
 and gazed meditatively out to sea. It was very 
 blue that day, reflecting the blue sky, save here and 
 there where a breaker sparkled. In the distance, 
 almost on the sky-line, a few heavy cargo-boats 
 were slowly making their way along the great 
 water-way to and from Bristol. 
 
 Cecil had now been a week at Lynton — a week 
 that had passed in uninterrupted peace, and had 
 given her back the soft bloom and clear skin 
 ravaged by the previous months of confinement 
 and anxiety. Looking back across that little 
 space of sunny calm, the tragedy of the time 
 before seemed unreal. It had left its effect upon 
 her immutably — she was strengthened and deep- 
 ened, as Maurice had been, in essential character- 
 istics — but her faculties found it difficult to focus, 
 in retrospect, as an actual and veritable part of 
 her life. The sun and the light at Lynton, the 
 quiet days on the pleasant uplands, the spontaneous 
 kindness which surrounded her, had thrown a warm 
 
 260 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 haze across the unhappy past. She saw it as 
 through the quivering heat mists that rise on a 
 summer day. 
 
 She was seated in a cushioned wicker chair on 
 the veranda. She had been there all afternoon, 
 reading and idly watching the shipping in the 
 estuary. From time to time Maurice or Angelica 
 had joined her for a few moments and gone away 
 again. Just now she was alone, but she could 
 hear Maurice's pen scratching in the room behind 
 her, through the open French window. 
 
 "How do you spell 'dependent,' Cecil?" he 
 called out suddenly. 
 
 "D-e-p-e-n-d — " began Cecil, glibly, and 
 stopped. "Do you mean the noun or the ad- 
 jective?" 
 
 "The adjective," said Maurice. 
 
 "Well, then, it's 'e' — no, it's 'a' — no, it's not, 
 it's 'e.' I'm not sure," she said finally. "I knew 
 before you asked me. It's being asked how to 
 spell things that makes one a bad speller." 
 
 "What am I to do — make a blot?" 
 
 "Get a dictionary," she called back. 
 
 He came out upon the veranda. "There's not 
 a dictionary in the house," he said, "and I'm 
 writing to Kenyon — he's sure to know how it's 
 
 261 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 spelt." He took up the book from her lap. "What 
 are you reading?" 
 
 "It's rather an old one. I got it out of the 
 little library here." 
 
 "The Wages of Sin — yes, I remember it." 
 
 "Don't tell me the end," she said hastily. 
 
 "It's not necessary," said Maurice. "A book 
 with that name tells the end on the title-page." 
 
 "I was hoping against hope that it didn't." 
 
 Maurice turned over the pages mechanically, 
 and then handed it back to her, open at the spot 
 where she was reading. 
 
 "It's a fine book," he said. "It's a pity it's 
 spoilt by the hint at the end that the heroine may 
 lower herself to marriage with that 'goodly youth.' 
 I hate an immaculate man." 
 
 Cecil was silent. 
 
 "Don't 3»0M, Cecil?" he asked, a little anxiously. 
 
 "I'm not sure that I know exactly what you 
 mean by 'immaculate,'" she said. "I don't like 
 a goody man." 
 
 "Oh, but he may fall short of that and yet be 
 an offence. Take an automaton, innocent of so 
 much as a remnant of an original idea, of one 
 spark of imagination ; wind it up to think and act 
 precisely as our forefathers have laid it down that, 
 
 262 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 in their opinion, it is good for us to think and act; 
 clothe it well, wash it well, and you have this 
 'goodly youth.' " 
 
 "But he is manly and trustable and straight- 
 forward," said Cecil. 
 
 "Yes," said Maurice, "and rich and handsome. 
 He fulfils every condition which a careful mamma 
 could wish to find in a prospective son-in-law. 
 But a complex character like this heroine — what is 
 her name? — could never be happy with a man of 
 that kind. He would bore her to extinction. A 
 woman of intellect and imagination needs a com- 
 panion who sees things clearly and calmly through 
 his brain, and not through some other channel, 
 vaguely called 'feeling' and 'soul,' but really preju- 
 dice." 
 
 "Of course that has rather a clever and plausible 
 sound," said Cecil, resting her chin on her hands' 
 and gazing at the blue expanse in front of her, 
 "but if you mean that brain is the only thing, or 
 even the chief thing, to be considered, I don't agree 
 with you a bit. There is an ingredient in our 
 compositions which is neither body nor intellect, 
 and which certainly is not prejudice. What is it 
 makes us enjoy that view over the sea, or listening 
 to good music, or feel pain at the sight or knowi- 
 
 263 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 edge of suffering? It is not our brains. I think 
 if we were to be guided by mind entirely we should 
 often be led astray." 
 
 She had not looked at him while she spoke, and 
 she continued to gaze seaward, her face wearing 
 a somewhat rapt and earnest expression. Maurice 
 was leaning with his back upon one of the supports 
 of the veranda, looking down at her. Slowly, 
 subtly, as he looked, she entered into his being in 
 a way she had never done before. He began by 
 thinking how white her hands were, then how soft 
 and delicate her cheek and the profile of her face, 
 then, with a rush, how infinitely, utterly graceful 
 and desirable her whole exquisite personality. 
 It seemed a startling exemplification of the very 
 points she had been pressing. He was vividly 
 conscious that it was an enjoyment to watch her 
 as she sat there, to realise her grace, her femininity, 
 her delicate charm and beauty; and he recognised 
 that, whatever it was that made it such, it was not 
 his brain. 
 
 It was not; yet neither was it his soul. There 
 is a soul within us, but it is not the basis of sexual 
 love nor of the delight which one sex takes in the 
 other; and even in the highest manifestations of 
 that magnetism, when fundamental causes are 
 
 264 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 most obscured, we are not entitled to assume that 
 it is. Sex attraction occupies too vital a place in 
 the universal scheme to be left to the uneven ad- 
 vocacy of the soul. 
 
 For a few moments Maurice permitted his new 
 and delightful sensation full play. Then it broke 
 upon him abruptly what it meant, or what it might 
 grow to mean, and how profoundly the conditions 
 in which he was living could be affected by it. It 
 seemed to him — it had so seemed to him from the 
 first, though hitherto the matter had not appeared 
 Important — that there were certain chords in his 
 nature which, by accepting Angelica's generosity, 
 he was bound in honour to leave permanently 
 mute. He left his place and threw himself rather 
 sharply into a chair further along the veranda, 
 some yards from Cecil. 
 
 "Why have you gone over there?" she said, 
 looking round. "You don't mind your ideas being 
 questioned, do you?" 
 
 "Not In the least," said Maurice. "Far from 
 that, I think you have quite convinced me that you 
 are right." 
 
 "Come back, then," she said, smiling, "and let 
 me hear some more of them. You talk rather well 
 sometimes, although always like a very young man." 
 
 265 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "That's as great an insult as if I were to 
 say that you talked like a very old woman," 
 replied Maurice, without, however, changing his 
 seat. 
 
 "Oh, that wouldn't be an insult," said Cecil. 
 "The 'very' saves it. An old woman is supposed 
 to talk foolishly, but a very old woman is full of 
 wisdom. I've no objection to be considered to talk 
 like a very old woman, if your exclusiveness so 
 wishes." 
 
 She was glancing across the space between them 
 with a delicious affectation of solemnity, as she 
 threw the final gibe at him. 
 
 "At all events, you — " Maurice suddenly 
 checked himself. 
 
 "Yes?" said Cecil, firmly. 
 
 "At all events, you don't look like one," he 
 finished, a little against his will. 
 
 Cecil laughed joyfully. "That's the first time, 
 since I've known you," she asserted, "that you've 
 paid me anything remotely resembling a compli- 
 ment." 
 
 Maurice laughed, too, at that. "Oh, well," he 
 said, "one is obliged to speak the truth sometimes, 
 even to one's best friends ; and I thought you were 
 looking rather jolly, Cecil — a moment ago." 
 
 266 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "Not now?" Chaffing eyes pointed the in- 
 terrogatory. 
 
 "Yes, now, if you like. I believe you are as 
 vain as everybody else." 
 
 "That's not fair," said Cecil, emphatically. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Because I can't answer that question." 
 
 Maurice still wondered why not, and failing to 
 evolve a satisfactory explanation, he lighted a 
 cigarette. Cecil returned to her book. 
 
 They were so sitting when a skirt swished quickly 
 across the room behind them and Angelica came 
 out upon the veranda. She was looking her best, 
 fresh and bright In a holland gown trimmed with 
 lace, and in excellent spirits. 
 
 "I think we will have tea out here this after- 
 noon," she said. "It's lovely, isn't it?" She 
 turned back for a moment into the sitting-room 
 to give an order. "Good gracious, have you quar- 
 relled?" She glanced with a smile from one to 
 the other and seated herself in a vacant chair be- 
 tween them. 
 
 "Maurice suddenly took it in his head to go 
 over there," said Cecil. "I don't know if I ought 
 to be offended." 
 
 267 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "She said I talked like a very young man," said 
 Maurice, subtly evading the real point. 
 
 "If she were to say that twenty years hence," 
 said Angelica, drawing her chair back tO' make 
 room for the maid with tea, "you would rise up 
 and call her blessed." 
 
 "Lately," said Cecil, glancing gravely across at 
 Maurice, "he has been rather inclined to have views 
 and to state them." 
 
 "That's a genuine grievance," said Angelica, 
 arranging the cups. "A person may have views, 
 but he mustn't state them. At least, not unless 
 he is asked." 
 
 "Well, I was never very keen on taking my 
 notions at second hand," said Maurice, "and I've 
 been less so since — slnce^ — " 
 
 He was about to say "since Chris's death," then 
 remembered Cecil and checked himself rather 
 clumsily. 
 
 "Since you came to years of indiscretion," re- 
 marked Angelica. "I think you had better bring 
 another table," she said to the maid; "there will 
 hardly be room for everything on this." 
 
 Maurice got up hastily and handed the plates. 
 When Cecil took some bread-and-butter he again 
 noticed how white her hand was. It also occurred 
 
 268 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 to him how soft and supple and warm it would feel 
 inside one's own — ^not holding it as one does in 
 shaking hands, but binding thumb and everything 
 inside an enveloping clasp. Then she looked up 
 and said "Thank you" and looked down again. 
 Something was playing tricks with him. It was 
 the most commonplace phrase in the world — she 
 had said it to him scores of times before — and she 
 always spoke softly like that — it was her natural 
 voice. And it was absurd to suppose that there 
 was anything different, anything significant, in the 
 momentary glance. Yet it had gone through him 
 — through and through him — ^like an electric 
 current. 
 
 "Am I to be allowed none?" said Angelica. 
 
 Her voice startled Maurice. He turned and 
 saw that she was stretching her hand across the 
 tea-table. It was as white as Cecil's, but not so 
 tapering, and it had more jewels on it. Maurice 
 felt a deep compunction for his slight aberration, 
 far deeper than the mere fact explained. Beneath 
 it was a sense of at least some temporary mental 
 disloyalty. Instead of immediately handing her 
 the bread-and-butter plate, he put out his empty 
 hand and took hers in a friendly clasp. 
 
 "I'm awfully sorry, dear; I didn't see you 
 269 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 were waiting," he said. Tiien he passed her the 
 plate. 
 
 Cecil had often before seen such small acts of 
 camaraderie betw'een these two, and always hitherto 
 they had appealed to her as very natural and de- 
 lightful. To-day, for some reason that she could 
 not have defined, it gave her the feeling that she 
 was lonely, that she was out in the cold. It seemed 
 to bring home to her suddenly, to focus for her 
 sharply in a clear light just how completely lonely 
 she was. Since her double bereavement these 
 friends of her childhood had come to occupy the 
 position of the only fellow-creatures who could 
 speak to her heart. Her mother's death had re- 
 moved the chief bond with her aunt. She had 
 always got on well with her, but their outlooks 
 were too dissimilar to provoke any real sympathy, 
 and even though they might continue to live to- 
 gether, it seemed unlikely that their intercourse 
 could ever be much more than superficial. As for 
 her remaining relations — the relatives on her 
 father's side — they were pleasant and amiable peo- 
 ple, but they had interests of their own, and she had 
 not been accustomed to see much of them. Her 
 existence or otherwise could not, in the nature of 
 things, be of great moment to them. 
 
 270 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 Among all living people there remained only 
 Angelica and Maurice who were able really to feel 
 with her, who could understand her interests and 
 aims and thoughts. And this trifling incident, this 
 easy, spontaneous hand-clasp had shown her that 
 even they, deep down, were and must be apart from 
 her. She was very closely with them — they show- 
 ered kindness upon her, she knew they would never 
 speak or think otherwise than well of her — but she 
 was not of them. She was of nobody — nobody 
 in the whole world. 
 
 Cecil was not given to self-pity, but this sudden 
 realisation of her utter loneliness struck rather 
 sharply to her heart and, though she tried to hide 
 it, produced for a time a perceptible droop In her 
 spirits. 
 
 After tea Maurice retreated Into the house. 
 Having succeeded In forming a tolerable hybrid 
 between an "e" and an "a" to fill the doubtful 
 space in "dependent," and subsequently finished his 
 letter, he re-appeared on the veranda and asked if 
 they had anything for the post. 
 
 "No," said Angelica, "but you might go into the 
 grocer's and ask them why they haven't sent the 
 coffee. And do you think you could buy me three 
 reels of white cotton — one eighty and two sixty?" 
 
 271 
 
\THE YOKE 
 
 "Saints alive!" said Maurice. 
 
 "Well, you needn't." 
 
 "Yes, I'll get them, of course. Anything for 
 you, Cecil?" 
 
 "No," said Cecil, "thank you." 
 
 Angelica took her hand when Maurice had 
 gone. 
 
 "You are quiet, dear," she said. "Have you 
 been worrying?" 
 
 "Oh, no," said Cecil, "not that. I remember 
 sometimes. I'm so sorry; I'm sure I'm a nuisance 
 to you. But little things start one's thoughts and 
 then everything comes back again. I was thinking 
 what a wearisome place the world would be if one 
 had no friends." 
 
 "Of course it would," said Angelica. "We are 
 fond of laughing at our fellow-beings, but we are 
 dependent upon them for every bit of happiness we 
 have, almost for our sane existence." 
 
 "It's easy to understand why the masses have 
 such an objection to emigrating," said Cecil. 
 "The air, the space, the scenery — one imagines 
 at first that it would be lovely for people out of 
 crowded towns. But nothing could compensate 
 for the solitude; and I suppose that Is what they 
 feel." 
 
 272 
 
THE JOKE 
 
 " 'Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of 
 Cathay,' " quoted Angelica, with a smile. "I 
 think so too. But what has made you talk like 
 this? You have quantities of friends." 
 
 "Not close friends," replied Cecil, "who know 
 me well and would really much care what became 
 of me. In fact, only you — ^you and — and Maurice. 
 No one else." 
 
 Angelica did not miss the slight hesitation on 
 the proper name. 
 
 "Oh, you mustn't let yourself imagine foolish 
 things of that kind," she said, after a hardly per- 
 ceptible pause. "Come, I prophesy that in a very 
 little time — much sooner than you think, perhaps 
 — ^you will forget completely that you ever had such 
 gloomy fancies." 
 
 Cecil found it difficult to throw off her slight fit 
 of depression, however. The excuse for it might 
 have been thought to have been removed. One 
 of the parties to the hand-clasp was now showing 
 equal affection to herself. Angelica's hand was 
 in hers, Angelica's voice was comforting her. Yet 
 she still felt lonely, she still felt out in the cold. 
 Which — it may be stated — came quite as a surprise 
 to Cecil. 
 
 273 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 When Maurice laid his head upon his pillow 
 that night, he told himself firmly that there were 
 several matters which could well occupy his mind 
 until he should fall asleep. He could think, for 
 instance, of his forthcoming call to the Bar, now 
 only a few months distant; he could picture what 
 he would look like in wig and gown (an exercise 
 which had not so far been neglected) and confirm 
 the decision, which in spite of its original inflexible 
 character was in constant need of confirmation, that 
 in no circumstances would he be guilty of the feeble 
 affectation of having his photograph taken in that 
 costume; he could wonder if a man (without the 
 lead) would be justified in doubling "no trumps" 
 with five probable tricks in clubs, two other aces 
 and hearts void, and how the position would be 
 affected if nothing had been said about the heart 
 convention; he could think of Angelica, of the 
 honey-sweet joy and the exquisite peace she had 
 instilled into his life, of the care and thought that 
 she had ungrudgingly bestowed upon him since he 
 was a child, of all, indeed, that he owed her and 
 must ever owe her; or he could think — ^yes — ^he 
 
 274 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 could think of Chris, of poor Chris, his boyish face, 
 his happy, sunny nature and his tragic fate — a fate 
 which, but for Angelica, he himself would have 
 had an equal chance of sharing. On each or all of 
 these things he could permit his mind to dwell with 
 the utmost propriety, even with advantage. But 
 there was one subject on which he could not, must 
 not, should not think, and that subject was — Cecil. 
 This matter of the regulation of our mental 
 energy, however, is one over which the strongest 
 of us have but an imperfect command. Could we 
 control our thoughts with equal facility as, say, 
 our speech or our movements, the world would 
 perhaps be a happier, and certainly a calmer place 
 to live in. In this respect IVlaurice, especially in 
 a semi-somnolent state, was no exception to the 
 general rule. He made a genuine effort, but his 
 subjects overlapped and got into confusion. And 
 so, after vaguely wondering if it would be right to 
 call the Bar on a high-court judge and four junior 
 counsel, or if he ought to pass the declaration, he 
 eventually dropped into a pleasant slumber under 
 the influence of a delicious explanation, which had 
 slid into his mind, of Cecil's protest that it was 
 unfair to call her vain for extracting a compliment 
 from him. 
 
 275. 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 Love, in the abstract, may be made in heaven,j 
 but the concrete expression of it which leads to 
 marriage is assuredly a matter of opportunity. 
 Every man and every woman is originally capable 
 of love, but one compelled to pass existence on an 
 uninhabited island would manifestly never know 
 its fever. Conversely, if a young couple of oppo- 
 site sex, between whom there is nothing actually 
 repellent or antipathetic, are brought together by 
 circumstances with sufficient persistency, It Is prac- 
 tically a certainty that they will come to love 
 each other. Since the renewal of their childhood's 
 acquaintance, eighteen months ago, Maurice and 
 Cecil had continued, through a series of short 
 occasional meetings, upon terms of easy friend- 
 ship. Had no opportunity of more continuous 
 companionship fallen in their way, they might 
 never have discovered the potentialities of deeper 
 attraction which they held for one another — 
 — might each, instead, have eventually realised 
 some other of the thousand similar potentialities 
 dormant within them. The opportunity had oc- 
 curred, however; and thenceforward Maurice 
 could hardly have escaped the necessity for his 
 nocturnal mental exercises and for his subsequent 
 
 276 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 daily struggles to avoid further inhalations of the 
 sweet contagion. 
 
 It was, to say the truth, an uncommonly stiff 
 task which he had set himself — much stiffer than 
 he the least realised when he first put his hand to 
 it — ^nothing less than to break the claim of his 
 youth — that youth which calls to youth inevitably. 
 Nevertheless, it was a task which he attacked with 
 firm determination. A sentimental attachment 
 was a matter with which he had no concern. In 
 that respect he was not as other men are. He did 
 not allow himself even to question that his original 
 rights to love and to marry had been hypothecated 
 and had passed from him. 
 
 But love is a condition which comes pitifully 
 little under control of the will, when you are 
 brought into daily contact with the object calcu- 
 lated to inspire it. Maurice made no attempt to 
 conceal that fact from himself, and he squarely 
 faced the question whether he ought to pack up 
 and return to town instanter. It would be a dis- 
 courtesy as a host; that was a quibble. It would 
 be a breach of faith with Angelica, after having 
 undertaken to spend a month at Lynton; that also 
 was a quibble; and both objections he honestly 
 discarded as such. But there was a further con- 
 
 277 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 slderation which was assuredly not of that nature; 
 namely, that a policy of flight would be ut- 
 terly futile, since their intercourse with Cecil in 
 the future must almost inevitably be even greater 
 than it had formerly been. He could go away; 
 but to go away and see her face no more was hardly 
 a practical possibility in existing circumstances. 
 Essentially he must accustom himself to her pres- 
 ence and get the better of this queer madness that 
 had come upon him, drill himself imtil he could 
 again regard her dispassionately in the old friendly 
 way. 
 
 He was not assisted, it must be confessed, by a 
 slight concurrent change in Cecil's manner towards 
 himself — a change all the more perceptible from 
 her evident desire not to make it. It scarcely 
 amounted to constraint, but there was a subtle 
 something — an occasional hesitation, the smallest 
 of catches in her voice, a passing quivering un- 
 certainty in her glance. For a time, however, 
 Angelica's presence made it possible to avoid any 
 but short, incidental tete-a-tete conversations. At 
 those times they spoke only on commonplace topics ; 
 but each such trifling talk left something behind 
 it which, in spite of his utmost effort, returned 
 to Maurice's mind, in moments of quiescence, with 
 
 278 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 soft insistence. In this way a week passed; 
 and then this game of hide-and-seek they were 
 semi-consciously playing ended, as sooner or 
 later, it was bound to end. Willy-nilly, they were 
 thrown for a solid afternoon into one another's 
 sole society. 
 
 Angelica had a headache, and the day was so fine 
 that there was no excuse for remaining indoors. 
 
 "You had better take the pony and the tea- 
 basket," said Angelica, "and go to the Doone Val- 
 ley. You haven't seen it yet. Or you can go on 
 foot to Waters Meet." 
 
 "I would rather stay with you," said Cecil, with 
 that little catch in her voice, dropping hastily into 
 a chair beside the couch on which Angelica was 
 resting, as if it would afford her an anchor. "I 
 will sit and read to you, dear." 
 
 "Nonsense," said Angelica. "I am quite well 
 enough to read to myself. Where's Maurice? 
 Maurice!" 
 
 Maurice was on the veranda. He came in 
 slowly through the window. 
 
 "Maurice, you must take Cecil for a long walk." 
 
 "It would be awfully jolly," said Maurice, not 
 without perceptible hesitation, "but I don't think 
 we will leave you this afternoon, Angelica," 
 
 279 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "Dear me," exclaimed Angelica, "how stupid 
 you both are about me! I don't anticipate 
 immediate dissolution. I have only got one of my 
 quite ordinary heads. You will make it worse if 
 you worry me. Cecil, go and put your things 
 on." 
 
 "You are sure?" said Maurice. 
 
 "You are quite sure?" said Cecil. 
 
 "Oh, be off with you!" cried Angelica. "Be 
 off!" : 
 
 And so, at last, they were driven out of the house 
 before Angelica's derision. 
 
 She listened to their footsteps as they walked 
 along the short gravel path and heard the little 
 wooden gate at the end close behind them. From 
 where she lay she could see the line of red-brown 
 cliff, set in its field of sapphire. Long after the 
 sound of them had passed out of hearing she re- 
 mained looking out at the distant view, her aching 
 head resting on the cushion. She sighed once, 
 .softly. Then she took up her book and began to 
 read. 
 
 "Where shall we go?" said Maurice. 
 
 "It's lovely, isn't it?" said Cecil. "Whichever 
 way you like." 
 
 "I don't think it matters much," he said. 
 280 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "Shall we go down into Lynmouth and along the 
 valley to Waters Meet?" 
 
 "Yes," replied Cecil. 
 
 Poor children ! Both their hearts were beating 
 fast. They were intensely, exquisitely conscious 
 of one another; and each was struggling desper- 
 ately to conceal the fact beneath an assumption of 
 Indifference. 
 
 "I always think the bay looks very jolly when 
 the sun catches the tips of the waves like that," 
 Maurice said aloud. 
 
 In his heart he was crying exultantly, "For 
 hours we are going to be alone. For hours — 
 hours." 
 
 Cecil, her light skirt fluttering a little in the 
 breeze, looked seaward, holding her hat, and said 
 that she thought so too. And, all the while, she 
 hardly saw the sea. 
 
 Their way lay through that pleasant, grassy 
 upland, bearing the Imposing but inappropriate 
 title "The Valley of Rocks," and thence down a 
 steep road to the dozen or so houses huddled on 
 the banks of a torrent, comprising the village of 
 Lynmouth. From here they followed the little 
 river up a wooded valley, and were accompanied 
 for the rest of their walk by that pleasantest of all 
 
 281 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 sounds on a hot afternoon, the sound of running 
 water, now clear and strenuous, now faint and 
 slumbrous, according as their path approached or 
 receded from the stream. They had ample oppor- 
 tunity to listen to it, for their stock of small talk 
 and generalities dragged rather painfully to ex- 
 haustion, and neither of them' felt capable of pus.h- 
 ing the conversation Into the more intimate 
 channels of former days. 
 
 "We don't seem to be getting on as well as 
 usual," said Maurice, abruptly, from sheer neces- 
 sity to say something, after they had walked for 
 several hundred yards in silence. 
 
 "No," said Cecil, "I think we are both rather 
 dull and stupid this afternoon." 
 
 "It's my fault," said Maurice. "What do we 
 generally talk about?" 
 
 Cecil made a little scoffing sound. "Oh I — ^what 
 we have been doing, or what we have been reading, 
 or what we have been thinking — anything that 
 comes into our heads." 
 
 The third item brought vividly to Maurice's 
 mind his exercises in restraint of thought. Imme- 
 diately restrospective conversation would evidently 
 require delicate treatment. He struck for the 
 Other direction. 
 
 282 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "Why not what we are going to do," he said, 
 "or going to read, or going to think?" 
 
 "You are stupider than ever," said Cecil, with a 
 half laugh. "How can we talk about what we are 
 going to think? No one knows that." 
 
 "Oh, yes," said Maurice, "lots of people. 
 Professional politicians, when they have an idea 
 their side is likely to go under, know perfectly well; 
 so do handwriting experts, as soon as they get a 
 solicitor's letter asking them to come and look at 
 a cheque." 
 
 "I don't believe It," said Cecil. 
 
 "Well, at any rate we can talk about what we 
 are going to do — you especially. Shall you go on 
 living at Haslemere?" 
 
 "I've hardly thought," said Cecil, slowly. "It 
 depends upon Aunt Annie. Yes, I suppose so." 
 
 Her tone had struck a note of melancholy — at 
 least, of pensiveness. 
 
 "Oh, dear!" said Maurice. "I'm afraid it will 
 be lonely, Cecil, and horribly dull." 
 
 "Yes, of course," said Cecil, "at first. It isn't 
 that. So much has happened there that — that — 
 oh, that I wish hadn't happened." 
 
 She walked on quickly. They had come to a 
 small stone bridge which carried the path across 
 
 283 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 the stream. Cecil sat on the parapet and looked 
 over. Several small trout were darting hither and 
 thither in the water below. 
 
 "How pretty they are!" she exclaimed. "Come 
 and look. You can see them so clearly." 
 
 She had stretched a hand upon the stone coping 
 on either side of her to support her as she leaned 
 over. As Maurice bent down to look, he did the 
 same ; and, by purest accident, the tips of his fingers 
 fell lightly upon the extremity of the hand nearest 
 him. She did not withdraw it. She did not with- 
 draw it. The realisation of that throbbed through 
 every vein in Maurice's body. To touch her was 
 sweet ; to find the touch quietly permitted was very 
 heaven. The knowledge that his hand was on 
 hers and that she knew it and allowed it to 
 be so, ran through his blood in waves of utter 
 ecstasy. The full voltage of a galvanic battery 
 could have held his own hand less powerfully than 
 the tips of those slender fingers. They talked of 
 the fishes, of the way the water rippled over the 
 stones, of the view up the valley, of each trifle that 
 caught their eye and could help them to go on 
 pretending to be unconscious of that exquisite con- 
 tact — unconscious of that which, for the time being, 
 had made fishes and stream and valley, the world 
 
 284 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 and the people in it, insignificant items in the sum 
 of things. 
 
 At last they turned round and sat upright on 
 the parapet. Cecil continued to look down at the 
 stream sideways, and she picked at the coping and 
 threw small pieces of cement Into the water. Mau- 
 rice watched her with eyes as little answerable to his 
 will as his hand had been. 
 
 "Does it make you unhappy, Cecil?" he said, 
 after a while. 
 
 "Does what?" she asked. 
 
 "That you have to go back to Haslemere?" 
 
 She flung down several scraps of rubble before 
 replying. "Perhaps it would if I thought about 
 it," she said. "I try not to." 
 
 "But do you think you can prevent thoughts — 
 some thoughts?" 
 
 The tabooed subject had quickly wormed its 
 way to expression, and that in a tone of tense 
 earnestness which left its application open to no 
 doubt. 
 
 Cecil had ceased dropping scraps into the 
 stream, but her hand was still on the parapet. She 
 moved her forefinger slowly in a circle on the 
 masonry and kept her eyes fixed upon it. 
 
 "No," she answered in a lo\y voice. 
 285 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 A light flush gradually mounted her cheeks. 
 Maurice realised, In an amazing moment, that he 
 had reached a point from which retreat was as 
 impossible as advance. Some words must pass be- 
 tween them now. He could not answer that soft 
 avowal — for soft avowal he knew it to be — ^with 
 a return to the commonplace. The only think- 
 able reply — swift, flooding, fervent — ^was that 
 which was burning on his lips but could not be 
 uttered. Every moment that he waited was a deep 
 offence. 
 
 "Oh, Cecil, Cecil !" he cried low. 
 
 Cecil answered the tone. She looked up — 
 looked up and met his glance. What he read in 
 her eyes swept every other thought from his mind. 
 He seized her hands, drew her towards him, 
 clasped her to his heart, in the mad rapture of 
 that knowledge of love returned, which, at its first 
 wonderful apprehension, gives a new meaning to 
 creation. Cecil yielded herself to his embrace with 
 a little sigh of happy confidence, like a child which 
 has been wandering lost and has found a friend. 
 For five seconds they were both utterly happy. 
 Then Maurice remembered. 
 
 He dropped his arms and drew back, almost in- 
 credulous of his own act. 
 
 286 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "Oh, heaven, what have I done?" he cried. "I 
 had no right to." 
 
 Cecil merely looked at him. She was too be- 
 wildered to speak. The sudden transition left 
 her for the moment without power even to realise 
 it. 
 
 "Forgive me?" said Maurice, after a moment's 
 interval. "Forgive me, Cecil. I can never for- 
 give myself." 
 
 Cecil's mind slowly fixed upon the astonishing 
 thing that was happening. Credulity wavered be- 
 fore the apparent explanation. Was it possible 
 that she was about to suffer disillusion ? That all 
 these years she had known Maurice she had mis- 
 read him? If that were so, it seemed to her she 
 could never, never believe in anything in the world 
 again. Her slight form stiffened. She became 
 the Cecil he had known on his first visit to Haslc- 
 mere, only with the dignity accentuated, the quiet 
 stateliness more pronounced. 
 
 "I don't know what you mean," she said. 
 
 "Oh, don't misunderstand me," he replied. "I 
 am not apologising for an inexcusable affront. I 
 don't apologise. I won't. I love you." 
 
 Cecil waited, her heart leaping beneath her calm 
 exterior. 
 
 287 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "But — " he hesitated, "but I am not free to 
 marry. In a mad moment I forgot it." 
 
 Cecil stared at him in amazement. "You are 
 not free to marry? You must be free." Then 
 an incredible thought struck her. "You are not 
 married already?" 
 
 "No, no, no!" replied Maurice. 
 
 "Then what am I to think?" said Cecil. 
 
 Poor girl, it was costing her a hard struggle to 
 maintain her reserve. She longed to use the natural 
 weapons of her sex and, lip to lip, to fight for her 
 happiness from this man who had admitted his 
 love for her. 
 
 "Cecil, I can't tell you," said Maurice. "Only 
 believe this : I want nothing so much on earth as to 
 ask you for that which I cannot ask you for. Life 
 is going to be very blank for me In future ; I don't 
 know how it is going to be liveable." He stopped 
 and cleared his throat. "Dear, will you give me 
 your hand and say you believe me?" 
 
 Cecil gave it him — they were standing now. "I 
 believe you, Maurice," she said. "It is very hard 
 for me to understand, but — " she hesitated, "but 
 it would be harder not to believe you." 
 
 They waited, wavering. It was such a shivering 
 plunge into the still void of separation. 
 
 288 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "Of course, I sh'a'nt embarrass you by staying 
 here after this," said Maurice, huskily, still holding 
 her hand. "I can make some excuse to leave in the 
 morning." 
 
 "Yes," said Cecil. 
 
 He felt her hand tremble. He raised it and 
 pressed it to his lips. For one moment their eyes 
 met. Then he released her hand and began to 
 walk slowly off the bridge by the way they had 
 come. 
 
 As Cecil turned to go with him she glanced 
 mechanically over the parapet. The small trout 
 were still darting about — shooting and twisting in 
 the cold shadow, not a whit less energetically than, 
 before, in the dazzling sunlight. It made no dif- 
 ference to them — oh, dear heaven ! — no diference. 
 
 289 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 The reader will have gathered through these 
 pages — or we have portrayed her very inefficiently 
 — that Angelica was not an unobservant person. 
 Therefore, when she saw Maurice and Cecil return 
 from their walk considerably earlier than she had 
 expected them, and found during the evening that 
 there was obviously some constraint between them, 
 she was able to guess what had occurred within 
 a very close margin of the truth. Pier headache 
 had improved, but it still troubled her somewhat, 
 so she returned to her couch after dinner, and from 
 there had to exercise all her wit to keep up a 
 reasonable show of animation in their small party. 
 Very early Cecil retired to her room. She kissed 
 Angelica with a soft gush of warm affection. Grad- 
 ually her friends were being eliminated. It ap- 
 peared to her now as if Angelica were the only 
 one she had left. She passed Maurice — ^who had 
 opened the door for her — with a slight movement 
 of her head and seemed to say "Good-night"; but 
 it was inaudible. 
 
 290 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 He returned into the room and began feeling 
 mechanically for his pipe on the mantelpiece. 
 
 "Maurice," said Angelica. 
 
 "Yes?" he replied. 
 
 "Come and sit here — near me — I want to talk 
 to you." 
 
 Maurice looked round, a little surprised. He 
 scarcely expected that Angelica was going to 
 lecture him. Yet he felt guilty. He knew he had 
 not been quite loyal to her that afternoon. For 
 two or three ecstatic moments he had forgotten her 
 utterly, absolutely. Moreover, he was conscious 
 that, almost from the day of Cecil's arrival at Lyn- 
 ton, he had not been loyal to her in his heart. He 
 crossed the room and took a chair beside her couch. 
 
 "I want to talk to you about Cecil," she said 
 quietly. 
 
 "Yes," he answered. He felt no power within 
 himself to say anything more. 
 
 "You love her?" said Angelica. 
 
 Maurice flushed deeply and kept his eyes bent 
 upon the carpet. Fie was not prepared for his 
 offence to be nailed so promptly and sharply to the 
 counter. 
 
 "I love you, Angelica," he said, with difficulty 
 and without looking up. 
 
 291 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "Yes, but not quite in the same way. Don't 
 try to deny your affection for Cecil, because I 
 think — I think, remember — she may like you to 
 feel it." 
 
 Maurice raised his head and looked at her. His 
 face was tense and still flushed. "What do you 
 mean, Angelica?" he said, "what do you mean me 
 to understand?" 
 
 She uttered a light laugh, nearly naturally. 
 "Why, that if you love Cecil, and she loves you, 
 you will be a very silly pair if you don't get mar- 
 ried." 
 
 A radiant light of surprised gladness flashed up 
 in Maurice's face and flooded over it. The next 
 moment it was gone. 
 
 "Oh, you make me feel unspeakably mean," he 
 said, with deep humiliation. "I had a sort of half 
 notion you were going to scold me, because I knew 
 I deserved it. But I never get what I deserve 
 from you — always generosity, whatever I do. As 
 for what you have spoken of, I ask nothing but 
 your forgiveness; I am horribly ashamed to have 
 to ask that. I am going away to-morrow ; I have 
 told Cecil. We shall meet later on when you come 
 back to town." 
 
 "Stupid boy!" But his words had sunk grate- 
 292 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 fully to her heart. "You have been happy this 
 last year?" she said, softly. 
 
 "Oh, perfectly," he answered, earnestly. 
 
 "And you have been faithful to me all the 
 time?" 
 
 "You know I have." 
 
 "Yes, I know it." She paused. "Well, now 
 you will have to begin to be faithful to someone 
 else." 
 
 Maurice started to speak, but she stopped him 
 and continued, "I never had the least desire or 
 thought to keep you from marriage, Maurice. I 
 always realised, I — I even hoped you would marry 
 some day. When I asked Cecil to visit us here 
 I knew it might lead to it; when I sent you out 
 together this afternoon I was certain it would. I 
 have chosen a wife for you, though you may not 
 realise it. I have only to see that you marry her, 
 and then my stewardship, which began on the day 
 when I first had to submit to have my dresses 
 spoiled by grubby fingers, will come to an end. I 
 shall have earned my discharge, wash my hands of 
 you and live in peace." 
 
 She spoke lightly, almost gaily, but there was 
 a deeper chord struck occasionally which spoke 
 with far surer a voice than a great parade of 
 
 293 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 lamentation. In truth, the actual imminence of 
 this breach, inevitable though she had always 
 known it to be, had come upon her somewhat more 
 hardly than she had expected. But she had no 
 intention of swerving a hair's-breadth from the 
 course she had consistently pursued with regard to 
 Maurice — from the undertaking to "look after the 
 kiddie" to which she had devoted so much of her 
 life. Her personal part in that matter had been 
 played. She had borne him safely through the 
 perilous zone between manhood and marriage 
 which had cost poor Chris his life and many others 
 much more than life. He had now come to the 
 stage when it was well for him that he should 
 marry; and the only thing that stood in the way 
 was her own individual loss. That was a consider- 
 ation which had never found any chance to weigh 
 with her. 
 
 Maurice was not deceived by her tone. "I am 
 not going to be disposed of in that way, Angelica," 
 he said, quietly. "You and I have scraped along 
 together very nicely for twenty years; and there 
 is no reason why we shouldn't go on doing so for 
 another twenty, or forty, or sixty, however long it 
 may please Providence to leave us both above 
 ground." 
 
 294 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 Angelica gave him a grateful look. It was 
 impossible not to feel some pride In the fact of 
 this handsome youth, in the flush of his morning 
 of promise, when the world was beginning to ex- 
 pand before him, calmly offering to devote his life 
 to her — to her who had passed the time of her 
 Illusions and grown grey in suffering and service. 
 It was not a perfunctory offer, which expects a 
 refusal; it was real; the simple expression of a 
 thought consistently held and deeply felt. If he 
 owed her anything. In her heart she felt she was 
 repaid. 
 
 The next moment she turned It off with a half 
 satirical laugh. "My dear boy, have you any idea 
 how old I am?" 
 
 "I know you are about forty," he answered, 
 "and that is as much as I want to know. You 
 don't look it, and I shouldn't care if you did. You 
 won't scare me by references to that subject. So 
 far as beauty goes, I never met a woman to touch 
 you — ^not even Cecil. Sometimes you are perfectly 
 superb." 
 
 Angelica laughed at him, but she blushed too 
 — ^partly from involuntary human pleasure at this 
 eulogy, so obviously spontaneous and sincere, 
 partly from the "sometimes." But the "some- 
 
 295 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 times," especially at this moment of renunciation, 
 could not be ungrateful to her. To a woman, if 
 she be a woman at allj there must of necessity be 
 satisfaction in the knowledge that those personal 
 gifts, profusely lavished upon her by a bountiful 
 Providence, have not finally withered on their stem 
 unseen and unappreciated. 
 
 "You mustn't try to make me vain in my old 
 age," she said lightly. "And certainly you must 
 not begin by depreciating Cecil." 
 
 "I couldn't do that," said Maurice. 
 
 "No, I am sure you couldn't." She raised her- 
 self a little on the sofa. "Now, dear, I want you 
 to treat me as if this last year had never been. 
 It is past — it is not forgotten, it can never be — 
 but it is no longer between us. I want you to 
 make me just your guide, philosopher and friend, 
 as I used to be. You love her?" 
 
 "Yes," said Maurice, after a slight pause and 
 in a low voice. 
 
 "Then you must marry her, Maurice, if she will 
 take you. You owe it to her, as well as to your- 
 self." 
 
 "But how can I," he burst out, "how can I 
 break with you in this way after all we have been 
 to one another? I should despise myself for 
 
 296 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 evermore. I owe nothing to Cecil; I owe every- 
 thing to you." 
 
 "You do owe something to Cecil, if you have 
 made her love you. No, no" — she put up her 
 hand — "don't interrupt me; you have not done it 
 intentionally, but if she loves you, you owe some- 
 thing to her. As for me, the balance is level be- 
 tween us. If I had thought that you; would con- 
 sider yourself permanently bound to me, I should 
 not have permitted what has been. Why, you 
 goose, if that were not so, we might just as well 
 have married and avoided all this defying of con- 
 ventionalities." 
 
 "Will you marry me?" said Maurice, abruptly. 
 
 "No," said Angelica, flatly. 
 
 "But If Cecil were not In question ?" 
 
 "Even then I wouldn't." 
 
 "Why not?" said Maurice. 
 
 "In the first place, because there is much too 
 great a difference In age between us, and in the 
 second, and more important, because I don't feel 
 for you, and you don't feel for me, that completely 
 absorbing, self-extinguishing devotion which only 
 can make tied wedlock satisfactory." 
 
 Maurice leisurely digested this frank statement. 
 That it had exercised a considerable modifying 
 
 297 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 influence upon his attitude was evidenced by his 
 next words, which ran off on a new tack. 
 
 "Oh, but the position would be impossible," he 
 said, "with such a secret between us. Every day, 
 every hour almost, one would feel it. It is not as 
 if Cecil and you were strangers." 
 
 Angelica stretched forward and straightened her 
 skirts, which had twisted uncomfortably. Then 
 she dropped her head again upon the cushion. 
 
 "Cecil must be told," she said. 
 
 Maurice stared at her. "Told?" he said. 
 ; "Told— told— told." 
 
 It took him a little time to grasp how this would 
 affect each of them. "It is worst for you," he 
 cried suddenly. "It is always worst for you." 
 
 "No, it is worst for you, dear," said Angelica. 
 "I have less to lose — Cecil's friendship, her respect, 
 perhaps^ — I can't tell how she will view it. You 
 — well, all your future happiness." 
 
 "But you have nothing to gain," insisted 
 Maurice, "absolutely nothing; and what you have 
 to lose is always more for a woman than it is for 
 a man." 
 
 "My dear boy, for a moment — if you can — put 
 me out of the question, or, rather, my feelings. If 
 it affected simply Cecil and you, would you ask 
 
 298 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 her to marry you in Ignorance, or would you let 
 her know the truth and take your chance of a 
 refusal?" 
 
 "It is an Impossible position to conceive," said 
 Maurice. "If you were not concerned, there would 
 be no question. The ordinary wandering bachelor 
 lapses would not be on my conscience." 
 
 "No; but Imagine a consistent lapse, affecting 
 a great friend of the girl you wished to marry, but 
 one whose feelings, for some reason, had not to be 
 considered?" 
 
 "It's no good," said Maurice. "You can't 
 divorce her feelings. They must have to be con- 
 sidered. That Is an essential and inalienable part 
 of the situation." 
 
 "Well, I'll put it in this way: you couldn't marry 
 her without telling her?" 
 
 "That's a leading question," said Maurice. 
 
 "My learned friend is very exigent," smiled 
 Angelica. "Could you marry her without telling 
 her?" 
 
 "No," said Maurice, unwillingly, "I suppose I 
 couldn't." 
 
 "I'm glad I've made you admit it at last," said 
 Angelica. "Not that it really makes any differ- 
 ence. Now, listen. Cecil has gone to bed, but I 
 
 299 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 don't think to sleep, or perhaps even to get un- 
 dressed, poor dear. So I shall go to her room and 
 talk to her and — and tell her." 
 
 Maurice sprang from his seat. "You shall «o?/' 
 he cried. 
 
 "You can prevent me by force," said Angelica, 
 calmly, "but not by any other means. As for you ; 
 keep to your arrangements, pack your things, be 
 ready to start in the morning, unless" — she 
 dropped her voice — "unless I bring you some news 
 in the meantime." 
 
 Maurice, who had taken a few agitated steps, 
 stopped and looked down upon her; partly with 
 abounding admiration, partly with something like 
 resentment and anger. Then, in a sudden gust of 
 deep emotion, he sank on the floor, seized the hem 
 of her dress and pressed it to his lips. 
 
 "No, no," said Angelica, "not that! Come 
 and kiss me — ^just once more." She opened her 
 arms. 
 
 He knelt beside her, he slipped his hands be- 
 neath her head, he brought his lips to hers. 
 
 Angelica put her arms about him and strained 
 him to her bosom. 
 
 300 
 
CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 Apart from its personal aspect, there were 
 many doubts and difficulties surrounding Angelica 
 in the mission she had set herself. She knew that 
 if Cecil adopted the rigidly orthodox view — the 
 view which her mother would have taken — she 
 would be obliged, to be consistent, to wreck her 
 happiness. Angelica herself was still as profoundly 
 sure of the righteousness of the line she had fol- 
 lowed as she had been at the beginning ; but to feel 
 that conviction herself and to impress it upon an- 
 other, especially one brought up in an atmosphere 
 of rigorously opposing sentiment, were far indeed 
 from being one and the same thing. 
 
 Such thoughts were in her mind as she paused 
 momentarily outside Cecil's door, the light of the 
 candle she carried shining up into her face, re- 
 flected in warm tones by the rose-coloured dressing- 
 gown she was wearing. She knocked softly and, 
 receiving no response, opened the door and 
 went in. 
 
 Cecil was laid on the bed with her face to the 
 301 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 pillow, also in a dressing-gown — a white one — her 
 outer garments thrown carelessly on a chair. She 
 made no attempt to hide the fact that she had been 
 weeping — indeed, that she was weeping then. 
 Angelica crossed the room quietly and sat down 
 beside her. 
 
 "Cecil, dear," she said, "I have come to make 
 you my mother-confessor to-night." 
 
 Cecil lifted her head and looked round, her tear- 
 stained face surprised and wondering. She dashed 
 aside her private troubles and uttered a little in- 
 credulous laugh. "What rubbish. Angelical 
 Whoever would believe that you needed a con- 
 fessor?" 
 
 "I didn't say a confessor," said Angelica. "But 
 I need your absolution." 
 
 "Then you have it without telling me the 
 crime," said Cecil, promptly. 
 
 Angelica shook her head. "That won't do," 
 she said. "You must absolve with your eyes wide, 
 wide open." 
 
 The look of mystification In Cecil's face quick- 
 ened to slight excitement and blurred to some extent 
 her deeper _ feeling. She leaned her cheek in her 
 hand. 
 
 "What is it?" she said. 
 302 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "Have you no suspicion," said Angelica, "not 
 even a little?" 
 
 She spoke in a low voice, earnestly. 
 
 Cecil returned her look as frankly as a child, and 
 with a child's waxing curiosity. "None, none," 
 she replied. 
 
 Angelica waited. Cecil dropped her head again 
 upon the pillow. Her fair hair was tumbled and 
 loose; it fell in pathetic carelessness on her 
 shoulder. Angelica watched her in thoughtful 
 silence. It would have been easier if she had been 
 less completely in the dark. After a while she ap- 
 proached her subject from a new direction. 
 
 "You are very unhappy, Cecil?" she said, softly. 
 
 "Yes," said Cecil. 
 
 Poor child, it was pitifully impossible to deny it. 
 
 Angelica rested her arms on the bed. "Will you 
 trust me with your secret?" she said. "I am very 
 trustable." 
 
 Cecil met her earnest gaze for a moment, and then 
 dropped her eyes. "I think you know," she said. 
 
 "Yes," said Angelica, quietly, "I think I do. 
 Things have happened to-day which mystify you. 
 Maurice has not asked you to marry him, though 
 you know he loves you, and you wonder why?" 
 
 There was no answer. 
 
 303 
 
^THE YOKE 
 
 "I have come to tell you why," said Angelica. 
 
 Cecil slowly rose to a sitting posture and swung 
 her stockinged, shoeless feet over the edge of the 
 bed. She pushed back the hair from her temples. 
 She did not immediately connect this statement with 
 Angelica's previous one that she had come to make 
 a confession, but she realised vaguely that for the 
 latter to be able to supply an explanation which 
 could not be given by Maurice was a fact pregnant 
 of some intimate meaning. 
 
 "Oh, then you know," she said, partly to herself. 
 
 Angelica was silent a few moments. She gazed 
 at the small pointed shoes protruding from the hem 
 of her dressing-gown. It was by no means an easy 
 task she had set her hand to, even in its personal 
 aspect. For Maurice's sake she was going to bow 
 herself before this young girl. She looked up and 
 met Cecil's gaze fixed upon her, serious, wondering, 
 but without any indication that she as yet had any 
 suspicion of the truth. 
 
 "Oh, do try to understand, dear," Angelica 
 said urgently. "I am much older than you — it is 
 very hard to speak." She dropped her eyes again. 
 "Maurice doesn't ask you to marry him because — 
 because of his relations with me." The last words 
 were hardly breathed. 
 
 304 
 
\THE YOKE 
 
 Cecil dropped to her feet and stood upright. 
 
 "With you!" It was less an exclamation than 
 a gasp. 
 
 Had she been told that Maurice was a phantom 
 of her imagination, it would have broken upon 
 her with no greater a shock of blinding astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 "With me," said Angelica, this time looking 
 Cecil in the face and speaking firmly, almost 
 proudly. The latter's spontaneous cry had been 
 faintly inflected, or so it seemed to her, with a note 
 of dismay, of withdrawal. 
 
 Cecil mechanically put her feet into a pair of 
 shoes and crossed the room to the open window. 
 Feeling like one in a dream, she sat down before it, 
 placed her elbows on the sill and looked out. 
 There was a half-conscious impression in her mind 
 that the cool air might help her to realise the 
 stupefying intelligence which had left her tempo- 
 rarily without power to think and to weigh. She 
 felt as if everything in the world had suddenly 
 been overturned and thrown into inextricable 
 chaos. It was almost a surprise to her to see the 
 stars still shining steadily out of space, above the 
 faintly luminous waste of the calm sea. Truly no 
 sight could have been more calculated to exert a 
 
 305 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 composing Influence on her mind. In the face of 
 that inconceivable immensity, of those countless 
 myriads of suns, each with its circle of planets, 
 extending on and on, deeper and deeper, as far as 
 the most perfect instrument could penetrate, in 
 ever-closing and thickening ranks, until the 
 furthest merged In a filmy blur of light — in the 
 face of that sublime fact, what mattered the affairs 
 of this atom In the Universe, the paltry flick of 
 individual life upon it, of all life, from prehistoric 
 times to the final heatless, waterless waste, our 
 intricate moral difficulties and uncertainties, our 
 hair-splittings with conscience, our exquisite pains 
 to perceive minutest right? 
 
 Angelica did not interrupt her thoughts. She 
 had still much to say to her, but It could wait until 
 she had reaped the fruit of her communion with 
 the great infinities. So they sat, for five minutes 
 or more, these two women, each so exquisite in 
 her utterly different way. In silence, one with her 
 thoughts turned Inward, the other outward. 
 During that time there gradually settled upon 
 Cecil a dull pain, born of no moral nor mental 
 reckonings whatever. An hour or two ago, before 
 she came upstairs, the thought had passed through 
 her mind that, one by one, her Intimate friends had 
 
 306 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 been lost to her and that only Angelica remained. 
 Now it struck home to her heart, far more deeply 
 than any other feeling, that even she must not be 
 counted upon ; that her interests and concerns were 
 apart and necessarily inimical; that henceforth she 
 looked forth upon the world, beggared of the last 
 stitch of steadfast human sympathy. 
 
 At last she drew her head from the window and 
 turned round. 
 
 "It is very good of you to tell me, Angelica," 
 she said. "I am afraid I must have been very 
 stupid not to see for myself, or, at least, to guess 
 enough. It makes everything easy to understand 
 and I feel happier for that reason. Thank you for 
 knowing you could trust me." 
 
 She spoke quietly, but not coldly. Yet there 
 was a subtle change in her manner which, though 
 probably quite unconsciously conveyed into it, was 
 not lost on her hearer. Hitherto, in her inter- 
 course with Angelica, she had been accustomed to 
 sit at her feet, to treat her unquestioningly, in all 
 respects, as her mentor and guide. Now her quiet 
 tone indicated that she had assumed independence 
 of thought. 
 
 "I know just how you must feel, Cecil," said 
 Angelica, in her calm voice; "I should feel precisely 
 
 307 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 the same if I had been told, suddenly and unex- 
 pectedly, what you have been told. But I want 
 you to try, if you can, to keep an open mind until 
 you know all the influences that have been at work. 
 It is of great importance to you and to Maurice 
 and to me that you should not form a hasty judg- 
 ment. Come and sit near me; bring your chair 
 over here and sit beside me." 
 
 Cecil obeyed her quietly. 
 
 "I won't be a hypocrite, Cecil," Angelica pro- 
 ceeded, when they were seated together; "I won't 
 pretend that this life has meant any sacrifice on 
 my part. Far from that, it has been a great joy. 
 But I ask you to believe — ^to believe all the more 
 because I have made that frank admission — that 
 that reason alone would never have induced me to 
 act as I have done." 
 
 "I do believe it," said Cecil in a low tone. 
 
 "There were other reasons," continued Angelica, 
 " — or, rather, there was one other reason. Things 
 exist in the world of which you know nothing 
 — evil influences and physical ills which surround 
 young men. There came a time, as Maurice grew 
 up, when I found that to make this nearer tie 
 with him was the only means in my power to save 
 him from those dangers. I can't explain to 
 308 
 
\THE YOKE 
 
 you any more closely, Cecil — you are so completely 
 untouched — " 
 
 Cecil had gradually quickened with emotion and 
 agitation. She was straining forward. Tears 
 again stood in her eyes. 
 
 "Untouched !" she burst in. "How can you say 
 I am untouched, Angelica?" 
 
 "You are so young," said Angelica, gently; "you 
 can't understand." 
 
 "Untouched!" repeated Cecil, almost bitterly. 
 "I sometimes wonder if anyone who' ever lived can 
 have been stricken more cruelly by — by these 
 things you were speaking of — than I have been. 
 It is those things that have taken from me my only 
 brother and, indirectly, my mother — all the near 
 relatives I had in the world." Her voice quivered 
 and broke. "And you say I am untouched!" As 
 she finished she bowed her head into her hands and 
 sobbed. 
 
 Angelica watched her with acute compassion. 
 She longed to take her in her arms and comfort 
 her, but she could not do so yet. 
 
 "I didn't know you knew that," she said gravely. 
 
 "How could I help?" said Cecil, between her 
 
 sobs. "No one would answer my questions — the 
 
 subject was shirked — I was treated like a child — 
 
 309 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 I began to know It was something I must not ask. 
 How could I help?" she repeated. 
 
 The unanswered question echoed on Angelica's 
 brain during the silence that supervened, recurring 
 insistently, as the last uttered phrase invariably does 
 when a pause follows speech. Cecil's sobs by de- 
 grees grew quieter. She felt for a handkerchief 
 and wiped her eyes. 
 
 "I am glad that you know," said Angelica, at 
 last. "It will help you to understand, and to put 
 things into the balance, much better than I could 
 have hoped. I have no more to tell you. For all 
 our sakes, judge kindly, if you can. And, believe 
 me, I am utterly sure in my conscience that I have 
 acted rightly. If I were placed In the same posi- 
 tion again, I should not only take the same course, 
 but without the difficulty and hesitation which I 
 had before." 
 
 "I have nothing to judge," said Cecil, gripping 
 her wet handkerchief into a ball. 
 
 "What do you mean by that?" said Angelica, 
 hardly covering her anxiety. "Do you understand 
 and forgive?" 
 
 "Forgive I" Cecil turned on her almost fiercely. 
 "I think Maurice should be more grateful to you 
 than words can ever express." 
 
 310 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 "And you don't think he is any the worse?" 
 
 "By touching you!" The question was flung 
 aside with ineffable contempt. 
 
 "Then, Cecil, you will take him?" Angelica 
 stretched towards her. 
 
 The simple question broke upon Cecil with the 
 full force of the wholly unexpected. The eager 
 joy that momentarily shot into her eyes, and the 
 shame at letting it be seen, were both overwhelmed 
 beneath sheer amazement at magnanimity she 
 could not have dreamed of. 
 
 "You will give him up?" she cried. 
 
 "Why, what else did you expect, little goose?" 
 Angelica smiled for the first time, in pure, selfless 
 relief that the happiness of these two young folk 
 seemed likely to be accomplished. 
 
 She took Cecil's hand and continued quietly: 
 "Maurice and I have been very happy together, 
 before and — since. But we could not marry; it 
 would not be good for him, it might not be good 
 for me. I have always recognised that. I have 
 known that, sooner or later, I should have to re- 
 linquish him." She hesitated. "It has come, 
 perhaps, sooner. But I give him to you" — again 
 she hesitated — "freely and without grudge — if you 
 will take him." 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 Except for the little breaks to make sure of her- 
 self, she finished steadily and quietly as she had 
 begun. 
 
 Cecil had no words for reply. Among the flood 
 of emotions that bore through her, first and fore- 
 most, transcending all others, was the thought of 
 the deep injustice of the slight wavering of her 
 allegiance to Angelica. It seemed that all her life 
 would be insufficient to atone for it — ^to make up 
 to her for those few minutes of weakened faith 
 between her confession and the simple word of her 
 unhesitating renunciation. 
 
 It was this feeling which prompted Cecil's next 
 action. Slowly she sank on her knees, down, down, 
 to the floor at Angelica's feet. She abased herself 
 before her. She spread her arms upon her and 
 laid her cheek upon her lap. 
 
 Her heart was bursting, but all that she could 
 utter was, "Dear, dear, dear Angelica !" 
 
 Maurice was called to the Bar in November, and 
 in the following spring he and Cecil were married 
 quietly. The wedding took place, for convenience, 
 from Cumberland Square. The house at Hasle- 
 mere had already been given up, and Miss Gaskell, 
 by the merits of the small competence bequeathed 
 
 312 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 to her by her sister, had gone to reside permanently 
 with congenial friends. 
 
 Angelica's final words on delivering up her 
 charge, shouted through the window of the depart- 
 ing brougham, were, "Take care of the kiddie, 
 Cecil" — ^an injunction which Cecil has fulfilled 
 quite as scrupulously as is good for any masculine 
 mortal. 
 
 As the carriage drove away, Angelica turned and 
 walked slowly up the steps into her house. 
 
 Do you feel sad for her, reader? 
 
 Her golden summer — an Indian summer, it may 
 be — had come and gone. 
 
 She was not sad for herself. She no longer 
 stood where she had stood before. She had eaten 
 of the fruit of the tree of knowledge and it had not 
 turned to ashes in her mouth. She was equal with 
 her fellows ; her life had not been a senseless thing, 
 an inversion of instincts; she knew herself. And 
 over and above — in excess of that abundant 
 measure — she had fathomed the great truth, which 
 so few have fathomed, that the recognition of the 
 natural law calling man to woman and woman to 
 man is everlastingly right. 
 
 Shortly after Maurice's marriage she let her 
 house in Cumberland Square and took a flat. 
 
 313 
 
THE YOKE 
 
 There she remains the well-beloved of numberless 
 friends. They know just so much, and no more, 
 about her deviations from the social code as she 
 cares to tell them. And that, let it be understood, 
 is not to say that they are all left in ignorance. 
 For there live — thank God! — even in this world 
 to-day, those who can be told; not the "charitable" 
 ones — not the ones who would believe that 
 Angelica had done something which they, in their 
 integrity, could forgive or overlook — ^but those 
 who understand, who "see life steadily and see it 
 whole." 
 
 THE END 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PR 6045.A37Y5 
 
 The yoke, 
 
 3 1924 013 234 525