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PR4262.W8T908'''"'''''-'''"'^ 
 
 Woman and the man. 
 
 3 1924 013 445 915 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 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/cu31924013445915 
 
WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
ROBERT BUCHANAN'S POEMS 6- NOVELS 
 
 THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF ROBERT 
 BUCHANAN. 2 vols., crown 8vo,, buckram, with 
 Portrait Frontispiece to each volume, 12s. 
 
 Crown 8vo., cloth, 3s. 6d. each ; post 8vo., 
 illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 THE SHADOW OF THE SWORD. 
 A CHILD OF NATURE. 
 GOD AND THE MAN. With 11 Illustrations by 
 
 F. Barnakd. 
 LADY KILPATRICK. 
 THE MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE. 
 LOVE ME FOR EVER. 
 ANNAN WATER. 
 THE NEW ABELARD. 
 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 
 RACHEL DENE. 
 MATT : A Story of a Caravan. 
 THE MASTER OF THE MINE. 
 THE HEIR OF LINNE. 
 WOMAN AND THE MAN. 
 
 Crown Svo., cloth, 3s. 6d. each. 
 RED AND WHITE HEATHER. 
 ANDROMEDA. 
 
 Popular Editions, medium 8vo., 6d. each. 
 THE SHADOW OF THE SWORD. 
 GOD AND THE MAN. 
 FOXGLOVE MANOR. 
 
 THE SHADOW OF THE SWORD. Large Type, Fine 
 Paper Edition. Pott 8vo., cloth, gilt top, 2s. net ; 
 leather, gilt edges, 3s. net. 
 
 THE CHARLATAN. By Robert Buchanan and Henry 
 Murray. Crown 8vo., cloth, with Frontispiece by 
 T. H. Robinson, 3s. 6d. ; post 8vo., illustrated boards, 
 
 2S. 
 
 London : CHATTO & WINDUS, m St. Martin's Lane, W.C, 
 
WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 BY 
 
 ROBERT ^UCHANAN 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 *GOD AND THE MAX,' * THE SHADOW OF THE SWORD,' ETC. 
 
 A NEW IMPRESSION 
 
 LONDON 
 CHATTO <§■ WINDUS 
 
 1908 
 
hAV]'S"L^ 
 
 
PREFATORY NOTE 
 
 The right of dramatizing this story is reserved. A play on 
 the subject has been written, and has been performed once 
 for copyright purposes. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 SHAFTER 
 
 I. IN PETEE STREET, WESTMINSTEE 
 IL THE EOAD TO EUIN 
 
 III. A THIEF IN THE NIGHT - 
 
 IV. THE CLOUD BREAKS 
 
 V. SUMMER DAYS - . . 
 
 VI. MRS. DARTMOUTH ... 
 
 VII. SIE GEORGE . . . 
 
 VIII. JAKE OWEN ... 
 
 rX. MR. EZRA STOKES 
 
 X. AFTER SEVEN YEARS 
 XI. ONE WAY OF LOOKING AT IT - 
 XIL ANOTHER WAY . . . 
 
 XIIL A THUNDERCLAP 
 XIV. THE BRIDE OF JACOB'S FLAT 
 
 XV. AT JACOB'S FLAT 
 XVI. THE PURSUIT ... 
 XVII. A LIFE CHASE . . . 
 
 1 
 
 12 
 
 21 
 
 34 
 
 42 
 
 54 
 
 65 
 
 77 
 
 87 
 
 100 
 
 110 
 
 121 
 
 132 
 
 143 
 
 155 
 
 166 
 
 177 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTB^ 
 
 ZTIII. ON THE TEACK 
 
 XIX. THE GREAT WATERS 
 XX. THE PKODIGAL RETURNED 
 
 XXI. COUNSEL - 
 XXII. FACE TO FACE - 
 
 XXIII. FLIGHT - 
 
 XXIV. MR. STOKES EARNS HIS MONEY 
 XXV. A LAST RECKONING 
 
 PASS 
 
 184 
 197 
 209 
 221 
 233 
 244 
 256 
 265 
 
WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 IN PETER STEBBT, WESTMINSTER. 
 
 On a chilly spring morning a young -woman sat at 
 an uncovered deal table near the third-floor window 
 of a house in Peter Street, Westminster, with a 
 little pile of gilt-edged cards and a water-colour 
 box before her. A child was lying in her lap — a 
 wee thing of a year old, with a white face and large 
 eyes of more than Oriental gravity, and small fists 
 curled tight upon her breast. She did not by any 
 of the kickings and the cooings usual to healthy 
 infancy distract her mother's attention from the 
 work on which she was occupied, but she lay as 
 still as if she understood the necessity of quiet 
 to the artistic labourer, and with precocious self- 
 denial subdued her natural high spirits. 
 
 The young woman was tall and finely built, and 
 her face, which was very sad and gentle, needed 
 
 1 
 
2 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 only a touch of colour and a little more fulness of 
 outline to be beautiful. There was about her an 
 aspect of sorrow grown patient which was pitiful 
 to see in the face of one so young. For she had 
 hardly passed girlhood in years. 
 
 As she worked her foot was beating on the floor 
 to a gentle rhythmic measure, and her voice crooned 
 a tuneless song to the child upon her knee. 
 
 It was a large, low-ceilinged room, occupying 
 the whole width of the house, and sparsely and 
 shabbily furnished. A bed stood in one corner 
 with a cradle at its foot. A chest of drawers, with 
 half its knobs missing, a couple of old-fashioned 
 rush-bottomed chairs, a square table of deal with 
 red legs, a washstand bearing a cracked jug and 
 basin, a battered sofa, covered in torn and faded 
 chintz, and a strip of dog's-eared carpet, whose 
 originally gaudy pattern had faded to a uniform 
 dirty gray, completed its articles of necessary 
 furniture. 
 
 A few scraps of clothing, male and female, hung 
 from pegs behind the door. 
 
 Near the window an old field-easel, with an 
 invalid leg repaired with a bamboo walking-cane, 
 supported an almost finished landscape, and a 
 broken '^orU coulewr, with a score of half-empty 
 tubes of colour and a handful of ragged brushes, 
 lay on the floor beside it. 
 
 On the mantelpiece above the fireless grate waa 
 
IN PETER STREET, WESTMINSTER 3 
 
 a tobacco-jar, a brandy bottle, a tumbler, and a 
 couple of wooden pipes, flanked at either end by 
 a photograph. 
 
 One of these photographs no observer would 
 have had any difficulty in identifying as a portrait 
 of the young woman painting near the window, 
 though the expression of the portrait had nothing 
 in common with that of the original at the 
 moment we make her acquaintance. It represented 
 a blooming, laughing lass of nineteen, clad in a 
 light summer frock, with wild-flowers in her hair 
 and at the bosom of her dress. Beneath it was 
 written, in a frank female hand, ' To Philip,' a date 
 being added. The other was that of a young man 
 with a straw hat perched at the back of his head, a 
 cigarette in his mouth, a flowing tie loosely knotted 
 under the collar of a silk shirt, and a velvet jacket. 
 A handsome face, quite alive to its own charm. 
 Under it was written, ' To Gillian,' and a repetition 
 of the date borne by the companion photograph. 
 
 The room was scrupulously neat. 
 
 The girl worked on briskly with swift fingers, 
 and crooned to the child. It was yet early, though 
 the sounds of traffic in the streets below were 
 louder than they would be for two hours to come 
 in more fashionable thoroughfares. Presently she 
 paused for a moment with the suspended brush in 
 her uplifted fingers, and after a moment's listening 
 resumed her work. 
 
4 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 A step sounded on the stairs. The door opened 
 and a man entered the room. 
 
 He, too, would have been easily recognisable by 
 anyone who had seen the second photograph upon 
 the mantelpiece. He had the look of one who is 
 Just beginning to repent of too jolly an overnight. 
 His face was flushed, his eyes were bleared. The 
 girl did not even look at him, and received his 
 entrance in silence, a silence as eloquent as any 
 reproach could have been. For when a husband 
 comes home imperfectly sober in the early morning, 
 and his wife finds nothing to say, it shows that the 
 circumstance must have been so often repeated 
 that she has got past tears and entreaties, and 
 takes it as a thing of course. 
 
 As has been suggested, Philip O'Mara was by no 
 means a bad-looking fellow ; yet he had a certain 
 undefinable air of being handsomer than he was. 
 The photograph, taken some five years ago, 
 flattered his actual appearance, because no man 
 can pass five years in selfish indulgence without 
 grave detriment to any beauty he may originally 
 have started with. 
 
 As with the man, so with the clothes he wore. 
 Contrasted with the almost squalid shabbiness of 
 the room and of his wife's dress, they looked for 
 a moment as if they would have passed muster in 
 any society. Then one saw that his coat was not 
 of velvet, but of coarse velveteen, which led to a 
 
IN PETER STREET, WESTMINSTER J 
 
 doubt as to the genuineness of the jewelled ring 
 on his finger, and a wonder as to whether any- 
 thing more valuable than a latch-key was attached 
 to the chain which glittered across his waistcoat. 
 Mr. O'Mara's sartorial splendours, like their wearer, 
 were rather of the shabby swell order, and did not 
 come off well from close examination. 
 
 ' Dear Gillian !' he began, ' industrious girl ! 
 Ton my soul you make me blush for myself.' 
 
 The blush was purely internal, for no signs of it 
 were visible without. He took up one of the cards 
 she had finished. 
 
 ' Delightful, my dear Gillian — delightful ! Your 
 powers of imagination are really extraordinary, 
 and your technique improves every day.' 
 
 Nobody could have told for certain whether he was 
 speakiag in mockery or exaggerated compliment. 
 
 ' You are doing these on commission ?' 
 
 ' No,' replied Gillian. 
 
 ' A pity. But, still, work so delightful is certain 
 of a sale.' 
 
 He returned the card to the table. 
 
 ' Ah, apropos of sale — how inexpressibly revolting 
 it is, by the way, my dear Gillian, that even the 
 creation of beauty, which should be the delightful 
 satisfaction of a divine instinct, should be degraded 
 to the sordid level of the manufacture of articles 
 of vulgar necessity— talking of sale, have you any 
 money ?' 
 
6 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 ' I have no money,' she replied. 
 It was noticeable that while the husband inter- 
 larded his address to her with endearing epithets, 
 and expressed in the longest polysyllables the most 
 beautiful sentiments, Gillian avoided speaking one 
 unnecessary word. 
 
 ' My own finances,' he said, after a search in his 
 pockets, ' amount to — ^yes, one and sixpence half- 
 penny. Not a large amount, but still, judiciously 
 expended, it may do something to mitigate the dis- 
 comforts I already experience, and which threaten 
 to become even more pronounced. There is some 
 brandy left.* 
 He examined the bottle on the mantelpiece. 
 ' Would you, my dear Gillian, get me a couple of 
 bottles of soda-water and a packet of Peachblossom 
 cigarettes ?' 
 
 She took the money from the table where he 
 laid it, and for the first time since his entrance 
 raised her eyes to his face. 
 
 ' Mr. Bream was here last night,' she said. ' He 
 tells me that Dora is very ill, and must have atten- 
 tion, better food, and change of air. He wrote a 
 prescription for her, but I had not the money to 
 get it made up.' 
 
 'My dear Gillian!' said O'Mara, 'you really 
 distress yourself about the child to a quite un- 
 necessary degree. You are always raising false 
 alarms about her. Six months ago she was going 
 
IN PETER STREET, WESTMINSTER 7 
 
 to die, I remember. Mr. Bream is no doubt a very 
 estimable person, as a clergyman, but he is not 
 omniscient. What can he possibly know about 
 Dora's health ?' 
 
 ' He studied as a doctor before he took orders,' 
 answered Gillian. 
 
 'Quite a Criohton,' said O'Mara, "^I have no 
 doubt. Still, I would prefer the verdict of a 
 medical man in practice.' 
 
 *I shall spend this money,' said Gillian, 'or at 
 least as much of it as will be required, in getting 
 the medicine Mr. Bream prescribed for Dora. 
 With the rest I will buy soda-water or cigarettes, 
 just as you please.' 
 
 'I am sure,' said O'Mara, 'that you will do 
 nothing of the kind, my dear Gillian. You, who 
 are a model of all the virtues, know that it is a 
 wife's first duty to obey her husband.' 
 
 ' I shall get the medicine for Dora,' repeated 
 Gillian. 
 
 'Then,' said O'Mara, seizing her wrist with a 
 sudden sharp wrench which made her wince and 
 drop the money on the table, ' I shall have to do 
 my marketing myself, or find another messenger.' 
 
 Quite unruffled by this little incideait, O'Mara 
 left the room. She heard his voice upon the stair 
 calling to the girl in the basement, and a minute 
 after he re-entered. 
 
 'A mistake in your tactics, my dear,' he re- 
 
8 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 marked, as lie kicked off his shoes and lay down 
 upon the bed. ' It would have been wiser to have 
 bought the medicine and said nothing of your 
 intention — ^wiser, though less honest, and not more 
 dutiful. You will know better next time.' 
 
 She heard him in silence, finding no reply. 
 With the despairiag patience which years of such 
 brutalities had taught her, she again took up her 
 brush, and bent over her work. O'Mara turned 
 upon the bed, seeking an easy posture, and had 
 fallen asleep before the girl came in with her 
 purchases. 
 
 It was past noon when he awoke, and, finding the 
 soda-water on the mantelpiece beside the brandy, 
 mixed himself a copious draught, which he drank 
 to his great apparent refreshment. He sluiced his 
 face and head liberally with cold water, and having 
 replaced his coat and waistcoat, arranged the easel 
 beside the window, and seated himself before it. 
 
 'There were once, my dear Gillian,' he began, 
 lighting a cigarette, and regarding the picture 
 through the smoke with an eye at once critical and 
 approving — ' there were once — you will see the 
 application of the story directly — two travellers 
 who had, through infinite difficulties and dangers, 
 travelled across a desert, and arrived within an 
 .hour's walk of the confines of civilization. One 
 of them at that point succumbed to his fatigue. 
 He could go no further. They had between them 
 
IN PETER STREET, WESTMINSTER 9 
 
 one dose of brandy. "If," said the sick man to 
 his companion, "you will give me that brandy, I 
 think I could manage the rest of the distance." 
 His companion, instead of giving it to him, drank 
 it himself. "What detestable selfishness!" you 
 will remark, precisely as I did myself when I first 
 read this instructive legend. But I was mistaken, 
 for his object in drinking the brandy was to re- 
 cuperate his force sufiStciently to enable him to 
 carry his friend the rest of the distance. Thus 
 we may learn, my dear Gillian, not to judge our 
 neighbours on insufficient evidence. You see the 
 application of the fable ? I am the robust traveller ; 
 you — or, rather, our darliag Dora — is the feeble one. 
 Without that brandy and soda I could not possibly 
 have finished this picture, and unless I finished the 
 picture there would be no dinner for us to-day.' 
 
 Gillian listened in her accustomed silence, and 
 O'Mara, having prepared his palette, attacked his 
 work. He painted rapidly and dexterously, and after 
 a couple of hours of work, broken by the drink- 
 ing of more brandy and soda and the lighting of 
 fresh cigarettes, pushed his chair back and rose. 
 
 ' That should do, I think. I must invent a title 
 for it — something touching and poetical. There is 
 much virtue in a name. Our good British public 
 have not yet risen so high in artistic appreciation 
 as to separate art and literature. To me, its 
 creator, that picture needs no title. To any soul 
 
lo- WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 in kinship with my own it would need none. The 
 average Philistine will ask, "What is it?" Is it 
 not enough that it is beautiful, a touch of celestial 
 harmony in adorable contrast with the hideousness 
 of daily life ?' Ke sighed, as if the stupidity of the 
 world was hard to bear. ' I should be glad of your 
 opinion, Gillian.' 
 
 • What do you think you will get for it, Philip ?' 
 she asked gravely. 
 
 'My darling!' he remonstrated, with a quick 
 indrawing of the breath between his teeth, as if 
 the question hurt him, 'you should really dis- 
 courage this — ^this extreme practicality of mind. 
 It is growing on you.' 
 
 ' I must have money, Philip ; you must bring 
 me some to-day.' 
 
 'My dear, you shall have money. But surely, 
 after so many years' knowledge of my temperament, 
 you might have more feeling for my peculiarities 
 than to ask me, happy as I am in the contempla- 
 tion of a thing of beauty fresh from my hands, 
 what — what I shall get for it ! Get for it ! Is it 
 not enough to know that I must part with it, the 
 last sweet child of my fancy, the Benjamin, so to 
 speak, of what poor artistic faculty I possess? 
 Still, you are right. The vulgar necessities of life 
 are paramount. Facts must be faced.' 
 
 'You will let me have some money to-night?' 
 she pleaded. ' There is rent due, Philip, and there 
 
IN PETER STREET, WESTMINSTER ii 
 
 is nothing in the house to eat. And oh, Philip, I 
 shouldn't mind for myself, but Dora ! She is 
 really ill. See how pale she is, and all day long 
 she has never made a movement. She lies so for 
 hours, and she used to be so bright and lively.' 
 
 'Well, well!' he answered fretfully, perhaps a 
 little touched through his hidebound selfishness 
 for the moment, 'I will see what I can get for 
 the picture.' 
 
CHAPTEE 11. 
 
 THE BOAD TO EUIN. 
 
 It was manifestly impossible for a gentleman of 
 O'Mara's high breeding and fastidious tastes to be 
 seen trudging on foot with a picture under his arm, 
 like any workaday canvas-spoiler who habitually 
 painted, not for the divine instinct which prompts 
 to the creation of beauty, but with the sordid aim 
 qf money-making. Accordingly, he took a hansom, 
 and drove comfortably to the shop of a picture- 
 dealer in Wardour Street, with whom he had done 
 business aforetime. 
 
 'Hum!' said the dealer, looking at the picture 
 with his mouth critically screwed on one side, 
 ' really, I don't know as I want it. Pictures are 
 a fearful drug in the market. Trade's so bad, 
 everything flat. 'Taint so good as that last one 
 of yours, you know.' 
 
 ' Naturally,' said O'Mara. ' The first I ever 
 offered you was no good, and I have been steadily 
 deteriorating ever since. But you bought them !' 
 
THE ROAD TO RUIN 13 
 
 O'Mara had the knack of suiting his conversa- 
 tion to his company, and did not waste flowers 
 of speech on this artistic middleman. 
 
 ' Where is it ?' asked the dealer. 
 
 ' A little corner of my uncle's place — Sir Charles 
 Vandeleur — in Surrey : I've been staying down 
 there for the last month.' 
 
 'Ah!' The title, carelessly dropped, had its 
 effect upon the worthy tradesman. 'What are 
 you going to call it ?' 
 
 ' Eeally, I don't know. " Cr^puscule ?" Would 
 that do r 
 
 'Don't believe in foreign titles; people don't 
 understand 'em. What's it mean ?' 
 
 ' It means Twilight.' 
 
 'That'd do,' said the dealer, 'if it hadn't fceeii 
 used so much. Tell you what, call it "In the 
 Gloaming." There's a tune called that, very 
 popular on the organ.' 
 
 O'Mara's eyes were raised to the ceiling in a 
 speechless pang of aesthetic agony. 
 
 ' That'd do,' said the dealer, and repeated the 
 title with the relish of a man who feels that he has 
 satisfactorily solved a problem — ' " In the Gloam- 
 ing." Could you get a couple of figgers in just 
 here, say a boy and girl spooning? 'Uman in- 
 terest, that's what the public likes in a picture.' 
 
 ' My dear sir,' said O'Mara, with the air of one 
 who unbends to make his meaning plain to an 
 
14 W0MA2V^ AND THE MAN 
 
 inferior intelligence which must needs be con- 
 ciliated, ' it is the absence of human interest which 
 makes the preciousness of art. The intrusion of a 
 boy and girl " spooning " ' (he seemed to speak the 
 word under protest, and proceeded to clear his 
 palate of its slangy offensiveness by a mouthful of 
 polysyllables) ' would annihilate the sBsthetic value 
 of the composition. The intrusion of anything so 
 vulgar on that majestic solitude of nature would be 
 an outrage, my dear sir — a positive outrage !' 
 
 ' Don't see it,' said the dealer shortly. 
 
 O'Mara had spoken with less than his ordinary 
 tact. Nobody likes to be told that a suggestion 
 which he thinks clever is an outrage. Sincerity 
 was not O'Mara's strong pomt, but if he had any 
 touch of it in his nature, it was on questions in 
 which art was concerned. He had his own con- 
 ception of what pictures should be, and had painted 
 this one in accordance with it. It was hard to 
 receive lessons from a vulgarian who talked about 
 ' 'uman interest,' and in his artistic heat O'Mara 
 temporarily forgot that the vulgarian, though 
 artistically contemptible, was financially worthy 
 of respect. 
 
 ' You work in them two figgers,' said the dealer, 
 with the air of a man who speaks his last word, 
 'and I'll call it "In the Gloaming," and give you 
 a tenner for it.' 
 
 Had this been put a little more in the form of 
 
THE ROAD TO RUIN 15 
 
 a request, and a little less directly as an order, 
 O'Mara might have yielded. As it was, he felt 
 compelled to resent the outrage on art and on his 
 own superior social status. He was an aristocratic 
 amateur who condescended to sell, not a beggarly 
 dauber who kept the pot boiliag with the labour of 
 his hands. 
 
 ' I am afraid that, even when improved by the 
 figures "spooning" — ^that, I think, was your ex- 
 pression — ^my hiunble effort would hardly be worth 
 your offer for it. I wish you good-morning.' 
 
 'Morning,' said the man of business, rattling 
 his money in his pockets, and permitting the 
 nephew of Sir Charles Vandeleur to open the door 
 for himself. 
 
 He drove to two or three other places, with no 
 better luck. He had to avoid most of the dealers 
 he knew, being in their debt. The rebuffs dashed 
 his courage, and he was sensible that after each 
 his manner was less easy and engaging, and he 
 did not drop in the name of his titled relative in 
 Surrey quite so naturally as he could have wished. 
 
 The lack of human interest was so strongly 
 insisted on, that at last he suggested to a dealer 
 who seemed inclined to buy that he should work 
 in the ' spooning ' couple. He also suggested, as 
 a happy thought which had just struck him, that 
 the picture should be christened ' In the Gloaming,' 
 and dwelt on the popularity of the ak of that 
 
i6 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 name. The dealer assented, and promised to give 
 him ten pomids for the picture, so altered. 
 
 O'Mara bade his cabman drive him to the Temple, 
 where he had an acquaintance named Seyton who 
 dabbled in the arts, and who placed his tools at his 
 disposal, and posed for the masculine member of 
 the interpolated group, pressing the laundress into 
 his service to represent his inamorata. 
 
 Seyton was a light-hearted youth, and did not 
 greatly sympathize with O'Mara in his mournings 
 over this degradation of art, seeming to see the 
 humorous side of the situation more clearly. His 
 impromptu fellow-model, it may be observed, was 
 younger and comelier than most of her kind. 
 
 The early spring evening was beginning to fall 
 when O'Mara had completed his task. He had 
 eaten nothing all day, and, when Seyton proposed 
 that they should dine together, readily assented. 
 He took the picture to the dealer, received his ten 
 pounds, and discharged his cabman, whose fare 
 had been accumulating all this time. 
 
 At the restaurant to which they repaired for 
 dinner Seyton found two of his acquaintances, and 
 an hour passed rapidly enough at table. O'Mara 
 dined with what he felt to be a commendable 
 modesty for a man with over nine pounds in his 
 pocket : a little clear soup, a bit of fish, a bottle 
 of Beaune, a cup of coffee, and a liqueur are not 
 unjustifiable extravagances for a man so furnished. 
 
THE ROAD TO RUIN 17 
 
 Dinner over, Seyton proposed an adjournment to 
 his rooms for a quiet round at nap. If that patient 
 figure of his wife sitting at home with their sick 
 child upon her knee had troubled O'Mara much 
 during the day, the genial influences of the dinner 
 and the society of his confreres had quite expelled 
 the vision from his mind. 
 
 They went to the Temple together, and Seyton 
 hospitably produced liquors and cigars, of which 
 he and his two acquaintances liberally partook, 
 with a proportionate access of geniality. They 
 were all three younger in the ways of the world 
 than they would like to have been thought, or they 
 would have noticed that though O'Mara was as free 
 in talk and laughter as they, he was by far the 
 soberest member of the party, and though his glass 
 went as often to his lips as the best of good fellow- 
 ship required, it required filling much more seldom 
 than theirs. 
 
 He won steadily for half an hour, and as they 
 were playing a ready -money game, had pretty 
 nearly doubled his capital in that time. Then one 
 of his companions began to get restive. 
 
 ' I say, Mr. O'Mara,' he asked, ' isn't it a bit odd 
 that when you deal you're the only man who ever 
 gets an ace ?' 
 
 A question of that kind would disconcert most 
 people, but O'Mara showed no sign of understand- 
 ing its obvious meaning. 
 
 2 
 
1 8 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 * Is that so ?' he asked. * I had not noticed it.* 
 
 ' Jimmy always gets rusty if the luck goes against 
 him,' remarked Seyton. 
 
 ' Yery natural,' said O'Mara, with good-natured 
 forbearance. 'Nobody likes losing. I don't, I 
 know.' 
 
 As Jimmy happened to get a fairly good hand 
 next time O'Mara dealt, he made no remark for 
 a time ; but his next was even more startling than 
 his first. 
 
 'You low cad!' he exclaimed; 'you've got the 
 ace of hearts and the ace of clubs between your 
 knee and the table !' 
 
 He dragged the table away, and the cards fell to 
 the ground. 
 
 O'Mara raised his hand to dash the pack in his 
 face, but Seyton caught his arm. 
 
 ' None of that !' he said, sternly but quietly. 'I 
 think you'd better go, O'Mara. I beg your pardon, 
 you fellows.' 
 
 O'Mara, white as death, took up his hat and 
 stick and left the room, the others making way 
 for him. The flush of rage which had followed 
 Jimmy's denunciation of him had passed, and he 
 felt sick and shaken. Seyton's tone of quiet scorn 
 rang in his ears; the apology he had made for 
 intruding upon his friends the society of a detected 
 card-sharper was bitter to remember. 
 
 He had reached the Strand before he remem- 
 
THE ROAD TO RUIN 19 
 
 bered that in the shame and confusion of his 
 detection he had left Seyton's rooms not only 
 without the money he had won, which he certainly 
 would not have been allowed to take, but without 
 the bulk of his own money. 
 
 For a moment the discovery had stripped him 
 of the icy veneer of affectation which long use had 
 made second nature to him, and he stood still in 
 the street, shaking his fist and sputtering curses 
 until the passers-by paused and stared at him. 
 
 He walked on, drunk and blind with rage. 
 
 The idea crossed his mind that he might go back 
 to the Temple and claim his money, but even his 
 cynicism quailed at the thought of facing those 
 who had so recently expelled him from their 
 society as a convicted swindler. The figure of 
 Jimmy, who was muscular and obviously had a 
 nasty temper, finally appeared in his mind's eye 
 to put the idea to flight. 
 
 He paused under a gas-lamp and counted the 
 coins remaining to him. They amounted in all to 
 a few shillings. 
 
 ' Was ever such damnable luck ?' he groaned. 
 ' To be detected by a pack of boobies like that ! 
 I can never show my face again. I must get out 
 of this. London is played out for me. I'll go 
 home and work for a day or two, make a little 
 money, and go. Gillian and the child must shift 
 for themselves.' 
 
20 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 He steadied his shaking nerves with a glass of 
 brandy at a bar near Charing Cross, and doggedly 
 started for home. It was raining, and before he 
 arrived in Peter Street he was wet to the skin. 
 
 He let himself in with his latchkey, and mounted 
 the stairs. 
 
 The door of his room was ajar, and he heard 
 voices within — his wife, and the deeper tones of 
 a man. He crept softly up the final flight and 
 listened. 
 
CHAPTEE III. 
 
 A TmEF IN THE NIGHT. 
 
 Gillian meanwhile had completed her work, and 
 followed her husband's example of going out to find 
 a patron for it, with less success than he had met. 
 
 None of the tradesmen to whom she offered the 
 little packet of cards, painted with pretty, feeble 
 designs, wanted them, or had need of any service 
 she was fitted to perform. She was only one of 
 many hundreds of women, gently born and 
 nurtured, who were tramping the streets of London 
 that day on similar errands, trying to turn to some 
 profit the conventional accomplishment which is 
 part of what is termed their education. 
 
 Of all sad spectacles in the world, the penniless 
 lady is the most hopeless. One meets her on every 
 hand, bravely and silently fighting her heart-break- 
 ing battle, content if she can secure wages a brick- 
 layer would scorn. And every day her numbers 
 iacrease. 
 
 A neighbour as poor as herself, a little semp- 
 
22 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 stress who worked sixteen hours a day for five 
 farthings an hour in the garret overhead, had taken 
 charge of Dora for her during her absence. She 
 had nothing but thanks to give her for her services, 
 nor would the brave little woman have accepted 
 any recompense more solid. 
 
 Only those who have lived among the poor can 
 know what they are to each other, how by con- 
 tinual little shiftings of their common burden they 
 make it endurable to their bruised and weary 
 shoulders. 
 
 Gillian sat with her child in her lap beside the 
 window in the fading light of the chill spring even- 
 ing. There was a threat of rain in the low-lying 
 clouds and in the moist, dank air. At no time of 
 the year is Peter Street a particularly pleasant 
 neighbourhood, but it knows its dreariest period in 
 the dreary evenings which precede the coming of 
 summer ; at least, to the minds of such of its inhabi- 
 tants as have any memory or imagination of the 
 brooding peace of the lands beyond the city. 
 
 The cracked and dirty pavements, the roadway 
 littered with vegetable offal, the sordid houses, from 
 whose windows dangle wretched scraps of house- 
 hold linen, the heavy air, gritty with dust or foul 
 with the mists of the neighbouring river and the 
 fumes of the forest of chimneys, all weigh upon the 
 spirit with a leaden gloom. Swarms of children, 
 ragged, dirty, and unkempt, fill the streets with 
 
A THIEF IN THE NIGHT 23 
 
 tumult in a haggard semblance of play. Eusty 
 cats and dilapidated poultry swear and spit and 
 cluck and scratch about the kennels. 
 
 She fell into a dreamy reverie, from which she 
 was awakened by the striking of a clock on the 
 floor below. 
 
 ' Nine !' she counted. ' It is time he was here. 
 Surely, oh, surely he will not disappoint me to- 
 day, when he knows how much depends on it.' 
 
 The child stirred in her lap with a feverish wail, 
 and she raised it to her breast and rocked it there, 
 singing to quiet it. 
 
 * If we could only get away from London,' she 
 thought — ' away from the people who take Philip 
 from his work and his home ! Oh, darling, hush ! 
 You must be patient, dear ! Papa will come 
 directly, and bring the medicine to make my 
 darling well again, and perhaps the money to take 
 us into the country, all among the grass and 
 flowers and the fresh air.' 
 
 She ran on, as mothers will, talking to the child 
 as if her words were as comprehensible to its little 
 intelligence as the happy tone in which she forced 
 herself to speak them. 
 
 ' That's all we want, isn't it, to make us well and 
 strong again ? Hush ! "What's that ?' 
 
 She paused in her talk to the child with a sudden 
 catch of the breath. 
 
 ' Philip ? Yes, thank God !' 
 
24 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 Her face flushed at the sound of a foot upon the 
 stair. It mounted as she listened eagerly, but she 
 fell back in her seat with a sigh of patient dis- 
 appointment as a knock sounded at the door. 
 
 ' Come in !' she answered, and^' the visitor 
 obeyed. 
 
 ' Mr. Bream ?' she asked, peering at him through 
 the shadows. 
 
 ' Yes,' answered a cheery voice. ' I was passing 
 on my way home and thought I would run up and 
 see how you were, and the little one.' 
 
 Gillian rose and lit a candle. 
 
 Her visitor was a man of thirty-five or so, broad- 
 shouldered and strongly built, deep in the chest, 
 long in the arms, with a clean-shaven face of 
 healthy pallor and crisply curling hair. He was 
 rather negligently dressed in the uniform of a 
 Church of England curate, but his general style 
 and manner were by no means of the conventional 
 clerical kind, and but for his clothes he might 
 have been anything in the world but a parson. 
 
 ' Mr. O'Mara's out, I see,' he remarked, after 
 shaking hands. 
 
 ' Yes ; he finished the picture this morning, and 
 has gone to take it home. I am expecting him 
 back every minute. Pray take a seat, Mr. Bream." 
 
 Mr. Bream's quick eye, travelling round the 
 room in a perfectly candid examination, rested on 
 the brandy and the empty soda-water bottle. 
 
A THIEF IN THE NIGHT 25 
 
 'Hum!' he said, in a tone too low to reach 
 his companion's ear, and, obeying her invitation, 
 drew the remaining chair to her side and sat 
 down. 
 
 ' And how is Dora ?' he asked, bending above 
 the child as she lay in her mother's lap. ' Allow 
 me.' 
 
 He took the child delicately in his strong hands, 
 and examined it by the light of the candle, with 
 his finger on the little wrist. 
 
 ' Hum !' he said again. ' The medicine does not 
 seem to have answered as well as I had expected ; 
 you are sure you obeyed the directions ?' 
 
 Gillian's fluttering breath was the only answer to 
 his query. 
 
 ' The pulse is weaker,' said Bream, as if to him- 
 self, but with his eyes fixed on the mother's averted 
 face. ' Dry skin, distinctly feverish — Mrs. O'Mara, 
 answer me, please. Has the child had the medi- 
 cine?' 
 
 * No,' she answered faintly. 
 
 'That,' said the curate, 'can mean only one 
 thing — that you have not the money to buy it. 
 Come, come, are we not old friends enough yet to 
 speak to each other plainly? Do you put your 
 pride in the balance with your child's life ?' 
 
 ' With her life ?' she said. ' Oh, Mr. Bream !' 
 
 ' The child is seriously ill,' he answered. ' She 
 was ill yesterday, and is worse to-day.' 
 
26 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 Mrs. O'Mara stared at him with a face as white 
 as paper. 
 
 ' I warn you that Dora's life is ia danger. She 
 must have proper treatment, proper food, change of 
 air. Think ! Is there no way of procuring these 
 for her ?' 
 
 GiUian shook her head, with her hands opening 
 and shutting with a nervous, mechanical gesture. 
 The blow had been so sudden she could not realize 
 it yet. 
 
 ' The medicine,' said Mr. Bream, ' is easily 
 arranged for.' 
 
 He turned to the table, and wrote on a leaf torn 
 from his note-book. 
 
 'Excuse me,' he said, * while I give this to the 
 landlady.' 
 
 Gniian, left alone with the child, strained it in 
 her arms, but without looking at it, staring straight 
 before her, with a wide-eyed look of terror. 
 
 'Listen to me, Mrs. O'Mara,' said Bream, re- 
 entering the room. ' I knew, when first you came 
 to live in this place, that both you and your 
 husband were different in birth and breeding from 
 the people about you. It was impossible to see 
 either of you and not to know it. It was not my 
 business then — it would have been an impertinence 
 — to ask questions, to pry into your past, to seek in 
 any way to know more of your history than you 
 chose to tell. It is different now, and I am 
 
A THIEF IN THE NIGHT 27 
 
 reBolved to allow no scruple of false delicacy to 
 restrain me from prompting you to plain duty. 
 Have you any relations, any friends, who could 
 help you ? I do not ask to know who they are 
 — for the moment, at least. But are there any 
 such ?' 
 
 ' ' No,' she answered. ' There are none. I wore 
 out their patience months ago.' 
 
 'If you have friends and relatives,' said Bream, 
 'think if there is not one among them who would 
 help you once more. Your child's life depends 
 upon it !' 
 
 ' I have tried them,' she answered. ' They have 
 not even answered my letters.' 
 
 ' Your parents ?' 
 
 ' They are dead !' 
 
 ' Your husband's friends ?* 
 
 ' He has none. None, at least, who would help.' 
 
 'Who are his friends? You knew his family 
 when you married him ?' 
 
 'No.' 
 
 She tried to confine her answer to that one 
 syllable, but her longing for sympathy, the need 
 which lies in all of us to lighten by speech the 
 burden of our suffering, impelled her on, though 
 she kept watch over herself, and spoke only in 
 guarded words. 
 
 ' He was a stranger when he came to — to where 
 I lived; I was only a child. He said he loved me. 
 
z8 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 My father was dying, my mother was dead, I had 
 neither brother nor sister, I saw the time coming 
 when I should be alone in the world. He won my 
 father's confidence, who was glad to leave me with 
 a protector who could take care of me, and urged 
 me to the marriage.' 
 
 'And you know nothing of his people — of his 
 family?' 
 
 ' Nothing. I do not even know if he had any 
 right to the name he gave me.' 
 
 Mr. Bream was silent for a moment before 
 asking : 
 
 ' Does he know the state of the child ?' 
 
 ' I told him what you said last night. When he 
 went out this morning with the picture he promised, 
 if he sold it, to return and give me some money for 
 the child. Oh, my poor little innocent darling !'' 
 
 The floodgates of her tears, closed too long, 
 opened, and she wept without restraint. 
 
 ' I have some money,' said Bream, ' entrusted to 
 me for charitable purposes by friends of mine. A 
 month of country air and proper attention and 
 wholesome food would save the child's life. You 
 must let me be your banker, Mrs. O'Mara. No, 
 no ! I won't hear a word. You must take it. 
 When fortune is kinder to you, as must happen, 
 for no man of Mr. O'Mara's talents can remain 
 poor for long, you may repay me, and if you like 
 to add a little interest I shall not refuse it. Now, 
 
A THIEF IN THE NIGHT 29 
 
 my dear Mrs. O'Mara, I won't hear another word 
 on the subject. It's settled and done with. Here 
 is the money — ten pounds. With economy that 
 should be enough to give you and Dora a month in 
 the coimtry, or at the seaside. Mr. O'Mara, I am 
 sure, will not object to your receiving it as a loan.' 
 
 ' I can't refuse it,' said Gillian. ' I have not the 
 right. And yet — Mr. Bream, I shall never be able 
 to repay you.' 
 
 ' You will repay me, and over-pay me, by bringing 
 back Dora strong and well. In the meantime, 
 while you are away, I must try and see if I cannot 
 find you some employment in the neighbourhood. 
 Do you think you could teach in the school ? One 
 of the ladies there is about to leave us. The salary 
 is not large, but every little helps, and we might be 
 able to find something better later on. And now I 
 must get away, for I have other visits to make. 
 No, don't move, I beg. I can find my way out 
 perfectly well. Good-bye, little one; I hope you 
 wUl come back with the roses in your cheeks which 
 used to be there. Good-night, Mrs. O'Mara.' 
 
 He gently extricated his hand from Gillian's 
 gratefully clinging grasp, and bustled out to cut 
 short the flood of incoherent thanks she poured 
 out on him. The landing outside was too dark to 
 permit him to see the figure of O'Mara, against 
 whom he almost brushed as he descended the 
 stairs. 
 
30 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 Left alone with Dora, Gillian's joy overflowed in 
 a thousand hysterical caresses, which so frightened 
 the child that she began to cry. The mother 
 quieted her by dancing before her eyes the glitter- 
 ing coins which Bream had left behind him. A 
 thousand times the sum in minted gold had never 
 sounded half so sweet in a miser's ears as did the 
 chink of those few precious coins in Gillian's. 
 
 ' Isn't he a good man, my darling ? You shall 
 learn to bless him, and thank him, and pray for 
 him. He has saved your life, my sweet, and your 
 poor mother's too, for how could I live if my 
 precious one were taken away from me ? I knew 
 help would come. I knew it. God could not be so 
 cruel as to rob me of you, my treasure.' 
 
 She stopped suddenly at sight of O'Mara, who 
 had entered the room unnoticed, and was standing 
 almost beside her, his clothes glistening with 
 rain. 
 
 ' You seem excited,' he said. ' May I ask if any- 
 thing in particular has occurred ?' 
 
 His sudden appearance, his monotonous, mocking 
 voice, froze her with terror and foreboding. 
 
 In that sudden bright dream of hope for her child 
 she had forgotten her husband's mere existence. 
 At the first sight of him she had instinctively closed ■ 
 her hand upon the money. She stood panting and 
 staring at him, as if he surprised her in the com- 
 mission of a theft. He looked back at her with a 
 
A THIEF IN THE NIGHT 31 
 
 face like a mask, and his eyes glittering evilly in 
 the candle-light. 
 
 ' What have you got in your hand ?' he asked. 
 
 'Mr. Bream has been here,' she began, and 
 paused. 
 
 'Mr. Bream has been here,' he repeated. 
 'Well?' 
 
 ' He has given me money to take Dora into the 
 country.' 
 
 ' How much ?' he asked. 
 
 ' Ten pounds,' she answered. 
 
 He had expected her to say less, and had merely 
 asked the question to help her in the lie, which 
 showed how Uttle real knowledge he had of her 
 nature after their years of marriage. 
 
 ' Mr. Bream is generous,' he said with a hardly 
 perceptible sneer. 
 
 His manner was unusual, and puzzled Gillian 
 almost as much as it frightened her. There was 
 going on in his mind something of a struggle, which 
 he disguised by his expressionless face and voice. 
 He meant to take the money Bream had left, but 
 his sense of shame was not wholly dead, and he 
 hesitated as to the means he should employ to 
 wrest it from her. 
 
 Suddenly his brutality, always ill-concealed 
 beneath the varnish of his affectations, triumphed. 
 
 ' I want that money,' he said. ' Give it to me !' 
 
 For the first time for many a day, the corn-age 
 
32 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 which underlay Gillian's acquiescence flamed out 
 into open revolt. 
 
 'Not one penny, if you kill^me !' she answered, 
 with her teeth set, and outraged wife and mother 
 written in her face and the inspired poise of her 
 figure as she faced him. ' Stand off!' she cried as 
 he advanced. ' Don't dare to touch me ! It is my 
 child's life I hold ia my hands, and I will die rather 
 than yield it up.' 
 
 He made a quick clutch at the hand which held 
 the money, and missing it, seized her by the throat 
 in a sudden access of rage. For the moment her 
 passion lent her strength, and she struggled hard, 
 but the cruel grip choked her breath. She tried to 
 cry for help, but only a stifled moan escaped her, 
 and she fell, striking her head heavily against the 
 leg of the table, with a crash which seemed to shake 
 the house, and lay still upon the floor. 
 
 With a noiseless step O'Mara ran to the door and 
 listened. 
 
 The house was still ; no one had heard Gillian's 
 fall. 
 
 He crept back to her, and saw from among the 
 tumbled tresses of her hair a dark -red line, 
 momentarily growing in width, staining the boards. 
 Even in falling she had kept the hand which held 
 the money close shut. 
 
 In a thievish tremor, with his heart' beating like 
 a muffled drum in his ears, he knelt beside her. 
 
A THIEF IN THE NIGHT jj 
 
 and forced open the reluctant fingers. With pale 
 face and shaking limbs he moved backwards to th« 
 door, closing it to shut out the haunting vision cS. 
 Gillian's white face — whiter in contrast with that 
 widening stain. 
 A minute later he had reached the street. 
 
CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 THE CLOUD BEBAKS. 
 
 When, slowly, like a swimmer rising through deep, 
 dark waters to the growing light above, GHHan 
 came back to consciousness, phantom memories of 
 the troubled visions which had haunted her through 
 her long sleep so mingled with realities that it took 
 some time to settle her impressions of the things 
 around her. 
 
 She was in bed, in a large and lofty room, which 
 was certainly not the room in which the last few 
 moments of her life had been passed, though whose 
 it might be, or how she had come there, were 
 mysteries at which she could make no guess. 
 
 There were hushed voices speaking at a little 
 distance, but she was so weak that when she tried 
 to turn her face in that direction she found the 
 effort beyond her strength. She lay and wondered, 
 with a languid curiosity, till a step approached her 
 bed, and she saw, bending above her, the face of a 
 
THE CLOUD BREAKS 35 
 
 young woman, with a cloud of fair hair arranged 
 beneath a white cap. 
 A soft hand touched her forehead, and a voice 
 
 ' You are better now ?' 
 
 'Where am I?' Gillian would have asked in 
 return, but her voice, like her strength, had gone, 
 and the low and broken murmur which escaped 
 her lips was scarcely audible to her own ears. 
 
 ' You have been very HI,' the girl said, in answer 
 to the movement of her lips. ' Do not try to talk, 
 you are too weak. You are in St. Thomas's 
 Hospital. You have been here over a week.' 
 
 Memory flowed back on Gillian like a flood. 
 
 ' Dora !' she panted feebly. 
 
 No emotion less strong than that ail-conquering 
 one of maternity could have given her the strength 
 to shape an intelligible word. 
 
 'Your little girl? She is well. She is in the 
 country. Mr. Bream is taking care of her. You 
 shall see her when you are well enough — to-morrow, 
 perhaps, if the doctor will allow you. And now 
 you must be very quiet, and not try to talk any 
 more. You have been very ill indeed, and in great 
 danger ; but that is over now.' 
 
 Gillian was so weak that before the happy tears 
 the woman's reassuring words had called to her 
 eyes were dry upon her lashes, she had fallen 
 asleep. When next she woke the room was grow- 
 
36 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 ing dark with shadows. The great bulk of the 
 Palace of Parliament was dull purple against the 
 rosy light of the western sky, and softened mur- 
 murs of voices and the clank of oars came up from 
 the river below. 
 
 Presently a voice was heard praying, and muffled 
 responses came from the rows of beds which lined 
 the ward. Then a hymn was sung, 
 
 ' Abide with me, fast falls the eventide,' 
 
 and the guests of the great hostelry of the good St. 
 Thomas addressed themselves peacefully to sleep. 
 
 She woke in the early morning to find the gilded 
 vane of St. Stephen's burning like a beacon in the 
 bright dawn, and lazUy watched the last thin 
 wreaths of vapour from the river melt in the warm 
 air. Her mind seemed as feeble as her body ; her 
 one definite idea was that Dora was well, and that 
 she should see her. 
 
 She thought of her husband, and though her 
 memory of every detail of their life together was 
 clear and perfect, she remembered him with neither 
 hate nor horror, but with the same languid in- 
 difference, which nothing but the idea of her child 
 could stir. She murmured the name to herself, 
 finding that after her night's sleep she had strength 
 enough to speak it. 
 
 ' Dora, Dora, Dora.' 
 
 And so she fell asleep, like a tired child. 
 
THE CLOUD BREAKS 37 
 
 There was the echo of a well-known voice in her 
 ears when she awoke again, and it was with no 
 shock of surprise that she recognised it as Mr. 
 Bream's. 
 
 ' It would not be advisable, you think,' he was 
 saying, * to give her any hint of that matter yet ?' 
 
 ' I think not,' another voice replied. ' She is 
 very weak. There is no necessity for telling her 
 yet. Good news can always wait ; it loses nothing. 
 Look ! she is awake. Don't stay too long with 
 her.' 
 
 Bream came and sat beside her, with the grave 
 and friendly smile his face constantly wore. He 
 took her hand — the sight of it surprised her, it 
 was so wan and thin — in his, and patted it gently. 
 
 ' Hush !' he said. ' You must let me do all the 
 talking. You want to know first about Dora? 
 Dora is doing grandly. She has been in the 
 country exactly a week, and has put on exactly two 
 pounds in weight. I make the people who have 
 her weigh her every day, and send me a bulletin. 
 Tell me the age of a child, and how much the 
 child weighs, and I'll tell you whether it's healthy 
 or not. When will you see her, is the next ques- 
 tion, isn't it ? That , my dear Mrs. O'Mara, 
 depends entirely on yourself. It depends on how 
 soon you get strong enough to bear the meeting. 
 Let us make a bargain. If you are very good, and 
 get better very fast — let me see, to-day is Friday — 
 
38 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 yes, you shall see Dora on Sunday. Is that under- 
 stood ?' 
 
 There was an almost magic influence in Bream's 
 strength and tenderness, in his kindly face and 
 helpful voice, which had often done a patient more 
 good than all the drugs in the Pharmacopoeia could 
 have worked. Gillian smiled at him through the 
 moisture with which her weakness and his friendli- 
 ness had filled her eyes, and he felt her feeble 
 fingers press his, ever so lightly. 
 
 ' That's well,' he said as he rose. ' I must go 
 now. This is not the regular visiting hour at all, 
 and I have been admitted only by special favour. 
 I walked this hospital before I took my degree, and 
 was house-surgeon in this very ward for two years. 
 Good-bye, and remember your promise. No im- 
 provement means no Dora !' 
 
 With such a hope for her sick heart to feed on, it 
 was not wonderful that Gillian should make rapid 
 progress. The doctor who saw her morning and 
 evening marvelled at the speed of her return to 
 convalescence. 
 
 ' I am to see Dora on Sunday, if I am better,' 
 she told him, and the explanation sufficed, as she 
 had thought it would. 
 
 ' Dora deserves to be patented and registered as 
 a new healiug agent,' said the surgeon. 
 
 Sunday afternoon came, and with it came Dora, 
 carried in the arms of a strapping, ruddy-cheeked 
 
THE CLOUD BREAKS 39 
 
 peasant woman, who, dropping a curtsey, intro- 
 duced herself as the little lady's nurse, and hadn't 
 she come along beautiful? So pale and wizened 
 as she had been, and now just look at her ! 
 
 From the moment the child was laid upon her 
 breast Gillian's recovery went on at an even quicker 
 rate. With reviving strength came new interest in 
 the things of life. She asked Bream when next he 
 came where her husband was. 
 
 ' He has vanished,' was the answer. ' We have 
 no news of him.' 
 
 ' Wag any effort made to find him ?' she asked. 
 
 'Yes,' answered Bream. 'Every effort, but 
 without result.' 
 
 ' Dora and I must face the world alone,' said 
 Gillian after a pause. 
 
 ' I hope — I think,' said Bream, ' that the struggle 
 will not be so severe as you anticipate. You are 
 strong enough to bear good news now. I have some 
 brave news. Your trials are over, Mrs. O'Mara.' 
 
 She looked at him with questioning eyes and 
 heightened colour. 
 
 ' I have spoken, perhaps, before I ought,' said 
 Mr. Bream ; ' indeed, there is an accredited mes- 
 senger of the good news, a lawyer with whom I have 
 been in communication for the past week, who can 
 tell you all the details. I can tell you nothing more 
 than that you are, by the death of your imcle, Eobert 
 Scott, of Sydney, put beyond the need of want,' 
 
40 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 ' I am very glad,' she said, ' for Dora's sake.' 
 
 It was a relief to Bream to find her take the 
 news so quietly. 
 
 ' I have seen you bear so much trouble bravely,' 
 he said, ' that I could not help telling you so much. 
 May I bring the lawyer here to-morrow afternoon ?' 
 
 'I am glad I heard it first from you,' she 
 answered. ' Dear friend, you are my good angel !' 
 
 Bream came again the following day, accom- 
 panied by a gray-haired, fatherly old gentleman of 
 precise and methodical manner, whom he intro- 
 duced as Mr. Probyn. 
 
 ' Of the firm of Grice, Probyn and Davies, Old 
 Jewry,' added the solicitor. ^ I have the honour of 
 addressing Mrs. Philip O'Mara ?' 
 
 ' That is my name,' said Gillian. 
 
 ' Otherwise Gillian Scott, only child of the late 
 John Scott, doctor of medicine, of Merton Barnett, 
 Shropshire ?' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' Do you remember your father having referred, 
 in your presence, to a brother, Eobert Scott ?' 
 
 ' Yes ; he was my father's younger brother. He 
 went out to Australia before I was bom.' 
 
 ' Quite so,' said Mr. Probyn, referring to some 
 memoranda. 'In the year 1849. There were 
 money transactions between them after Bobert 
 Scott left England ?' 
 
 ' I believe so. My uncle was not successful in 
 
THE CLOUD BREAKS 41 
 
 his business, and on more than one occasion he 
 applied to my father for assistance.' 
 
 ' Quite so,' said Mr. Probyn again. ' I am happy 
 to state, however, that his bad luck did not last. 
 He died on the third of February of the present 
 year, a widower and childless. I have here an 
 attested copy of his will.' 
 
 He unfolded the document, and, perching a pair 
 of gold-rimmed glasses on the extreme tip of his 
 nose, scanned it at arm's length. 
 
 ' " I, Eobert Scott " — h'm (need scarcely trouble 
 you with mere formalities) — "do hereby give, 
 bequeath and devise all property whatsoever of 
 which I die possessed, after the payment of my 
 just debts, to Gillian, only daughter of my late 
 beloved brother, John Scott, of Merton Barnett, in 
 the county of Shropshire, England." The person- 
 alty has been sworn under £20,000, and will be 
 transferred to your account in London on the com- 
 pletion of the legal forms necessary in such cases. 
 There is also some land in the neighbourhood of 
 Sydney, of which you would have no difficulty in 
 disposing, if so minded, though we are advised by 
 our correspondents, the solicitors of the late Mr. 
 Scott, that it is steadily rising in value, and is, 
 therefore, probably worth retaining. Those and 
 other details can be arranged at your convenience. 
 Meanwhile, madam,' the old gentleman rose and 
 made a cordially stately bow, ' I have the pleasure 
 to wish you joy of your good-fortune.' 
 
CHAPTEE V. 
 
 SUMMEE DAYS. 
 
 Two gentlemen attired in clerical costume were 
 walking together along a pleasant lane, bordered 
 on one hand by a long line of lofty elms, swathed 
 to mid-height in trailing ivy, and on the other by 
 a low hedge, odorous with wild roses, over which 
 was visible a wide reach of the rich pasture-lands 
 of Essex, shining in a chequered pattern of deep 
 emerald and dull gold. It was verging on a mid- 
 summer evening, and both time and place were 
 beautiful in deep serenity. 
 
 One of the wayfarers was considerably his 
 companion's superior in years. He was a hale, 
 ruddy-faced gentleman of sixty or so, portly and 
 comfortable of presence, and very lightly touched 
 by time, save that his hair, which he wore rather 
 longer than is the fashion of the present day, was 
 snow white. 
 
 He had a mild, clear eye, and his habitual 
 expression was one of rather absent-minded benevo- 
 
SUMMER DAYS 43 
 
 lence. Some peculiarities of his dress, which was 
 dusty with long walking ia the summer lanes, and 
 which, though of the best cut and the finest material, 
 had a lack of complete neatness which proclaimed 
 its wearer a bachelor, gave the learned in such 
 matters the idea that the Eev. Marmaduke Herbert 
 was a High Churchman. 
 
 His companion, something over twenty years his 
 junior, we have met before. Time had dealt not 
 unkindly with Mr. Bream, as it does with all men 
 of simple lives who regard existence as a sacred 
 gift in trust from a great Master, and are zealous 
 to give a good account of its utmost miaute. His 
 cheerfully resolute face and manly figure were as 
 of old, and only the thinnest possible lines of gray 
 in his thick brown hair proclaimed the passage of 
 seven years since we last met him. 
 
 ' We will close our round of visits, Bream,' the 
 elderly clergyman was saying in a full and genial 
 voice, ' at Mrs. Dartmouth's, who wUl, I dare say, 
 give us a cup of tea. I expect you to be — ah — 
 charmed with Mrs. Dartmouth, Bream. A most 
 amiable and admirable lady.' 
 
 'I shall be happy to make her acquaintance, 
 sir.' 
 
 ' A most superior woman,' said Mr. Herbert, * and 
 a true — ah — daughter of the Church. She is a 
 widow, with one chUd — a daughter. When she 
 first came among us, some six or seven years ago 
 
44 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 this summer, there was — ah — she excited consider- 
 able interest.' 
 
 'Indeed?' 
 
 ' Yes ; she had, if I may so express myself, the 
 — ah — the charm of mystery. Nobody knew who 
 she was or whence she came. In a small community 
 like ours in Crouchford a stranger is likely to 
 excite — ah — comment. That, however, passed 
 away ; and Mrs. Dartmouth was accepted as what 
 she is, my dear Bream, a most amiable and accom- 
 plished lady.' r 
 
 Mr. Bream again expressed his pleasure at the 
 prospect of making Mrs. Dartmouth's acquaint- 
 ance. 
 
 'That,' said Mr. Herbert, pointing with the 
 polished stick of ebony he carried in his hand to a 
 cluster of red brick chimneys visible above the 
 trees, ' is her home. We are now passing the out- 
 skirts of her freehold. She farms her own acres— 
 an excellent woman of business.' 
 
 The line of elms had given place to a twisted 
 hedge, separated from the highroad by a deep 
 ditch. As the two friends walked on a little shower 
 of wUd field-blossoms fell at their feet, and a light 
 childish laugh drew their eyes to a spot where, the 
 hedge being thinner, the figure of a little girl in a 
 white summer dress, touched here and there with 
 fluttering pink ribbons, was standing above them. 
 
 ' Ah, little mischief !' cried the elder cleric. 
 
SUMMER DAYS 45 
 
 'You are there! We are going to call upon 
 mamma. Is she at home ?' 
 
 ' Yes,' answered the child, looking shyly at Mr. 
 Bream, ' mamma is at home.' 
 
 'That is well. This, Dora,' continued Mr. 
 Herbert, ' is Mr. Bream, who has come to Crouch- 
 ford to be my curate. As I am introducing you to 
 your parishioners. Bream, let me seize the — ah — 
 opportunity, and present you : Miss Dora Dartmouth, 
 the Eev. Mr. John Bream.' 
 
 The little girl bowed with a wonderfully demure 
 aspect, and then, fearful of her own gravity, 
 said : 
 
 'I'll go and tell mamma,' and was off at the 
 word, like a flash of varicoloured light among the 
 bushes. 
 
 ' A pretty child,' said Bream. 
 
 'A delightful little thing, my dear Bream. A 
 real child, a rarity nowadays. The precocious 
 infant is — ah — unendurable, and its commonness 
 is one of the saddest features of the degeneracy of 
 our times.' 
 
 Mr. Bream had an almost imperceptible dry 
 smile at moments, and it crossed his face now. 
 
 A wooden gate, set in a red brick wall, and 
 leading to a short gravelled carriage-drive, led to 
 the house — a pretty and pleasant two-story building, 
 swathed about to its chimney-cowls in rose-vine 
 and creepers. A glass-roofed veranda ran the 
 
46 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 entire length of the house, supported on square 
 wooden pillars, and covered also with the same 
 sweet-smelling growths. The still summer air was 
 heavy with their breath. 
 
 A fire of roses — roses white, and red, and pink, 
 and yellow — burned on the lawn before the house, 
 and sun-smitten roses glowed like lamps all over 
 its front. The door stood open, and Mr. Herbert 
 entered, like a frequent guest certain of his 
 welcome. 
 
 Bream, following him, found himself in a wide 
 old-fashioned entrance-hall, occupying the whole 
 depth of the house back to the open French 
 windows leading to a second and wider lawn. A 
 mighty chestnut-tree, in full leaf, stood in its 
 centre, and on either hand it was bounded by the 
 sweeping curve of the shrubbery, through a wide 
 gap of which the corner of a hayrick and fields of 
 tall green wheat were visible. 
 
 The hall was solidly and comfortably furnished 
 as a reception-room, and on the left a door led to 
 another apartment ; on the right was a huge open 
 chimney with a wide tiled hearth and wooden 
 settles. The place was a curious and pleasant 
 mixture of old architecture and modern con- 
 veniences, and of old and modern decorations. 
 Strange monsters born of the fancies of Chmese 
 and Japanese artists encumbered the high mantel- 
 shelf, and delicately-coloured fans and exotic 
 
SUMMER DAYS 47 
 
 plaques of earthenware shone against the dully- 
 polished black oak of the walls. 
 
 ' What a delightful room !' said Bream. 
 
 Mr. Herbert, with a sigh of content, sank his 
 portly frame into an arm-chair. 
 
 ' I shall really be very glad of a cup of tea,' he 
 remarked. 
 
 ' Dora !' called a clear feminine voice on the 
 lawn outside — ' Dora, my darling !' 
 
 Dora's voice was heard in answer from a distance, 
 and a quick patter of light feet on a gravel path 
 showed that she and her unseen summoner were 
 close to the open French window. Bream, who 
 had taken a seat behind his vicar, started, and 
 stared with a sudden wonder and doubt in his face. 
 Mr. Herbert, flicking the dust from his shoes and 
 gaiters with his pocket-handkerchief, took no notice 
 of these signs of perturbation. 
 
 ' Go and tell Johnson,' the voice proceeded, ' to 
 pick some strawberries for tea.' 
 
 ' Oh, mamma, can I help ?' 
 
 'I think you had much better not,' said the 
 voice. ' You had better go to Barbara and get 
 her to dress you. Look at your shoes ; and oh, 
 what hands ! There, run away and tell Johnson.' 
 
 The little feet were heard fading in the distance. 
 
 ' Am I mad,' Bream asked of himself, ' or 
 dreaming? I would know that voice among a 
 thousand.' 
 
48 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 A lady, clad, like the child to whom she had 
 been overheard speaking, in a white summer dress, 
 entered at the open window and glided towards 
 the two visitors. Bream's face, as he rose, was 
 against the light, and only dimly visible. Mr. 
 Herbert had stepped forward to their hostess. 
 
 ' I have taken the liberty ' he began. 
 
 'Which is not at all a liberty, to begin with,' 
 said Mrs. Dartmouth with a pleasant smile. 
 
 'Thank you. I have done myself the honour, 
 let me say, to make known to you the Eev. Mr. 
 Bream, my future assistant in the duties of my 
 parish. You will remember that I mentioned his 
 name to you a day or two ago.' 
 
 'I remember very well,' said Mrs. Dartmouth, 
 extending her hand frankly to Bream. He took it 
 with a curious clumsiness. ' Welcome to Crouch- 
 ford, Mr. Bream. You are here,' she said to Mr. 
 Herbert, ' just in time for tea.' 
 
 'Then I am here, Mrs. Dartmouth,' said the 
 reverend gentleman, ' just at the time I wanted to 
 arrive at. We have had a long walk, and the 
 .roads are — ah — dusty.' 
 
 ' It is laid on the lawn. Will you come out ?' 
 
 She led the way to where, under the spreading 
 shade of the great chestnut-tree, a table gleamed, 
 set with the whitest of cloths and the prettiest of 
 glass and china, to which a stout, homely, brown- 
 faced woman of thirty, dressed in a neat cotton 
 
SUMMER DAYS 49 
 
 print, in contrast with the ruddy brown of her 
 face and her bare arms, was just putting the 
 finishing touches. 
 
 ' That'll do, Barbara, thank you,' said her 
 mistress. 'Will you see that Miss Dora changes 
 her shoes ?' 
 
 Barbara, with a curtsey to the reverend gentle- 
 men, which Mr. Herbert repaid with a fatherly nod 
 and smile, and Bream passed unheeded, went into 
 the house. 
 
 'Mr. Herbert tells me, Mr. Bream,' said Mrs. 
 Dartmouth, when the little party were seated in 
 the rustic chairs set about the table, 'that your 
 last curacy was in London — in Westminster, I 
 think?' 
 
 'Yes,' Bream answered. 
 
 'You will find this a pleasant change, I hope. 
 The country is really delightful in this neighbour- 
 hood.' 
 
 Bream, a little more collected, replied, ' Beauti- 
 ful indeed !' 
 
 'Bream,' said Mr. Herbert, 'is hardly altogether 
 a stranger here. He is, to a certain extent — ah — 
 en pays de connaisance. He is an old friend of Sir 
 George Venables.' 
 
 'Indeed!' said Mrs. Dartmouth. 'You know 
 Sir George, Mr. Bream ?' 
 
 'We are old friends. We were at Eugby to- 
 gether, and at one time were inseparable. We 
 
so WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 have Been little of each other of late, from many 
 causes. I believe he has spent most of the last 
 five years almost entirely abroad. I have to thank 
 him for my appointment as curate here, for it was 
 he who introduced me to Mr. Herbert and induced 
 him to engage me.' 
 
 ' Sir George and I are old friends. I was his 
 tenant here, before he consented to allow me to 
 buy the freehold,' said Mrs. Dartmouth. 
 
 Dora arriving at this instant with an enormous 
 glass dish of strawberries, and Barbara following 
 her with the teapot, Mrs. Dartmouth busied herself 
 in distributing the materials of the pleasant meal, 
 additionally pleasant amid such surroundings. 
 Had Mr. Herbert been a man of quick observation, 
 which he decidedly was not, his curate's strange- 
 ness of manner since their hostess's appearance 
 could hardly have escaped him. They had made 
 many visits together that day, and Mr. Bream had 
 come through them all with flying colours, and was 
 at that moment being lauded in a dozen Crouch- 
 ford households as a delightful companion. Here 
 he was decidedly stiff and embarrassed, and though 
 he had recovered from the first shock of the con- 
 fusion with which he had met Mrs. Dartmouth, he 
 was still constrained in voice and manner, looking 
 harder and longer at the lady than was altogether 
 polite or necessary. 
 
 Mrs. Dartmouth seemed quite at ease under his 
 
SUMMER DAYS 51 
 
 scrutiny, unless a livelier flush of colour on her 
 face, which might have been equally accounted 
 for by the heat or by the shade of the large pink 
 Japanese umbrella attached to the back of the 
 chair she sat ia, was called there by his protracted 
 reading of h-er features. She addressed her con- 
 versation, after the beginning of the meal, mainly 
 to Mr. Herbert, who answered with a rather high- 
 flown clerical gallantry in the intervals of absorbing 
 a vast amount of tea, now and then bringing Bream 
 into the talk, until after awhile he found his 
 tongue and his forgotten manners simultaneously,, 
 and came into it himself, naturally and easily. 
 
 The shadows lengthened on the green as they 
 sat and talked, when Barbara came to her mistress's 
 side with a card. She bent her head for a moment 
 to her visitors, and after glancing at it, said to 
 Barbara : 
 
 ' Certainly, ask him to join us here, and bring 
 another cup and saucer. Sir George Venables,' 
 she announced to her visitors. 'You have not 
 m«t him since you arrived, Mr. Bream ?' 
 
 'No,' said Bream, 'though I have a standing 
 invitation to the Lodge. I expect I shall get a 
 blowing up for not having availed myself of it on 
 my first coming here.' 
 
 Barbara appeared, followed by the new-comer. 
 Sir George Venables was a man in the early 
 thirties, one of those happy people who seem to 
 
52 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 radiate health as a lantern does light. He had the 
 fair skin, bronzed by constant exercise in the fresh 
 air, and the light-brown hair common among 
 Englishmen of pure strain. He was, as he looked, 
 as hard as nails all over, and had not an ounce of 
 superfluous flesh anywhere about him, though his 
 breadth was rather more than proportionate to his 
 height, which was five feet eleven in his stocking 
 feet. He wore a short clipped moustache and a 
 crisp brown beard of a golden bronze tinge, which 
 admirably finished a face more remarkable for its 
 evidences of health, pluck, and kindliness than for 
 accurate beauty of line, though he was a handsome 
 fellow too, judged even by that standard. He 
 was dressed in cords and spurred boots, liberally 
 powdered by the dust of the road, and carried a 
 riding crop. 
 
 'You're a pretty fellow, don't you think,' he 
 asked Bream, after greeting Mrs. Dartmouth, 'to 
 have been more than twenty-four hours in the 
 place and never to have given me a call ! I called 
 at your diggings just now — just fancy, Mrs. Dart- 
 mouth, he's gone and taken Mrs. Jones's first-floor, 
 over the Supply Stores in the High Street, when 
 he might have had the free run of the Lodge as 
 long as he liked.' 
 
 'I shall come over there presently,' answered 
 Bream. ' It's a maxim of mine to work upwards, 
 not downwards. When I know all the oi polloi of 
 
SUMMER DAYS 53 
 
 the district I shall claim acquaintance with the 
 lord of the manor.' 
 
 ' Do I belong to the oi poUoi ?' asked Mrs. Dart- 
 mouth, a question which created a diversion by 
 sending Mr. Herbert's tea the wrong way. 
 
CHAPTEE VI. 
 
 MES. DAHTMOTJTH. 
 
 The meal finished, Mrs. Dartmouth rose and 
 invited her guests to a stroll about the grounds. 
 
 In the dead quiet of the evening air the trees 
 stood silent ; no breath of wind waked their leaves 
 to the faintest rustle. The sun was sinking in a 
 placid splendour of rose and gold, and in the 
 opposing heavens a crescent moon was faintly 
 glimmering in an ocean of tender sapphire. A riot 
 of birds came from the winding boskage, blackcap, 
 and thrush, and linnet, and blackbird merrily 
 piping their adieu to the departing sun. The little 
 party passed through the gap in the semicircle of 
 trees on to a broad grassy terrace separating the 
 house domain from the farm. 
 
 They had split into two groups. Sir George and 
 Mr. Herbert, and Mrs. Dartmouth and Bream, 
 while little Dora flitted from one to the other and 
 from bush to bush like a butterfly. 
 
 ' Mr. Bream,' said Mrs. Dartmouth, when they 
 
MUS. DARTMOUTH 55 
 
 had got beyond earshot of the others, ' I have to 
 beg your forgiveness. Believe me, I do most 
 sincerely.' 
 
 ' For what ?' asked Bream. 
 
 ' For taking no farewell of the only friend I had, 
 seven years ago.' 
 
 'Surely, Mrs. O'M— I beg pardon, Mrs. Dart- 
 mouth — you have no need to ask my forgiveness for 
 that. You have, I suppose, in common with other 
 people, the right to choose your own acquaintances.' 
 
 'Ah!' said Mrs. Dartmouth, 'let there be no 
 conventional phrases between us. I acted wrongly, 
 and I have repented of it many a time. When I 
 heard from Mr. Herbert and Sir George that you 
 were coming here I was glad, not merely at the 
 prospect of renewing an old acquaintance, but of 
 apologizing and explaining, if you think my ex- 
 planation worth listening to.' 
 
 ' I cannot see that you have anythiag to apologize 
 for,' said Bream, ' but I shall be glad to hear any- 
 thing you have to say.' 
 
 ' You cannot know,' said Mrs. Dartmouth — ' even 
 your sympathy cannot guess — what I suffered before 
 and during the time you knew me in London. I 
 look back on that time now as a soul escaped from 
 purgatory might be supposed to look back on its 
 experience there. I wonder that I came out of it 
 with life and reason. It was only last night — 
 perhaps the mention of your name and the know- 
 
S6 WOMAN AND THE MAN ^ 
 
 ledge that you were coming here may account for 
 it — I dreamed that I was back in Westminster, and 
 I woke, crying and sobbing like a child. I woke in 
 that way often for months after I had left London. 
 All that time comes back upon me as a hideous 
 nightmare. I have set myself resolutely to forget 
 it — striven hard to banish any thought of it from 
 my mind; but every detail is as clear in my 
 memory to-day as if it had all happened only a 
 week or two ago. I cannot even look at my child 
 — healthy and strong as she is, thank God! — 
 without remembering ' 
 
 She passed her hand across her eyes, as if to 
 clear away some shadow that oppressed them. 
 
 ' Why distress yourself by recalling it ?' said 
 Bream. 
 
 'Because the only way for you to forgive me 
 my ingratitude is by your knowing, as much as 
 anyone other than myself can know, what a mad 
 desire I had to cancel, to root out, destroy, cast 
 aside, all that reminded me of that time. My one 
 desire was to get free of it — ^to get beyond it all — 
 to persuade myself, if possible, that it had never 
 been, I passed the first year of my freedom 
 abroad, moving from place to place, trying, in the 
 bustle and movement of travel, to forget. Forget ! 
 How could I, when the one thing in the world that 
 was left me to love, my little Dora, brought back 
 memories of that time at every minute of the 
 
MUS. DARTMOUTH S7 
 
 day ? The very pleasure I felt in seeing her grow 
 back to health recalled the agony I had known in 
 seeing her dying — dying of hunger, Mr, Bream, as 
 you saw her.' 
 
 No loudness of voice or passion of gesture gave 
 any force to her speech. They were not needed. 
 Her voice throbbed on an even note of pain, her 
 face was white, her eyes looked straight before her 
 with something of the wild look Bream remembered 
 in them seven years ago in the garret in West- 
 minster, when he had warned her that Dora's lite 
 was in danger. 
 
 ' I returned to England — not to London ; I have 
 never entered London since that day I left the 
 hospital, and with God's help I never will. I 
 resolved to try some kind of occupation, some 
 steady daily task, some work that must be done 
 at its appointed hour, and see if that would not 
 banish the memories which had clung to me all 
 over the Contiaent. This house and farm were 
 advertised to let. I am country bred, and had 
 passed most of my early years on a farm, and a 
 longing for the dear old innocent life, for the fields 
 and woods where I had been so happy as a child, 
 came back to me. I took the farm, at first on a 
 lease, and threw my whole heart into its manage- 
 ment. The experiment succeeded — well enough, 
 at least, to give me hope that it might succeed 
 altogether if I gave it time. Sir George consented 
 
58 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 to sell me the place — ^it is an outlying piece of 
 property, bought by his father only a few years 
 ago — and since then I have remained here, working 
 and educating Dora. You are the only person in 
 the world, Mr. Bream, who knows my secret. I 
 know that I have no need to ask you to keep it, 
 but I do ask you to pardon my ingratitude in being 
 silent all these years.' 
 
 'Are you quite sure,' asked Bream, 'that you 
 have been silent ?' 
 
 She looked at him questioningly. 
 
 'Do you remember the date on which you left 
 the hospital ? It was the eighth of April. On the 
 eighth of April of every year I have received a 
 fifty-pound note, with a slip of paper bearing the 
 words, " For the poor of your parish, from a friend 
 grateful for past kindness." It was not your hand, 
 but I have always thought it came from you.' 
 
 ' Yes,' she said quietly ; ' it came from me. 
 Conscience money, Mr. Bream.' 
 
 ' More than enough,' said Bream, ' to buy you 
 all the absolution you ever needed. I hardly re- 
 quired your explanation; I understood from the 
 first. I am sorry that circumstance has brought 
 me here, since my presence awakens such un- 
 welcome memories.' 
 
 ' Do not think that,' she answered. ' Since I 
 have never forgotten, you cannot charge it to your- 
 self that you have made me remember. You are 
 
MI?S. DARTMOUTH ' 59 
 
 as welcome to me now as you will be before long 
 to every one of your parishioners.' 
 
 It was some little time before silence was broken 
 between them again. Then Bream asked : 
 
 ' You have had no news of — him ?' 
 
 He shrank from mentioning O'Mara's name, 
 remembering that she had avoided it. 
 
 ' None whatever.' 
 
 'You have made no iaquiries-^caused none to 
 be made ?' 
 
 ' God forbid !' 
 
 ' But is that wise ? You may be a free woman 
 now — not free merely in the sense of his absence, 
 but for altogether, by his death.' 
 
 'It is best,' she said, 'to let sleeping dogs lie. 
 Besides, in what direction could I look for news ? 
 He disappeared utterly, leaving not the smallest 
 trace. And it is seven years ago.' 
 
 ' It is some comfort,' said Bream, ' that the 
 scoundrel committed his greatest villainy just at 
 that moment, and when he thought he was shifting 
 a burden from his shoulders he was, in reality, 
 robbing himself of a fortune.' 
 
 She made no answer to his remark. They had 
 reached the end of a long shaded alley. They 
 turned, and she held out her hand. 
 
 ' Then — we are friends again, Mr. Bream ?' 
 
 ' We were never anything else,' he answered, as 
 he took the proffered hand, ' I have never thought 
 
6o WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 of you all the time but -with respect and pity. I 
 am glad — gladder than I can tell you — that the 
 need for pity is past, and that you are happy at 
 last.' 
 
 •Yes,' she said, looking wistfully down at the 
 summer snow of acacia leaves with which the path 
 was strewn ; ' I suppose I am as happy as one has 
 a right to expect to be in this world. But that is 
 enough of me and my affairs. Tell me of your- 
 self. What have you been doing aU this long 
 time?' 
 
 'Eeally,' he said, 'I have nothing to tell. 
 Coming here has been the only event in my life 
 since we last met.' 
 
 ' Well,' she said, ' I suppose men are like nations 
 — and those are happiest that have no history.' 
 
 ' We all have histories,' he said, ' of one sort 
 or another. Mine is finished — for the present, at 
 least.' 
 
 She remembered the words later, though they 
 had little enough meaning for her at the moment. 
 Her other guests came in sight, Mr. Herbert and 
 Sir George Venables stroUing side by side, the 
 latter with Dora perched upon his shoulder, like 
 a tropical bird, busy in weaving wild-flowers about 
 his hat. 
 
 ' There,' said Sir George, depositing her on the 
 ground, 'you've had a long ride, and I want to 
 talk to Bream. He and I are old friends, you know.' 
 
MRS. DARTMOUTH 6i 
 
 ' But I haven't finished the hat,' said Dora, 
 pouting, ' and I was making it so pretty.' 
 
 'Very well. There's the hat; work your sweet 
 will upon it,' he continued, takiag the curate's 
 arm, and drawing him apart from Mrs. Dartmouth 
 and Mr. Herbert. 'Have you any engagement 
 to-night?' 
 
 'Nothing that I know of, unless Mr. Herbert 
 should want me.' 
 
 ' Then come over to the Lodge and dine with 
 me, there's a good fellow, and stay till morning. 
 Why on earth you wanted to go and stick yourself 
 into that hole in the village, when you might have 
 come and put up with me, is more than I can 
 understand.' 
 
 'It is nearer my work, for one thing,' said 
 Bream. 'I want to get to know my parishioners, 
 and to be within easy call of the vicar, until I have 
 learned the routine of the place. But I'll come 
 over to-night and dine with you.' 
 
 'Good!' said Sir George, clapping him on the 
 shoulder. ' I'll get Mrs. Dartmouth to lend you a 
 horse, and send it back in the morning by a groom. 
 It will be like old times having you about me 
 again, old fellow. I'm devilish solitary, all alone 
 in that great rambling place, since the old man 
 died.' 
 
 ' Solitude,' said the curate, ' is not an incurable 
 iisorder, I should think, for a man with ten 
 
62 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 thousand a year, and one of the best estates and 
 oldest names in the country.' 
 
 Sir George made no answer, but flicked at his 
 boot with his riding-whip in p,n absent-minded 
 fashion. 
 
 'You seem to have been getting on very well 
 with Mrs. Dartmouth,' he said abruptly. 'What 
 do you think of her ?' 
 
 ' She seems a very pleasant, amiable woman,' 
 answered Bream rather constrainedly. ' She bought 
 this place from you, she tells me,' he continued, 
 merely for the sake of saying something to con- 
 tinue the conversation. 
 
 'Yes,' said Sir George; 'I sold her the place. 
 Pretty, isn't it?' 
 
 ' Very pretty.' 
 
 Their talk languished after this, though they 
 were old and close friends, who had not met for 
 seven years. Bream's mind was busy with the 
 r-.iatter of his recent talk with Mrs. Dartmouth, 
 and Sir George walked beside him in a moody 
 silsnce, slapping his boot at intervals. 
 
 ' It is time we were going,' he said at last, refer- 
 ring to his watch. 
 
 They turned and rejoiaed Mrs. Dartmouth. 
 
 ' Bream is going over to the Lodge to dine with 
 me, sir, if you have no objection,' said Sir George 
 to the vicar. 
 
 'By no means,' said Mr. Herbert. 'Our work 
 
MRS. DARTMOUTH 63 
 
 for \he day is over. You will meet me at the 
 school to-morrow morning at eleven, Bream.' 
 
 'I am mounted,' said Sir George, 'and Bream 
 is not. I wonder, Mrs. Dartmouth, if you would 
 lend him a horse until the morning. You could 
 ride him back yourself. Bream.' 
 
 'I will lend him Jessica,' said Mrs. Dartmouth. 
 'Barbara!' she called across the lawn to the 
 servant, who was clearing away the table under 
 the chestnut-tree, ' get Jessica saddled for Mr. 
 Bream.' 
 
 They stroUed back across the lawn, Dora chatting 
 to Sir George as she added the finishing touches 
 to the decorations of his hat, and getting absent- 
 minded monosyllables in reply. 
 
 ' There !' she said, ' now it's lovely. Stoop down, 
 and I'll put it on for you.' 
 
 He stooped, obedient to the small tyrant, and 
 when she had put on the hat took her up in his 
 arms and kissed her. His sombre face contrasted 
 oddly with the festive appearance of his head- 
 gear. 
 
 'What makes you look so solemn?' she asked 
 him. 
 
 ' Do I look solemn ?' he asked in return. 
 
 'Oh, dreadful!' said Dora, 'I can guess,' she 
 added. ' Shall I ? It's because mamma was talking 
 such a long time to the new gentleman, Mr. Bream, 
 instead of to you. I saw you watching them.' 
 
64 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 Sir George blushed a fiery red, and shot a quick 
 glance at the others to see i£ they showed signs 
 of having noticed the wisdom of this precocious 
 infant. 
 
 'Little girls shouldn't talk nonsense,' he said 
 severely. 
 
 ' I'm not little,' said Dora. ' I'm almost grown 
 up : I'm eight. If you call me little again I'll 
 take the flowers out of your hat.' 
 
 This dread threat brought them to the house. 
 Sir George was glad of the obscurity in the wide 
 hall, which hid his still blushing face, and he 
 lingered there talking a little at random till Jessica 
 and his own horse were announced as waiting. 
 Then he gave Dora a final kiss, and shook hands 
 with Mrs. Dartmouth and the vicar. 
 
 'You surely are not going to ride home with 
 those flowers in your hat,' said the hostess. 
 
 'Till I get out of sight of the house,' he 
 answered. ' It pleases Dora.' 
 
 She laughed, and turned to the curate. 
 
 ' Dora and I always take tea at five o'clock,' she 
 said, * and we shall always be glad to see you.' 
 
 He thanked her, and rode away with the baronet. 
 The road was solitary, and they had gone a mile 
 or more before Sir George untwined Dora's garland. 
 Even then he rode on with it in his hand for some 
 distance, and it was with an audible sigh that he 
 let it fall from his fingers to the dust. 
 
CHAPTEE VII. 
 
 SIB GEORGE. 
 
 The two friends rode side by side, in silence for the 
 most part, untU they came to Crouchford Lodge, a 
 venerable pile of building, of which the central and 
 oldest portion was Elizabethan, and the two wings 
 of the date of the first Charles and the second 
 George respectively. 
 
 It stood on a little eminence (quite a hill it seemed 
 amid the flat Essex meadows), and commanded a 
 goodly view of the broad acres which owned Sir 
 George as master. 
 
 Dinner that evening was as dull a business as if 
 the two companions, instead of being bosom frienda 
 who had not met for years, had been long since 
 bored to death by each other's society, and could 
 find nothing to say. Bream, who had by this time 
 got over his amazement at recognising his old 
 Westminster parishioner in Mrs. Dartmouth, made 
 several attempts to lead his companion into con- 
 versation, but with little avail. Sir George woks 
 
 5 
 
66 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 up for a minute, only to fall back into his uneasy 
 reserve. At last, when coffee had been served, and 
 they were left alone with their cigars, the curate 
 roundly challenged his friend as to the reason of his 
 melancholy. 
 
 ' I may as well tell you,' said Venables. ' One 
 gets a sort of relief sometimes by talking freely. 
 But not here. Let's get out of doors into the fresh 
 air.' 
 
 They passed out together in the growing moon- 
 light, and the baronet, at first with an obvious 
 effort, but increasing ease as he continued, un- - 
 bosomed himself to his old friend, 
 
 ' You asked me just now,' he said, ' why I went 
 abroad the year before last, and stayed away until 
 two months ago. I'll tell you. It was because I 
 had asked Mrs. Dartmouth to be my wife, and she 
 had refused, and I thought that change of scene and 
 occupation might help me to forget her,' 
 
 ' She refused you ?' repeated Bream. 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' Did she give any reason for the refusal ?' 
 
 ' I asked her for a reason. She begged me to let 
 the question go unanswered, but assured me that the 
 reason was sufficient.' 
 
 ' Who is Mrs. Dartmouth ?' asked Bream. 
 
 It went against the honest openness of his nature 
 to be guilty of even such innocent feigning as this, 
 but he held the woman's secret in trust, and had 
 
5/J? GEORGE 67 
 
 boundliimself in silence. Sir George was his oldest 
 friend, and he must needs show sympathy for him 
 ia his trouble. 
 
 ' She is Mrs. Dartmouth,' answered the baronet. 
 ' That is all I know, and all I want to know, except 
 that for the last five years she has been the only 
 woman in the world to me.' 
 
 ' You know nothing of her antecedents ?' 
 
 ' Nothing whatever. She came here with her 
 child five years ago, and took the farm through an 
 agent. A year later she made personal overtures 
 to buy it. My father was very unwilling to let it 
 go, but I persuaded him, and he gave way. That 
 was the beginning of a misunderstanding between 
 us, which lasted to his death — the only one we 
 ever had together. I was so infatuated with 
 Gillian after my first meeting with her that I 
 couldn't keep away from her, and my constant 
 presence at the farm got to be the talk of the 
 county. There was some scandal about it, I heard 
 — the fools about here would talk scandal of an 
 angel, I think.' 
 
 He paused, angrily striking his boot with his 
 riding-whip. 
 
 ' Well, it came to my father's ears, and he spoke 
 of it to me, and warned me that I was damaging 
 Mrs. Dartmouth's reputation and hurting my own 
 prospects. He had plans for me. Our neighbour, 
 Sir James Dayne, had an only daughter, and the 
 
68 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 two estates run side by side. It was the old man's 
 dream to put a ring fence round them. He told me 
 all this. I don't know what I said, but I remember 
 what I did. I jumped on horseback, and went over 
 to Mrs. Dartmouth, and asked her to marry me. 
 She refused, as I have already told you.' 
 
 Bream listened, but expressed no surprise. Sic 
 George continued : 
 
 'I was like a man dazed for weeks after, and 
 then I had a severe illness — a brain-fever. It was 
 thought that I should die, but I recovered. My 
 father was very good about it ; he did not reproach 
 me, or press me to obey his wishes in any direct 
 way for some time. I suppose he saw the case was 
 desperate, and understood that his only chance was 
 to give me time. After awhile he returned to the 
 subject very delicately. He brought Miss Dayne 
 and me together, and encouraged people in a quiet 
 way to look on our union as certain. I suppose 
 I gave him some right to do so, for I never 
 mentioned Mrs. Dartmouth's name for months, or 
 went near her.' 
 
 ' Wise, perhaps,' interrupted Bream. 
 
 ' Once I met her by accident at a yeomanry ball, 
 and I am sure that no stranger who had seen our 
 meeting would have discovered that there was any- 
 thing between us but the most commonplace 
 acquaintance. I seemed numbed, somehow, as I 
 felt once when I was pitched on. my head^ out 
 
Sm GEORGE 69 
 
 hunting, and got up and rode home. My father 
 thought I was cured ; I should have thought so too, 
 if I could have cared for anything, or felt any 
 interest in life. Something like a tacit engage- 
 ment was entered into with the Daynes. I was to 
 go abroad and travel a little, and when I came back 
 the engagement was to be made public, and we 
 were to be married.' 
 
 Sir George paused, with a gloomy frown, then 
 proceeded : 
 
 * She — the girl — was a good, feeble, insignificant 
 little creature, who would have married a labourer 
 off her father's fields if she had been ordered to do 
 it. It was arranged that I should go away for a 
 year. I started, and got as far as Paris, and then 
 — God knows what idea I had in my poor head — I 
 knew it was hopeless, and whether I was at home 
 or at the North Pole it would make no difference, 
 but I came back, I could not bear to be away 
 from her. My father saw that it was no further 
 use to struggle with me, and gave in about Miss 
 Dayne. He died a year later, and I succeeded 
 to the title and the estates, and some months later 
 I made a second proposal to Mrs. Dartmouth.' 
 
 'And then?' 
 
 ' I learnt then, what I had never known before, 
 that she loved me. She told me so ; I begged her 
 to teU me what was the obstacle that kept us apart, 
 but she would not. She extracted a promise from 
 
70 WOMAJV AND THE MAN 
 
 me that I would go away from England for a short 
 time, and that, come what might, she would marry 
 no other man. I went, and travelled all over the 
 Continent, and through America and Australia. I 
 was away nearly two years, till I could stay away no 
 longer. The absence did me a little good ; I shall 
 never cease to love her, but I have learned patience. 
 I can meet her now as a friend, without making her 
 unhappy by asking her for what she cannot give me. 
 I am not very unhappy, except at moments, and I 
 manage to keep my unhappiness to myself, as a 
 general thing. I potter about the estate, and attend 
 Quarter Sessions, and all the rest of it, and I 
 dare say some day I shall go into the House, 
 and be a tolerable success as a country gentle- 
 man.' 
 
 ' Have you no idea of her reason for refusing to 
 marry you ?' 
 
 ' She gave me none. I can only guess. The 
 likeliest guess I can make is that her husband is 
 still alive. A nice brute he must have been to 
 quarrel with an angel like that. By God, Bream, 
 when you know her as I do ! She's an angel ! 
 She's been the sunHght of this place since she's 
 been here. You'll hear what the poor say about 
 her. They worship her, and no wonder. She's 
 the best friend they ever had.' 
 
 ' Do you see her often ?' 
 
 ' No oftener than I can help,' he replied simply. 
 
S!J? GEORGE 71 
 
 * I hadn't been there for six weeks when I called 
 to-day.' 
 
 ' You could hardly have liked my monopolizing 
 her as I did,' said Bream. 
 
 ' I did not mind it,' answered Sir George. ' I am 
 glad to be near her, but it is as well, perhaps, that 
 I should not be alone with her, I am not certain 
 if I could trust myself not to speak of — of things 
 better left unspoken.' 
 
 The anodyne which soothes the heart of one who 
 has spoken of his secret trouble to a sympathetic 
 listener had come to him, and he was more cheer- 
 ful, more like his strong and hopeful self, whom 
 Bream had known years ago, when they had been 
 boys together. They walked late under the moon- 
 light, talking of many things, old memories and 
 future plans. Sir George was cheerful at breakfast," 
 and saw his friend mount and start back to the 
 village with jovial invitations to him to come again 
 soon, and to stay a longer time. 
 
 As Bream drew near Mrs, Dartmouth's house, 
 he saw approaching him the figure of a tall and 
 strongly-built man, clad in what seemed a peculiar 
 compromise between the ordinary dress of a peasant 
 and that of a sailor. He had on a pair of dilapi- 
 dated longshore boots reaching to mid-thigh, and 
 splashed with mud of various hues, as were the 
 corduroy trousers which surmounted them, a blue 
 flannel shirt with a carelessly knotted flowing red 
 
72 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 tie, a ragged tweed jacket, and a broad felt sombrero. 
 He seemed to be under the influence of liquor, for 
 he was reeling and tacking from side to side of the 
 road, and every now and then pausing to hold on 
 to a tree branch. Thinking that it was an early 
 hour for the most faithful subject of La Dive 
 Bouteille to be so nearly prostrate at her shrine, 
 and wondering if one so strangely garbed was 
 merely a passing tramp or one of his parishioners. 
 Bream turned in at Mrs. Dartmouth's gate. 
 
 The lady was on the lawn in front of the house, 
 equipped with gardening gauntlets and a pair of 
 shears, and engaged in trimming a rosebush, with 
 Dora hovering about her. She gave him a pleasant 
 greeting, and called to a gardener at work at a little 
 distance to take the mare round to the stable. 
 They were chatting together as she continued her 
 work among the flowers, when a sudden cry of 
 alarm from Dora made them both turn. There, 
 in the gateway, stood the figure which Bream had 
 Been a few minutes before in the road. In the very 
 moment in which Bream again caught sight of him, 
 he set both hands to his head, and with a lon^^ 
 groan fell forward on the path, sending the gravel 
 flying in a little shower about his prostrate figure. 
 
 Bream ran to him. He was lying face down- 
 wards, in an attitude of complete unconsciousness 
 and self-abandonment. 
 
 Turning him over as he raised his head, the 
 
SIR GEORGE 73 
 
 curate saw that he had altogether misread the 
 man's condition. He was not drunk, but clearly- 
 very ill. His face was blanched to the hue of chalk, 
 his lips a dull violet, the half-opened lids showed 
 the glaring and discoloured whites of his eyes. The 
 beating of his heart was scarcely sensible to the 
 touch of Bream's hand, and only his slow and 
 stertorous breath betrayed that life was in him. 
 
 ' The man is seriously ill,' he answered to Mrs. 
 Dartmouth's rapid questions. 'He has fainted 
 from hunger.' 
 
 * Poor wretch !' said Mrs. Dartmouth pityingly. 
 ' Can you not carry him into the hall ? Tom will 
 help you.' 
 
 The gardener had returned, and lent a pair of 
 strong and willing hands. The broken wayfarer 
 was carried into the house, and set upon a chair, 
 where he sat, las as an unstrung marionette, sup- 
 ported by Bream's arm. 
 
 ' A bad business, I fear,' said the latter. ' Could 
 you let me have a little brandy, please ?' 
 
 A ring at the bell produced Barbara, who went in 
 search of the spirit, and stood by while Bream gently 
 insinuated a teaspoonful into the man's throat. He 
 sighed, and a faint tinge of colour flickered into his 
 ashen cheeks. 
 
 ' That's better,' said Bream. • Come, my lad, try 
 another dose.' 
 
 The second teaspoonful of liquor worked a marked 
 
74 W03fAN AND THE MAN 
 
 change for the better in the man's aspect and 
 condition. The colour in his face deepened, his 
 eyes opened, and after letting them wander for a 
 moment, he fixed them on Mrs. Dartmouth. His 
 lips stirred with a broken murmur, and he made a 
 wandering movement with his arm, meant, perhaps, 
 for a phrase of thanks and a salute, though no word 
 was distinguishable, and his arm fell heavily by his 
 side again. 
 
 ' Is there any workhouse or asylum that would 
 take the poor fellow in ?' asked Bream. 
 
 ' None nearer than Stortford,' answered Mrs. 
 Dartmouth, ' and that is twelve miles away. Is he 
 very ill?' 
 
 'Too -ill to stand such a journey,' said Bream. 
 ' He is almost exhausted. What is to be done ?' 
 
 ' We must give him shelter here, I suppose. It 
 would be inhuman to turn him out upon the road 
 again.' 
 
 'Eh, missis,' said Barbara, 'but he is such a 
 rough-lookin' chap.' 
 
 ' It may be a long business,' said Bream, ' he has 
 evidently only partially recovered from a severe 
 iUness, possibly an infectious disorder.' 
 
 ' There is a loft over the stable,' said Mrs. Dart- 
 mouth, ' where the groom used to live before his 
 cottage was finished. He would be quite safe there.' 
 
 ' Lord save us, missis!' again interposed Barbara, 
 * we shall all be murdered in our beds !' 
 
S/Ji GEORGE 75 
 
 ' Not by this fellow,' said Bream — ' for a time, at 
 any rate. He hasn't the strength to murder a 
 fly. Whatever is to be done should be done 
 quiokly.' 
 
 ' We cannot turn him out,' said Mrs. Dartmouth 
 again ; ' that would be too shameful. WUl you help 
 Tom to carry him to the loft, Mr. Bream, and please 
 tell me what iood he should have ?' 
 
 ' Soup — not too strong. A spoonful every half- 
 hour. Now, Tom, my man, take his legs. So! 
 You had better come with us, Mrs. Barbara, to 
 see that the room is in order.' 
 
 Barbara followed, a mute protest expressed in her 
 face, and Bream and the gardener bore their patient 
 to the loft. It was not until they had got him there 
 that Bream noticed a ragged and dirty scrap of 
 paper clenched in the man's hand. It seemed as 
 if, even in his mental prostration and physical 
 exhaustion, he blindly attached some value to it, 
 for he feebly resented the curate's effort to take it 
 from his fingers. 
 
 On it was written, in thin rusty ink, and strag- 
 gling, formless characters, these words ; 
 
 • Barbara Lbigh, 
 
 ' Crouchf ord Court, 
 ' Crouchford, Essex. 
 
 Bream read the words aloud, and was electrified 
 by a sudden scream from the woman at his side. 
 
76 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 ' Lord sakes, it's Jake !' 
 
 ' Jake !' said Bream ; ' you know him ?' 
 
 ' Know him ! He's my own very brother-in-law 
 
 — Jake Owen, as married my sister seven years ago 
 
 and took her to Ameriky !' 
 
CHAPTEE VIII. 
 
 JAKE OWEN. 
 
 ' Jake !' said Barbara, kneeling beside the bed. 
 ' Eh, Jake lad, to think as I'd ha' turned thee out 
 on to the road again, like a starvin' dog ! Lord 
 forgive me for my 'wicked sin ! Jake, don't 'ee 
 know me ? I be Jess's sister — Jess, as you married, 
 Jake.' 
 
 The repetition of the name stirred the traveller. 
 His eyes, which had been fixed upon the ceiling 
 with a meaningless and glassy stare, grew brighter, 
 the rigid lines of his face softened. 
 
 ' Jake !' said Barbara again, ' won't 'ee speak to 
 me, lad?' 
 
 The fingers which had held the paper fumbled 
 feebly on the counterpane, as if seeking for it. 
 Jake turned his head, and saw Barbara kneeling 
 beside him. 
 
 ' Who be you ?' he asked. ' Where am I ?' 
 
 ' I'm Barbara Leigh,' she said, letting his second 
 question pass unanswered. 
 
78 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 'Barbara Leigh?' he repeated. 'Let's see thy 
 face. Ay, Barbara Leigh — Jess's sister.' 
 
 ' Yes, yes, Jess's sister ! What brings 'ee here ?' 
 
 ' I've come,' said Jake slowly and with dif&culty, 
 ' to see ye and bring ye a message. How did I 
 come here ? Where did ye find me ? Ah, I 
 remember ! I was at the gate when my head went 
 round, and I seemed death-struck, and then — what 
 place is this ?' 
 
 ' Crouchford Court,' answered Barbara. ' I'm 
 servant here. Ye had the name wrote on this 
 paper.' 
 
 ' Ah !' said Jake, recognising it, ' I wrote it 
 myself two days agone, when I left London, after 
 I'd first felt the deadness coming over me, so as 
 folks might know as I had friends and belonged 
 somewhere. Who's this?' he asked, with a gesture 
 of the head towards Mr. Bream, who stood quietly 
 attentive at the bedside. 
 
 ' It's Mr. Bream, Jake, the curate of the parish, 
 as found ye at the gate and brought you here.' 
 
 ' Sarvice t' ye, sir,' said Jake, ' though I'd rather 
 see ye in a coat of another colour.' 
 
 ' Ay ?' said Bream. ' And why so, my good 
 fellow ?' 
 
 ' Why,' answered the wayfarer, ' they say where 
 black coats gather they be like ravens, and scent 
 death. But I won't die yet — ^no, by God ! not till 
 I've done my work !' 
 
yAKE OWEN 79 
 
 ' You'll live to do plenty of work yet, my friend, 
 if you'll take care and not excite yourself.' 
 
 ' Bless you, sir, for them words !' said Barbara. 
 
 ' You've had a long tramp ?' said Bream. 
 
 'Ay, all the way from London. Three nights 
 and days on the road. I'm sore spent ; but there's 
 life in me yet.' 
 
 ' There is indeed,' said Bream, looking at him 
 with interest. 
 
 There was a galvanic vitality in the man. Five 
 minutes ago he had seemed almost on the point of 
 death ; now his voice, though weak, was firm, and 
 his pale face was full of a restless energy. 
 
 * You'll come through all right, but you must be 
 quiet, and not excite yourself. You've had brain- 
 fever.' 
 
 ' Ay !' said Jake. * That's what they called it 
 aboard ship. But I want to talk to Barbey, and, 
 begging your pardon ' 
 
 'You want me to go? Well, so I will in a 
 minute. Let me feel your pulse. Are you hungry ?' 
 
 * I was a while ago.' 
 
 ' Some soup will be here in a little whUe. See 
 that he eats moderately, Barbara. He is not so 
 ill as I supposed, but he must be careful. I'll look 
 in again towards evening. Keep your heart up, my 
 fine fellow, and you'll soon be on your legs again.' 
 
 ' Thank 'ee, sir,' said Jake, ' for what you've done, 
 and my sarvice to Barbey's missis.' 
 
8o WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 ' Tell me,' said Barbara, when the door had 
 closed behind Mr, Bream — 'tell me about Jess. 
 Where is she ? Is she come back to England wi' 
 you?' 
 
 ' Nay,' said Jake ; ' she'll come back to England 
 no more, my lass.' 
 
 'Jake!' said Barbara, 'can't 'ee speak plain? 
 What is it as ye're trying to hide from me ?' 
 
 ' She's dead,' said Jake. 
 
 ' Dead !' said Barbara. 
 
 ' Ay,' said Jake, staring at the ceiling. ' She's 
 dead and buried. She died in my arms.' 
 
 ' I can't believe it,' said Barbara. ' Eh, Jake, 
 ye're lying, I doubt, for sport. Say as ye are.' 
 
 ' It's the God's truth,' said the man. ' She died 
 i' my arms out yonder. Look me i' the face, 
 Barbey — did you have no word from her, no news 
 o' what happened, ere she died?' 
 
 ' Not a word,' said Barbara — 'not a word have I 
 had from her for twelve months and more. The 
 last letter I got said as she was well and happy, and 
 that you was good to her.' 
 
 ' Better to her, maybe, than she deserved,' said 
 Jake. 
 
 ' What d'ye mean ?' said Barbara. ' I'd claw the 
 face of any other man as said a word agen my 
 sister. Speak out straight and open like a man !' 
 
 ' She left me,' said Jake. 
 
 ' Left ye ! How left ye ?' 
 
JAKE OWEN 8i 
 
 « 
 
 ' She went off with another naan.' 
 
 ' No, no !' cried Barbara, covering her face with 
 her hands, as if to shut out some horrible 
 vision. 
 
 ' Ay,' said Jake, ' that was the end of it. That 
 was what came of our years of happy married life. 
 Good to her! She might well say that, Barbey, 
 and more to the back of it. Good to her ! I loved 
 the ground she trod on, the thing she touched. 
 I'd ha' put my hand in the fire tq save her from 
 the finger-ache. And she loved me, too — till he 
 came.' 
 
 ' He ?' repeated Barbara. 
 
 ' Ay, the man she bolted with.' He lay looking 
 at the ceiling with the same unwinking stare, and 
 then said softly, but with an indescribable intona- 
 tion of hate and loathing, ' Damn him !' 
 
 Barbara sat silent for a time, rocking her body 
 quietly to and fro, till suddenly she broke into loud 
 weeping. 
 
 ' Ay, lass,' said Jake, with the same evil-sounduig 
 quiet in his voice, ' I've done that too, but it didn't 
 fetch her back.' 
 
 Barbara wept unrestrainedly for some minutes. 
 
 ' Tell me,' she said at last, ' how it came about.' 
 
 ' It was in California, at a place called Jacob's 
 Flat. I was mining there and doing well, for the 
 place was rich. I'd been doing well pretty much 
 all along after I married Jess, for when a man 
 
 6 
 
82 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 loves a gal as I loved her it puts the starch into hia 
 back. We had no children, thank God ! Though, 
 perhaps,' he added, after a pause, ' if we had had, 
 it might ha' kept her straight. "Well, we got on all 
 right at Jacob's Flat till we met Mordaunt. That 
 was the name he gave himself, though most likely 
 it wasn't his own. He was a gentleman born and 
 bred, and a scholar, and I took it as a good deal of 
 honour as he should have took to me directly a'most 
 as he saw me. Jess liked him, I could see, and I was 
 glad to see her make a friend, for the place was 
 full of rough people as she didn't care to mis with. 
 I was away at work all day long, and I thought no 
 harm even when I knew as he was always with her. 
 I'd have trusted her across the world after the nine 
 years we'd lived together, and him with her, for I 
 believed he was my friend, and was proud to be in 
 his company. He never did any work, and always 
 seemed to have plenty of money, somehow. Every- 
 body liked him, and gave way to him ; he was a 
 sort of king among them rough chaps, and every 
 woman in the camp was after him. There was 
 nothing as he couldn't do. He could talk to the 
 Frenchmen and the Germans in their own lingo, 
 and he could play the fiddle better than any other 
 chap in the place ; and he could draw people's 
 pictures so as they seemed to speak to you out of 
 the paper a'most. He did a picture of Jess, as 
 used to hang in the cabin at the Flat., I burned 
 
yAKE OWEN 83 
 
 it after — after that happened, for I couldn't stand 
 
 seeing the eyes follow me about. I found out 
 
 afterwards as there 'd been a lot of talk in the camp 
 
 about her and Mordaunt being so much together, 
 
 but nobody said anything to me at the time. 
 
 P'raps that was lucky for 'em, for I was so mad 
 
 about the wench, and so took up with Mordaunt, 
 
 that as likely as not I should have stuck a knife 
 
 into 'em for their pains. Well, the end came at 
 
 last. I went home one night and the cabin was 
 
 empty. I waited till one o'clock in the morning, 
 
 and then I went to the bar, beginning to be afeard 
 
 as something might have happened, and I thought 
 
 I might get news of her there. Nobody had seen 
 
 her. Then I asked where Mordaunt wa.s, and the 
 
 man as kept the bar said he'd borrowed a horse 
 
 from him and rode out that morning, and hadn t 
 
 come back yet. I went back to the cabin and 
 
 waited all night. No news came, and no news all 
 
 next day. I was well-nigh mad with fright, till 
 
 the Vigilance Committee made up a search-party 
 
 to look for her. " It's not of much use, my lad," 
 
 they said ; " they've got sis-and-thirty hours' start 
 
 of us, and God knows where they are by now!" 
 
 "They!" I said. "What d'ye mean?" And he 
 
 told me she'd been seen with Mordaunt thirty 
 
 miles away at six o'clock the day before.' 
 
 He paused in his story, panting a little with the 
 exertion of so much speech. Barbara sat waiting 
 
«4 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 trith clasped hands and tear-stained cheeks for 
 him to continue. Outside, the pleasant homely 
 Bounds of farm life came floating up to the window 
 of the room on the still June air, the champing of 
 the horses in the stalls below, the cluck of poultry, 
 the rattle of the big mastiff's chain as he snapped 
 at the flies, the call of a waggoner to his horses 
 fifty yards away on the highroad, the distant 
 clatter of a sheep-bell, the drowsy music of the 
 trees. Presently Jake's voice rose again, monoto- 
 nous and hollow, like a ghost's. 
 
 ' I was that mazed I couldn't think for an hour 
 or two. Then I went to the claim where my 
 partner was working. I didn't need to tell him 
 what had happened ; he knew already, and he saw 
 it in my face, as I knew, too. I asked him to buy 
 my share, and he took it, and paid for it more than 
 it was worth I remembered afterwards, though I 
 didn't notice at the time. He offered to come along 
 with me, but I said I didn't want him. It was my 
 work, and I meant to go through with it alone. I 
 meant to find 'em and to kill 'em both, and what 
 was to happen afterwards I didn't know, and I 
 didn't care. I hunted 'em for a long time, nearly 
 all across America, getting word of 'em here and 
 there, but never coming up with them, till at last I 
 got to New York. They had been there together, 
 and Mordaunt had sailed to England a day or two 
 before alone. I went all over the city looking for 
 
JAKE OWEN 8s 
 
 Jess, and at last I found her. She was in the 
 hospital, for she'd been fever-struck, and he'd took 
 advantage of it to run away and leave her to die, or 
 to starve, or to go upon the streets. I'd meant ta 
 kill her, even when I heard she was in the hospital, 
 I went there with murder in my heart, and my 
 knife was open in my pocket when the doctor took 
 me to her bed. But, oh, lass, when I saw her poor 
 white face, with the mark of death on it, plain for a 
 child to read, my heart broke, and I fell crying by 
 the bedside, for I loved her in spite of all !' 
 
 Barbara took his hand, and kissed it and wept 
 upon it in a helpless passion of pity. 
 
 ' She died,' Jake continued. ' Thank God, she 
 died in my arms, and knew as I'd forgiven her ! I 
 was raving mad for days after, and knew nothing as 
 happened. When my brain cleared I was standing 
 by her grave, and there, with the rain beating 
 down on me like my own heart's blood, I swore to 
 find the man as had done it all — as had killed her 
 and ruined my life.' 
 
 'And did you find him?' asked Barbara, in- 
 voluntarily shrinking from the bed, though she 
 stni clung to Jake's hand. 
 
 ' No,' said Jake, ' or I wouldn't be raving here, 
 like an old hen-wife as has lost half a dozen 
 chickens. If I'd found him I'd be quiet, lying in 
 the grave with Jess. Jhat's what's brought me here. 
 That's what's kept me alive through the fever, and 
 
86 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 the trouble, and the hunger. It's fed my mouth 
 like bread, the thought of meeting him face to face. 
 It's all I ask of God Almighty, just to let me stand 
 before that man for one minute.' 
 
 The simple peasant woman had never seen 
 passion like to this. It frightened her to silence. 
 Then she began to stammer religious common- 
 places about the wickedness of revenge. Jake lay 
 stariug at the ceiling and made no answer ; it was 
 doubtful if he heard her. 
 
 ' I'm tired, lass,' he said quietly, a minute after 
 her voice had ceased ; ' leave me to myself ; I'll 
 sleep awhile.' 
 
CHAPTEE IX, 
 
 ME. EZRA STOKES. 
 
 Me. Ezra Stokes, the landlord of the Pig and 
 Whistle, one of the two houses of public entertain- 
 ment in the village of Crouchford, was a new-comer 
 in those parts. Crouchford was slow to accept new 
 people, and Stokes had been a member of its com- 
 munity only for the last two years. 
 
 He was a dry and withered man of late middle 
 age, whose skin had been burned to an equal 
 blackish brown by stronger suns than that which 
 shone on Essex. He was gnarled and warped and 
 knotted all over like a wind-blown tree — with a 
 halting leg, a wry neck, a humped shoulder, a 
 peculiarly ghastly squint, a crooked mouth, fur- 
 nished with huge discoloured teeth, no two of 
 which stood at the same angle, and a twisted nose 
 with three distinct bridges. 
 
 His antecedents were dark; except that he had 
 been a traveller, and had, as, despite the time- 
 honoured proverb to the contrary, rolling stones 
 
88 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 sometimes do, gathered some financial moss in his 
 wanderings, nothing was known of him by his 
 neighbours. He had dropped down into the little 
 place from heaven knows where, and had taken 
 the lease of the Pig and Whistle, paying solid cash 
 for the privilege, and lived reputably in the village, 
 owing no man anything. 
 
 There was a certain likeness between his home 
 and himself : both had been newer and smarter once 
 upon a time, but the battering which makes a man 
 ugly makes a house picturesque, and such stray 
 connoisseurs of the beautiful as came to Crouchford 
 found the Pig and "Whistle a prettier spectacle than 
 its landlord. It was a tumble-down, weather- 
 stained roadside house of two stories, with bulging 
 wall shored up by heavy balks of timber. Its 
 low-browed door was covered with a heavy lintel of 
 oak beams, and furnished with two settles, where, 
 on fine nights, Mr. Stokes might be seen reading 
 the newspaper or drinking affably with his rustic 
 customers. The latter voted him 'mazin' good 
 company, for he could, when he chose, talk of 
 moving adventures by flood and field, in places 
 whose names sounded strange and barbaric in 
 rustic ears, and had besides a sly, hard humour, 
 which sometimes took a practical form. 
 
 Mr. Bream, rapidly covering all the ground — 
 social and geographical — of Crouchford with his 
 usual energy, knew every soul in the parish in a 
 
MR. EZRA STOKES 89 
 
 week, and among them the landlord of the Pig 
 and Whistle. Their acquaintance made quick 
 progress. There ^yere not many people of sufficient 
 native shrewdness or acquired experience in Crouch- 
 ford greatly to interest a man of culture, except 
 with the interest, grown commonplace to Mr. 
 Bream, of individual traits of character, or of such 
 special worries and troubles, bodily and spiritual, as 
 it was his duty to attend to. 
 
 A man who had travelled, and could talk more 
 or less intelligently of what he had seen, was an 
 acquaintance to be cultivated in a village of whose 
 inhabitants not one per cent, had ever wandered 
 twenty miles from the church spire. Then, the 
 Pig and Whistle was the sitting-place of the local 
 parliament, where the ancients and young men 
 of the place came together to unbend in social 
 dissipation after the labours of the day, and he 
 who would know men should meet them at such 
 moments. 
 
 Crouchford came to think well of its new curate. 
 
 In his first week of his sojourn amongst them, 
 the annual cricket match with the neighbouring 
 village of Hilton had been played, and for the first 
 time in five years had resulted in a victory for 
 Crouchford, mainly through his batting and 
 bowling. That alone would have conquered the 
 affections of the villagers, but when, after the 
 match, Mr. Bream stood the two elevens a supper 
 
90 WOMA^ AND THE MAN 
 
 at the Pig and Whistle, and, after due justice had 
 been done to beef and ale, sang 'Tom Bowling' 
 from his place at the head of the table, Crouchford, 
 old and young, male and female, swore by him. 
 
 This access of popularity rather disturbed the 
 mind of Mr. Herbert, who belonged to an altogether 
 different type of clergymen, and whose aristocratic 
 instincts were not so tempered by his Christianity 
 as to permit him so large a familiarity with the 
 humbler members of his flock. 
 
 A week or two after Bream's arrival his vicar 
 was shocked to see his curate at the door of Stokes' 
 hostelry, holding forth to the assembled yokels 
 with a glass of beer in his hand, and obviously, 
 to judge by the broad grins of his audience, not on 
 a doctrinal subject. When the two clerics next 
 came together, the senior took the curate to task 
 about this undue familiarity. 
 
 ' Understand me, Bream,' he said, ' I would not 
 willingly be taken for one of those — ah — false 
 shepherds who think that the delivery of a weekly 
 sermon, and the discharge of bare parochial duties, 
 complete a pastor's work. By no means. I have 
 endeavoured during my whole time here, to — ah — 
 to institute a friendly feeling between myself and 
 every member of the church congregation. But 
 there are — ah — limits. Bream.' 
 
 ' And you think I have over-stepped the limits, 
 sir?' 
 
MR. EZRA STOKES 91 
 
 ' Distinctly !' said Mr. Herbert, with emphasis. 
 ' To preserve authority among the — ah — vulgar, a 
 gentleman, and, above all, a priest, should keep a 
 certain aloofness — a certain dignity. How can 
 that dignity be preserved by a clergyman who 
 drinks — ah — beer ' — Mr. Herbert got out the vulgar 
 monosyllable with something of an effort — 'with 
 a crowd of rustics before a common alehouse ?' 
 
 ' Stokes' beer is really very good, sir,' said 
 Bream gravely. 
 
 It never entered into Mr. Herbert's head that 
 anybody, especially his curate, could dare to chaff 
 him, and he pat aside the irrelevant remark with a 
 wave of his hand. 
 
 ' Let me ask you, Mr. Herbert,' said Bream, 'if 
 you ever happened to overhear those fellows talk- 
 ing when they were unaware of your presence ?' 
 
 ' Very possibly. I — ah — don't exactly remember 
 any particular occasion, but it has probably 
 occurred.' 
 
 ' It has occurred once or twice to me since I have 
 been here,' said Bream, ' and I have noticed that 
 on such occasions their whole conversation is one 
 tissue of dirt and profanity. Well, sir, when I am 
 with them, I have seldom heard a word which 
 might not be used from the pulpit. Last night, 
 Just after you had passed, one man, Ned Eoberts, 
 from the Pear-tree Farm, began to swear. I told 
 him he had no right to use that language in my 
 
92 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 presence ; but — he was drunk — ^he went on swear- 
 ing, and Stokes turned him out and sent him 
 home. Now surely, sir, if my presence among 
 them obliges them to talk and think decently for an 
 hour or so a day, that is so much gained, and the 
 fact that it does so is surely proof enough that 
 my familiarity with them has not bred contempt 
 either of me or of my office.' 
 
 ' There is something in what you say. Bream,' 
 said Mr. Herbert. ' Still,' he continued, returning 
 to his original position, 'there are limits. Don't 
 overstep them. As for that fellow Stokes, I don't 
 like him. Duria'g the two years he has lived here 
 he has not once entered the church door. He has 
 given me more trouble about — ah — tithes than any 
 three people in the place. I don't think he led a 
 reputable life before he came here.' 
 
 ' He is a fairly intelligent man, sir, and he has a 
 good deal of influence among the labourers. As to 
 what his life has been it is hard to say. He has 
 travelled a good deal, though in what capacity I 
 don't know. He is willing enough to talk of what 
 he has seen, but he never talks about himself.' 
 
 'I should say,' said Mr. Herbert, 'that he 
 probably has good reason for his reticence,' an 
 uncharitable remark which Bream attributed to 
 the tithes dispute. 
 
 It fell out, however, that this same Stokes was 
 to be intimately associated with the development 
 
MR. EZRA STOKES 93 
 
 of the one romance which was going forward ia 
 that sleepy and world-forgotten village, and it so 
 fell out in this wise. Mr. Bream, calling at the 
 Pig and Whistle one evening, found Stokes holding 
 forth to his ring of customers regarding a tremen- 
 dous landshp in the State of Arizona, which had 
 happened a few years back, in a district with which 
 he had been familiar both before and after the 
 catastrophe. His hearers listened open-mouthed, 
 save one sour-faced veteran, who, at the conclusion 
 of the tale, snorted with disdainful laughter before 
 burying his visage in a wide-mouthed earthen mug. 
 
 ' What be laughia' at, George ?' asked a crony. 
 
 'Why, at all you fools swallerin' the like of that,' 
 said the ancient. 
 
 ' Don't ye believe it ?' asked Stokes. 
 
 ' Do you believe it, as has been a-telling of it ?' 
 asked the ancient sourly. ' You comes here, and 
 asks Chris'en men i' their sense to b'lieve a rig- 
 marole like that !' 
 
 'Well, but, George, what is it as 'ee don't b'lieve ?' 
 asked the crony. 
 
 'I don't believe one word of it,' said George 
 sturdily. 
 
 'You're wrong there, then,' said Mr. Bream. 
 'Things of that sort do occur, and as for the 
 details of this story, I remember reading some of 
 them in the English papers at the time.' 
 
 'There,' said Stokes triumphantly. 'Thafs 
 
94 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 what comes o' telling a story to a gentleman as 
 knows something. And if you want any more 
 proof than Mr. Bream's word, why, ye shall 
 have it.' 
 
 So saying, he left the meeting for a moment, 
 and presently returned with a big volume in his 
 arms, which turned out to be a collection of literary 
 and pictorial scraps from English, colonial, and 
 American newspapers. 
 
 'There,' he said, bumping the volume down 
 before the dissenting George, open at a large picture, 
 'that's the place as it was after the landslip — as 
 it is now, for all I know. I've eat my meals and 
 slep' in that hut in the corner scores o' times, 
 when it was a quarter of a mile higher up the 
 mountain.' 
 
 'Well,' said the combative George, unable to 
 stand against the phalanx of testimony, but re- 
 treating, like a valiant general, with his face to the 
 foe, ' I don't know as it's much use to talk o' places 
 where that kind o' thing's like to happen. I'm 
 glad as I can go to my bed i' Crouchford without 
 bein' afraid of finding Hilton atop o' me when I 
 wakes i' the mornin'. I should look on a visita- 
 tion o' that sort i' th' light of a judgment.' 
 
 'Ah, surely!' chorused the others, with the 
 exception of Stokes, who was surveying the ancient 
 with a visage of humorous disdain, and Mr. 
 Bream, who was turning the leaves of the book. 
 
MR. EZRA STOKES 95 
 
 ' Have you been in all these places, Stokes ?' 
 asked Mr. Bream, glancing from page to page, 
 filled with scraps of journalism from most of the 
 English-speaking countries and settlements on the 
 face of the globe. 
 
 'Why, no, sir,' said Stokes, 'not all; but I've 
 been in a good many of 'em. I was always fond of 
 reading, and I cut them things out, here and there, 
 and kept 'em, and when I came here I pasted 'em 
 into that book. They comes in useful sometimes 
 when a set 0' mouldy old yokels, as has never been 
 a mUe from the town pump, calls me a liar.' 
 
 George wisely declined to accept this challenge 
 to a renewal of hostilities. Suddenly the assembly 
 was startled by a stifled exclamation from Mr. 
 Bream, and saw him staring like one amazed at 
 a page of the book. 
 
 ' Stokes !' he said, rising with the volume in his 
 hand, and speaking in a quick, uneven voice, ' give 
 me a word in private, will you? There is some- 
 thing here which interests me.' 
 
 Stokes limped his way into the deserted parlour, 
 and Mr. Bream followed, bearing the book, which 
 he laid open on the table. The innkeeper offered 
 him a chair; he took no notice of the act, but, 
 after looking round to see that they were really 
 alone and the door closed, laid his finger on a 
 cutting. 
 
 ' Eead that,' he said, ' and tell me if it's true/ 
 
96 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 Stokes, after staring at him, read the paragraph. 
 It was to this effect : 
 
 ' News comes from Yuam, New Mexico, that 
 Bluffer Hawkins, the well-known desperado of that 
 district, has at last handed in his checks. Our 
 readers will remember that it is a little over a 
 month since Hawkins, accompanied by a solitary 
 confederate, stopped the mail-coach just outside 
 Yuam, and executed a daring and successful robbery 
 on the passengers. On Tuesday night, one of the 
 victims of the raid gave information to Police- 
 Lieutenant McCormick that Hawkins and his com- 
 panion had entered the town, and were drinking 
 in the Magnolia Saloon. That officer, with his 
 usual energetic promptness, betook himself to the 
 place, accompanied by three of his subordinates. 
 Immediately on his entrance, Hawkins and his 
 companion drew their revolvers. In the first 
 exchange of shots McCormick and one of his 
 followers fell, fatally wounded, and there is little 
 doubt but that Hawkins and his companion would 
 have escaped but for the public-spirited conduct of 
 Mr. Uriah Cleary, the proprietor of the saloon, 
 who materially aided the officers of I'aw by firing at 
 Hawkins from behmd. His bullet passed through 
 the desperado's neck, and a lucky shot from one of 
 McCormick's party settled his companion. The 
 identity of the latter was established at the police- 
 station, where, life being discovered to be extinct. 
 
JlfJi. EZRA STOKES 97 
 
 an examination of his body resulted in the dis- 
 covery of several old letters, addressed to Philip 
 O'Mara, at an address in London. McCormick's 
 gallant conduct has excited universal admiration, 
 and a subscription has been liberally started on 
 behalf of his widow and children.' 
 
 It seemed to Mr. Bream's excited fancy that 
 Stokes took an unconscionably long time to read 
 this short paragraph. When at last he raised his 
 head, his twisted face was as impassive as a stone 
 wall. As for his eyes, there was never anything to 
 be learned from them, not even in the direction 
 in which they were looking. He said nothing, but 
 waited for the clergyman to speak again. 
 
 ' Is that true ?' asked Mr. Bream again. 
 
 'It's given here as a piece of news,' Stokes 
 answered. ' I don't see why it shouldn't be.' 
 
 ' Were you ever in that place ? Did you know 
 either of those men ?' 
 
 Stokes's crooked eyes came together, as if taking 
 council of each other. 
 
 ' I knew them both,' he answered, after a 
 moment's pause. 
 
 * Were you at this place, Yuam, when the affray 
 happened ?' 
 
 ' No, I was in New York ; that's where I saw the 
 report. It's cut out of the New York Sentinel, 
 June 5, 18 — .' He pointed to the date, written 
 in his own rude characters, below the paragraph. 
 
 7 
 
98 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 * You knew O'Mara ?' 
 
 'Not by that name. Mordaunt was what he 
 called himself.' 
 
 'How do you know, then, that this was the 
 man?' 
 
 ' Because, when I was with him in a bar in St. 
 Louis, a man came up to him and called him 
 O'Mara. Mordaunt stuck the man out as he'd 
 made a mistake. He was an Englishman. So 
 was Mordaimt." 
 
 ' Could you describe him ?' 
 
 ' Tallish chap ; good-looking ; very swell way of 
 speaking. Used a lot of crack-jaw words. Played 
 the fiddle and the planner beautiful.' 
 
 ' Will you lend me this book for an hour or two, 
 Stokes ? Say till to-morrow morning ?' 
 
 ' Certainly, sir,' said Stokes, closing the volume, 
 and handing it to him; 'keep it as long as you 
 like, sir.' 
 
 ' I knew the unfortunate man,' said Mr. Bream ; 
 ' he has relatives in England who know nothing of 
 his death. I will ask you, Stokes, to be so good as 
 to say nothing of our conversation. It is a painful 
 story, and I don't want it talked about.' 
 
 ' I'm mum, sir,' said Stokes. ' There's nobody 
 here, at all events, as I'm likely to talk to about it.' 
 
 ' True,' said Mr. Bream. 
 
 He left the house with the book under his arm. 
 
 ' He said h* was going home when he came in,' 
 
MR. EZRA STOKES 99 
 
 said Stokes to himself, as he watched the curate's 
 rapidly lessening figure along the village street. 
 ' That ain't his way home. He seemed knocked 
 all acock hy it. He asks me not to talk about it. 
 What's in the wind now, I wonder ?' 
 
CHAPTEE X. 
 
 AFTER SEVEN TBABS. 
 
 Beeam, with Stokes's book of scraps hugged under 
 his arm, and seeming to communicate an electric 
 tingle to his whole frame, strode along the village 
 street into the lane beyond, walking at his rapidest 
 rate until he came in sight of the red brick 
 chimneys of Crouchford Court. He slackened his 
 pace there to recover his breath and wipe away 
 the thick perspiration which his rapid walking had 
 brought to his face. He was in such a condition 
 of nervous tremor as few men of his splendid 
 physical condition ever know, and it required a 
 strong effort to quiet the trembling of his hands, 
 and to compose his features to their usual calm. 
 
 Barbara answered his ring, and replied to his 
 inquiry that Mrs. Dartmouth was at home. She 
 led him to the breakfast-room, and left him to 
 announce his arrival, returning with the message 
 that her mistress would see him directly. 
 
AFTER SEVEN YEARS loi 
 
 'How is your brother-in-law progressing?' he 
 asked her. 
 
 'He's mendiog, sir, slowly. Doctor says as he 
 ought to be all right again in a week or two. My 
 lady is going to find him work on the farm, when 
 he's well enough to take it.' 
 
 ' He seems to have something on his mind,' said 
 Bream. 'His illness is much more mental than 
 physical. Whatever it is, he refuses to talk of it.' 
 
 'He's told me, sir,' said Barbara. 
 
 With a reticence natural under the circumstances, 
 she said no more than that he was grieving for her 
 sister, his wife, who had died a year ago. Mrs. 
 Dartmouth, entering at that moment, released her 
 from further question, and she left the room. 
 
 Bream found himself in a situation which most 
 of us have known at some time or other : the 
 possessor of a piece of news he knew must be 
 welcome, yet requiring considerable delicacy in 
 the fashion of its conveyance. To gain time, he 
 opened with some stereotyped commonplace, and, 
 Mrs. Dartmouth answering on the same lines, 
 found himself floundering dismally, and feeling it 
 more and more difficult with every passing moment 
 to disclose the real object of his visit. His un- 
 easiness was too pronounced to escape Mrs. Dart- 
 mouth's observation. 
 
 ' You seem agitated, Mr. Bream. No bad news, 
 I hope, of your parishioners ?' 
 
102 WOMAIf AND THE MAN 
 
 ' Oh, none ! Things are going splendidly.' 
 
 He stopped short, and then, taking his courage 
 a deux mains, plunged at the communication he 
 had to make. 
 
 'I have learned a thing this afternoon which 
 closely concerns you,' he said. 'It concerns you 
 so closely, it is of such vital importance, that 
 I scarcely know how to approach it. I am 
 afraid that it will be something of a shock to 
 you.' 
 
 She went a shade paler than usual, but it 
 was with perfect quiet that she bade him pro- 
 ceed. 
 
 'You will remember that on my first meeting 
 with you here we spoke of — of your husband.' She 
 went paler still, and her breathing quickened. ' I 
 have news of him.' There was so unmistakable a 
 look of fear and horror in her face, that he hurried 
 on, blurting out his communication crudely, almost 
 brutally : ' You are free. He will never trouble 
 you again.' 
 
 Mrs. Dartmouth gave a gasp, and her bosom 
 laboured under the hand with which she tried to 
 still it. 
 
 He laid the book open at the paragraph he had 
 read half an hour before. 
 
 ' Eead for yourself,' he said. 
 
 She took the book, and remained staring at it 
 blankly for a minute or two. When at last she 
 
AFTER SEVEN YEARS 103 
 
 bent her eyes upon the lines, they so danced and 
 gyrated before them that she could not read. Even 
 when she had found the passage, she sat staring at 
 the page as if the words meant nothing to her. 
 Presently the tears began to run down her blanched 
 cheeks, and she gave a gasping sob or two. Bream 
 feared an attack of hysterics. 
 
 ' I win leave you,' he said, ' and send Barbara.' 
 
 'No, no!' she said. 'Stay!' 
 
 She tried hard to fight down the attack, and 
 succeeded, but the tears were still running when 
 the door opened and a head of golden curls 
 peeped round it. Dora sped to her mother, and, 
 climbing upon her knee, began to cry in affectionate 
 and ignorant sympathy. Mrs. Dartmouth strained 
 her in her arms, hushing and soothing her with 
 broken ejaculations of comfort. The tears still 
 ran, but the emotion which called them forth was 
 changed. She kissed and caressed the child with 
 a passionate affection which frightened her almost 
 as much as her mother's white face and choking 
 sobs had done before. 
 
 ' Oh, mamma, what is it ?' cried Dora, bewildered 
 and frightened by the rapid changes of emotion 
 Eeadable in her mother's face and manner. ' What 
 is the matter ?' 
 
 ' I will tell you, darling, some day, perhaps ; not 
 now — you would not understand. See, I am quite 
 happy now; I am not going to cry any more.' 
 
J04 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 She wiped the tears from her own face and from 
 that of the child. ' Eun away, dear ; Mr. Bream 
 and I have things to talk of.' 
 
 'And you are sure — sure — that you won't cry 
 any more ?' asked Dora. 
 
 ' No, darling ; my crying is over now,' answered 
 Gillian. She kissed the child again, whispering, 
 ' Go !' in her ear, and Dora went obediently, with a 
 lingering backward glance. Bream had retired to 
 a window looking on the garden, and had left child 
 and mother together. He remained there, giving 
 Gillian the time to conquer herself before resuming 
 her talk with him. 
 
 ' Let us get into the open air,' she said ; ' I am 
 stifling here.' 
 
 They passed into the garden together, and for 
 a space there was silence between them. They 
 crossed the lawn and a hay-field, where the grass 
 was almost ready for the scythe, and entered a long 
 stretch of spinney, bounded by the public road. 
 Still no word was spoken, as they walked slowly 
 through alternate spaces of green gloom and 
 golden sunshiae. 
 
 ' Mr. Bream,' said Gillian at last, ' I feel like a 
 criminal. The man was my husband; I almost 
 loved him once, when our married life was new. 
 He was the father of my child ; I swore before the 
 altar to love and honour him, swore as a Christian 
 woman, knowing the meaning of that solemn vow. 
 
AFTER SEVEN YEARS loj 
 
 And now that I know that he is dead — I cannot 
 help it — my only feeling is joy.' 
 
 'Very naturally,' said Bream. He made his 
 tone purposely dry, almost careless, for there was 
 such a deep emotion in her voice that he dreaded 
 to increase it. ' There is a point at which nature 
 must assert itself, at which no vow, however 
 sacred, no duty, however great, can beat it 
 down.' 
 
 ' I was his wife,' she said. 
 
 ' A true one, I know,' he answered, ' and a loving 
 one had he ever cared to have your love. Am I 
 right ?' 
 
 ' God knows you are,' she said. 
 
 'I am a clergyman,' he said, 'an unworthy one, 
 I know, but one who at least tries to do his duty. 
 I am speaking now guardedly, and with a full sense 
 of the spiritual import of what I say. Justice and 
 common-sense absolve you. You gave this man 
 duty and obedience. He trampled them under- 
 foot. You offered him affection and respect. He 
 flung them aside. You owe to his memory no 
 more than the sorrow every Christian should feel 
 for a wasted life, and the hope that God may have 
 pardoned his cruelty.' 
 
 The steady beat of a horse's hoofs, which had 
 been clearly audible since they entered the strip of 
 woodland, had come nearer and nearer unmarked, 
 and now, in the sudden dead stillness which had 
 
io6 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 followed Bream's solemn -words, rang on their ears 
 with a startling suddenness. They reached the 
 further outskirts of the spinney, and saw Sir George 
 Venables riding by. He was looking in their direc- 
 tion, but passed without seeing them. Bream stole 
 a look at his companion, and saw the pallor of her 
 face drowned in a sudden wave of crimson. She 
 turned, and struck into a narrow path through the 
 undergrowth, so narrow that he could no longer 
 walk abreast with her. To his mind, the blush 
 and succeeding action were a confession. When 
 a widening of the path permitted him to regain her 
 side, he saw that, though the first brilliancy of the 
 blush had faded, her face was aflame with healthy 
 colour, and there was a soft, dreamy look in her 
 eyes. Becoming aware of his scrutiny, she blushed 
 anew, and covered her confusion by holding out 
 to him her hand with a bright, grateful smile. 
 
 ' You seem to have been appointed by Providence 
 as my special guardian angel,' she said. ' How, 
 how can I ever thank you ?' 
 
 'Thank me? Why, what have you to thank 
 me for ?' 
 
 'For everything that makes life worth living,' 
 she answered. ' For new hope, for countless kind- 
 nesses.' 
 
 'You owe me literally nothing,' said Bream, 
 ' It is I who should thank Providence for putting 
 into my hands the opportunity of serving you. I 
 
AFTER SEVEN YEARS .107 
 
 did not make the opportunity. It came to me. 
 I used it, that is all.' 
 
 ' You were always generous,' she said, ' but that 
 only adds to the burden of my obligation.' 
 
 Venables was in his mind, and as they walked 
 side by side to the house he strove to find some 
 form of words in which he might hint, not too 
 broadly, of his friend's hopes. The flush in her 
 face, the tender dewiness of her eyes as the baronet 
 had ridden by, at once increased his desire to speak, 
 and seemed to intimate how little need of speech 
 there was. He had parted with her before he 
 found his opening. 
 
 ' That will be arranged without any interference 
 of mine,' he said to himself, as he swung gaily 
 back to the village. ' She loves him, that is 
 evident enough. I suppose Herbert will want to 
 marry them. I should have liked to do that, but 
 I suppose I must be content with the position of 
 best man. Poor old Venables! he has waited a 
 long time. How sad he looked as he passed! 
 Well, his troubles are ovot now, and hers too, 
 thank God! They ought to be happy together. 
 He's a splendid fellow, and she — she's an angel. 
 They are worthy of each other, and the whole 
 world doesn't hold a finer couple. By Jove, there 
 he is ! Hi I Sir George ! I want to speak to you.' 
 
 The baronet, who had suddenly hove into sight, 
 cantering down a cross-road, pulled up at the 
 
io8 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 summons, and waited until his friend came panting 
 up to him. At his request, he dismounted, and 
 they -walked side by side together down a deserted 
 lane as Bream told his story. Venables went red 
 and pale by turns, but his broad, handsome face 
 glowed like a sun with sudden joy, as he turned 
 it on his friend. He wrung his hand hard, pouring 
 out incoherent words of thanks. 
 
 ' I was right, then ; I knew she cared for me.' 
 
 'Her face showed that as you rode by,' said 
 Bream. 'You never made a more opportune 
 appearance. Where are you going?' he asked, as 
 the baronet swung himself into the saddle. 
 
 ' I'm going to make another,' he answered ; ' to 
 strike while the iron is hot.' 
 
 'You're a brisk lover,' said the curate, with a 
 laugh. 'Had you not better give her a bit of 
 time, and wait a little ?' 
 
 ' Wait !' said Venables fiercely. ' You talk easily 
 of waiting. I've waited six years already.' He 
 leaned over, and pressed his friend's hand again. 
 ' God bless you, old fellow ! I shall have news 
 for you to-morrow.' 
 
 He struck his spurs in his great roadster, and 
 was gone like a flash. Bream looking after him tUl 
 he had disappeared from sight. Five minutes at 
 that pace carried him to Crouchford Court. He 
 tied his foaming horse to the gate, and entered 
 the garden. 
 
AFTER SEVEN YEARS 109 
 
 Gillian was there among her flowers. He strode 
 towards her. She tried to keep back the great 
 wave of crimson which flooded her from brow to 
 throat, and to repress the trembling of her limbs, 
 but he gave her no time to play the tricks of her 
 sex. Before she knew he had hold of both her 
 hands in his strong grasp. 
 
 ' Gillian,' he said, ' I know your secret now ! I 
 know the barrier that parted us is down. Bream 
 has told me all.' 
 
 'Mr. Bream tells other people's secrets very 
 easily,' she said, with an attempt at frigid dignity, 
 made quite abortive by her beaming face and 
 humid eyes, and by the electric tremor of her 
 fingers. 
 
 ' I have waited for my happiness a long time,^ 
 Gillian,' he said, with a sudden tremor in his 
 voice : ' have I not found it at last ?' 
 
 ' If I can make you happy, yes,' she answered, 
 with a sweet gravity, and yielded to the strong and 
 steady persuasion of the hands which drew her to 
 her lover's breast. 
 
CHAPTEE XI. 
 
 ONE WAT OF LOOKING AT IT. 
 
 The morning after the blissful interview which had 
 ended six years of fear and doubt, Sir George 
 Venables, mounted on his big roadster, was journey- 
 ing through the pleasant green lanes which lay 
 between the Lodge and Crouchford Court. 
 
 It was still early in the morning, and the heat of 
 the young sun was tempered by a cool breeze and 
 an occasional fleecy cloud. The whole earth 
 seemed, in the happy lover's imagination, to 
 rejoice with his rejoicing ; and the tranquil, friendly 
 prospect of the meadows among which his whole 
 life had been passed had never touched him with 
 a charm of such serene happiness. 
 
 The long ribbon of road, inch deep in white 
 dust between the flowering hedges, was empty of 
 passengers, and in the pleasant soHtude he gave 
 vent to the gladness of his heart with an almost 
 boyish simplicity, answering the incessant chatter 
 
ONE WAy LP LOOKING AT IT in 
 
 of the birds with a Auent whistle, as jolly as the 
 jolliest note of thrnjh or blackbird. His hand- 
 some face, ruddy with free exercise in sun and air, 
 beamed with satisfaction. He was dressed with 
 unusual care, and from the corner of his hat to 
 the tips of his polished boots looked the very model 
 of an English squire. 
 
 As he approached within sight of the chimney 
 cowls of Crouchford Court, visible above the 
 winding hedges, he became aware of a figure 
 approaching him on foot, and on a second glance 
 recognised the pedestrian as Mr. Herbert. He 
 waved his riding- whip in salutation, and quickened 
 his horse's leisurely pace. 
 
 The reverend gentleman was strolling along, with 
 a serenity of visage begotten of a good breakfast, a 
 conscience at rest, a mind at peace with all the 
 world, and the softening influence of the odorous 
 morning air. 
 
 'Good-morning, Sir George,' he said, as the 
 baronet reined in his horse. ' Magnificent weather.' 
 
 'Yes,' said Venables ; 'it's the finest day I ever 
 saw, I think.' 
 
 There was an unconstrained ring of jollity in his 
 voice, he spoke the words upon a laugh, as though 
 they had been some masterpiece of merry humour. 
 The clergyman looked at him with knitted brows of 
 good-humoured inquiry drawn over his mild, short- 
 sighted eyes. 
 
112 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 ' You look particularly happy this morning,' he 
 exclaimed. 
 
 ' I am particularly happy,' Venables answered. 
 
 ' I rejoice to — ah — hear it,' said Mr. Herbert. 
 ' May I ask the cause ?' 
 
 ' Well,' said Venables, ' you would certaioly soon 
 hear it from some other source, so I will tell you, 
 the more willingly since, to some extent, it con- 
 cerns you.' 
 
 ' Concerns me ?' repeated Herbert. 
 
 Venables descended from his horse, and, taking 
 the clergyman's arm, led on his horse by the bridle. 
 
 ' Yes, I hope ia a week or two to ask for a cast 
 of your office.' 
 
 'Indeed?' 
 
 Mr. Herbert spoke the word with a sudden 
 gravity, and shot a sidelong glance at the radiant 
 face of his companion. 
 
 ' Yes,' said Venables, ' I'm going to say good-bye 
 to bachelorhood and settle down as a married 
 man.' 
 
 ' Ye — es,' said Mr. Herbert. 
 
 ' Is that all you have to say ?' asked Venables. 
 
 ' By no means. I may have much to say, my 
 dear Sir George ; but tell me first, who is the lady ?' 
 
 ' I should have thought you would have guessed 
 that,' said the baronet. His tone was a little dis- 
 comfited and brusque, as though his old friend's 
 lack of warmth hurt him. 
 
ONE WA Y OF LOOKING AT IT 113 
 
 'Perhaps I do,' said the clergyman. 'Mrs. 
 Dartmouth ?' 
 
 'Yes; I proposed td her last night, and she 
 accepted me. By Jove ! I believe I'm the happiest 
 man in England at this moment. You know, sir, 
 what a woman she is — how good, how ' 
 
 He checked himself. To his devoted tenderness 
 his very praise seemed almost a profanation of the 
 priceless woman he loved, so little could he express 
 of the devotion with which she filled his heart. 
 
 ' A most admirable lady,' said Mr. Herbert. ' A 
 lady for whom I have the most profound respect — 
 I had almost said — ah — affection. Beautiful both 
 in person and character.' 
 
 'Isn't she?' cried Venables, turning a happy 
 face on him. ' Thank you, sir, for saying that. 
 Though, who could think otherwise who'd ever 
 seen her for five minutes ? I knew you would con- 
 gratulate me when you knew.' 
 
 ' Ahem !' went Mr. Herbert. 
 
 'What do you mean, sir?' asked Venables, re- 
 leasing his arm. His face, which was simply 
 wondering, would have expressed indignation had 
 his companion been other than he was. 
 
 'My dear Sir George,' said Mr. Herbert, 'be 
 calm. I respect and admire the lady as much, I 
 think, as you can do. I admit that as far as the 
 graces of her mind and person, the excellence of 
 her character and principles, are concerned, it 
 
 8 
 
114 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 would be difficult to discover a lady more admirably 
 suited to do credit to the station you will raise her 
 to. But there are other considerations.' 
 
 ' Other considerations ?' echoed Venables. ' What 
 other considerations, in Heaven's name ?' 
 
 'Let us approach them — ah — seriatim!' said 
 Mr. Herbert. ' You must know, my dear sir, that 
 a friend so intimate, not merely with yourself, but 
 with your dear father, must have been aware of the 
 conditions of your feelings with respect to Mrs. 
 Dartmouth for some time past. I know, for in- 
 stance, that some five or six years ago you asked 
 her to become your wife.' 
 
 ' I did.' 
 
 ' Did she — ah — confide to you any reason for her 
 refusal at that date ?' 
 
 ' No, I guessed it, and have since learned that my 
 guess was correct. Her husband was still alive.' 
 
 ' I gather, from her acceptance of you, that he 
 is since dead.' 
 
 ' Precisely,' said Venables dryly. 
 
 'Precisely,' echoed Mr. Herbert. 'Has she con- 
 fided in you the reasons for her separation from 
 her husband for so long a period ?' 
 
 ' I never asked her,' answered Venables. ' I did 
 not want to know them. The matter has not been 
 mentioned between us.' 
 
 'Don't you think,' pursued the clergyman — 
 •don't you think, my dear Sir George — ^putting 
 
ONE WA Y OF LOOKING AT IT 115 
 
 aside for the moment other considerations to which 
 we will — ah — ^presently return — that it would be 
 well to invite such a confidence ?' 
 
 ' I am so perfectly certain,' said Sir George, 
 ' that Gill — that Mrs. Dartmouth — can have nothing 
 to blame herself for, so sure that whatever the 
 reason for her separation may have been, she was 
 blameless in the matter, that I have never thought 
 it necessary to approach the subject. Let me ask 
 you, sir, if ever, in all your knowledge of women — 
 and in your clerical capacity you must have known 
 many very intimately — have you ever known one 
 her superior? I have heard you speak of her 
 goodness a hundred times. She is your favourite 
 parishioner. It was by your countenance and 
 friendship that she conquered the prejudice with 
 which, as a stranger, she found herself surrounded 
 when first she came to live here.' 
 
 ' True,' said Mr. Herbert, ' I believe her to be 
 an excellent woman. But, mark me, I can only 
 believe it. " I do not knmu it. I know nothing but 
 her career among us in Crouchford.' 
 
 ' Is not that enough ?' 
 
 ' To extend to her my perisonal consideration as 
 a gentleman, my office as a spiritual guide — yes. 
 To receive her as a fit wife for you, the son of my 
 oldest friend, the representative of the best family 
 in this county, as the future mother of your 
 children — no. No, my dear George. You have a 
 
ii6 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 right to know more, to know — ah — all. I pay the 
 lady a sincere compliment when I express my 
 belief that she would welcome your invitation to 
 Buch a confidence.' 
 
 'J have no fear of it,' said Venables, with a 
 laugh. 'If she likes to tell me— I'U listen. But 
 I won't hint a doubt of her by asking it.' 
 
 'Then,' said Mr. Herbert, 'let us waive that 
 point for a little time, and come to the other con- 
 sideration at which I hinted a minute or two ago. 
 Mrs. Dartmouth is — ah — a widow.' 
 
 'Well!' said Venables. He spoke the word 
 dryly, with a twinkle in his eyes which his com- 
 panion did not see. 
 
 ' My views upon certain topics,' said Mr. Herbert, 
 •are, I know, what the present generation, even 
 the present generatioij of clergymen, are in the 
 habit of calling — ah — old-fashioned. That judg- 
 ment has, however, never frightened me into 
 holding back when I deemed it necessary to express 
 them. Some old fashions are worth preserving. 
 Your "well," my dear Sir George, is a little dis- 
 ingenuous, for I think you are aware of my views 
 upon the remarriage of widows.' 
 
 ' I know that you disapprove of it,' said Venables. 
 'Mrs. Dartmouth knows it too, for you have ex- 
 pressed it, she tells me, in her presence. She told 
 me so last night, when I said that I hoped that 
 you would marry us.' 
 
ONE WA Y OF LOOKING AT IT 117 
 
 ' Understand me,' said Mr. Herbert, ' that I have 
 never taken the ground that no widow should marry. 
 There may be — ah — dispensations. There are 
 many rules of conduct which admit of no exception 
 whatever. There are others in which — ah — dis- 
 tinction may fittingly be made. I trust that thia 
 may be such a case, admitting, of course, that, aa 
 I am strongly inclined to believe, your blind belief 
 in Mrs. Dartmouth's purity of character is justified. 
 Come,' he said, pressing the young man's arm, and 
 speaking with a winning friendliness of manner 
 made additionally pleasant by his general stiffness 
 and preciseness — ' come, my dear sir, let us see if 
 there is no way of reconciling our views upon thia 
 matter.' 
 
 ' Willingly,' said Venables. * I know, sir, that I 
 have no more sincere well-wisher than yourself.' 
 
 ' Good !' said Mr. Herbert. ' Then will you let 
 me approach Mrs. Dartmouth on the two themes 
 of which we have spoken ? Let me in my double 
 character of your friend and well-wisher — re- 
 presenting in that capacity the world and — ah — 
 the general feeling of society — and as a clergyman, 
 representing the views of the true Church — let me 
 ask Mrs. Dartmouth for some particulars of her 
 first marriage and the reason of her — ah — un- 
 fortunate separation from her husband.' 
 
 Venables paced on slowly for a moment. 
 
 'I tell you candidly,' said the old cleric, with an 
 
n8 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 obvious affection which gave a certain dignity to 
 his speech and preserved the young man from 
 taking any offence at his rather fussy officiousness, 
 ' that I feel towards you — ah — in loco parentis. 
 Ah, you laugh ! You think you are old enough 
 to be out of leading strings, old enough to do 
 without anybody's advice.' 
 
 ' Advice !' repeated Venables. ' Pray understand 
 me, Mr. Herbert.' He checked his horse, and 
 stood still to make the declaration, letting go the 
 old clergyman's arm. ' There is no power on earth 
 could prevent me from marrying Mrs. Dartmouth. 
 I believe, now that she is free, there is no force on 
 earth that could prevent her from marrying me,' 
 he went on, with a heightened colour and a broken 
 voice, which testified to the violence he did to his 
 inner self in speaking thus plainly of his dearest 
 and most inmost thoughts. ' I love her, sir. She 
 loves me. We are pledged to each other, and 
 nothing, nothing can part us.' 
 
 ' I trust,' returned Mr. Herbert, ' that there may 
 be no need to speak of your parting. My know- 
 ledge of Mrs. Dartmouth during her residence 
 amongst us prompts me to believe that the fullest 
 possible inquiry into her antecedents will conduce 
 only to an additional respect for her character. 
 That inquiry, my dear George, is the merest pre- 
 caution, the merest matter of form. As to the 
 dispensation, that is a matter on which, until I 
 
ONE WA Y OF LOOKING AT IT 119 
 
 know the facta of her former union, I cannot 
 venture to speak. It is a matter for grave delibera- 
 tion, not for — ah — haphazard guesswork.' 
 
 ' You have heard my ultimatum, sir,' answered 
 Venables. ' No power on earth can keep me from 
 fulfilling my engagement with Mrs. Dartmouth. I 
 do not think — I cannot believe — that anything will 
 force or persuade her to break her promise to me.' 
 
 'You expressed a desire,' said the cleric, after 
 a moment's silence, * that I should perform, the 
 marriage service.' 
 
 'Certainly,' said Venables, 'it would add to 
 my happiness, even in marrying Mrs. Dartmouth, 
 that you should unite us.' 
 
 ' Nothing would give me sincerer pleasure,' said 
 Mr. Herbert, ' than to do so, if I can only satisfy 
 my conscience that I am guilty of no breach of the 
 laws of the Church. But I feel so strongly upon 
 this point that I make no apology for plain speech. 
 If I find that I cannot so satisfy myself, it will be 
 a painful necessity imposed upon me by — ah — the 
 necessities of the case to request you to apply to 
 another clergyman.' 
 
 Venables gave a little shrug, half of vexation and 
 half of humour. 
 
 'Well, sir,' he said, 'I can't and shan't try to 
 prevent you speaking to Mrs. Dartmouth on any 
 topic you think fit. She may tell you what she 
 will about her past life. As to your crotch — 
 
I20 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 your views about this other matter — I warn you 
 that I would marry Mrs. Dartmouth if she were 
 fifty thousand widows rolled into one.' 
 
 With this wholesale announcement of unconquer- 
 able affection, Venables turned his horse's head 
 again in the direction of Crouchford Court. 
 
 ' You are going to call upon Mrs. Dartmouth T 
 asked Mr. Herbert. 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 • Will you permit me to accompany you ?' 
 
 'Certainly,' said Venables, and he and the 
 clergyman walked on together. 
 
CHAPTEE XII. 
 
 ANOTHBB WAY. 
 
 A smalij rustic, in an anceBtral smock-frock, 
 covered with a rimless felt hat, and weariag a pair 
 of enormous boots of abnormal thickness of sole, 
 was coming whistling along the road towards them 
 at an easy pace, which quickened at sight of them 
 to a shambling half-run. On encountering the 
 two gentlemen outside Mrs. Dartmouth's gate, he 
 touched a shaggy forehead, and extended a letter 
 to Mr. Herbert. 
 
 ' I missed 'ee at the Vicarage, sir,' he said. 
 
 Mr. Herbert opened the letter, dismissing the 
 messenger with a fatherly nod. He perused the 
 communication with lifted eyebrows, and handed 
 it over to his companion with a gravely twinkling 
 smile. 
 
 'Mrs. Dartmouth wishes to see you, sir,' said 
 Venables. 
 
 ' As you see,' said Mr. Herbert. 
 
 They passed into the house together, and had 
 
122 WOMAJV AND THE MAN 
 
 been seated in the wide reception-room eome five 
 minutes when Mrs. Dartmouth entered. She was 
 dressed in a riding-habit, and carried a whip in 
 her hand. She flushed a little at sight of Venables, 
 and cordially greeted Mr. Herbert. 
 
 ' It is very good of you,' she said, ' to answer 
 my appeal so soon, when you must have so many 
 calls upon your time.' 
 
 ' I am always at your disposal, Mrs. Dartmouth,' 
 the reverend gentleman answered. ' Your messenger 
 missed me at the Vicarage. I met him at the gate, 
 where I had just encountered Sir George.' 
 
 ' If,' said Venables, looking at his watch — ' if you 
 can let me know, Gillian, at what time you think 
 your conference with Mr. Herbert will be over, I 
 will get back then, and we can go for our ride.' 
 
 'But I want you to stay,' she answered. 'I 
 asked Mr. Herbert to come at this hour because we 
 had already made an appointment.' 
 
 Venables sat and plunged into contemplation of 
 his boots. 
 
 ' I am all attention,' said Mr. Herbert. 
 
 'You are aware,' she- began, the colour playing 
 on her face, and her breathing a little quickened, 
 though her manner was as simple and unem- 
 barrassed as her words — 'you are aware, Mr. 
 Herbert, of the relationship newly established 
 between Sir George Venables and myself ?' 
 
 Mr. Herbert bowed. 
 
ANOTHER WAY 123 
 
 ' I have heard it from Sir George himself, ■within 
 the last half-hour.' 
 
 ' I took the liberty of asking you to call ' 
 
 * You did me the honour, Mrs. Dartmouth.' 
 
 She acknowledged the stately mixture of correc- 
 tion and compliment by a slight bend of the head. 
 
 ' To make a communication to you. The cir- 
 cumstances of my engagement to Sir George, and 
 of my position in this place, seem to me to be 
 such as make it advisable.' 
 
 'My dear Gillian,' Venables broke in at this 
 point, 'pray allow me a word. You are free to 
 make any communication to Mr. Herbert you 
 please. But I have asked for none, and I desire 
 none.' 
 
 'It is best,' she said. 'I should be unworthy 
 the honour you do me — of your love,' she added, 
 with a little deepeniag of colour, 'if I permitted 
 you to marry me except with the clearest possible 
 understanding between us.' 
 
 'Admirably said, Mrs. Dartmouth,' said Mr. 
 Herbert. ' You see, my dear Venables, you stand 
 for love, who has always been painted blind; I 
 represent the Church and the world.' 
 
 ' Which have always had their eyes particularly 
 wide open,' interjected Venables. 
 
 Mr. Herbert let out a resounding cough of one 
 syllable, deprecating levity, to call it by no harsher 
 name. 
 
124 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 ' I have been told,' continued Gillian, addressing 
 him again, 'that you have leanings to auricular 
 confession.' 
 
 'In a sense, yes. Without its perversions, its 
 intrusions into domestic privacy. There are many 
 things in the old formulas which might still be 
 adopted", with — ah — modifications.' 
 
 'Adapted,' murmured Sir George, 'like plays 
 from the French.' 
 
 'On another point,' said Gillian, 'I hear you 
 hold rather old-fashioned views — ^you doubt the 
 right of a woman who has once been married to 
 marry again ?' 
 
 ' Hum ! Not — not entirely. There may be ex- 
 ceptions — spiritual dispensations. Divorce, of 
 course, I hold with the Fathers to be abominable 
 and un-Christian. Even when death intervenes, 
 causing a temporary separation, it seems to me 
 that the union of souls is still a living certainty.' 
 
 ' Ah !' said Gillian softly, but with a note of deep 
 emotion in her voice which made her auditors look 
 at her, Mr. Herbert with a quickened interest, and 
 Venables with a pitying affection. ' The union of 
 souls! It is of that I wish to speak before you 
 both — of that, and other thiags. It is right that 
 my future husband should know the whole truth 
 concerning my former marriage and my past life.' 
 
 ' I listen under protest, GUlian,' said Sir George. 
 ' I ask for nothing that it can pain you to tell.' 
 
ANOTHER WAY 125 
 
 'It v?ould pain me all the more to be silent, 
 George,' she answered. 
 
 She paused for a moment before beginning her 
 recital, which we now quote, bereft of the many 
 conversational interruptions of those whom she 
 was addressing. 
 
 ' I was a mere child when my mother died, so 
 young that I can scarcely remember her at all. 
 My father had till that time practised as a doctor 
 in London, but at my mother's death he gave up 
 his practice, and retired to a little town in the 
 midlands. He had been very successful in his 
 profession, and besides the money he had earned 
 in that way, had a small private fortune, so that 
 we were in more than easy circumstances. He 
 was passionately devoted to science, and after his 
 retirement from practice gave up his whole time 
 to his studies and experiments, leaving me to the 
 care of an old nurse, who had been my mother's 
 favourite servant, and who idolized me. I was the 
 only child. I grew up under her guardianship, not 
 the best in the world, perhaps, for a self-willed 
 child, seeing little of my father, who passed nearly 
 all his waking hours in his laboratory. I would 
 not have you think that I blame my father, or 
 think of him with anything but the warmest love 
 and respect. He was the kindest and best of men, 
 generosity and gentleness in person, and he loved 
 me dearly. But he was absorbed in his scientific 
 
126 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 studies, and so long as I looked happy and con- 
 tented when we met, he never dreamed that there 
 was more to wish for. I learned what and how I 
 liked, and studied or idled as the fit took me. It 
 was a happy life,' said Gillian, with a sigh, ' a long 
 dream of happiness, but not the best preparation 
 for the duties and struggles of the world. 
 
 ' The place ia which we lived was a very small 
 one — little more than a village — and from two 
 years of age to seventeen I had never been five 
 miles away from home, so that between the un- 
 ceasing affection of my father and my nurse, and 
 my ignorance of everything in the world which I 
 had not learned from books, I was little more than 
 a child in knowledge when already almost a woman 
 in years. I can look back on myself as I was then 
 quite dispassionately. I had many faults. I was 
 wHful and petulant, as spoiled children who have 
 never had their whims crossed are sure to be. I 
 was very ignorant of life, and my brain was filled 
 with nonsensical dreams and ideas, some drawn 
 from the novels and poetry which were all I cared 
 to read, some the birth of my own ignorance and 
 girlish folly. But I was as innocent and honest 
 a girl — I can truly say — as I have ever known. 
 Looking back to that time through the miserable 
 years which separate the poor girl from the woman 
 I now am, the contrast is all to her advantage. 
 
 'I was just seventeen when I first saw my 
 
ANOTHER WAY irj 
 
 husband. He came to the village on a sketching 
 tour. He managed to scrape acquaintance with 
 my father by pretending to have a great iaterest 
 in some scientific problem on which my father had 
 just published a book. He was an extremely 
 clever man, with a ready address and a certain 
 ease of manner which imposed on most people 
 very readily, and he had, more than any other 
 person I have ever known, the art of pleasing and 
 interesting the people he desired to stand well 
 with. A less clever man might easily have made 
 a conquest either of my father or myself. He, 
 poor old man ! fell a complete victim. In a week 
 he could talk of nothing else but this new acquaint- 
 ance. He had made himself my father's pupil 
 and secretary, and it was my father's constant cry 
 that he was a man of scientific genius, who, if he 
 had had the necessary training, would have been 
 one of the greatest lights of the age. I can re- 
 member and understand now by what means he 
 gained my father's affection, how he played on his 
 simple vanity and flattered his foibles. I learned 
 more afterwards, and from him. It was one of 
 his favourite amusements to tell me, after our 
 marriage, how he had cheated and deceived the 
 good old man, who grew to love him in a month 
 or two almost as a son. 
 
 ' My father fell HI, and after only a week's con- 
 finement knew that his case was hopeless. In his 
 
128 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 last days all his thoughts were for me. He re- 
 proached himself bitterly for his neglect of me ; the 
 only terror death had for hitn was that he must 
 leave the child he loved alone and unprotected in a 
 world of which he knew as little as I myself. 
 Philip — that was my husband's name — played on 
 this terror with such success that the day before 
 his death my father begged me to marry him there 
 and in his presence. His belief in this man 
 amounted to a mania, though he had known him 
 scarcely three months. He implored me with tears 
 to make his last hours happy, " happier," he said, 
 " than he deserved to be after his neglect of me " — 
 to let him know that he did not leave me unpro- 
 tected. I consented. What else could I do ? Put 
 yourself in my place, Mr. Herbert ; imagine the 
 circumstances.' 
 
 ' Did you love this man ?' asked Mr. Herbert. 
 
 ' No,' said Gillian. 
 
 ' A bad beginning,' said the clergyman. 
 
 ' Bad, indeed,' said GilHan. ' No, I did not love 
 him. I admired him, I thought him clever, hand- 
 some, like the heroes of novels I had read, but he 
 had not touched my heart at all. But my father 
 begged me to marry him, and in his anxiety for 
 my welfare painted the future of an unprotected 
 girl so black and full of danger that I consented. 
 To be quite honest with you, there was a dash of 
 romance in this marriage to a semi-stranger, by 
 
ANOTHER WAY 129 
 
 the bedside of a dying father, which appealed to 
 my silly fancy. Don't think worse of me than I 
 deserve. I loved my father truly, devotedly, and 
 was desolate at the thought of losing him ; but I 
 felt it was like an event in a novel or a play, and 
 had a sort of pleasure in making a poetic figure. 
 For the few days during which my father lingered, 
 and for the few other days after his burial, during 
 which we remained in the village, my husband's 
 conduct not merely gave no cause for alarm, but 
 was most afi'ectionate and considerate. Then, with- 
 out any warning, he suddenly told me that the 
 house and grounds were sold and that we were 
 going to London. Arrived there, he took rooms in 
 a street in the West End. I was a perfect stranger 
 in the town, without a friend or even an acquaint- 
 ance, and perfectly at his mercy. We had hardly 
 been in London a week before he began a systematic 
 course of insult and neglect, which lasted till our 
 separation. He would leave me completely alone 
 for days at a time. My remonstrances were treated 
 with cool contempt, and on more than one occa- 
 sion were answered by violence.' 
 
 ' For God's sake !' broke out Venables, ' why 
 should you torment yourself in this fashion ?' 
 
 ' Let me finish, George,' she answered. ' Half- 
 confidence is no confidence. I will be as brief as I 
 can. I found I had married a libertine and a 
 drunkard. He had a truly diabolical cunning. 
 
I30 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 which he loved to exercise. When guests were 
 present he acted affection and respect in a fashion 
 which would have deceived any witness. Always, 
 in the presence of a third person, his conduct was 
 the very perfection of consideration ; when we were 
 alone — I cannot speak of it. His hypocrisy was 
 the most horrible of all his vices. I had married a 
 man with neither heart nor conscience, one base 
 beyond conception, cold, calculating, horribly im- 
 pure. And, as I fully woke to the wretchedness to 
 which I had bound myself, I became a mother.' 
 
 'Have we not heard enough, sir?' asked 
 Venables, turning with a groan of pain and im- 
 patience to Mr. Herbert. 
 
 ' Be patient, George,' said Gillian. ' If I could 
 bear it, surely you can bear to hear of it, now that 
 it is all over so long ago. When my child was a 
 few months old I learned that we were ruined. My 
 fortune had gone, every penny, in gambling and 
 debauchery. Grade by grade we sank lower and 
 lower, tUl at last we were actually starving — I and 
 my darling Dora. He, meanwhile, made enough 
 money by the exercise of his talents as an artist for 
 his own needs, dressed like a gentleman, and took 
 his pleasures abroad, only returning to the miser- 
 able garret in which he lived when he was penniless, 
 to do a few hours' work whereby to provide money 
 for his pleasures. Dora was ill — she was dying of 
 want of nourishment and fresh air. She would 
 
ANOTHER WAY 131 
 
 have died had it not been for a friend — God bless 
 him! a truer friend, a better man never broke 
 bread. He gave me ten pounds with which to 
 take her for a time into the country. My husband 
 heard that I had the money. He seized it, and 
 when I attempted to prevent him he struck me 
 to the ground. For weeks after I lay in the 
 hospital. While I was convalescent news came of 
 the death of a relation in Australia. He had left 
 me a sum of money, with which I came here and 
 bought this farm. The rest you know.' 
 
CHAPTEE Xin. 
 
 ■A THUNDERCLAP. 
 
 At the end of Gillian's recital there was silence 
 for a moment. Then Venables rose, and taking 
 Gillian's hand, kissed it. There was a flash of 
 moisture in his eyes, and his voice trembled as he 
 spoke. 
 
 ' What you have told us only confirms my faith 
 in you, my deep affection. Henceforward, God 
 willing, you shall lead a new life indeed.' 
 
 ' Let us hear Mr. Herbert, George,' said Gillian. 
 
 ' I have heard your story, Mrs. Dartmouth,' said 
 the clergyman, 'with the deepest interest and 
 compassion. I pity yoi^ yet cannot altogether 
 absolve you.' 
 
 ' What !' cried Sir George almost fiercely. ' Has 
 she not suffered enough ?' 
 
 'More than enough,' said Mr. Herbert gently. 
 •A heavy penalty for a wrong committed in the 
 ihoughtlessness of youth.' 
 
A THUNDERCLAP 135 
 
 'What wrong has she committed?' asked 
 Venables. 
 
 ' The union she has described, a loveless union, 
 can scarcely be defended. From its nature, per- 
 haps, sprang many of her misfortunes. And let 
 me ask another question. The name you bear is— 
 ah— your husband's ?' 
 
 'No.' 
 
 ' Another error,' said Mr. Herbert. 
 
 ' Nonsense,' cried Venables ; ' it was a perfectly 
 justifiable step.' 
 
 ' Deception of any kind is never justifiable. It 
 is — ah — a violation of those spiritual veracities oa 
 which society is founded.' 
 
 ' Perhaps,' said Venables, who relished as little 
 as may be imagined the application of abstract 
 principles of morality to the conduct of the woman 
 he loved — ' perhaps she might have done better to 
 advertise in the public prints that she had come 
 into a fortune, and that Mr. (whatever the black- 
 guard's name may be) was humbly requested te 
 return to his disconsolate wife, now that she had 
 something more that he might rob her of !' 
 
 ' George, George !' said Gillian, in a tone of re- 
 monstrance. ' And the dispensation, sir ?' 
 
 ' On that point, if you have acquainted me with 
 the actual facts, I have little or no doubt. You 
 have never, in the spiritual sense, been a wife at 
 all, and under the circumstances — I say under the 
 
134 WOMAJV AND THE MAN 
 
 circumstances — you may be justified in again 
 marrying.' 
 
 ' Bravo !' cried Sir George. ' The Church comes 
 round to common-sense, after all !' 
 
 ' The informality, however,' continued Mr. Her- 
 bert, ' must be at once set right. Your true name 
 is ' 
 
 ' My husband's name,' said Gillian, 'was O'Mara.' 
 
 It was the first time for seven years that it had 
 passed her lips. 
 
 ' Then, Mrs. O'Mara, I must ask you to correct 
 this sad mistake at once. When it is done, and 
 not until it is done, I shall have pleasure in per- 
 forming the marriage ceremony.' 
 
 ' I will ask you to reconsider that point, sir,' said 
 Venables. ' In the meantime, dear, we will go for 
 our ride. The horses are waiting.' 
 
 'I hope, Mr. Herbert,' said Gillian, 'that you 
 will lunch with me when we return.' 
 
 ' I have a little correspondence to do,' said Mr. 
 Herbert, referring to his watch, ' and it is a long 
 step from here to the Vicarage.' 
 
 ' Then, why not do your writing here ?' said 
 Gillian. ' You will find the materials in my desk 
 there. If you should need anything, you have only 
 to ring, and Barbara will attend on you. Shall we 
 find you here when we return ?' 
 
 'You are extremely good, Mrs. — ah ' He 
 
 boggled over the unfamiliar name, and ended by 
 
A THUNDERCLAP 135 
 
 omitting it altogether. ' You will find me here, or 
 in the garden.' 
 
 'A% revoir,' said Venables, and led his fianch 
 from the room. Mr. Herbert watched them mount 
 and canter away. 
 
 ' A painful story,' he said, sitting at Gillian's 
 desk. 'Well, her troubles should be over now. 
 Venables is a good fellow, and his affection for her 
 is evidently very deep. Hardly such a match as 
 he might have aspired to, or as I could have wished 
 
 him to make ; but Well, well, I hope they 
 
 may be happy.' 
 
 He bent himself to his correspondence. The day 
 was hot, and his walk and the long conference with 
 Gillian and Sir George had tired him, and he 
 nodded over the paper until he dozed. How long 
 he had been unconscious of his surroundings he 
 did not know, but he returned to consciousness to 
 find a voice ringing in his ears, and turned in some 
 confusion to the direction from which it came. 
 
 A man was standing just within the door. He 
 was a tall, well-built, athletic-looking fellow, with 
 a bronzed face, clean-shaven, and a mass of dark 
 brown hair, touched with gray about the ears and 
 at the temples. His dress was shabby, though of 
 originally good materials, and in its cut and in his 
 careless fashion of carrying it hinted at the artistic 
 pursuits of its wearer, a hint strengthened by the 
 sketch-book he held in his hand. 
 
136 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 'Ten thousand pardons!' he began, as Mr. 
 Herbert rose in surprise at his apparition. ' Do I 
 address the owner of the house ?' 
 
 'No,' replied Mr. Herbert. 'It belongs to a 
 friend of mine — a lady. She is absent for the 
 moment, but will return presently.' 
 
 ' Indeed. Thank you. It is a charming old 
 place. I have just made a sketch of it from the 
 outside, and was going to ask permission to see the 
 interior.' 
 
 ' An artist, sir ?' asked Mr. Herbert. 
 
 ' An amateur,' said the stranger. He spoke with 
 a rather affected accent, and with a self-conscious 
 smile. ' You, sir, I perceive, are in holy orders.' 
 
 ' I am the Vicar of Crouehford, sir.' 
 
 The stranger bowed, with a flourish of the broad- 
 brimmed wideawake he held in his hand. 
 
 ' I salute you, sir. If there is one thing in the 
 world I reverence, it is religion. I look upon it as 
 the mother of art.' 
 
 ' It has, I should hope, even greater claims upon 
 our reverence than that,' returned Mr. Herbert, 
 obviously pleased, however ; ' though I would not 
 be understood as underestimating your beautiful 
 occupation. Pray come in. The lady of the house 
 is so old a friend of mine that I may take it upon 
 myself to play cicerone. You are a stranger in the 
 neighbourhood ?' 
 
 ' Quite. In fact, almost a stranger in England. 
 
A THUNDERCLAP 137 
 
 I am just returned after a long sojourn abroad, and 
 am wandering hither and thither at accident, re- 
 viewing old impressions. There is something in 
 the English atmosphere, in English scenes and 
 institutions, indescribably refreshing. Decay is 
 always beautiful.' 
 
 'Eh?' said Mr. Herbert, a blank stare of 
 astonishment succeediag to the smile with which 
 he had listened to the first part of this speech. 
 
 ' Decay is the beauty of our England,' continued 
 the stranger. ' Its sleepy conventions, its moulder- 
 ing habitations, its mildewed churches, its moss- 
 grown religion, delight me inexpressibly.' 
 
 ' I trust, my dear sir,' said Mr. Herbert, whom 
 the stranger's fluent chatter had rather put at sea 
 — * I trust that you are one of us. I mean, I hope 
 that you belong to the Church which is the symbol 
 of our civilization ?' 
 
 ' I am a Churchman, sir — a fervent Churchman. 
 That is a very fine bit of black oak, by the way, 
 and, pardon me — yes, that dehghtful bit of colour ! 
 Yes, sir, I am a Churchman. To be frank with 
 you — I hope I may be so fortunate as to find 
 your views correspond with my own — my leaning 
 is towards the higher and most symbolic forms of 
 Episcopacy.' 
 
 'I am delighted to hear it !' 
 
 It did not occur to the worthy clergyman that he 
 was at least as obviously High Church in his dress 
 
138 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 and appearance as his interlocutor was obviously 
 artistic. 
 
 ' Dissent is so radically unlovely, its forms are 
 so bare, so harsh, its teachings void of grace.' 
 
 This was an utterance which chimed in with 
 Mr. Herbert's mind. 
 
 * The furnishing of this place,' said the stranger, 
 ' is worthy of its exterior. It gives me a keen 
 desire to make the acquaintance of your friend. 
 Such perfect taste !' 
 
 ' Mrs. Dartmouth is a lady of good taste,' said 
 Mr. Herbert. ' A most charming and accom- 
 plished person.' 
 
 ' Mrs. Dartmouth ?' repeated the stranger. 
 ' That is her name ? A piano ? Excuse me.' He 
 ran his fingers deftly along the keys. 'An 
 exquisite tone. Ah!' He gave a slight shudder 
 and struck a solitary note, listening with corru- 
 gated brows. ' That F is a semitone flat.' 
 
 ' You play ?' said Mr. Herbert. 
 
 'A little,' replied the artist, with a deprecatory 
 smile. 
 
 'I am sorry Mrs. Dartmouth is from home. 
 She would be delighted, in this dull place, to meet 
 a person so accomplished.' 
 
 ' Oh, pray don't call me accomplished. I am 
 simply an amateur of the beautiful. I am so 
 constituted that what is beautiful alone gives me 
 pleasure — next, of course, to what is reUgious. 
 
A THUNDERCLAP 139 
 
 The terms are really interchangeable. Eeligion, 
 true religion, the religion of which you are an 
 exponent, and I the humblest of devotees, is the 
 soul of beauty. Only religion interprets thus the 
 full meaning of the beauties which make up the 
 sum of life. A sower passing with measured foot- 
 steps, posed like a god, from furrow to furrow, with 
 the sunlight sparkling on the seeds as he casts 
 them, making them gleam like golden rain — a star, 
 a flower, a dewdrop — life is full of such felicities, 
 which, justified by their beauty, are divine.' 
 
 * You talk, my dear sir, like a poet.' 
 ' I hope I have the poet's nature.' 
 
 ' You write r 
 
 ' A little." 
 
 ' Bless me ! you seem to do everything." 
 
 'A little.' 
 
 ' And you have travelled ?' 
 
 • A little. You don't mind me sketching as we 
 talk ? That chimney-pieoe is delightfully quaint.' 
 
 The conversation was interrupted at this point 
 by the entrance of Dora. She came running in 
 with her hair streaming and her eyes sparkling, 
 and her lips parted to communicate some childish 
 confidence to her old friend, when she caught sight 
 of the stranger, and paused. 
 
 ' Ah !' said the latter. ' A ehUd ! I love children- 
 And how very beautiful ! Come to me, my rosebud. 
 What is your name ? It should be a pretty one.' 
 
I40 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 ' Dora,' said the child, looking up at him shyly 
 through the tangle of her disordered hair. 
 
 He took her hands in his and drew her to him, 
 looking at her with a curious scrutiny. 
 
 ' C'est bien 9a,' he said, under his breath. 
 
 ' Oh,' she said, catching sight of the sketch-book 
 on his knee, ' you are drawing ! Please go on. 
 I am learning to draw. Mamma is teaching 
 me.' 
 
 'A charming little pupil! Would you like me 
 to teach you ?' 
 
 ' I like mamma best.' 
 
 ' Charmiugly frank, these little people,' said the 
 artist with a smile. 
 
 ' Can you paint houses ?' asked Dora. ' Mamma 
 can.' 
 
 ' Oh yes, I can paint houses — and little girls, 
 when they are pretty.' 
 
 ' You must be very clever,' said the child 
 solemnly. 
 
 ' I am considered fairly intelligent,' said the 
 stranger, with his own smile. 'Your mamma is 
 out, this gentleman tells me.' 
 
 ' Yes ; she is riding with Sir George.' 
 
 ' Oh, with Sir George. And your papa ?' 
 
 'I never had a papa,' said Dora; 'but I'm 
 going to have one soon.' 
 
 ' Eeally ! That will be delightful. How should 
 you like me in that capacity ?' 
 
A THUNDERCLAP 141 
 
 'I should like you pretty well; but I like Sir 
 George best. Wby do you laugh so much ?' 
 
 ' You amuse me, my innocent child.' He stroked 
 her hair with a lingering touch, and his face sad- 
 dened. ' Will you give me a kiss, little one ?' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Dora shyly. ' I like you.' 
 
 The stranger kissed her, and, rising, walked to 
 the window for a moment, passing a handkerchief 
 across his eyes. 
 
 'Excuse me,' he said to Mr. Herbert in an 
 altered voice, as he returned. ' I had a little 
 child once. She would be of about this little 
 darling's age, if she be still alive. And the same 
 name. I am not ashamed of these tears, sir. My 
 little chUd, my Dora — where is she ?' 
 
 ' My dear sir !' said Mr. Herbert. 
 
 * I must not afflict you with my sorrow,' said the 
 artist, putting away the handkerchief after passing 
 it again across his eyes ; ' but these memories will 
 return at moments. There !' He bent over the 
 child again. The beat of horses' hoofs became 
 audible, nearing the house. 'Music is the cure 
 for such sorrow as mine. Do you love music, my 
 darling ?' 
 
 'Yes,' said Dora. 'And I like to dance. Sir 
 George plays waltzes for me.' 
 
 ' Come, then.' 
 
 He sat at the piano, and dashed into a lively 
 tune with the manner of one trying to banish un- 
 
142 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 pleasant memories. Dora flitted round the room, 
 and was watched with a pleased smile by Mr. 
 Herbert. The sound of horses' feet came near, 
 and paused on the gravel before the door. The 
 tune changed suddenly from the lively rhythm of 
 the waltz to ' Home, Sweet Home.' 
 
 'Mamma, mamma!' cried Dora, pirouetting to 
 the door ; ' come and see the funny gentleman,' 
 
 Gillian, her face flushed with free air and 
 exercise, entered the hall, followed by Sir George, 
 and stopped for a moment at sight of the stranger. 
 He, with his fingers still playing the melody, 
 turned half round upon the music-stool. 
 
 ' GUlian !' he said softly, smiling. 
 
 The poor woman's face changed to a look of 
 stony horror. 
 
 'Philip!' 
 
 She spoke the name scarcely louder than a 
 whisper, and fell fainting into Sir George's arms. 
 
CHAPTEE XIV. 
 
 THE BRIDE OF JAOOB's PLAT. 
 
 Three years before the meeting described in our 
 last chapter, a number of men were assembled 
 around the bar of the only drink-house in Jacob's 
 Flat, a rough mining settlement within a two days' 
 ride of San Francisco. 
 
 It was Saturday night, and drink of all kinds 
 was flowing like water. Everyone seemed in high 
 spirits, from the burly bearded fellows in red 
 shirts who were lounging against the bar, to the 
 little group of gamblers seated at small tables and 
 engaged busily at cards. 
 
 Though oaths were common, and the general 
 conversation scarcely fit for ears polite, everybody 
 present seemed in remarkable good-humour, and 
 the merriment had reached its highest when 
 Prairie Bill, a giant of six feet, known to his 
 facetious intimates as 'Prairie Oyster' (the name 
 also of an insidious kind of American drink) dashed 
 
144 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 his fist upon the counter, lifted up his glass in the 
 air, and exclaimed : 
 
 'H'yar's Jake's health and fam'ly! Long life 
 to Jake and her !' 
 
 The toast was received with acclamation, and 
 drunk with enthusiasm. 
 
 'What time, now, do you calc'late they'll be 
 a-coming to Parson's Ford?' asked a little thick- 
 set man with the lingering remains of a strong 
 Cockney accent. 
 
 ' Wal, ye see,' said Bill reflectively, ' the coach 
 passes the Big Creek at 'arf-past three, and it'll 
 take the waggon two hours or more to reach the 
 Ford in this weather. You bet they won't be thar 
 afore daylight. I say, boys,' he added, raising his 
 voice, ' who's a-going to ride over ?' 
 
 'Who's a-going to ride over?' echoed the little 
 man contemptuously. ' Better ask, who's a-going 
 to stay ? I ain't seen a blooming female since the 
 schoolmistress was drowned last year, poor thing ! 
 and I'm curious to see what kiad of petticoat Jake's 
 married.' 
 
 ' Married her up to 'Frisco, didn't he ?' demanded 
 another voice, that of a new-comer. 
 
 'Put your bottom dollar on that,' said Prairie 
 Bill proudly ; ' and if you don't believe me, thar'a 
 Jake's pardner — ask him to show you her pictur.' 
 
 The partner alluded to, an old man busily 
 engaged in a game of euchre, looked up and 
 
THE BRIDE OF JACOBS FLAT 145 
 
 nodded ; whereupon he was immediately surrounded 
 by the whole assembled company, clamorously 
 demanding to see the picture in question. Deter- 
 mined, however, not merely to gratify publie 
 curiosity, but to do a stroke of business, he ex- 
 pressed his determination not to assent until every 
 man had planked down a five-dollar note, ex- 
 plaining at the same time, however, that the 
 amount was not to go into his own pocket, but 
 to constitute part of a home-coming present for 
 Jake's wife. 
 
 The money was soon collected, some enthusiasts 
 even doubling and trebling the amount demandel 
 from each individual, and then, with much solemnity 
 and amid a hush of expectation, Jake's partner 
 drew out from his bosom a small packet wrapped 
 carefully in brown paper, took off the paper with 
 great deliberation, and exposed to view a somewhat 
 dingy-coloured photograph, which he handed to 
 his next neighbour, enjoining him at the same 
 time to handle it very carefully, and to limit his 
 possession of it to the space of half a minute. 
 
 Thus the picture was passed round from hand 
 to hand, excited spectators crowding eagerly round 
 each man as he took his turn, and uttering cries of 
 critical admiration. 
 
 ' Purty dear !' 
 
 ' She's yaller 'air, like my own sister Eliza !' 
 
 ' 'Taint yaller neither — it's brown !' 
 
 10 
 
146 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 ' She's a-smiling !' 
 
 ' Jake was allays lucky !' 
 
 'There's gloves on her 'anda, and they'd 'boat 
 fit my thumb !' 
 
 ' I reckon she ain't more'n eighteen !' 
 
 ' I'd give a million dollars for a wife like that !' 
 
 And so on, and so on, till the photograph 
 reached a dirty blear-eyed man far gone in in- 
 toxication, who, instead of adopting the decorous 
 manner of his companions, uttered a drunken 
 croak and kissed the picture. Dire was the tumult 
 evoked by that act of outrage. Shrieks and oaths 
 arose, and before he could reahze what had 
 occurred, the offender was kicked from group to 
 group and shot out through the open door into the 
 drift without, where he lay like a log. Meantime, 
 Prairie Bill had snatched the photograph away, 
 and, striding back to Jake's partner, handed it back 
 with these words : 
 
 ' Jest you put up that pictur agin, Jim Collier ! 
 'Taint fair to Jake Owen ter make his wife a show 
 like that !' 
 
 A sentiment which elicited a cheer of approval 
 from the majority of the company. 
 
 Jim nodded, and, with one respectful glance at 
 the photograph, wrapped it up again and concealed 
 it in his bosom. Then striding back to the bar, 
 Prairie BUI demanded a glass of spirits, and drained 
 it off to the health of ' Jake's wife.' 
 
THE BRIDE OF JACOBS FLAT 147 
 
 The exitement awakened by the mere sight of a 
 woman's photograph may be better understood 
 when we explain that every man in Jacob's Flat 
 was a bachelor, and that, beyond one or two 
 wretched squaws who hung around the place, 
 women, whether fair or plain, were almost utterly 
 unknown. 
 
 Men had been known to ride a hundred mUes 
 across country to catch a glimpse of a female 
 passing in the stage-coach, and when an emigrant 
 waggon containing members of the softer sex was 
 heralded as about to cross the plains anywhere 
 within reach, the rough fellows of Jacob's Plat' 
 would strike work and gallop over to the nearest 
 halting-place to await the passers-by. 
 
 To those rough fellows a woman or a child was 
 something far off, mysterious, and consequently 
 almost sacred. 
 
 So when the news first went round that Jake 
 Owen, one of their number, was going to 'Frisco 
 to meet a young Englishwoman who had coma 
 out all the way from the old country on purpose 
 to marry him, the excitement was tremendous. 
 Although there was a general opinion in that 
 region that Jacob's Flat was hardly the place to 
 bring a lady to, Jake's 'luck' was the universal 
 theme of conversation. And when, some weeks 
 after Jake's departure, his partner received the 
 photograph, with an intimation that ' Mr. and Mrs. 
 
148 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 Owen' were speedily returning home, the local 
 excitement rose to fever-heat. 
 
 For if every white woman was a paragon to the 
 members of this colony of bachelors, this particular 
 white woman seemed a positive goddess — with soft, 
 child-like face, gentle eyes, little hands, and the 
 dress of a downright little lady. Jacob's Flat was 
 not a moral place : its inhabitants were violent and 
 often murderous in their habits ; but honesty of a 
 sort was at a premium, and the ethics of society 
 postulated of necessity a certain standard of purity. 
 Had the original of the picture appeared there 
 alone and unfriended, she would have found her- 
 self as safe and as respected as a lady in her own 
 drawing-room ; for though one or two hopeless 
 desperadoes might have looked upon her with evil 
 eyes, the whole spirit of the community would 
 have been certain to protect her. Offers of 
 marriage, of course, she would have had by the 
 hundred, but beyond that necessary homage to 
 female beauty, no citizen would have had the 
 temerity to presume. 
 
 At early daybreak the following morning Jacob's 
 Flat was almost deserted, but on the banks of a 
 narrow river fifty miles away Prairie Bill and his 
 companions sat waiting and expectant. 
 
 'This is bloomin' slow,' said Simpson, the 
 cockney. 'It's light enough now to see the pips 
 by. Let's 'ave a flutter, eh, boys ?' 
 
THE BRIDE OF JACOB'S FLAT 149 
 
 ' Flutter be !' said Prairie Bill, to whom the 
 
 Buggestion was more directly addressed. 'Let's 
 ride along and meet the waggon.' 
 
 This suggestion meeting with more favour, the 
 whole cavalcade was soon in motion, riding in loose 
 order along the faint lines left in the deep grass by 
 the last passage of the coach a fortnight before. 
 
 Simpson, one of the many accredited humorists 
 of the little community, looking about him at his 
 companions under the slowly broadening light, re- 
 marked on the unwontedly spruce appearance they 
 presented. 
 
 ' I begin to think as I'm in Pall Mall. There's 
 Chicago Charley. Look at him ! I'm blowed if he 
 hain't washed hisself.' 
 
 ' I'll wash 2/OM,' said the individual thus rendered 
 remarkable, ' in the creek, if I get much more of 
 your chin music' 
 
 ' An' BUI, too,' continued Simpson, ignoring the 
 threat ; ' he's combed 'is 'air. Sure you've got the 
 partin' straight, old pal ?' 
 
 • Shut your head !' growled Bill ; and Simpson 
 obeyed, seeing in the stolidly expectant faces of the 
 party that his cheerful impertinences were for once 
 out of place. 
 
 The party rode in silence save for the muffled 
 beat of their horses' hoofs in the grass and the 
 creaking of their saddles, tUl Simpson began 
 to whistle the ' Wedding March.' The air was 
 
ISO WOMAIV AND THE MAN 
 
 perhaps unrecogoised ; at all events, nobody joined 
 in it, and the discomfited humorist stopped midway 
 through it with a forlorn grin, lit his pipe, and rode 
 on as silent as the rest. 
 
 ' Thar she blows !' cried the foremost horseman, 
 a long, loose, saturnine Yankee, vho had once been 
 a harpooner on an American whaler. He rose in 
 his stirrups, pointing with a forefinger straight 
 ahead. A dim speck was visible on the horizon 
 beyond the undulating biUows of grass. 
 
 * Come along, boys,' cried Bill, clapping spurs to 
 his horse, and the whole crowd started at a brisk 
 gallop with a ringing cheer. 
 
 The dim speck grew every moment in distinctness 
 as they flew towards it, till it became recognisable 
 to sight less keen than that of the old whaler as the 
 St. Louis express. 
 
 ' That's Kansas, drivin',' he said to Bill, who 
 rode abreast of him. ' They'll be aboard of her, I 
 reckon. See his rosette ? And the orses have got 
 streamers on.' 
 
 These and kindred remarks passed from mouth 
 to mouth as the distance between the galloping 
 crowd of horsemen and the approaching coach grew 
 less. 
 
 ' Let's give 'em a salute,' suggested Simpson, and 
 a sudden crackle of revolver shots resounded over 
 the muffled beat of hoofs. Kansas waved his long 
 whip, and rose in his seat, lashing his horses to a 
 
THE BRIDE OF yA COB'S FLA T 151 
 
 faster gallop, and the last half-mile was covered at 
 racing pace. 
 
 The band of horsemen foamed about the coach 
 like a breaking wave around a boulder, yelling and 
 whooping like a crowd of fiends, and blazing away 
 with their revolvers. A man's head and shoulders 
 emerged from the window, and in the interior a 
 ghmpse was visible of a pale and terrified female 
 face. 
 
 •Dry up!' roared Bill. 'Ye pack of howling 
 fools ! Ye'll skeer the soul out of her !' 
 
 A sudden silence fell upon the party, broken by a 
 tuneful ringing cheer, led by Simpson with a shrill 
 ' 'Ip, 'ip, 'ooray !' and a dozen hands were thrust 
 out to seize that of the male traveller. 
 
 ' I took ye for a gang of prairie ruffians,' said the 
 latter, with a strong provincial English accent. 
 'Ye frightened the little woman. It's all right, 
 lass,' he continued. 'It's the boys from the camp, 
 come over to give us a welcome, bless their 
 hearts !' 
 
 He sank back in his seat and gently pushed his 
 bride to the window. 
 
 She looked out, with the pallor of her recent 
 fear still on her cheeks — a frank, delicate face, 
 which made the photograph the men had admired 
 on the night before seem a clumsy libel on her 
 living beauty. Every man in the crowd drew a 
 deep breath as she ran her still half -frightened 
 
1S3 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 glance along their bronzed and bearded faces. 
 They returned the gaze with ardent eyes, sitting 
 Kke statues about the arrested vehicle, staring at 
 this wonder of womanhood dropped from the ^kies 
 to share their rough lives. 
 
 ' God bless you, my beauty, and welcome to the 
 J^lat !' cried an unniistakably English voice, and 
 amid another cheer the coach started again. The 
 girl's face, which had flushed rosily at the words, 
 paled again at a stray shot of rejoicing from some 
 ardent spirit, who was immediately knocked out of 
 his saddle by a neighbour and sharply anathema- 
 tized by his companions. 
 
 Coach and escort moved forward at a moderate 
 pace, keeping time to a song started by a Spaniard 
 in the van, a gravely joyful measure, sung in a 
 rough but melodious voice, which lasted until the 
 halting-place of the coach was reached. Here Jake 
 opened the coach door, and, springing to the ground, 
 assisted his wife to descend. 
 
 The men dismounted from their horses, and 
 formed a circle about the couple. The girl was 
 quite self-possessed now, and when Jake took her 
 hand and led her a step forward, smiled brightly 
 in answer to the cheer which greeted her. 
 
 ' These are my friends, Jess, and you must make 
 'em yours,' said Jake. ' Good friends they've been 
 to me, through fair and foul.' 
 
 She put out a little gloved hand to Prairie Bill, 
 
THE BRIDE OF JACOB'S FLAT 153 
 
 who blushed redder than she as he took it, and 
 after wringing it with unnecessary force, dropped 
 it and looked a trifle foolish. There was no man 
 in the crowd who did not envy him, but no other 
 claimed the honour thus bestowed. 
 
 ' I'm very glad to meet you all,' said Jess, * and 
 I'm very thankful for your kindness to Jake — to my 
 husband.' 
 
 The voice was sweet, and only one or two in the 
 crowd could recognise that its accent was almost as 
 strong as Jake's. But she might have been far less 
 pretty than she was in face and speech, her femin- 
 inity and her youth were as a strangely potent wine 
 to ensure the worshipping affection of every man in 
 the party. 
 
 ' Talk 0' that gal at Dutch Gulch, as Poker Sam 
 married last year !' said Prairie Bill to Simpson, 
 ' Eeckon we lay over the Gulch this deal. We've 
 got a lady.' 
 
 Not one among them had any touch of mean envy 
 of his companion's luck. 
 
 'A reg'lar daisy, and no error,' said Simpson. 
 ' I 'ope the lady can ride, matey,' he continued to 
 Jake; 'we've bought a little 'oss for her — our 
 weddin' present. She's a nice little thing, and as 
 quiet as a lamb, ma'am.' The others looked with 
 awe and respect at Simpson, entering thus easily 
 into converse with this radiant goddess. 
 
 ' Eide !' cried Jake proudly ; ' she can ride nigh 
 
154 WOMAN' AND THE MAN 
 
 on a'most anything. Country bred, she is- My 
 county — Essex.' 
 
 Jess clapped her hands delightedly at sight of the 
 horse, a pretty little beast of mustang strain, gor- 
 geously caparisoned in scarlet Mexican leather. 
 
 ' I don't know what to say,' she cried ; ' it's too 
 beautiful! Thank you. Thank you all, ever so 
 much.' 
 
 ' Give her a lift, Simpson,' said Jake, with the 
 air of Jove distributing favour to mortals, and the 
 blushing cockney stooped to the little foot and 
 lifted the bride to her saddle amid another cheer. 
 Jess shook hands with Kansas, and thanked him 
 sweetly for the care he had taken of her during the 
 long ride from 'Frisco. 
 
 ' I wish I had something as pretty to take care 
 of every journey,' said Kansas, with the air of a 
 man who meant it, and, Spartan in his sense of 
 duty, waved his hat and drove away with the empty 
 coach, as the cavalcade, headed by the bride and 
 bridegroom, set out at a gentle gallop for Jacob's 
 Flat. 
 
CHAPTEE XV. 
 
 AT JACOB'S FLAT. 
 
 Fob a year after his wedding Jake Owen was as 
 happy a man as the most enthusiastic of the crowd 
 of ceUbate women-worshippers among whom he 
 lived could have believed him to be. The district 
 was one of the richest within a few days' ride of San 
 Francisco, and Jacob's Flat was one of the luckiest 
 camps in California, but Jake's good-fortune was so 
 singular as to cause him to be known to everybody 
 as • Happy Jake.' His luck became legendary ; it 
 was averred of him that he had only to stick his 
 spade into the ground to make gold, however un- 
 likely the spot might be. 
 
 Nobody grudged him his good-fortune, though it 
 was only human nature to envy it, for Jake was 
 emphatically what his comrades called him, ' a 
 white man,' with a sturdy English honesty of 
 character, supplemented by much kindly shrewdness 
 learned in his travels and by a native happiness of 
 temperament and generosity of heart. His popu- 
 
156 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 larity doubled with the arrival of his wife, and the 
 ' Duchess,' as she was called with affectionate pride, 
 had every reason to be as happy as her hus- 
 band. 
 
 Whatever rude luxuries were possible in so wild 
 a place were here. Jake's cabin windows were 
 beautified with coloured hangings, its earthen floor 
 was concealed by a carpet of the gaudiest procurable 
 pattern, and Jake, in the full flower of his honey- 
 moon happiness, had gone the length of procuring 
 a piano from San Francisco. The circumstance 
 that neither Jess herself nor any other person ia 
 the camp knew a note of music detracted nowise 
 from the satisfaction of Jake and his comrades in 
 the possession of the instrument. The piano was a 
 splendid fact, a fitting background to the beauty 
 and distinction of 'the Duchess.' There was no 
 piano in Dutch Gulch, which one-horse community 
 persisted in an attempt, which might have seemed 
 almost profane had it not been so hopelessly absurd, 
 to proclaim its equality with the Flat. 
 
 It befell, upon a certain hot and dusty summer 
 evening, that Jake Owen, returning from a distant 
 town on the hillside, came, at the outskirts of the 
 camp, upon a man lying by the wayside under a 
 tuft of azalea blossom. 
 
 Jake's first impression was that the man was 
 intoxicated, his second that he was dead. He lay 
 with his arms broadcast and his open eyes staring 
 
AryA COB'S FLA T 157 
 
 at the sky, and the breast of his shirt was caked 
 with stiffened blood. 
 
 Closer examination, however, disclosed that he 
 was still alive. Jake poured the remnant of the 
 whisky left in his flask down his throat, and, as the 
 man gave signs of returning consciousness, propped 
 him against the bank at the roadside, ran to the 
 saloon, and pressed into his service a couple of men 
 drinking there, who, provided with a broad plank 
 and a blanket, bore the sufferer to Jake's cabin. 
 
 There was no qualified doctor in the place, but 
 several of its inhabitants had some rough notion 
 of surgery, and it was evident to the Uttle knot of 
 men who gathered in Jake's sitting-room that the 
 wounded sufferer was in a very critical condition. 
 
 ' A darn'd ugly cut,' said one critic. ' The knife 
 slid off the rib, you see. He's lost a sight of 
 blood. Say, what'r ye goin' to do with him, 
 Jake?' 
 
 'Keep him till he's better,' said Jake. 'Eh, 
 Jess? Why, lass,' he exclaimed, seeing her look 
 a little doubtfully at the sufferer, 'ye wouldn't 
 have us throw him out on the road again? Do 
 as ye'd be done by. It might be my turn to- 
 morrow.' 
 
 ' He must be taken care of, of course,' said Jess. 
 
 ' He'll want nussing, too,' continued Jake, ' and 
 you're the only woman in the camp. We're the 
 best able to afford it too, thank God !' 
 
IS8 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 The girl's not very strong opposition to her 
 husband's proposal was easily understood, for the 
 wounded man was a ghastly object. He had 
 smeared his face with his own blood, and the red 
 dust of the road had caked upon the stain. His 
 hair was wild, his cheeks rough with a week's 
 unshaven beard, his clothes foul with blood and 
 mire. 
 
 They got him to bed, and dressed the wound 
 with the best rough skill at hand. It was not 
 intrinsically serious — a large flesh wound, rendered 
 dangerous by effusion of blood. When the stains 
 had been washed from the sufferer's face an in- 
 stantaneous change of opiuion regarding him took 
 place in Jess's mind. He was a distinctly hand- 
 some fellow, of a species of male beauty not 
 common in the Flat. His features were finely cut 
 and delicate, his hands soft as a woman's, his hair 
 abundant, and wavy and silky as Jess's own. 
 
 'A gentleman, I should think,' said Jake. 
 'English too.' 
 
 It was a day or two before the wounded man re- 
 covered consciousness, and a longer time still before 
 he could give any coherent account of himself. 
 
 Then, at long intervals, for he was weak from 
 loss of blood, he told him his story. 
 
 He was an Englishman, as Jake had surmised. 
 His name was Philip Mordaunt. He had been 
 travelling in America for some years, painting, 
 
AT JACOB'S FLAT 159 
 
 hunting on the prairies, and recently, more for 
 love of adventure than for need of money, as he 
 hinted rather than said, had been digging. He 
 had made a httle pile at Empire Camp, and had 
 started on horseback for 'Frisco with his partner, 
 also an Englishman. Some twelve hours before 
 Jake had found him the partner had treacherously 
 stabbed him, rifled his body of all his possessions, 
 and ridden off with the horses. He had crawled 
 with great difficulty to the spot where he had been 
 discovered, and there had finally lost consciousness. 
 
 'I should have died but for you,' he said, 
 pressing Jake's hand with his delicate and feeble 
 fingers. ' How can I ever repay you ? I haven't 
 a penny in the world.' 
 
 'Pay me!' answered Jake; 'who talks of pay- 
 ment, sir ? You pull round, that's what you've got 
 to do, and we'll talk about payment later on. 
 We're rough folks, sir, but we're proud to be able 
 to serve a gentleman in misfortune — and from the 
 old country, too — that we are !' said Jake heartily. 
 
 It was Jake that Mordaunt thanked with his lips, 
 but he kept his eyes on Jess's face. Fine eyes they 
 were — dark, lustrous, and the more interesting 
 to a woman from the deep humidity with which 
 weakness and suffering had filled them. 
 
 When once Mordaunt had definitely turned the 
 corner of his illness, it was not long before he was 
 sufficiently convalescent to leave his bed. The 
 
i6o WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 denizens of the Flat were a roughish lot, but they 
 were not without their sympathies, and Jess's 
 patient became a favourite with them, many pre- 
 ferring to come to the cabin in the evening to take 
 a quiet smoke and drink with him. and his host, 
 to passing the evening at the bar. Mordaunt was 
 hail-fellow-well-met with all who came, accepting 
 the deference they paid him as his due, but friendly 
 and familiar with them. 
 
 It was reckoned as another specimen of Jake 
 Owen's wonderful luck that he should have had the 
 privilege of finding such a guest. He was a de- 
 lightful companion, full of stories of travel, jokes, 
 and repartee. 
 
 One night, towards the end of his convalescence, 
 Jess told Jake that she had found him playing 
 on her piano that morning. A universal demand 
 for music followed this revelation, and Mordaunt, 
 nothing loath, played a score of airs for them, good 
 old simple home tunes they had not heard for 
 years, and sang, in a rather weak voice, ' Tom 
 Bowling ' and ' Annie Laurie.' 
 
 Affectionately interested already, the camp ac- 
 claimed him that night as its king and hero. The 
 musical evenings became a feature, and drew so 
 splendidly that Pat McClosky, the bar-keeper, after 
 declaring that it was no longer any use in keeping 
 a saloon to which nobody came, and seriously enter- 
 taining thoughts of going elsewhere to make his 
 
AT JACOB'S FLAT i6« 
 
 livelihood, hit on the magnificent idea of offering 
 Mordaunt two hundred dollars a week and his 
 liquor to play nightly at his establishment. Mor- 
 daunt cemented the admiration of the camp by 
 refusing the offer. 
 
 ' I play to please my friends,' he said, ' not t® 
 make money.' 
 
 The camp swore by him, and swore at McClosky 
 copiously and in many languages. Pete Durgan, 
 the half-witted half-breed fiddler came to the camp 
 on his round, and when it was found that Mordaunt 
 could play as brilliantly on his instrument as oh 
 the piano, there was no reserve stock of enthusiasm 
 left to draw upon. 
 
 Mordaunt's recovery became complete, but there 
 was no hint of his leaving Jake Owen's shanty. 
 Indeed, so far from anything of the kind being 
 mooted, Jake had, with his own hands, in the 
 intervals of necessary labour, built out an addi- 
 tional room to his hut, and furnished it even 
 more gorgeously than his own parlour, for the 
 accommodation of his honoured guest. Mordaunt 
 repaid his hospitality by teaching Jess to play the 
 piano, in which art she made astonishiag progress 
 under his skilful tutelage, and by painting a por- 
 trait of her, which the simple digger and his chums 
 looked at as the most wonderful effort of white 
 magic in their experience. His only other occupa- 
 tions were to lounge about the camp and the bar, 
 
 11 
 
i62 WOMAJV AND THE MAN 
 
 to play poker and euchre, at which games he was a 
 proficient, and to write letters for illiterate * pikes ' 
 with friends and relations in other parts of the 
 world. 
 
 Now, a camp of diggers is not the kind of com- 
 munity which shines in morals when contrasted 
 with a well-regulated convent or a boarding school, 
 and Jacob's Flat was not on a higher level in such 
 matters than other places of like nature. But 
 almost every conceivable set of social conditions 
 results in its own peculiar scheme of morality, and 
 in one or two particulars a man who knew the 
 world would have found the crowd among which 
 Jake Owen and his wife passed their lives a 
 curiously simple and Arcadian people. 
 
 They were habitual devotees of the whisky-bottle, 
 and spasmodically addicted to the use of the knife 
 and pistol. They were always more or less coarse, 
 and often profane in their language ; their play at 
 poker and the other games they loved was often 
 more remarkable for skUl than for strict probity. 
 There were men among them who would have been 
 shy of entering any civilized city, even San Fran- 
 cisco, which at that date was not an oppressively 
 moral community, and who would have been shot 
 at sight or judicially hanged in the eastern cities. 
 They were a rude and desperate lot, but with all 
 allowance for their less amiable side, they had their 
 virtues. 
 
A T JACOB'S FLA T 163 
 
 Like desperate men in general, they had a high 
 ideal of personal friendship, and a detestation of 
 anything resembling treachery. A friend, to them, 
 was one in whose hands a man might trust his 
 possessions and his life with a sense of absolute 
 security. 
 
 As regarded women, they were not, perhaps, much 
 more logical in their views than the rest of the 
 world. In towns and cities, where women are 
 plenty, they had as little sentimental regard for 
 feminine purity as any Parisian bovievarcUer, and 
 their vices lacked the saving civilized grace. But 
 in the camp, where the fairer half of humanity 
 was represented by one woman, they clothed her, 
 half imconsciously, with every attribute of sacredness. 
 
 She would have been safe from all but blunt and 
 honourable courtship had she been alone among 
 them. But she was a chum's wife, and the lowest 
 blackguard of the crowd would have been ashamed 
 of harbouring a thought against his happiness j she 
 was something apart from and above them, she 
 breathed a finer air, seemed of another order. 
 
 So that Mordaunt's constant presence in Jake's 
 house, his continual association with his friend's 
 wife, the intimacy he never tried to conceal, which 
 would in another kind of community have excited 
 suspicion and remark, and would have stamped the 
 simple Jake either as a fool or as a too complaisant 
 husband, seemed the most natural and innocent 
 
i64 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 business to the simple-minded crew of desperadoes. 
 Mordaunt owed his life to Jake, the clothes he wore, 
 the food he ate. Their almost superstitious rever- 
 ence for the only pure woman many of them had 
 known since childhood, the high value their danger- 
 ous lives had taught them to put on comradeship 
 and gratitude, and Mordaunt's open bearing and 
 universal friendliness of manner, kept them from 
 any such suspicion as people of infinitely more 
 reputable life than theirs would have jumped at 
 without hesitation. 
 
 The halcyon dream of Happy Jake's life was 
 doomed to be rudely broken. Th& simple, honest 
 heart had no skill to read the signs of the coming 
 disaster, which grew so plain to him in later days. 
 
 It was the old sad story, so often told, which we 
 may allow to pass as an episode in this chronicle 
 without long dwelling on its details — the story of the 
 dull, loving husband whose affection has grown 
 stale and commonplace to the poor silly woman 
 who has won it, of the smooth, polished man of the 
 world, gradually weaning her heart from the accus- 
 tomed round of daily duties with which it has 
 grown content. 
 
 Jess was as innocent a little creature as drew 
 breath; not in the least wicked, only weak and 
 fatally fond of admiration. The handsome, glib, 
 clever stranger had trapped wiser women than her 
 in his time, and at every turn he contrasted with 
 
AT JACOB' S FLAT 165 
 
 Jake and the rough crowd about him. To the 
 ignorant little woman his manners seemed those of 
 a royal prince, his knowledge and his accomplish- 
 ments prodigious and superhuman. 
 
 She felt the fascination growing, and did her 
 feeble best to fight against it. Jake remembered 
 after, how pathetically she had clung to him, how, 
 in a thousand ways, her apparent love for him had 
 gone on strengthening almost to the dreadful hour 
 when he learned her sin. 
 
 The discovery had come suddenly. Jake re- 
 turned home one night to find the cabin empty. 
 There was nothing in that to excite his suspicions ; 
 it had happened a score of times before that Jess 
 and Mordaunt had gone out riding or walking 
 together, and had let the meal-time slip by. 
 
 He cooked his own modest supper, ate it with a 
 good appetite, and dozed peaceably over his pipe 
 and a week-old copy of a 'Frisco newspaper. 
 
 He grew uneasy with the passage of time, and 
 towards midnight stroUed out to the saloon to learn 
 what news he might of the missing couple. 
 
 Nothing had been seen of either since noon, 
 when they had started for a ride together. 
 
 Next morniag news came. They had been seen 
 at nightfall forty miles from the camp. The mean- 
 ing of that was clear even to the simplest minJ. 
 
CHAPTEE X7I. 
 
 THE PTJBStriT. 
 
 The ■wretched man on whom this heavy blow had 
 fallen like lightning from a simimer sky was, as is 
 usual in such cases, the last to hear the dreadful 
 news. 
 
 It came to him in a fashion characteristic of the 
 time and place. He was sitting alone in his cabin, 
 devoured with curiosity regarding his wife and 
 friend, racking his brain to discover some admissible 
 reason for their absence, some method of assuring 
 himself of their safety, without a shadow of sus- 
 picion of the terrible truth, when a distant beat of 
 horses' hoofs came to his ears, and a minute later a 
 score of men galloped up to the cabin, drew bridle, 
 and entered. 
 
 They ranged themselves in front of him as he 
 stared at them, and for a full minute there was a 
 silence broken only by the pawing of the horses 
 outside and by the occasional shuffle of a boot upon 
 the floor. 
 
THE PURSUIT 167 
 
 'Well, boys?' said Jake at last in a tone of 
 question. 
 
 There was another interval of silence, and 
 Simpson elbowed Prairie Bill to the front. 
 
 ' You speak,' he said. 
 
 Bill cleared his throat with unnecessary loudness, 
 fidgeted uneasily with the breast of his shirt, 
 stooped and wiped a splash of red mud from his 
 boot with his forefinger, and finally said : 
 
 ' We've bad news, Jake.' 
 
 ' News,' said Jake. ' Of Jess — Mor daunt ?' 
 
 Bill nodded with a sudden grimness of face. 
 
 ' What about 'em ? Where are they ?' 
 
 There was another silence, and then Bill spoke 
 again: 
 
 'They were seen fast night at eight o'clock, 
 together, just along by Pete's Pocket.' 
 
 Jake's look was one of pure relief and expectation. 
 
 ' Thank God they're ahve, anyhow,' he said. 
 
 A man in the background broke into a hoarse, 
 short laugh. 
 
 'I'm glad you've got something to laugh at,' said 
 Jake. ' What's the joke ? Don't keep it all to 
 yourself.' 
 
 The men looked at each other as if in doubt if 
 this unsuspecting ignorance could be real. 
 
 'Has anything happened, anything bad?' he 
 continued. ' I've often told Jess that she shouldn't 
 get too far from home. It's a rough place, and 
 
f68 woman and the MAN 
 
 there's a good many bad characters about, as might 
 hurt even her. But Mordaunt was with her. Is 
 it him ? Has anything come to him? He'd stand 
 by her, I know.' 
 
 Simpson uttered a sort of groan. Jake's face 
 turned in his direction, with a sudden pallor and 
 wonder on it, and then he looked to Prairie BUI. 
 The burly rufSan's face was full of an almost 
 womanly pity. 
 
 'You've got to know,' he said, 'though I'd a 
 blame sight rather cut my tongue out than tell ye.' 
 He manned himself to the disclosure. ' She's 
 gone, Jake — she's left ye.' 
 
 ' Left me !' cried Jake, rising. 
 
 ' She's left ye for that white-faced, white-livered, 
 Bneakin' snake, that Mordaunt.' 
 
 Jake sprang to his feet with his eyes blazing. 
 
 ' !' he cried ; ' I'd have the blood of e'er 
 
 another man alive as said it !' 
 
 ' We're old pards, Jake,' said Bill. ' It hurts me 
 as much, pooty nigh, to say it, as it does you to 
 hear it. But it's true. What else can it be — but 
 that ? We're out after 'em, and you'd better come 
 along.' 
 
 Jake came forward, with his arms extended, like 
 a blind man, or like one groping in black night in 
 an unfamiliar place. He looked along the line of 
 faces, grim, resolute, but pitying, and after swaying 
 for a moment like a drunken man, rushed from the 
 
THE PURSUIT 169 
 
 cabin to the mud shanty where his horse was 
 stabled. 
 
 For three hours the party rode in dead silence, 
 till they sighted a solitary horseman riding across 
 their trail. They shouted to him and rode on at 
 a gallop ; he waited for them. A rapid fire of 
 questions resulted in nothing save that, early that 
 morning, just after dawn, on the other side of Pete's 
 Pocket, he had remarked the track of two horses, 
 side by side. It was the faintest of clues, but they 
 followed it, in the same grim silence. Jake seemed 
 the only man in the crowd who rode without 
 thought or purpose. He was dazed, and only 
 occasionally raised his eyes to look with a dumb, 
 pitiful hopelessness about the prospect. 
 
 By hard riding they reached Pete's Pocket in the 
 early afternoon. It was a deserted mine, long since 
 worked out and abandoned, with the double solitude 
 of a once-populous place which has fallen back to 
 its pristine savagery. By the clues their informant 
 had given, they found the traU, and followed it till 
 evening was closing in. Jake's dazed mind had 
 seized upon it as something positive and actual, and 
 the sight of the hoof-prints had strung him to as 
 intense an interest in the hunt as was shown by his 
 companions. It made for the rising ground in the 
 direction of San Francisco, till suddenly, at the foot 
 of a little eminence, it split, one line of the track 
 going straight on, the other inclining to the coast. 
 
I70 WOMAl^ AND THE MAN 
 
 A halt was called, and a hurried consultation 
 held. 
 
 ' It's a pretty thin dodge,' said Simpson. ' Both 
 them roads lead to 'Frisco — ^there ain't any other 
 place ye can get to from here in that way.' 
 
 ' That's so,' said BUI, ' and see here now ! This 
 to the left is a heap heavier than the other. That's 
 his traU — s'posin' as it's him at all, and that's hers. 
 Small prints, ye see, just such as the little mare 
 would make. We must split, boys. I'll follow 
 the big track. You'd better take the other lot. 
 "Which'U you go with, Jake ?' 
 
 To the momentary surprise of everybody present, 
 Jake elected to follow Mordaunt's traU. 
 
 ' Means business,' said Simpson to his Ueutenant, 
 as they trotted along the lighter traU. ' He'll blow 
 dayhght into that covey when he finds him, see if 
 he don't.' 
 
 Not a word was spoken among the other party, 
 who galloped on along the trail till the lights of the 
 city came in sight and the track was lost among a 
 hundred others. They made for the office of the 
 police, then a newly-organized force, recently suc- 
 ceeded to the functions of the old Vigilance Com- 
 mittee. Their story was heard, and all possible 
 assistance was at once promised. 
 
 ' We'll make a house-to-house visitation, if need 
 be,' said the captain. 
 
 By this time the other party, headed by Simpson, 
 
THE PURSUIT 171 
 
 arrived, and the whole contingent, worn out with 
 their long ride, made for a saloon for meat and 
 drink. 
 
 Jake sat stonily among them. He refused food, 
 but drank, and presently went out and roamed 
 among the crowd in the streets, peering in the 
 faces of every couple that passed him. A dozen 
 times his heart thrilled at the distant glimpse of a 
 figure resembling that of Jess or Mordaunt. 
 
 When past midnight he rejoined his companions; 
 the captain of police was with them. He had 
 vague news of a couple who answered somewhat to 
 the descriptions of the missing parties. They had 
 passed through the town separately, making no 
 stay there, and it was supposed that they had gone 
 in the direction of Los Perros, a mining settlement 
 twenty mUes inland. 
 
 They had a start of nearly twenty-four hours, 
 and, even if they were the people sought, such an 
 advantage made the chase look very hopeless. 
 
 ' We'U follow !' said BHl. ' Saddle, boys !' 
 
 They tramped out of the town, and did the dis- 
 tance on their jaded horses in two hours, only to 
 learn that Los Perros knew nothing of the run- 
 aways. 
 
 ' They've doubled on us, Jake,' said Bill. ' It's a 
 royal flush to a busted sequence agen us now.' 
 
 ' We never ought to ha' left 'Frisco,' said Jake. 
 ' It's a biggish place ; they can He quiet there for a 
 
172 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 bit, and then start across for New York, or take 
 ship for somewhere.' 
 
 • They'll watch the boats for us,' said Bill. * Our 
 best holt is to strike in and cover the country.' 
 
 He and his mates were stanch to the cause of 
 friendship, though they had little enough hope of 
 success in their search. 
 
 ' We must spread ourselves,' he continued, ' and 
 cover all the ground we can.' 
 
 He rapidly mapped out all possible routes which 
 might be taken by the fugitives, and told off the 
 men to follow them. Some rest was distinctly 
 necessary for the horses, though one or two of the 
 most ardent, among whom were Jake and Bill, 
 managed to effect exchanges of their tired beasts 
 for fresh ones, and to start at once. The final 
 rallyiag-place was the Flat, at which all the party 
 were to put in an appearance in two days, or send 
 news of the trail they were pursuing. 
 
 The men straggled back to the Flat on the second 
 day, newsless and hopeless. There was absolutely 
 no trace. The fugitives had vanished as utterly as 
 if they had melted into air. Even conjecture was 
 at a standstill. Police and volunteers had dragged 
 the whole country-side as with a net. Every possible 
 course of action had been tried, but Jess and her 
 seducer had melted beyond pursuit. 
 
 The betrayed husband took the successive dis- 
 appointments with a stony calm, sitting in the little 
 
THE PURSUIT 173 
 
 room in which he had known so many tranquilly 
 happy hours. 
 
 ' Thank you, my lad, thank you, kind and hearty, 
 for. what you've done,' he said to each, as he un- 
 folded his tale of failure. He had not broken bread 
 since the solitary supper he had eaten three days 
 ago, or closed his eyes during the chase ; but when 
 the last straggler had come in he ate heavily, and 
 fell to sleep with his arms on the rude table and 
 his head laid upon them. An hour or two later he 
 came to the claim where his partner was working. 
 
 ' I want to talk to you,' he said, and led the way 
 to his shanty, his partner following. 
 
 He waved him to a seat, and set a bottle before 
 him. 
 
 ' I want to talk to you,' he said again. * A bit of 
 business.' He sat for a space, and then repeated, 
 ' A bit of business.' 
 
 His eyes, wandering around the room, fell upon 
 Jess's portrait, painted by Mordaunt, which hung 
 upon the wall. He went and took it from its place, 
 tore it from its frame with a sudden, deliberate 
 strength, rent it to ribbons, and cast the fragments 
 into the grate. 
 
 ' The claim's been yielding pretty fair,' he said, 
 after sitting down again. ' I want to sell it. Will 
 you buy ?' 
 
 ' Sell r said his partner. ' What d'ye want to 
 sell for ?' 
 
174 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 ' I'm leaving this place,' said Jake, ' and I want 
 money.' 
 
 He spoke quite calmly", and the other, who neces- 
 sarily guessed his purpose, was surprised at the 
 quietness of his manner. 
 
 'She ain't worth it, Jake. Nor him. Let 'em 
 rot. Can't ye wait till luck gives ye a chance, and 
 go for him then ?' 
 
 * What's the claim worth ?' said Jake in reply. 
 
 ' I'U stand you five thousand for it,' said the 
 other, falling into his companion's humour with a 
 scarcely perceptible shrug of the shoulders. 
 
 ' I'll take four,' said Jake. ' That's as much as 
 it's worth. Let me have the brass to-night, mate.' 
 
 He nodded a dismissal, which his partner obeyed, 
 promising to bring the money before nightfall, and, 
 left alone, began to busy himself with his simple 
 arrangements for his journey. He filled his saddle- 
 bags, loaded his revolver, weighed his dust and 
 nuggets before dropping them into the belt about 
 his waist, and then went out and groomed and fed 
 his horse, doing all those little tasks in a quiet, 
 everyday fashion. No stranger who had witnessed 
 his preparations could have guessed the nature of 
 the, journey he meditated, the faint chance of even 
 the tragic measure of success which was all that was 
 left to him to hope for. His face was as a mask, 
 his movements quite orderly and regular. His 
 arrangements completed, he sat down beside the 
 
THE PURSUIT 17S 
 
 window in the fading light, quietly smoking and 
 waiting for his partner. 
 The man came. He placed a bag on the table. 
 * I reckon ye'U find that about right,' he said, ' if 
 ye'U heft it. It's two thousand, and that's the rest 
 in greenbacks.' 
 
 ' Thank you,' said Jake, and there was a moment's 
 sUence. 
 
 'I said ye'd like to go alone,' continued the 
 partner. ' 'Taint the kind o' busiuess ye want 
 other folk fooling round. Some of the boys talked 
 about coming, but I stopped 'em.' 
 
 ' I'd rather be alone,' said Jake. ' Thank you, 
 Tom.' 
 
 ' They'd take it kind if ye'd just turn into the 
 saloon for a drink. They'd Uke to say good-bye to ye.' 
 He saw a spasm cross Jake's face in the dim 
 light. 
 
 'Well,' he said, 'perhaps so, if ye'd rather not. 
 Good-bye, old pard.' 
 
 ' Good-bye. My love to the boys. God bless 'em 
 all ! I shan't forget 'em, however the luck goes.' 
 They grasped hands and parted. 
 An hour after, news came to the saloon that Jake 
 had started. As they stood about, discussing the 
 tragedy of the last three days, a red glare shone 
 through the windows of the bar-room. It grew 
 momently brighter, and cries and shouts came from 
 its neighbourhood. 
 
176 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 The men trooped out, arid ran towards it. Before 
 they had advanced a hundred yards Jake's partner 
 cried : 
 
 ' It's Jake's shanty. He must ha' fired it 'fore 
 he left.' 
 
CHAPTEE XVII. 
 
 A LIFE CHASE. 
 
 Fob many a day after that wild parting the mind 
 of Jake Owen seemed a dark blank, lit up only by 
 the fiery thought of revenge. 
 
 As a man moves from place to place in sleep, 
 performing every function with strange mechanical 
 certainty and under the influence of some mysterious 
 wUl, yet knowing and remembering now, the miser- 
 able creature followed on the track of Jess and her 
 companion. From city to city, from houge to 
 house, he passed like a shadow ; sometimes gaining 
 a false clue which drew him hopelessly hither and 
 thither, at others absolutely certain that he was 
 pursuing the right trail. He ate and drank, walked 
 or slept, like any other creature ; his manner was 
 gentle and reserved towards all he met, only his 
 fixed jaw and absent eyes expressing the determina- 
 tion on which his soul was set. 
 
 He reached Denver City, and there, by cunning 
 inquiry, he learned news which placed him almost 
 
 12 
 
178 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 beyond doubt that his wife and Mordaunt had 
 rested together for several days at one of the best 
 hotels in the place, and had then, only twenty-four 
 hours before his arrival, taken the night-cars for 
 New York. 
 
 He followed on at once, and in due course, after 
 a long and dreary journey, arrived in the great 
 city. Here, however, he lost all trace of the 
 fugitives; they were swallowed up in that great 
 sea of human being. 
 
 Convinced in his own mind that New York had 
 been their ■destination, and that they were some- 
 where there in hiding, he haunted the streets daUy, 
 made inquiries at the principal hotels, and was 
 down on the quays, with watchful, bloodshot eyes, 
 whenever there was an outgoing steamer; for it 
 was possible, he thought, that the guilty pair 
 might endeavour to put the seas between them- 
 selves and their pursuers. 
 
 All was in vain. Days passed into weeks, and 
 he was still without a clue. 
 
 Meantime, his hungry passion for revenge was 
 consuming him like fire, wasting the flesh from off 
 his bones, devouring and destroying him, so that 
 he was gray and old before his time. He had but 
 one thought and prayer, to find the woman and 
 her paramour, and to destroy them without mercy. 
 Sometimes, when he feared his life might fail before 
 that dreadful purpose was achieved, he sobbed to 
 
A LIFE CHASE 179 
 
 himself in agony, and prayed God to give liim 
 strength till the hour of retribution. 
 
 The -wistful, chUdlike face of the wife he had 
 loved was ever before his eyes, side by side with the 
 mocking, smiling face of Mordaunt. He could not 
 bear to thiak that the two were somewhere together, 
 laughing perhaps at his misery. 
 
 This torture of a nature overstrung by misery 
 could not last for ever. One day, as he was stand- 
 ing on the quays, watching one by one the pas- 
 sengers streaming across the gangway on to the 
 deck of a great ocean steamer, his force failed him, 
 his heart seemed to burst in two, and he fell like a 
 stone. 
 
 It would have been merciful if death had taken 
 him then, and had spared him the torture which 
 was to come. However, he did not die. A little 
 later he was tossing fever-struck in one of the wards 
 of a great hospital. 
 
 Terrible as his position now was, it was tempered 
 with a certain mercy, for often in his delirium his 
 mind went back to the past and seemed to forget 
 the present. He talked with his old wild comrades 
 at the mine ; he spoke to them of the pretty bride, 
 who was coming to him from England ; he was in 
 the streets of 'Frisco waiting for her arrival ; he was 
 being married to her again as in the past. Then a 
 wave of despair would seem to sweep over him, and 
 he would shriek out and stab at some unknown 
 
i8o WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 enemy, until in his agony he would swoon utterly 
 away. 
 
 Had the man not been made of iron fibre, he 
 would certainly have died ; but, full of superhuman 
 strength, he fought inch by inch with death. 
 
 ' If he recovers,' thought the kindly surgeons of 
 the hospital, ' he will be a madman all the rest of 
 his life.' 
 
 The prognostication proved a false one, unless we 
 are to assume that one murderous master-passion 
 is in itself a proof of madness. He recovered, and 
 he was not mad — that is, he was to all outward 
 Beeming rational enough. Questioned of the trouble 
 which seemed to possess his soul, he answered 
 quietly and cunningly, declining all explanation. 
 But he was eager to be gone, and after a rapid 
 convalescence left the hospital, and, like a blind 
 man grasping for the light, passed out into the 
 street. 
 
 He remembered little of the past, but the thought 
 of his wrong was still clear and vivid. His furious 
 excitement seemed to have passed away ; he no 
 longer moaned and raved as during his fierce 
 agony ; but there was no failure of his purpose, as 
 he searched hither and thither to ascertain if, 
 during his illness, the fugitives had escaped him. 
 
 Nearly two months had now passed since Jess 
 Owen and Mordaunt had fled from Jacob's Flat. 
 
 It was quite clear now to Jake Owen that he had 
 
A LIFE CHASE i8i 
 
 been following a fool's trail, and that the persons 
 he sought were not in New York at all — possibly 
 had never come so far. Had they been in the city, 
 some trace of them must have been found, for he 
 had spared neither toil nor money to unearth them. 
 Mordaunt's personal peculiarities, he knew, would 
 mark him out in any company. If in New York, 
 they would certainly have been heard of in the 
 public places, yet every bar, drinking saloon, hotel, 
 or gambling haunt had been searched in vain. 
 
 Poor Jake was stupefied, unable to decide what 
 to do or whither to turn. 
 
 He took lodgings now in a rough place, half beer- 
 house, half hotel, but regularly every day he made 
 the pilgrimage across the ferry to New York. Then, 
 strangely enough, he thought for the first time of 
 consulting a lawyer, and wandering one day by the 
 Tombs, he entered the dingy dirty offices tenanted 
 by the great firm of criminal practitioners, Messrs. 
 Hawk and Pourmart. He sent in his name, and 
 after waiting for nearly an hour in the company of 
 divers evil-lookiug clients, was ushered into the 
 presence of Mr. Hawk, the senior partner, a little 
 keen-eyed gentleman of the Hebrew persuasion. 
 
 Mr. Hawk knew everybody and everything. He 
 was at once the smartest and most disreputable 
 legal practitioner in the State. 
 
 Jake told his story. The lawyer, after listening 
 patiently, looked him from head to foot, observed 
 
i82 WOMAJV AND THE MAN 
 
 his haggard, almost hungry-looking countenance 
 and his equally woebegone apparel, and shrugged 
 his shoulders. 
 
 ' It's a difficult job,' he said, ' and can't be done 
 without expending a heap of dollars.' 
 
 Jake's eyes gleamed. Thrusting his hand into 
 the breast of his coat, he drew out a handful of 
 greenbacks, and slapped them down on the table. 
 
 'Don't let that stop ye!' he said hoarsely. 'I 
 can pay for what I want — only just you tell me 
 this : can I find the man I want ?' 
 
 Mr. Hawk looked less dubious. 
 
 ' You are certain they've not left the country ?' 
 he asked. 
 
 'No,' was the reply; 'I'm certain of nowt but 
 this — that I'll find 'em, dead or alive.' 
 
 ' And then ? What course would you propose to 
 take ? A divorce, certainly.' 
 
 'A divorce!' echoed Jake. 'Yes, a divorce, if 
 you like to call it that.' Then, putting his face to 
 the lawyer's, he said : ' I mean to hill 'em : that's 
 the kind o' divorce I'm after.' 
 
 Mr. Hawk pursed his lips, glanced at the bundle 
 of greenbacks, and smiled. 
 
 'You'll think better of that, my man,' he ob- 
 served blandly. ' However, your future course of 
 action is no business of mine. What you ask us 
 to do is to find out a certain person or persons- 
 Well, I'll do my best.' 
 
A LIFE CHASE 183 
 
 Jake grasped his hand. 
 
 ' Now, describe the man Mordaunt as accurately 
 as possible.' 
 
 Jake did so, and the sense of his great wrong 
 made him eloquently pictorial. He imitated Mor.- 
 daunt's voice and gestures, described his character 
 and general bearing to the life. 
 
 Mr. Hawk reflected. 
 
 ' I believe I have seen the man you describe,' he 
 said quietly. * He conversed with me, as you are 
 doing, in this very office.' 
 
 Jake gasped and almost staggered,, whUe his eyes 
 gleamed with eager anticipation. 
 
 'But that,' the lawyer continued, 'was over a 
 year ago, before the unhappy episode you have 
 been describing. He was then acting, under 
 another name, at the Bowery Theatre. A thorough 
 rascal ! We did some business for him — got him 
 out of some gambling trouble — and he rewarded 
 us by declining to pay our costs.' 
 
CHAPTEE XVm. 
 
 ON THE TEACK. 
 
 Jake Owen left the web of the legal spider with a 
 certain sense of relief. He had heard wonderful 
 reports of the amazing cleverness of Mr. Hawk 
 (that charmingly disinterested gentleman had only 
 asked the small sum of five hundred dollars in 
 advance for expenses), and he was impressed in his 
 dull, stolid way by the lawyer's promises of ulti- 
 mate success. He went back to his lodging, ate a 
 good meal, and then slept soundly — for the first 
 time duriag several days. He would wait patiently 
 till the good news came. 
 
 As Jake Owen was on his way homeward, there 
 was being despatched from New York to Nokota 
 Town, a small settlement some forty miles up the 
 Hudson Biver, a telegram to the following effect : 
 
 'You had better see us at once. Serious busi- 
 ness. — Hawk and Fourmart.' 
 
ON THE TRACK 185 
 
 The telegram was addressed to 
 
 ' Mr. Horace N. Stoddard, 
 Black's Hotel, 
 
 Nokota Town.' 
 
 Early the next day Mr. Horace N. Stoddard, 
 alias Mordaunt, elegantly attired in winter costume 
 and sealskin overcoat, entered Mr. Hawk's office. 
 
 ' I am eternally grateful,' he said, after hearing 
 Mr. Hawk's account of the interview with Jake 
 Owen. ' The man is a ruffian, and I shall adopt 
 measures of self-protection.' 
 
 'I think you had better,' returned the lawyer, 
 
 • or you're a dead man. By the way, what are you 
 doing now ?' 
 
 'Helping the man Black to run his hotel, and 
 playing cards with his customers. But I'm tired of 
 it ; I've thrown it up, and I sail for England in 
 three weeks.' 
 
 ' You are a remarkable man, Mr. Stoddard,' said 
 Mr. Hawk admiringly, yet facetiously. 'Your 
 talents wUl be wasted in the old country.' 
 
 Mr. Stoddard, alias Mordaunt, smiled. 
 
 ' I can return the compliment,' he replied. 
 
 * Arcades ambo, eh ?' 
 
 ' And this woman — is she with you ?' 
 * No ; she has left me.' 
 
 And he drew out a pocket-handkerchief and 
 sighed. 
 
1 86 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 ' Left you ? Since when ?' 
 
 'About a month ago. That is to say, we had 
 differences. She was one of those dreadfully 
 retrospective persons who eternally reproach them- 
 selves and everybody — quite what the French call 
 a pleureuse. It bored me. I suggested at last that' 
 she couldn't do better than return to her husband. 
 She made a scene. A few nights afterwards she 
 disappeared. Poor girl! I hope she hasn't done 
 anything foolish. The river is close by, and women 
 of that temperament have a fascination for running 
 water.' 
 
 Even Mr. Hawk, though he belonged to the 
 vulture species, was not quite hardened enough to 
 be edified by words so cruelly flippant and pitiless. 
 
 'Make certain of one thing,' he said sharply; 
 ' this man, it he ever finds you, will kill you.' 
 
 'He will try,' returned the other coolly, fingering 
 the breast of his overcoat. ' But I always carry 
 arms, and am a good shot. Honestly, I am very 
 sorry for poor Jake. Had I thought that he would 
 have taken the affair so much to heart, and that it 
 would have entailed such an infinity of trouble on 
 myself, I should never have disturbed his domestic 
 hallucinations.' 
 
 ' You sail in three weeks, you say ?' 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 ' Avoid New York till then. I'll keep the man 
 busy.' 
 
ON THE TRACK 187 
 
 ' Good ! By the way, Hawk, I owe you a small 
 account.' 
 
 'Which you will settle withia a fortnight from 
 to-day,' said Mr. Hawk affably. 
 
 ' Must I ? Well, as you please, though I'm not 
 all over money. You may rely upon me.' 
 
 After a few words more the two separated. 
 
 As Mordaunt left the office Mr. Hawk thus solilo- 
 quized : 
 
 ' If the rascal attempts to sail without a settle- 
 ment, I'll put this madman on him. He deserves 
 it, the infernal scoundrel ! But if he pays — well ! 
 I never approve of extreme measures.' 
 
 Mordaunt, on his side, strolling quietly back to 
 the railway-station, soliloquized also : 
 
 ' I don't trust my friend the vulture, and I don't 
 mean to pay him. He little guesses my passage is 
 taken under an alias in the Mesopotamia, which 
 sails in ten days from now.' 
 
 Two days passed, and Jake heard nothing from 
 Mr. Hawk. Then, fierce and impatient, he called 
 again at the offices. 
 
 ' I was just going to write to you,' said the lawyer. 
 ' I think we have got a clue. There is a man living 
 in Philadelphia who answers the description, and 
 he is accompanied by a female whom he calls his 
 wife.' 
 
 Jake tottered and staggered, while Mr. Hawk, 
 with well -simulated sympathy, gave him the 
 
1 88 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 address of a Philadelpliia hotel. Jake clutched 
 it wildly, and made for the door. 
 
 ' Take care what you do !' cried Mr. Hawk warn- 
 ingly. 
 
 Jake made no answer, but turned a livid face on 
 the lawyer, and vanished. Hastening to the depot, 
 he ascertained that there were no through cars to 
 Philadelphia till the evening, so that he had several 
 hours to spare. So he went to his lodging, strolled 
 into the drinking bar, and carelessly took up an old 
 newspaper. He was looking at it almost vacantly, 
 turning his eyes from column to column, and 
 scarcely knowing what he read, when his face 
 went deathly pale, and he reeled on his seat like 
 a drunken man. For staring him in the face, as 
 if written in letters of blood, were these words : 
 
 ' Personal. — If this should meet the eyes of Jake 
 Owen, of Jacob's Flat, let him come to New York, 
 
 and inquire of the janitor of the Hospital, New 
 
 York City, He will hear news of one for whom he is 
 seeking, and who prays for his forgiveness.' 
 
 The next minute Jake was in the street, hurrying 
 up town in the direction of the hospital, one devoted 
 entirely to patients of the female sex. He reached 
 the place at midnight, rang the bell, and told his 
 errand. The janitor at the door informed him that 
 his wife was a patient there, but that it was impos- 
 
ON THE TRACK 189 
 
 Bible to see her at that hour — he must return next 
 morning between visiting hours. 
 
 * See her ?' he shrieked, losing all self-control. 
 ' I will see her, by !' 
 
 A terrible scene ensued ; the officers were sum- 
 moned, and Jake was about to be ejected, when one 
 of the physicians came upon the scene. 
 
 ' Don't send the man away,' he said, ' if he is, as 
 he says, the woman's husband. I don't think 
 she'll last out the night. My man,' he added to 
 Jake, ' I must ask you, if we grant your request, to 
 be very quiet. Nothing can save your wife — she is 
 dying !' 
 
 Dying? It seemed at that moment as if a 
 thunderbolt had fallen on Jake Owen's head. He 
 was dumb with horror and despair. 
 
 The rest the reader already knows from Jake's 
 own confession to Barbara. The last meeting of 
 husband and wife, the scene in the dim light of the 
 hospital ward, the last forgiveness and farewell, the 
 quiet burial in the heart of the great city, are 
 pictures already dimly guessed at, and not to be 
 lingered over without pain. A few days later the 
 broken man stood over his wife's grave, and, lifting 
 up his haggard face to heaven, swore to continue 
 his search for the man who had destroyed them 
 both. 
 
 Further interviews with the firm of Hawk and 
 Fourmart proved of no avail. Mr. Hawk could 
 
igo WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 not, or would not, help him, and strongly advised 
 him to return in peace to Jacob's Plat. What was 
 his astonishment one morning, therefore, to receive 
 a message from Mr. Hawk, asking him to call at 
 once. 
 
 He hastened down to the office. 
 
 'I think your man is found,' said Mr. Hawk, 
 ' and I will give you his address on one assurance 
 — that you do not contemplate any violence.' 
 
 ' No !' cried Jake. ' Give me the writing — I only 
 want to look at him, that's all.' 
 
 ' If you only want to look at him,' said Mr. Hawk, 
 smiling, ' go at once to Black's Hotel, Nokota Town, 
 on the Hudson Eiver, and inquire for Mr. H. N. 
 Stoddard. I should advise you to lose no time, as 
 Mr. Stoddard, alias Mordaunt, is about to depart 
 for the old country.' 
 
 Jake rushed from the office, while Mr. Hawk, 
 with a very ugly look in his eyes, reflected to 
 himself : 
 
 ' I think it would have been wiser, my friend, to 
 pay our debt and so escape his. The firm of Hawk 
 and Fourmart are long-sighted, and it's not on 
 record that they were ever swindled even by so 
 clever a man as you.' 
 
 The meaning of which was that the astute Mr. 
 Hawk, by means best known to himself, had 
 ascertained that his elegant client had hed to him, 
 and was going, without any ceremonies of settle- 
 
ON THE TRACK 191 
 
 ment or farewell, to sail for Europe on the Mesopo- 
 tamia. 
 
 That night, amid a storm of wind and rain, Jake 
 Owen arrived in Nokota Town, a dismal collection 
 of buildings on the banks of the Hudson. 
 
 He had no difficulty in finding the house he 
 sought, for there was only one hotel in the place. 
 Striding into the place, and keeping his passion 
 well under control, he inquired for Mr. H. N. 
 Stoddard. 
 
 The landlord, a lank cadaverous person, smoking 
 a long and damp cigar, instantly replied : 
 
 ' I guess you come too late, for he ain't here, and, 
 what's more, I don't want to know any more of 
 him. He's left, and he's a good riddance.' 
 
 Thereupon, rendered voluble by liquor, Mr. Black 
 enlarged upon Mr. Stoddard's manners and peculi- 
 arities in such a way as to make it perfectly clear, 
 even to Jake's dazed mind, that this same Stoddard 
 was the very man he sought. He had been Mr. 
 Black's confidential manager and adviser for some 
 months, and had left that very day, leaving behind 
 him a strong odour of v/hat in America is called 
 ' smartness ' and in England petty larceny. 
 
 ' And Where's he gone ?' cried Jake Owen, in 
 despair. 
 
 ' I calkilate,' said Mr. Black, ' that he's taking 
 ship for Europe, and you bet I hope he'll stay 
 there !' 
 
192 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 Jake stood close to the inner door of the hotel, 
 the upper part of which door was paned with plate 
 glass. No sooner did he hear the landlord's last 
 words than he uttered a fierce shriek, and dashed 
 his clenched fist through the glass in a rush to 
 leave the place. 
 
 Cries and curses followed him, but he did not 
 turn. Wild and bareheaded, he rushed out again 
 into the night. 
 
 Could he only take the villain by the throat, and 
 cast him into the gutter, and stamp his heel upon 
 his face, and crush that pretty barber's block into 
 pulp — could he only make him a thing that men 
 would shun and women loathe ! 
 
 Hark ! what is that ? 
 
 The whistle of a steam engine in the distance. 
 
 Beside him, within a stone's-throw, stands a 
 desolate railway-station, not the one at which he 
 alighted an hour or two ago. How many miles he 
 has walked he does not know, nor does he care to 
 inquire. With a bound he springs into the booking 
 office, obtains a ticket for New York, and is just in 
 time to catch the passing cars. 
 
 The railway people take note of his wild appear- 
 ance, his bloodstained hand and arm, his matted 
 hair, his haggard eyes, his clothes saturated with 
 the rain, his torn coat and soiled linen. They 
 evidently take him for a madman or a murderer, 
 and they telegraph to New York accordingly. 
 
ON THE TRACK V)% 
 
 The chief constable and a couple of police officers 
 await his arrival ; when he steps out he is arrested. 
 
 In vain he struggles, in vain he demands to 
 know the offence with which he is charged. The 
 only answer he can get is : 
 
 ' Time enough ; you wiU know by-and-by.' 
 
 Fortunately for him, and still more fortunately 
 for the man of whom he is in pursuit, some civic 
 ceremony takes place that day at the docks, the 
 police-court is not open, and he is relegated to the 
 lock-up until to-morrow. 
 
 It is well that he is mad only on one point- 
 Were it otherwise, the humiliation and disgrace to 
 which he is now subjected would surely upset the 
 balance of his reason. The all-engrossing object 
 for which he lives, however, endows him with 
 more than a madman's cunning. He hides his 
 rage, and affects a settled calm he does not feel. 
 
 Besides, it his enemy could learn, if he should 
 escape him now, when he is so near him — so near 
 his revenge ! The previous night and its attendant 
 horrors have begun to tell upon him. He is faint 
 from loss of blood. He asks for a doctor and 
 obtains one. 
 
 Evidently this gentleman is under the impression 
 that his patient is mad. While his wounds are 
 being dressed, the police-inspector cautions him that 
 anything he says may hereafter be used as evidence 
 against him, so he remains discreetly silent. 
 
 13 
 
194 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 The doctor takes his leave, promising to send a 
 composing draught. 
 
 Nature begins to assert herself, he is absolutely 
 hungry. 
 
 His purse, of which the inspector tas taken 
 charge, contains a large amount of greenbacks, and 
 he is graciously permitted to order his dinner and 
 to smoke a pipe. While he smokes he is feasting 
 his eyes with the prospect of his enemy beneath 
 his feet, his heel, his iron heel, always on the 
 scoundrel's sneering face. 
 
 How strange it is with this fever, this ravenous 
 thirst for blood on him, he can eat, drink, and even 
 sleep — sleep without dreaming. 
 
 He had always led a temperate and abstemious 
 life, so that it is not to be wondered at that he 
 awoke refreshed, strong, and vigorous. At first he 
 knew not where he was, or how he came there, but 
 at the sight of his wounded hand all came back 
 upon him. Again his blood boils, again the devil 
 takes possession of him. 
 
 And now a happy idea occurred to him. He 
 sent a message to Mr. Hawk, explaining his 
 position — the result justified his confidence, for no 
 sooner was he brought before the ' judge,' or sitting 
 magistrate, than he was discharged with a caution. 
 
 Mr. Hawk knew how to manage these things 
 wonderfully. 
 
 He was free ! And perhaps there was yet time ! 
 
ON THE TRACK 195 
 
 As he walked out into the street he found the 
 lawyer by his side. 
 
 ' Your man is now in New York,' said Mr. Hawk. 
 ' I could take out papers to prevent hina leaving, 
 but I have private reasons for not doing so ; he 
 sails this forenoon on the Mesopotamia. You have 
 only half an hour to spare if you want to see him ;' 
 and with an ugly look and a nod Mr. Hawk 
 disappeared. 
 
 Jake hesitated a moment, then hailed a yellow 
 cab which was passing. 
 
 ' Drive like to the Cunard wharf.' 
 
 Away they go as hard as they can drive. As 
 they come down to the wharf they can see the 
 steamer still alongside the wharf, a crowd of people 
 looking on. 
 
 There would be just time — nearer, yet nearer 
 still. Once aboard, that is all he asks. 
 
 ' Quicker, quicker !' he cries. ' Five dollars if 
 you're in time.' 
 
 Thus urged, the man makes a detour through a 
 narrow lane to the left which he calculates will 
 enable him to cut off a few hundred yards. As he 
 rattles down they encounter full butt a Government 
 van laden with stores leisurely rolling along from 
 the opposite direction. 
 
 This is an obstacle impossible to pass. 
 
 ' you, drive on !' roars Jake ; * drive over it, 
 
 over the pavement, over anything.' 
 
196 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 The driver catches the fever of excitement and 
 rushes horse and cab upon the pavement. Even 
 then there is not room. The cab and van collide ; 
 -with the shock Jake is thrown out head foremost. 
 He is not killed ; the poor maimed hand saved his 
 head — perchance his life. He takes no heed of 
 that, but runs as fast as his feet can carry him 
 towards the pier. 
 
 As he reaches the mouth of the lane the great 
 liaer is moving from the quay-side. 
 
 If he can only be in time to take a flying leap on 
 deck ! 
 
 Fast as he speeds, the preparations aboard speed 
 faster still. A forest of waving hats and handker- 
 chiefs shut out the vessel. He buffets his way 
 through the crowd. He reaches the edge of the 
 pier to find that he is too late. 
 
 Not too late, however, to catch a passing glimpse 
 of his dead wife's paramour, who stands aloft upon 
 the hurricane deck, dressed as though he had just 
 turned out of a bandbox. He nods pleasantly and 
 kisses his hand to some quondam friend. Jake's 
 curses are drowned by the mighty roar of ' God 
 speed — good-bye !' amidst which the great ship 
 passes out to sea. 
 
CHAPTEE XIX. 
 
 THE GEBAT WATEEB. 
 
 Foe a brief space Jake Owen was paralyzed with 
 disappointment. He stood haggard and wild upon 
 the quay, watching the mighty ship till it dis- 
 appeared, and to the eyes of those who observed 
 him he seemed rather like a man mourning some 
 loved one who had departed from him, than one 
 intent on terrible revenge. 
 
 But his was a nature of strange tenacity. Had 
 he laid hands upon his enemy, as he had hoped, 
 he might have spared him ; but his purpose, from 
 being defeated, grew in strength and violence, so 
 that he was more than ever bent on bringing the 
 foe to bay. Eecovering at last from his stupor, he 
 rushed to a hotel and consulted a time-table, from 
 which he discovered to his joy that a vessel sailed 
 that day for Liverpool from Hoboken, on the other 
 side of the city. 
 
 Without losing a moment, he proceeded by car 
 
198 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 and ferry to Hoboken, and arrived there in time to 
 get on board the vessel, which was under way. 
 
 The John Macadam was a screw steam-vessel of 
 about 3,000 tons burthen, belonging to the famous 
 Macadam line of packets, trading between Liverpool 
 and New York. She carried both cabin and inter- 
 mediate passengers, as well as a large steerage 
 complement forward. Her captain was Andrew 
 Macpherson, a sturdy weather-beaten Scotchman, 
 and all the officers, as well as the surgeon and a 
 large portion of the crew, belonged to the same 
 nation. On week-days the vessel was spick, span, 
 and business-like from stern to stem, and on 
 Sunday it was solemn as a church. When the 
 captain read prayers in his broad Annandale 
 accent, it was like a Covenant meeting on a Scotch 
 hillside. 
 
 Jake Owen, not being wasteful of money, had 
 taken a berth in the intermediate, or second, cabin. 
 His companions were small traders, Jews on 
 pilgrimage to the shrines of Mammon, farmers 
 returning from a trip to the new country, and one 
 or two rough miners returning home to bring out 
 their families. 
 
 Lost in gloom, and deeply determined on revenge, 
 Jake kept almost entirely to himself, while the 
 great vessel steamed out through the dark waters, 
 leaving the white elephant of Coney Island behind 
 her and steering due east into the ocean. The dull 
 
THE GREAT WATERS 199 
 
 mechanical thunder of the engines, ceasing neither 
 night nor day, kept tune to the miserable throbbing 
 of his brain, to the deeper beating of his sad over- 
 burthened heart. 
 
 Surely, he thought, no man breathing on this 
 planet could be more miserable, no man, however 
 unfortunate, could have had a heavier load to bear. 
 His passion for Jess had been the master-purpose 
 of his simple life. What tore his soul to frenzy, 
 what he could not endure or reason calmly upon, 
 was the bitter sense of shame at having been so 
 cruelly befooled. For the poor fellow was proud 
 as Lucifer, and he felt himself in the present 
 situation an object for all the world's contempt. 
 
 Well, it was all over. JaL^ had drunk his cup of 
 humiliation to the dregs ; and all he thirsted for 
 now was a meeting with the man who had mixed 
 the poison for his driaking. Would he find him ? 
 Yes, if he hunted the earth from pole to pole. And 
 then! 
 
 Eevenge, more than almost any other evil 
 passion, leaves its signs upon the outer man. Pew 
 men would have recognised in the gaunt, moody, 
 gray -haired creature, with that cruel, far-off look ia 
 his eyes, the tall and powerful Jake Owen of a 
 year before. He wore a rough seaman's jacket 
 and a wide-awake, he had given up shaving, and, 
 altogether, looked more like a low-class adventurer 
 than an honest son of toil. 
 
200 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 The nights and days passed on ; Jake had made 
 DO male friends, and was generally voted a sullen, 
 disagreeable fellow. Yet the purifying breath of 
 the sea had not altogether failed to do its work. 
 He was calmer now and not so restless ; as deter- 
 mined as ever to have it out with his enemy, but 
 not so cruel. We are creatures of the elements we 
 breathe, and oxygen, it absorbed in full measure, 
 will disintegrate even revenge, as well as solider 
 secretions. 
 
 Only one person ia the intermediate cabin had 
 awakened his interest in. the slightest measure. 
 This was a young woman of about his wife's age, 
 and not unlike her in features, dressed in widow's 
 weeds, and accompanied by a little girl about five 
 years old. Her look of abstraction and deep un- 
 happiriess had first attracted him. ' Here,' he 
 thought, 'is someone almost as miserable as my- 
 self.' 
 
 During the rough weather out, the woman was 
 very ill, and as she was quite helpless and alone, 
 Jake paid her some little friendly attentions, for 
 which she seemed very grateful. One evening, 
 v.hen the vessel was labouring in a calm but hea\'y 
 sea, they got into conversation, and after some 
 hesitation she told him something of her story. 
 
 Her maiden name, she said, was Ellen Windover, 
 and she was going home to join a married sister at 
 Plymouth. Six years before she had married, or 
 
THE GREAT WATERS 201 
 
 80 she thought, a gentleman who said he was an 
 officer in the army, and who had met her when she 
 was a governess in a wealthy Quaker family, in the 
 suburbs of Philadelphia. For about a year, and 
 up to the birth of her child, she lived a life of 
 comparative happiness, despite the fact that her 
 husband was of idle and dissipated habits. At 
 last, however, he left her almost without a word, 
 and almost simultaneously she was informed that 
 he had another wife living — a discovery which, 
 she said, almost broke her heart. 
 
 ' The villain !' cried Jake indignantly. He 
 added, with flashing eyes : ' Ay, the parsons are 
 right — ^there must be a hell !' 
 
 ' I have forgiven him long ago,' said the woman 
 sadly. ' My only grief now is for my little girl.' 
 
 ' And you have never seen him since ?' 
 
 ' Never, sir !' 
 
 'Well, maybe it's better so. The Lord will 
 punish him somehow, make no mistake about 
 that !' 
 
 The woman lifted her eyes timidly to his face, 
 and, with genuine intuition, almost guessed his 
 secret. 
 
 ' I think,' she said, ' that yov, too have been 
 unfortunate. I only hope your misery has not 
 been as great as mine.' 
 
 Flushing to the temples, he forced a laugh. 
 
 * No, my lass,' he returned. ' I ha' had my 
 
202 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 troubles like other men, but a man wi' health can 
 defy the blue devils. It's strange, though, that in 
 60 bonny a world there should be so many wicked 
 devils unfit to live. Ay, ay, there must be a 
 hell! There are some men — and maybe some 
 women, too — that need purging in fire. Your 
 mate was one o' them, and I know another ! It's 
 him I'm foUering across the sea.' 
 
 And, with a forced laugh and a nod, he walked 
 away, and looked sullenly across the lonely waste 
 of waters. 
 
 Days and nights passed away, till the vessel was 
 within a few days' sail of the North of Ireland, 
 when suddenly there swept upon her a furious 
 south-easterly gale, laden with the spume of 
 Antarctic frost and fog. It was an anxious and 
 awful time. The passengers were kept prisoners 
 below for forty-eight hours ; but Jake Owen, who 
 knew something of sea-craft, offered to make him- 
 self useful, and was allowed to keep his place on 
 deck and assist the men. It was a strange scene, 
 a curious mingling of the picturesque and the 
 diabolic, and he watched it with a sort of savage 
 delight. 
 
 The great iron ship lay helpless as a straw in 
 the trough of the sea, and as the mighty waves 
 came rolling up with crash of thunder and flash 
 of foam, they washed her from stern to stem, staved 
 in her boats to starboard, cleared her decks of every 
 
THE GREAT WATERS 203 
 
 loose fragment, and on one occasion, upleaping 
 high as the funnel, nearly put out her engines. 
 For twelve hours together it was necessary to keep 
 her head to the gale, but despite the power of full 
 steam, she swung this way and that way at the 
 mercy of the billows, and had she not been built of 
 malleable stuff, would have split to pieces. 
 
 The old captain kept the bridge, trumpet in 
 hand, and had the Caledonian hymn-book in his 
 pocket. For days together, his sole sustenance 
 was whisky in moderate doses, qualified with 
 natural piety. The hubbub below, the thunder 
 above, and all around, were deafening, but the 
 grim old Scot never lost his head. He gave his 
 orders as calmly as if he were giving the psalm 
 from the precentor's desk, and regarded the vast 
 Ocean as just so much contemptible matter in 
 disturbance, which a word from the Almighty 
 could stop at once. 
 
 At last the gale ceased, and there came a great 
 peaceful lull. The captain dived down into his 
 cabin to snatch a little sleep, the seg,men crept 
 hither and thither repairing damages, and the 
 chief officer guided the good ship on her way to 
 port. The next morning, however, she found 
 herself in a fog so dense that it was impossible 
 to see the end of her own nose — that is to say, of 
 her bowsprit ; and as it was some days since the 
 sun had been visible, or it had been possible to 
 
204 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 take any reckoning, the engines were slowed to 
 half-speed, and she stole through the fog leadenly, 
 like a blind woman groping her way. 
 
 The fog increased, till all was black as Erebus 
 on every side. The air was so bitter cold that the 
 masts and shrouds were frozen, and the decks 
 crackled like ice underfoot. There was not a 
 breath of wind. The sea, still rolling with the 
 force of the tempest which had subsided, was 
 sinister looking and black as ink. 
 
 Jake watched the old captain and his officers 
 in frequent consultation, and saw by their looks 
 that they were very anxious. At last, the engines 
 stopped altogether, and the ship rolled in the 
 seas like a log, while they waited for the fog to 
 clear. Every now and then soundings were taken, 
 and entered in the ship's log. 
 
 Thoroughly tired out by the exertions of the last 
 few days, Jake went down to his berth and slept 
 like one dead for many hours. He was awakened at 
 last by a hard roaring and crashing, and simulta- 
 neously he found himself nearly swinging out of 
 his berth by a lurch of the vessel to leeward. 
 Hurrying on his clothes, he ran on deck, and found 
 that the fog had partially cleared, and that another 
 tempest, from the south-east this time, was blowing 
 great guns. 
 
 It was just about daybreak, or so it seemed by 
 the dim, wan, doubtful light which flickered now 
 
THE GREAT WATERS 205 
 
 and again in the eye of the howling wind. Cling- 
 ing on the bridge, the captain was trying to get a 
 reckoning, and after infinite struggles he partially 
 succeeded. The result did not seem reassuring, for 
 the ship, instead of being allowed to continue on 
 her way, was put round to face the gale, and the 
 engines increased to full speed. 
 
 Such was the fury of the tempest, however, that 
 she seemed to make no way whatever, and again 
 and again she feU off and drifted sidelong in the 
 trough of the sea. The clouds and vapours, trail- 
 ing low upon the water, swept over her and mingled 
 with the upleaping waves. 
 
 All day long — if day it could be called where all 
 was a doubtful and sinister twilight — this state of 
 things continued. When night came the blast had 
 somewhat slackened its fury, but the violence of the 
 enormous seas was greater than ever. 
 
 Meantime the passengers were tossed about with 
 mingled feelings of discomfort and terror. Again 
 and again, as some more than unusually violent sea 
 struck the ship, making it quiver through and 
 through till destruction seemed imminent, the cries 
 of women and children rose from the cabin. Many 
 fell upon their knees, clinging to the quivering wood- 
 work, and prayed. 
 
 Among those who seemed least panic-stricken was 
 the poor woman named Ellen Windover. Pale but 
 calm, she watched by the side of her little girl, who 
 
2o6 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 was too prostrate with sea-sickness to compreliend 
 the danger. On the night of which we now speak 
 Jake found her kneeling by the child's side, and 
 wetting its Hps with a little milk and brandy. 
 
 'Things be mending, I think,' he said, going 
 over to her. * At any rate, the wind has fallen. 
 How be the little lass ?' 
 
 ' Very HI, sir. She has eaten nothing for so long, 
 and was never very strong.' 
 
 'And you? I'm glad you keep up your courage. 
 Many men aboard might take a lesson from you.' 
 
 She looked sadly up into his face. 
 
 ' If it were not for my darling I should not mind 
 much what happened.' 
 
 ' Come, don't say that.' 
 
 ' Ah, sir, my life is wasted, and I have little left 
 to live for. Perhaps it would be better for both of 
 us if we sunk down this night into the deep 
 sea.' 
 
 As if in very answer to her words, at that moment 
 there was a crash like thunder, the cabin in which 
 they stood seemed rent and riven, she herself was 
 thrown violently forward on her face, and Jake was 
 shot like a bullet right away to leeward. The after 
 part of the cabin shot up to an angle of fifty degrees, 
 forming an incliued plane, at the bottom of which 
 struggled a mass of shrieking human beings. 
 Another crash! and another! Then, instead of 
 righting herself, the ship stood firm, raised up aft 
 
THE GREAT WATERS 207 
 
 and dipping down forward, while thunder after 
 thunder of raging seas roared around her. 
 
 She had struck ! 
 
 With a wild cry of horror and surprise, Jake 
 crawled rather than ran up the companion, and 
 came out upon the deck. What a sight met his 
 eyes ! The breakers were white as mUk around the 
 ship, rising and whirling high up into the air, and 
 on every side was horrible darkness. The wailing 
 of the wind, the loud quivering of the vessel, the 
 crash of the seas as they smote upon her, the 
 shrieking of the officers and the bewildered crew, 
 all stunned the ear and filled the sense with 
 horror ! 
 
 The truth soon became apparent. Beaten back- 
 ward before the blast, now fronting the seas and 
 now blowing sidelong, the ship had at last drifted 
 on some terrible reef or shore. The engines were 
 going. at full speed, but she was wedged in between 
 the sharp teeth of the submerged rocks. Nor was 
 this all. The propeller, half • broken away and 
 dangling by the steering-chains, was beating like a 
 sledge-hammer on the ship's sides, threatening 
 momently to stave them in, and as Jake stood 
 listening and gazing an enormous sea, sweeping 
 over the vessel forward, rolled right over the decks, 
 swept into the engine-room, and put out the fires. 
 
 What next happened he scarcely knew. The 
 crew seemed distracted, and the terror-stricken 
 
2o8 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 passengers, shrieking and struggling, many in their 
 night-dresses, swarmed the deck. Up on the 
 bridge still stood the old captain, roaring out his 
 orders and trying to still the tumult. 
 
 Suddenly a wild shriek went up that she was 
 going to pieces. Another enormous sea swept her 
 from stem to stern, carrying away with it many 
 human beings. At this moment Jake Owen saw 
 the young woman clinging to the door of the inter- 
 mediate companion, holding her child in her arms. 
 He rushed to her assistance. As he did so there 
 was another crash which stunned him. He seemed 
 to be drawn down, down, into some whirling gulf 
 of darkness, and when he recovered consciousness 
 he was clinging to a spar and struggling like a 
 straw in the trough of the foaming waters. 
 
 After many hours, he and two others, seamen of 
 the ship, were picked up by a passing vessel. All 
 the rest, including the brave old captain and Jake's 
 one friend, had been swept, with the John Macadam, 
 to the bottom of the sea. 
 
CHAPTEE XX. 
 
 THE PEODIGAL EETUBNED. 
 
 The mutual recognition of husband and wife, and 
 Gillian's swoon following upon it, happened so 
 swiftly that the witnesses of the scene did not at 
 first comprehend what had happened. Venables 
 was the first to recover his presence of mind. He 
 laid Gillian on the sofa, and taking from a table 
 near at hand a glass flower -stand, dipped his 
 fingers in the water, and threw the drops smartly 
 in her face. 
 
 ' My darling Gillian !' said O'Mara, bending over 
 her ; ' my wife ! Look up and speak to me !' 
 
 'Your wife?' cried the baronet, pausing in his 
 ministrations. 
 
 Mr. Herbert echoed the words. Dora meantime 
 was cliQging to her mother's insensible hand and 
 sobbing over her. 
 
 ' Yes,' cried O'Mara, with a face of agony, ' my 
 dear wife ! Separated all these years, and now to 
 
 14 
 
210 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 meet like this ! Oh, sir, if you are a friend of hers 
 — if you have a heart to pity us, send a messenger 
 at once for a doctor !' 
 
 Venables leaned against the wall with a stifled 
 moan, like a man stunned by a physical blow. 
 
 'His wife!' he repeated wonderingly, as if tha 
 words bore no significance. 
 
 Mr. Herbert, recalling a^ little of his lost presence 
 of mind, bade Dora run for Barbara. At first tha 
 child only clung the faster to her mother's hand, 
 but after a little persuasion left the room. 
 
 ' This is no place for us, Venables,' he said, 
 touching the baronet on the shoulder. ' Gome !' 
 
 He took the poor fellow by the arm, and led him, 
 dazed and stupefied by this sudden cruel blow, from 
 the room which, scarcely a minute before, he had 
 entered so gaily with his affianced wife. O'Mara 
 looked after him with a grim, soundless laugh, 
 which changed again to an expression of harassed 
 solicitude as Barbara entered the room with Dora. 
 
 ' Eh, my poor lady !' cried the faithful servant. 
 
 She went on her knees beside her, and loosed 
 the collar of her dress, and held a bottle of smelling- 
 salts to her nostrils. 
 
 A faint colour tinged Gillian's cheeks and leadea 
 lips. She shivered, sighed, and opened her eyes, 
 looking round vacantly. 
 
 ' Mamma !' cried Dora — ' oh, mamma, don't look 
 80 ! Speak to me, mamma !' 
 
THE PRODIGAL RETURNED 211 
 
 Memory returned at the sound of the loved voice> 
 and Gillian oast her arms about the child. 
 
 ' Ah !' said O'Mara, in a tone of devout gratitude, 
 * thank God, she returns to life ! Thank you, my 
 good woman. Leave us, if you please, and take 
 the child with you.' 
 
 • And who be you ?' asked Barbara, wonderingly 
 and suspiciously. 
 
 ' I am this lady's husband,' answered O'Mara. 
 
 ' Leave us, Barbara,' said Gillian, in a low voice. 
 ' He speaks the truth. Go, my darling,' 
 
 She kissed Dora with icy lips, and, rising, led 
 her firmly, though with uncertain steps, to the 
 door, and closed it on the beseeching, tear-stained 
 little face. As she turned, O'Mara came towards 
 her with a radiant smile and hands outstretched. 
 
 ' Don't touch me !' she cried ; ' don't come near 
 me ! The knowledge of your presence is enough !' 
 
 Her horror of the man who, after years of cruelty 
 and desertion, had returned to dash the cup of 
 happiness from her lips banished her weakness. 
 
 ' My darling !' cried O'Mara, in a wounded voice. 
 ' The shock has turned her brain,' he added pity- 
 ingly, for the behoof of Barbara or of any other 
 possible listener. 
 
 ' What do you want here ?' asked Gillian. ' How 
 did you come ?' 
 
 'By the purest accident, my dear Gillian. I 
 entered the house and asked permission of your 
 
212 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 venerable friend, the vicar, to sketch the interior 
 of this charming room. You still retain — nay, you 
 have positively improved upon — the exquisite taste 
 you always possessed. WhUe conversing with 
 him, my child — owr child, Gillian — came into the 
 apartment.' 
 
 He produced his handkerchief and made play 
 with it at this moment. 
 
 'I learned from her own sweet lips that her 
 name was Dora. My memory flew back to the 
 time when I had possessed a cherub of that name ; 
 and even then, when yet I was ignorant that the 
 child was mine, nature seemed to draw me to her. 
 I half thought that I could trace in her little 
 lineaments the features I had loved so weU.' 
 
 He flourished the handkerchief before his 
 eyes. 
 
 ' It was too good to be true, I thought ; such bliss 
 was not for me. And yet, not only in her face, 
 but in her voice, her manner, in her happy frank- 
 ness, the child recalled the wife I had never ceased 
 to mourn. The little one, perhaps with a Divine 
 instinct that I had need of consolation, asked for 
 music. This beautiful dwelling, the odour of the 
 flowers, the sweet Englishness of the scene, the 
 presence of the child, her name, with its reminder 
 of that happy time we spent together — too short, 
 alas ! and shortened, I must own, by my own in- 
 temperate folly, which I have bitterly repented. 
 
. THE PRODIGAL RETURNED 213 
 
 and which I see in your dear face you have long 
 since forgiven — all these rofluences flooded a heart 
 which, with all its shortcomings, has ever been 
 open to the influences of external beauty ..and 
 poetic feeling. The dear old song you used to siag 
 came back to me, " Home, sweet Home." Ah, I 
 thought, as my fingers dwelt upon the keys, if this 
 peaceful and beautiful dwelling were indeed my 
 home, if this angelic child were the Dora I had 
 loved and lost, it you were by my side, as in the 
 dear dead days ! And the dream is true, my 
 Gillian, my bride !' 
 
 The strained and flimsy rhetoric, the theatrical 
 gesticulations with which he spoke this rigmarole, 
 contrasting with the diabolic half-grin upon his 
 face, was an epitome of the man's character. The 
 words and voice were for the possible listeners ; his 
 gestures expressed his sense of the dramatic value 
 of the situation, the smile bespoke a pleasant sense 
 of humour. It is not often that a born torturer 
 has a more perfect chance of displaying his in- 
 stincts than this that fate had just put into the 
 hands of Mr. O'Mara. 
 
 He made a second step towards her. 
 
 At his first advance she had shrunk from him in 
 terror, but now she stood firm, drawing herself to 
 her full height, and meeting his eyes with a look 
 which changed his mocking regard to one of half- 
 sullen admiration. 
 
214 W03fAJV AND THE MAN 
 
 'Listen,' she said quietly. ' I know the powers 
 you have, the privileges the law gives you. I know 
 that all I have is yours, that it is just as much in 
 your power to-day to strip me of all I possess as it 
 was to rob me seven years ago. Tou are welcome 
 to do so. Take all I have — I shall speak no word 
 of complaint, make no effort to assert the right I 
 know God recognises, though the law denies it. But 
 try to do no more. Lay a hand upon me, advance 
 one step towards me, and you will find that I am 
 not unprotected. I have but to raise my voice to 
 have you thrown out of this house like the thing 
 and cur you are. You will be wise not to provoke 
 me to such a measure. Go, and leave me to myself 
 for awhile.' 
 
 Her calm did more than any raving denuncia- 
 tion of him could have done. The quiet contempt 
 of her words and look left him quite untouched^^ 
 but he recognised the force that lay behind them, 
 and gave way, masking his retreat in his usual 
 flowery phrases. 
 
 ' I comprehend, Gillian, Tou want quiet to 
 accustom yourself to these changed circumstances. 
 I can understand that my sudden apparition is 
 something of a shock to you. I am not here to rob 
 you, as you call it. You do me injustice in think- 
 ing that the prosperity of your circumstances adds 
 one iota to the joy I feel in finding you. It is not 
 your wealth I want, it is only yourself ; the affection 
 
THE PRODIGAL RETURNED 215 
 
 you once had for me I would revive. Try not to 
 think too harshly of me, Gillian. I was not blame- 
 less in that past time ; I admit my faults, my errors, 
 I confess them with tears. I leave you for a time ; 
 your better nature will conquer — I am sure of it. 
 You will forget and forgive the errors I deplore, 
 you will hear the call of duty and affection. We 
 shall be reunited. Here, in this delicious spot, I 
 shall taste the felicity. which in my foolish youth — 
 I confess it, Gillian — I threw aside. God bless 
 you, darling, and our dear little one ! I will return 
 presently to meet, I hope, the reception due to a 
 husband and a father.' 
 
 He left the house and walked towards the 
 village, his face grown hard with lines of calcula- 
 tion. 
 
 * I shall have trouble with her,' he said to him- 
 aelf . ' Gad ! how infernally handsome she is ! 
 These last seven years have improved her prodi- 
 giously. She used to be a little thin. I arrive 
 apropos. That burly baronet was hard hit when I 
 proclaimed my identity, but I don't suppose I shall 
 have much trouble with him. I have made one 
 friend already in that thick-witted old parson, and 
 to have the clergy on one's side is half the battle 
 with women. But that fellow Bream wUl be the 
 iHou of the situation, I'm afraid.' 
 
 He reached the Pig and Whistle, where Stokes 
 was smoking his pipe in the porch. O'Mara .passed 
 
2i6 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 him with a slight sideward motion of the head, and 
 went upstairs to a room overlooking the street. A 
 minute later Stokes knocked and entered, 
 
 ' Well ?' he asked eagerly. 
 
 ' Your penetration was not at fault,' said O'Mara. 
 ' Mrs. Dartmouth is my wife.' 
 
 ' You've seen her ?' 
 
 ' Yes, and she has seen me.' 
 
 ' What did she say ?' 
 
 ' Nothing you would be the wiser for knowing, or 
 that I should care to repeat.' 
 
 ' I can believe that,' said Stokes, ' if you treated 
 her as you did the others out yonder,' with a jerk 
 of the head in the supposed direction of America. 
 ' I could find it in my heart to wish as I'd never 
 told you anything about Mr. Bream and the scrap- 
 book.' 
 
 ' Never miud what you could find in your heart, 
 my good Stokes. See if you can find a bottle of 
 drinkable brandy in your bar.' 
 
 Stokes went and returned with the brandy. 
 O'Mara motioned him to a seat on the other side 
 of the table. 
 
 ' Just to get things straight in my mind,' he 
 said, ' I will tell you the morning's adventures.' 
 
 He told them plainly and succinctly, as he could 
 speak when he chose, and Stokes listened. 
 
 ' What do you make of that ?' he asked, when he 
 had finished. 
 
THE PRODIGAL RETURNED 217 
 
 ' She's going to bolt,' said Stokes, ' and she'll 
 most likely take the kid with her.' 
 
 ' That is my reading of the situation also,' said 
 O'Mara. ' I shall want your help, Stokes.' 
 
 'Then I wish you didn't,' said the publican 
 uneasily, nerving himself with a gulp of spirit, ' and 
 
 I've a good mind as you should do without 
 
 it.' 
 
 O'Mara, with his hand on the table and a cigar 
 stuck in the corner of his mouth, looked at him 
 with a smile of dry, contemptuous inquiry. 
 
 ' I'm sick 0' being made a tool and cat's-paw of. 
 I had enough 0' being your jackal out yonder. 
 Nice jobs as you put me on, too ! If I'd ha' held 
 my jor about that parygraph as likely as not you'd 
 ha' gone away from here no wiser than you'd come. 
 And if I'd ha' known as Sir George was sweet on 
 
 her I'd ha' seen you [Mr. Stokes's language 
 
 was remarkably forcible at this point] afore I'd ha' 
 said a word.' 
 
 ' Tou are really shockingly immoral, Stokes,' 
 said O'Mara. 
 
 ' Go it, go it !' said Stokes disgustedly. ' I mean 
 it, though. Mrs. Dartmouth's a lady. When I 
 was down with the rheumatics, a queen couldn't 
 ha' been kinder than she was to me. Jelly and 
 port-wine every day she sent me. The poor 
 man's Providence — that's the name they give hei 
 hereabout. A nice Providence you'll be to any- 
 
21 8 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 body, won't you ? And Sir George is a good sort, 
 too ; he's going to rebuild this place and give ma 
 a new lease on the old terms.' 
 
 ' Bucolic Philistine !' said O'Mara. ' "Why can't 
 he leave the house alone? It's charmingly pic- 
 turesque. I am afraid, Stokes, that you didn't 
 shed many tears over that paragraph announcing 
 my untimely decease.' 
 
 ' I shouldn't cry over better men nor you, Mx. 
 O'Mara.' 
 
 'Wonderful are the ways of Providence,' said 
 O'Mara. ' When that infernal ruffian left me on 
 that beastly hill, twenty mUes from anywhere, I 
 little thought what a good turn he was doing me. 
 I wonder why he kept the letters, though — ^for the 
 matter of that, I don't quite know why I had kept 
 them myself. I'm glad he did keep them. I wasn't 
 popular in that part of the States, and his death 
 with those letters on his person was a godsend to 
 me.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Stokes ; ' the devil's mindful of his 
 own.' 
 
 ' Thank you,' said O'Mara sweetly. ' And now 
 to business. I think with you that my wife will 
 probably try to run away, and, as you euphuis- 
 tically express it, take the kid with her. That must 
 be stopped. It's my intention to stay in this 
 delightful spot, for a time at least, and I want no 
 avoidable scandal. You must watch the house, and 
 
THE PRODIGAL RETURNED 219 
 
 have the pony and trap in readiness. If she goes, 
 follow her, and wire me the earliest possible in- 
 formation.' 
 
 ' Why should I ?' asked Stokes, who had been 
 drawing pretty freely on the brandy bottle. ' You're 
 a-disposin' of me pretty free, you are. You leave 
 me alone. I came to this place for peace and 
 quietness, and I've had it, till you come to make 
 mischief, as you always did. I'm a reformed 
 character, I am. You go and ask about the village 
 if I ain't a respectable man.' 
 
 ' There are one or two other communities, my 
 dear Stokes,' returned O'Mara, ' where your record 
 would not bear sifting so well. Do you remember 
 a little affair at Oleoville — in '68, wasn't it ? You 
 are remembered there with quite a tender interest. 
 Did you ever hear of the Extradition Act ?' 
 
 ' You're a virtuous character, you are ! Ain't 
 you, naw ?' said Stokes. ' 'Pon my soul, you're a 
 cool hand, to take that sort of tone with me ! Split 
 on me, eh ? We'd make a pretty pair side by side 
 in the dock, my sweety. You're as deep in the mud 
 as I am in the mire, if it comes to that.' 
 
 ' Precisely,' said O'Mara calmly. ' Which helps 
 to make our interests identical. My dear Stokes, 
 we are in the same boat, and, as usual, I am at the 
 helm, so it will take what course I choose. This 
 talk is exhausting. Let me speak plainly.' 
 
 ' If you can,' grunted Stokes. 
 
220 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 ' I can and will. Our danger and our interests 
 are the same. You want to settle down as a moral 
 and virtuous character in this delightful village. 
 So do I, and we're going to help each other. That's 
 the situation in a nutshell.' 
 
 ' But what am I to get for it ?' asked Stokes. 
 
 ' I shall give you one hundred pounds for your 
 original information, and a further sum to be 
 settled between ourselves for such further services 
 as you may perform. And now waste no more 
 time ; go to the Court, and keep your eyes open. 
 I'll go, meanwhile, to that dear old ass of a parson, 
 and get him to muzzle Bream. He's the only real 
 danger, because he's the only one of the crowd with 
 a head on his shoulders.' 
 
CHAPTEE XXI. 
 
 COUNSEL. 
 
 Gillian had borne herself bravely enough in the 
 detested presence of her husband, but after O'Mara 
 had left her she sank back, all lax and helpless, 
 into the chair from which she had risen, and had 
 to summon all her strength to ward off a hysterical 
 attack. 
 
 The wreck of her hopes Gould not have been more 
 appallingly complete ; the past hour had seen her 
 fall from the summit of happiness to a depth of 
 misery more profound than she had known even in. 
 that dreadful time seven years ago in Westminster, 
 the deeper for the awful suddenness of the plunge. 
 She could neither think nor rest, but sat staring 
 blankly before her, her sensations a chaos, and her 
 mind a whirl of purposeless trifles. 
 
 Suddenly a step sounded in her ear. She sprang 
 up with a sudden heart-pang, thinking O'Mara had 
 tracked her to this retreat, and stood shrinking 
 
222 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 ■with repugnance till a shadow crossed her field of 
 vision and she beheld Mr. Bream. 
 
 There was such an atmosphere of strength and 
 helpfulness about the man that he came to her 
 troubled mind like sunshine and free air. She 
 grasped his hand with an inarticulate cry of 
 welcome. 
 
 'I know,' he said simply. ' Sir George has told 
 me what has happened. It was he who sent me 
 here. Your husband has come to light again. He 
 has claimed you.' 
 
 ' Tell me,' she asked, ' what shall I do ? Is there 
 any help for me — any hope ?' 
 
 ' There are both if you wUl take them,' he 
 answered. 'It is a slow business and an un- 
 pleasant one, but you, at least, have nothing to 
 fear from the fullest publicity. You must divorce 
 him.' She shuddered as she leaned upon his arm. 
 ' I know — I know,' he continued, with a quick 
 sympathy. 'But think of Dora — think of Sir 
 George ! Will you shrink from a httle pain when 
 it is necessary for the future of your child, for the 
 happiness of a good fellow who loves you? Let 
 me give you his message, which he gave me 
 scarcely an hour ago. " Tell her," he said, "that 
 whatever happens, if all is over between us, I 
 absolve her from all blame. She is still the only 
 woman in the world to me, and I am her faithful 
 friend till death." ' 
 
COUNSEL 223 
 
 • God bless him !' said Gillian, -with a sudden 
 burst of tears — ' God bless him !' 
 
 He let her weep in peace for a few minutes, glad 
 that she had found her natural vent for the cruel 
 emotions which tortured her. The crisis passed, 
 and she was wiping away her tears, when a step 
 was heard on the gravel outside, and the portly 
 figure of Mr. Herbert darkened the sunlight pouring 
 through the door. 
 
 ' Pardon me, my dear madam,' he said, entering 
 hat in hand. ' I must really speak to you.' 
 
 ' I know what you have to say, sir,' said Gillian. 
 *¥ou come from the man who calls himself my 
 husband.' 
 
 'From the man who is your husband— yes. 
 Suffer me to say ' 
 
 'I would rather hear nothing from you, Mr. 
 Herbert.' 
 
 ' Perhaps,' said Bream, ' you had better leave 
 Mr. Herbert and myself together. If he has any 
 message you ought to hear I will convey it to you.' 
 
 ' Thank you,' said Gillian ; ' you are a true 
 friend.' 
 
 She pressed his hand, and with a formal bend of 
 her head to the vicar left the room, in spite of a 
 remonstrant exclamation from him. 
 
 'Pray be seated, sir,' said Bream, offering his 
 superior a chair. 
 
 ' I will not be seated, sir,' said Mr. Herbert, with 
 
224 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 indignant anger. ' As your spiritual superior, I 
 demand an explanation of your conduct.' 
 
 ' The explanation is perfectly simple. I feel it 
 my duty as a clergyman and a gentleman to protect 
 that lady.' 
 
 ' Tour first duty, Mr. Bream, is to me.' 
 
 ' Pardon me,' said Bream, with a fine mixture 
 of firmness and respect. ' I acknowledge your 
 superiority so far as the of&ces of the parish are 
 concerned; but I have sold you my services, not 
 my conscience.' 
 
 ' Does your conscience instruct you to side with 
 a woman against her lawful husband ?' asked Mr. 
 Herbert hotly. ' I have just left that unfortunate 
 gentleman. He has — ah — been perfectly frank 
 with me. He admits fully, amply, that his married 
 life was not a happy one, and that he chiefly was 
 to blame. He confessed his errors with a candour, 
 a conscientiousness, which did him infinite credit, 
 and which moved me profoundly. He is heart- 
 broken, and, being in a very delicate state of 
 health, is scarcely able to bear the sufferings of his 
 present situation. His heart is yearning for recon- 
 ciliation; he begs humbly, yet tenderly, for an 
 interview with his wife.' 
 
 'You see, sir,' said Bream, stroking his chin 
 thoughtfully, ' Mrs. Dartmouth was taken a little 
 by surprise. The gentleman had been so long 
 ■dead and buried.' 
 
COUNSEL 225 
 
 ' Dead and buried ! The man lives, sir.' 
 
 ' Unfortunately.' 
 
 ' Let us have no more, sir, of this revolting 
 cynicism. For my own part, I am astonished to 
 find, in a lady for whom I have a sincere respect 
 and sympathy, a tone of such bitterness towards 
 one whom she had sworn to love, honour and obey. 
 And I am even more surprised to find a man of 
 your good sense and general right feeling so easily 
 influenced by a mere ex parte statement.' 
 
 ' Even if that were so, sir, I might retort that all 
 you have to go on is a mere ex parte statement of 
 the other side. But it is not so. I was intimately 
 acquainted with Mrs. Dartmouth — ^Mrs. O'Mara, if 
 you prefer the real name — during the most 
 disastrous part of her married life.' 
 
 ' Do I understand, Mr. Bream,' asked the vicar 
 with ponderous indignation — ' do I understand, sir, 
 that you were privy to this lady's concealment of 
 her name ? You knew that circumstance, and did 
 not report it to me ?' 
 
 ' My dear sir,' said Bream, ' I am not aware that 
 the circumstance of my being a clergyman absolves 
 me from my duty as a gentleman. Did you expect 
 me to break the confidence this unhappy lady 
 reposed in me ?' 
 
 This was so blank an argumentative ' No 
 thoroughfare' that Mr. Herbert could only bhnk 
 and cough. 
 
 15 
 
226 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 ' May I ask, sir,' continued Bream, ' if you have 
 ever been married ?' 
 
 ' I, sir ?' roared Mr. Herbert. 
 
 ' Pardon me, I forgot you stand for the celibacy 
 of the clergyi But if the vicar has not been 
 married, the curate has,' 
 
 ' Indeed.' 
 
 ' So, you see, I approach this subject with a 
 double advantage. I know something about matri- 
 mony in the abstract, and about this particular 
 marriage we are discussing in particular. I have 
 an opinion founded, not, as you said just now, on 
 the ex parte statement of an interested and pre- 
 judiced person, but on actual knowledge, that this 
 new acquaintance of yours is a whited sepulchre.' 
 
 ' Will you explain ?' 
 
 •A humbug, if you like it better. His de- 
 baucheries at the time I knew him were open and 
 shameless. They broke the heart of this unfor- 
 tunate lady.' 
 
 ' " Judge not," ' said Mr. Herbert, ' "that ye be 
 not judged." He has repented, and I would stake 
 all I possess that his repentance is sincere. He is 
 a person of refined tastes, and his whole conversa- 
 tion assures me that he is deeply religious.' 
 
 ' Ah ! That looks bad.' 
 
 ' Sir ?' 
 
 • No ofi'ence. Our religion, Mr. Herbert, is often 
 merely a cloak.' 
 
COUNSEL 227 
 
 ' In this case I am sure that it is not. I think I 
 know a little of human nature, and this unfortunate 
 man, I believe, is of a most affectionate and devoted 
 disposition. "When he spoke of his child he cried 
 — actually cried ! He did the same this morning 
 when he first heard her name, before he knew that 
 she was his child.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Bream, ' crocodiles cry.* 
 
 'I myself was deeply affected, sir,' said Mr. 
 Herbert, ' and I presume that you do not call me a 
 crocodile. I promised as a Christian, as a clergy- 
 man, to plead his cause. I feel myseK — ah — 
 somewhat compromised. I shudder when I think 
 that I was on the point of pronouncing a blessing 
 on a bigamous marriage.' 
 
 * And what do you advise this lady to do ?' 
 
 ' To do ?' repeated Mr. Herbert. ' To do what 
 any self-respecting woman, any Christian, sir, 
 would do under such circumstances — to fall upon 
 her knees and humbly to thank a merciful Provi- 
 dence that she has been spared the commission of 
 an act of abomination ; and then to receive with 
 tenderness the gentleman to whom she owes a 
 wife's duty, a wife's obedience.' 
 
 ' I see,' said Bream ; ' kill the fatted calf, and all 
 that sort of thing. My dear vicar, it can't be done, 
 and it shan't, if I can help it.' 
 
 ' Those whom Heaven has joined ' 
 
 ' The other place often puts asunder.' 
 
228 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 ' You are blasphemous !' 
 
 ' Not at all. I am practical and honest in the 
 avowal of my ideas. If Mrs. Dartmouth ' 
 
 ' Mrs. O'Mara,' said Mr. Herbert. 
 
 'As you please. The name does not greatly 
 matter. If that lady ever again avowed allegiance 
 to a cur like that, I, who am her friend, would give 
 her up for ever.' 
 
 ' For her child's sake. Bream ' 
 
 ' Even a child cannot mend the broken chain of 
 love.' 
 
 ' Put love aside — duty !' 
 
 ' Is sometimes but another word for immorality.' 
 
 ' Good heavens, Bream !' 
 
 ' I repeat the word — ^immorality. For a woman 
 under any condition to live in conjugal bonds with 
 a man she does not love, whom she does not 
 respect, from whom she shrinks in actual loathing, 
 is an infamy in the eyes of God and man.' 
 
 ' We are not sent into this world. Bream, merely 
 to follow our impulses and wishes, but to be 
 chastened and made obedient. The carnal love 
 which you would make the final rule of con- 
 duct • 
 
 ' Is the most divine thing in the world.' 
 
 ' For itself it is nothing.' 
 
 ' It is everything, for it is priceless, and cannot 
 be bought or sold ; to the blessing from without it 
 adds the sanction from within : with it, marriage 
 
COUNSEL 229 
 
 is a pretaste of heaven ; without it, veritable hell on 
 earth. I speak from knowledge, sir, from bitter 
 knowledge of what a loveless woman is.' 
 
 'We are — ah — ^losing ourselves m generalities, 
 Bream,' said Mr. Herbert. ' Let us return to the 
 case in question. Mr. O'Mara has undoubted and 
 undeniable legal rights, to put it on the lowest 
 ground. These rights it is his intention to assert.' 
 
 ' Mrs. O'Mara will deny them on her own respon- 
 sibility until legal process can put her beyond his 
 power.' 
 
 ' Legal process !' repeated Mr. Herbert with a 
 horror-stricken aspect. 'Do I hear you aright. 
 Bream ; you as a — ah — a Christian priest counsel 
 divorce ?' 
 
 ' Most certainly. It is the only common-sense 
 solution of the dilemma.' 
 
 ' And how,' asked O'Mara's voice from the door, 
 ' does she propose to procure this divorce ?' 
 
 'By my evidence, Mr. O'Mara,' said Bream 
 calmly, ' and by that of one or two other people, 
 who will be easily enough found. Her case is 
 perfect. You have furnished her with everything 
 she needs — cruelty, unfaithfulness, desertion !' 
 
 'Cruelty!' echoed O'Mara, with an admirably 
 acted air of surprise. ' What cruelty, in the name 
 of heaven ?' 
 
 ' She spent a month in St. Thomas's Hospital La 
 consequence of your last assault upon her.' 
 
330 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 'And where is your -witness to thatV asked 
 O'Mara. ' It is merely an unsupported statement, 
 to which my denial will be a sufficient answer.' 
 
 ' That we shall see,' said the curate. 
 
 ' This is hard,' said O'Mara. ' After seven cruel 
 years of separation I return with a heart overflow- 
 ing with affection. I was happy. My nature was 
 full of sunlight and tender anticipations. I know 
 my former infirmities — I have freely confessed 
 them to Mr. Herbert — but, ah ! how I loved that 
 woman !' 
 
 ' Tou proved it among other things by leaving 
 her for seven years, and making no sign all that 
 time.' 
 
 ' I left her — ^yes, we were penniless, and I could 
 not bear to see her suffer. I said, " I will cross the 
 seas and labour until I become rich." I went ; I 
 
 returned, to find ' He passed his hand across 
 
 his eyes. 
 
 ' Tou have returned, as you say. Eich, as you 
 hoped ?' 
 
 ' Alas ! no. Fortune has frowned upon me, but 
 I stUl retain my old illusions. I am a little older, 
 but still the same.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Bream, with a world of meaning in 
 his tone. ' That seems the difficulty.' 
 
 ' And all you desire,' said Mr. Herbert, ' is a per- 
 fect reconciliation ?' 
 
 'Precisely,' said O'Mara. 'I pass by my dear 
 
COUNSEL 231 
 
 ■wife's unfeeling reception of the news that I sur- 
 vived, I pass over her tendresse for another man, 
 I forget that, with my child's innocent eyes fixed 
 upon her, she was about to marry that person, 
 and I say, "All is forgotten and forgiven. For 
 our little angel's sake, let us be united !" ' 
 
 Mr. Herbert blew his nose sonorously. 
 
 ' You hear, Bream ?' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Bream, ' I hear.' 
 
 ' Then join me as peacemaker in invoking on 
 these good people a Christian blessing.' 
 
 ' Thank you, thank you,' cried O'Mara, pressing 
 his hand. *I shall never forget your sympathy. 
 Sir !' he contiaued to Bream, ' this torture is 
 kiUiag me. I have an obscure heart affection, 
 and ' 
 
 ' Possibly an aneurism ?' 
 
 ' I — I fear so.' 
 
 ' Hardening of the great artery — I diagnosed it 
 long ago ; but with care cases like yours last for 
 years. Your hecmi; will never kill you, Mr. O'Mara.' 
 
 ' My dear sir,' said O'Mara, with a slight im- 
 patience of manner, ' all this is apart from the 
 point. I demand an interview with my wife. I 
 shall try gentle persuasion to bring her back to 
 ideas of wifely duty. If those fail, I must try other 
 means, though I shall be very reluctant to do so. 
 I ask you as a gentleman to leave this house.' 
 
 Bream considered for a moment with his eyes on 
 
232 WOMAIV AND THE MAN 
 
 O'Mara's face, then, walking to tlie bell-rope, rang. 
 Barbara entered the room. 
 
 'Ask your mistress to step this way, if you 
 please.' Barbara went. ' I will leave you with 
 your wife, Mr. O'Mara, perfectly confident that 
 since my interview with her an hour ago you can 
 do her no harm.' 
 
 Gilhan entered, pale but collected. 
 
 'This gentleman,' said Bream, 'insists on an 
 interview with you^. I see no harm in your 
 granting 4he request. You had better have help 
 at hand in case he should attempt violence, though 
 that is hardly likely.' 
 
 ' I am not afraid,' said Gillian. ' Thank you, 
 and good-evening.' 
 
 She pressed his hand, and, after acknowledging 
 Mr. Herbert's embarrassed bow, turned to her 
 husband. 
 
CHAPTEE XXn. 
 
 FACE TO FACE, 
 
 They stood face to face for a minute in silence, 
 with the aspect of two duellists taking their places 
 sword in hand. In Gillian's intense face, and in 
 the free and strong poise of her figure, O'Mara read 
 a more decided courage than that she had shown 
 in the earlier intercourses. His face wore its 
 habitual expression of tired cynicism, touched by 
 the admiration he felt despite hitnself for her 
 undaunted bearing and by his appreciation of her 
 beauty. He carried in his hand a bunch of field 
 flowers, which he held out to her with a gesture of 
 chivalrous deference. 
 
 'You used to like them, Gillian,' he said. 'It 
 was one of the many ties between us in the dear 
 old days before ovir dissensions began. Will you 
 not take them ?' 
 
 ' Enough of this,' she answered. ' Why are you 
 here ?' 
 
 ' Why ? what a question ! Whj. because ■' 
 
234 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 ' Because the report of your death was a false- 
 hood invented to destroy me. Because you know 
 that I have money, not much, but enough to draw 
 you towards me — because all else has failed with 
 you, and in despair you come back to me.' 
 
 ' Permit me,' said O'Mara, ' to set you right on 
 one point. The report of my death was none of 
 my doing. The facts are very simple. I was 
 robbed by a desperado, and stripped of all I 
 possessed, even my clothes. In my pocket were 
 letters I had received from you during our court- 
 ship, the only possessions I had clung to during all 
 the miserable time that I was separated from you. 
 The man was shot with those letters in his posses- 
 sion. He was unknown, and it was supposed 
 naturally enough — for people do not as a rule 
 trouble to carry old letters addressed to other 
 people — that he was PhUip O'Mara. So much for 
 that. I came back to you, you say, because you 
 have money. An accusation like that is hard to 
 fight, but consider the circumstances. I knew 
 nothing of your whereabouts, nothing of your 
 accession to fortune. It is purely by chance that 
 I am here. Being here, I claim you, Gillian. I 
 am your husband ! I claim your obedience.' 
 
 ' You are not my husband; you are only the man 
 who betrayed, degraded, and then abandoned me.' 
 
 ' You put it harshly, Gillian. I had my faults, 
 I admit ; I have deplored them with tears during 
 
FACE TO FACE 235 
 
 many a bitter hour of our term of separation. I 
 repent them. For our child's sake ' 
 
 ' For our child's sake !' echoed Gillian. ' If 
 every fibre of my body and every inch of my soul 
 did not loathe you, the thought of her would be as 
 fatal to any idea of reconciliation with you. My 
 life is ended — it would matter very little whether I 
 dragged out the remnant of my time in solitude or 
 again became your drudge and slave. But she — ^I 
 will keep her clear of the pollution of your iufluence, 
 God helping me, with my life ! When I look info 
 her face, and see in it any likeness to you, I say to 
 myself, " Better that we both were dead !" ' 
 
 ' Gillian, you horrify me ; you cannot understand 
 what you are saying.' 
 
 ' I understand well, and I have resolved to say it 
 once for all. Equivocation is useless between us ; 
 as long as we hved together your life was infamy, 
 mine was misery and shame. You left me; I 
 thought you were dead, and I rejoiced — yes, I 
 rejoiced. You have returned, and the old horror 
 comes back upon me tenfold. Take everything 
 that I possess ; let me go and live my own life in 
 peace ; and promise me that I shall never see your 
 face again.' 
 
 'I will promise nothing of the kind,' answered 
 O'Mara. ' The sacred tie of wedlock is not to be 
 broken so easily. Gillian, my darling, cease these 
 reproaches, and be reasonable. I am a changed 
 
236 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 man. My old ways are repented of and abandoned ; 
 I swear it. You are what you were, only, if 
 possible, more beautiful.' The admiration that 
 shone in his face was real enough, She felt it; 
 his glance seemed to burn her. ' Let me, by 
 devoting my life to yours, atone for the past. 
 Gillian — I love you.' 
 
 ' After what I have suffered from you, you 
 dare ' 
 
 ' To love you ? Who could help it ?' 
 
 ' Silence ! Not another word ! Turn your eyes 
 away ! If you look at me like that ' 
 
 'Forgive my admiration. You never looked so 
 beautiful ! The same soft eyes and thoughtful 
 brow, the same golden hair, the same fair form 
 that I have clasped to mine.' He came forward 
 with extended hands. She made a step back, with 
 so evil a glitter in her unchanging eyes that he 
 paused. 
 
 'Don't prompt me to forget my sex,' she said, 
 * as I fear I shall if you attempt to lay a hand upon 
 me. I have been free from you too long to fall 
 under your power again. I remember too well the 
 shame of our life together.' 
 
 ' I remember only its happy moments. Why 
 torture yourself and me by thinking of these little 
 indiscretions, long since repented, which caused an 
 occasional estrangement ? Come, let us be friends. 
 What ! will you not even take my hand ?' 
 
FACE TO FACE 237 
 
 * Not even that ! You knew well what you were 
 and are ! You taught me long ago to know you 
 also. You can deceive the world, perhaps, but you 
 can never again deceive me. Do not approach me ! 
 Go your way, and let me go mine.' 
 
 ' May I ask,' said O'Mara, with a sudden coldness 
 of tone — 'forgive the question — if you are quite 
 ingenuous ? Is not your present conduct the con- 
 sequence less of my misconduct, which I have 
 amply admitted, than of the fact that another man 
 has supplanted me in your affections ?' 
 
 ' Infamous ! Be silent !' 
 
 ' No, my dear Gillian, I will not be silent. You 
 ask too much — you would have the charity all on 
 one side. I must remind you of your duty, and 
 command you — yes, command, you — to admit my 
 authority as your lawful husband. No, you shall 
 not go ; I have not yet done. If you insist on a 
 separation a mensd et thoro, which I deeply deplore, 
 I shall require at least one solatium — the custody 
 of my little daughter.' 
 
 GUlian staggered as if the words had stabbed her. 
 
 * Take my chUd from me ?' she gasped. ' Yield 
 her up to you ? I would rather see her dead !' 
 
 ' You compel me to remind you again of my legal 
 position. Do you think a father has no rights? 
 Do you dream that I will suffer my darling child to 
 remain under the care of one who has taught her 
 to hate and despise her father ?' 
 
238 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 ' I have not done bo,' said Gillian, ' Philip, I 
 swear to you, until to-day I had never breathed 
 your name to her. She had never heard of your 
 existence.' 
 
 ' That is even more unnatural. Gillian, I repeat 
 it, you shock me exceedingly.' 
 
 'Hypocrite!' cried Gillian. 
 
 ' Ah, you do not know me !' 
 
 ' To the inmost fibre of your being ! To the 
 very core of your false and cruel heart ! My little 
 child ! Oh, God ! Phihp,' she cried, with out- 
 stretched hands and with a sudden intensity of 
 pleading passion, 'have pity! Listen to me. I 
 will believe all that you say of your repentance. 
 I will teach her to pray for you night and morning. 
 Have pity ! Take all that I possess, but leave me 
 my child.' 
 
 ' You ask too much,' he said again. ' The bribe 
 you offer is a greater insult than any you have yet 
 put upon me. It is not for the sake of money that 
 I shall desert my child, or give up my rights as a 
 husband. I cannot compel you to believe in the 
 sincerity of my repentance, the ardour of my affec- 
 tion, but I can at least take care that my child 
 is not schooled to detest and abhor her father, 
 or permitted to grow up in ignorance of his mere 
 existence.' 
 
 • Will nothing move you ?' cried Gillian. 
 
 The threat about the child had frightened her 
 
FACE TO FACE 239 
 
 horribly. ^ She had, if such a thing were possible, 
 exaggerated O'Mara's cuiming and cruelty, and her 
 thought was that, before she could procure the 
 legal protection she needed, he would steal Dora 
 from her side. 
 
 'Nothing!' he answered; 'I stand here on my 
 rights. You are my wife, Dora is my child. This 
 house is mine ; nothing but process of law can 
 eject me. I see by the unaltered stubbornness of 
 your demeanour that soft measures are of no avail. 
 I might as weU have acted decisively this morning 
 as now.' He took a seat, crossed his legs easily, 
 and took a case from his pocket. 'You don't 
 object to a cigar, if I remember rightly. Oh, by- 
 the-bye, you had better send up to the Pig and 
 "Whistle for my portmanteau. You are nearer the 
 bell than I ; might I trouble you to ring ?' 
 
 Showing consciousness in every line of his face 
 and curve of his body of Gillian's horrified gaze 
 upon him, he kept his eyes fixed on the flame of 
 the match at which he lit his cigar. His voice was 
 pure common-place, and, having thrown aside the 
 match, he stretched out an indolent hand for a 
 book on the table beside him. 
 
 A knock came to the door, which Gillian scarcely 
 heard and left unanswered. Barbara entered the 
 room with a card upon a salver. Her mistress 
 took it mechanically. For a second or two the 
 name it bore meant nothing to her, but at a second 
 
240 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 reading she cried to Barbara, with a stifled pant 
 in her voice : 
 
 ' Yes, show him in.' 
 
 She stood erect again, and quivering as if some 
 galvanic iafluence flashed from the scrap of paste- 
 board held between her fingers. Thirty seconds 
 later Sir George Venables entered the room. He 
 stopped at sight of O'Mara, who looked up at him 
 from the page of the book with an admirably acted 
 cool stare of non-recognition. 
 
 ' A friend of yours, my dear GUlian ? Pray pre- 
 sent me.' 
 
 ' I am Sir George Venables,' said the baronet. ' I 
 desire to speak a few words with Mrs. Dart- 
 mouth.' 
 
 ' There is no lady of that name here,' returned 
 O'Mara. 'Do you know her address, Gillian? 
 Perhaps you can direct this gentleman to find the 
 person he requires.' 
 
 ' Gillian !' began Venables. 
 
 'Pardon me,' said O'Mara. 'That lady is my 
 wife. May I ask what right you have to address 
 her by her Christian name ?' he continued, dropping 
 his banteriag tone, and speaking angrily. ' Don't 
 you think, under the circumstances, that your visit 
 is misplaced and impertinent, and that you had 
 better go? I am not of a jealous temperament, but 
 I decidedly object to the presence here of one who 
 proposed taking my place and usurping my privi- 
 
FACE TO FACE 241 
 
 leges. To put it on the lowest ground, it is hardly 
 becoming.' 
 
 * I came here ' began Sir George again. 
 
 'As cavalier in ordinary. Just so; but the 
 proper guardian of a wife is her husband.' 
 
 'You cur!' cried Sir George, making a step 
 towards him. ' Utter another word of insult 
 and ' 
 
 ' Oh, pray strike me ! You are powerfully built, 
 I am physically delicate ; no doubt you would be 
 the stronger. But morally and legally, young man, 
 I should be a giant, you a pigmy.' 
 
 'My object in coming here to-night,' said 
 Venables, restraining his passion with a strong 
 effort, ' was to offer that lady my protection against 
 a scoundrel.' 
 
 * Indeed ! Highly chivalric' 
 
 'I know what she has suffered. I know the 
 misery you have brought upon her ; and now, if 
 she said the word, I would avenge her wrongs upon 
 your miserable body.' 
 
 * George, be silent ; let me speak.' 
 
 ' Wait, my dear Gilhan,' said O'Mara. ' I shall 
 have the greatest pleasure in listening to any 
 remarks you may have to make when we are quit 
 of the presence of this intruder. Sir, I am master 
 here, as you will find if you intend to deny my 
 authority. That lady is my wife. This is my 
 
 16 
 
242 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 house. Your presence here is an outrage. Be 
 good enough to make yourself scarce.' 
 ' I shall not stu: a step while you remain.' 
 ' Eeflect a minute,' said O'Mara, ' and you wiU 
 see that you are compromising this lady whom you 
 declare it your object to serve. If I were as hot- 
 headed as yourself, there would be a deuce of a 
 scandal.' 
 
 Sir George turned to GUhan. 
 ' Is it your wish that I should go ?' he asked. 
 ' Yes,' she said. ' It is my wish you should go, 
 but take that man with you.' 
 
 ' Then, after you, sir,' said Venables, with a flash 
 of genuine triumph, pointing to the door. 
 
 ' Pardon me ! Deeply sorry, of course, to interfere 
 with your arrangements, but I shall stay here to- 
 night, en famille. Let me remind you, my dear 
 Gillian, that your conduct would suggest to an 
 unprejudiced mind that, while I was merely your 
 husband, you regarded that gentleman as your 
 lover.' 
 
 ' What ?' cried Venables. ' You dare ' 
 
 'Do not heed his insults,' said Gillian. 'He 
 merely wishes to provoke you to an outrage. Go ; 
 but before you go, save me from his presence.' 
 ' You hear,' said Sir George. ' Come, sir !' 
 'Absurd !' said O'Mara. 'I remain.' 
 With one strong clutch on his collar the baronet 
 pulled him from his seat. For a moment O'Mara 
 
FACE TO FACE 243 
 
 made a show of feigning resistance, but a rat in the 
 fangs of a terrier was not more helpless. 
 
 ' I yield to force majewre,' he said, ' but I protest 
 against this violation of my rights.' 
 
 'Tou can protest just as well outside,' said 
 Venables; and with a gesture of impotent rage 
 O'Mara retreated. Sir George whispered rapidly 
 to Gniian as he passed her : 
 
 ' At the bottom of the spinney at nine. If you 
 ever loved me, be there.' 
 
 Before she could answer ' yes ' or ' no ' he had 
 followed O'Mara. 
 
CHAPTEE XXIIL 
 
 FLIGHT. 
 
 ScAECBLY had Sir George disappeared, -when Gillian 
 became conscioue of a loud contention of voices in 
 the garden. For a moment she fancied that 
 O'Mara and the baronet must have broken into 
 open quarrel, and listened with a sick apprehension 
 of new disaster ; but a moment later she recognised 
 the voice of Barbara in the debate, mingled with 
 another which seemed strange to her. She moved 
 to the window, and there saw her faithful servant 
 engaged in a struggle with her brother-in-law, 
 Jake Owen. Gillian had forgotten the man's 
 existence, and recalled it by an effort. 
 
 ' I tell 'ee,' said Jake, who was white and feeble, 
 but strung to an energy not his own by some fearful 
 excitement — ' I tell 'ee I heard him. Shouldn't I 
 know his voice? Theer ain't two like it in the 
 world. Let me go, lass, let me go ! He's close 
 about. He can't ha' got far away by this time.' 
 
 Barbara clung to him and held him back. 
 
FLIGHT 245 
 
 ' Jake, Jake ! take a thought, lad, and remember 
 where ye be. Is it likely as he'd be here? Do 
 act reasonable, now, and don't 'ee go there, frighten- 
 ing the soul out o' my poor lady, as has enough to 
 bear a'ready !' 
 
 ' I heard him, I tell 'ee,' repeated Jake ; ' I heard 
 him.' His eyes fixed, and the ghastly pallor of 
 his face deepened. ' Sh !' he said, setting Barbara 
 aside with a strong gesture. ' He's there ; I've 
 got him. Quiet, my lass.' 
 
 Gillian, fixed to her place behind the curtains 
 with horror, saw him start with miching steps and 
 crouching body a few paces forward, and then, with 
 a sudden spring, strike hurriedly at the empty air 
 with a formidable-looking knife. 
 
 ' him !' he said ; ' he's gone again ! What 
 
 are ye doing with him ?' he said fiercely to Barbara 
 ' You're hiding him from me. You, Jess's sister ! 
 Ye're false, my lass !' 
 
 'Come back, Jake, come back to your bed,' 
 pleaded Barbara ; ' ye're not fit to be about, my 
 poor lad.' 
 
 ' But I saw him,' persisted Jake, though with an 
 accent on the word which showed that a flash of 
 partial sanity had made him doubt the reality of 
 the vision. ' I saw him, right there.' 
 
 'But ye saw him this morning,' said Barbara, 
 ' and Jess, too.' 
 
 'Ay!' said Jake, 'lyiag dead and white at- his 
 
246 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 feet. That was only a dream, lass; but this 
 time ' 
 
 'It's only a dream, too, Jake. Come back to 
 your bed, my poor lad !' 
 
 Jake looked about him. with a pathetically 
 puzzled face, and allowed Barbara's gentle pressure 
 on his arm to lead him away. 
 
 Time had slipped by unnoticed on this day of 
 strange events, and it was with a sort of dull 
 surprise that Gillian saw the finger of the clock 
 upon the mantel- sheH pointing to within five 
 minutes of the hour of Sir George's rendezvous at 
 the spinney. She began to wonder whether it 
 would be right or wise to go, and so debating, went. 
 Her mind was a chaos, with no definite sensation 
 save one of vague, hopeless misery. 
 
 She passed through the dusk of the open spaces 
 of garden and farm, faintly silvered with strengthen- 
 ing moonlight, to the strip of dense shadow cast by 
 the spinney. There she paused in a sharp wrestle 
 with tears which would force their way through her 
 eyelids, and became conscious of a measured step 
 pacing slowly up and down the highroad beyond 
 the trees. He was there already, waiting for her. 
 The brave heart which had borne its own load of 
 sorrow so well went out to his desolation. She 
 conquered her weakness, and pressed forward. At 
 the first crackle of her step upon the dried leaves 
 with which the spianey was strewn the steady beat 
 
FLIGHT 247 
 
 on the road stopped, and as her dark figure glided 
 out into the moonlight she heard her lover's breath 
 escape him in a sob of relief. 
 
 ' Thank God ! I feared you might not come/ 
 
 ' It would perhaps have been better if I had not,' 
 she answered. 
 
 ' Don't say that,' he pleaded. ' I can't tell you, 
 Gillian, how I have longed to see you since — since 
 this morning. My whole life for the last siz years 
 has been spent in longing for you, to see your face, 
 to hear your voice, but I never knew how dear you 
 were to me till to-day. Ah, my darling ! To have 
 held you in my arms, to have heard from your own 
 lips that you love me, and then to lose you ! I 
 could bear that, perhaps ; at least, I could bear it 
 better than to know that I lose you to that brute- 
 beast who has blackened all your innocent life*. 
 Tell me, Gillian — let me hear you say it — you will 
 never be reconciled to him — never go back to 
 him!' 
 
 ' Never,' she said — ' never ! You may be sure of 
 that, at least. No!' she cried suddenly; ' stay as 
 you are !' He had made a sudden motion to swing 
 himself up the bank which divided the road from 
 the spinney. ' This is good-bye, George, between 
 us. I was wrong to come here at all. Do not 
 make me more sorry than I am that I have been 
 so weak.' 
 
 ' Good-bye !' he echoed ; * why good-bye ? You 
 
248 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 have only to fling this wretch out of your path to 
 be free.' 
 
 ' Will that be so easily done ?' she asked. 
 
 ' There is no court ia the world,' he said, ' that 
 would not give you your liberty after what you 
 have condoned at this man's hands.' 
 
 'Think,' she answered — 'think what I must 
 endure to procure that hberty. You do not know. 
 I have not told you one tithe of the shame, the 
 horror, of my life with that man. What he was no 
 one can know but myself. The proof of his infamy 
 would be my shame as well as his before the world. 
 George, it would be horrible ! I would rather die 
 than face that ordeal.' 
 
 ' But what will you do ?' 
 
 ' I do not know. I must have time to think. My 
 brain and heart seem numbed — dead.' 
 
 ' Gillian, you must face it for my sake ! There 
 can be no disgrace to you. How can there be ? 
 What have you done at which people could point ? 
 All the shame would be his. I know how you 
 must shrink from it. You could not be the woman 
 you are if you could welcome such a prospect, or be 
 indifferent to it ; but think of your liberty — think 
 of Dora's future — think of me. A little courage, 
 darling, for my sake !' 
 
 ' For your sake ?' she answered. ' Ah, George, it 
 is of you I think more than of myself. Could you 
 •^proud as you are, with your name and position — 
 
FLIGHT 249 
 
 marry a woman whose fame had been dragged 
 through the mud of the public courts ?' 
 
 ' You doubt toe, Gilhan ? You doubt my love ?' 
 ' No,' she answered ; ' I do not doubt your love. 
 It is because I believe in it and in you that I shrink 
 from taking the means which could make it possible 
 for us to come together. I know you would redeem 
 your promise. You might be happy for a time, but 
 it would be happiness dearly bought.' 
 
 * I would give my life for you,' he protested. 
 
 * Your lite, yes. I think you would,' she 
 answered simply, looking sadly at the exaltation 
 on his moonlit face. 'But your friends, your 
 position in society.' 
 
 'Friends? Position in society?' he repeated 
 scornfully. ' What are friends, what is position in 
 society ? Why, what danger is there of my losing 
 them, even if I cared for a second whether I lost 
 them or not ? Listen, Gillian.' He sprang up 
 beside her, with one arm embracing the fence, and 
 caught her fingers in his disengaged hand. 'We 
 have our happiness in our own power. If we act 
 like a brave man and a brave woman, who truly 
 love each other and have real confidence in each 
 other's affection, this man cannot keep us apart. 
 Why should we wait for the law to set you 
 free?' 
 
 'George!' cried Gillian, starting back and dis- 
 engaging her hand. 
 
2S0 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 ' What ?' he said. ' Look the thing fairly in the 
 face, as if it were another woman's case. Would 
 you blame another woman in your position for 
 acting so, knowing the circumstances as fuUy as 
 you do ? While you remain here you are constantly 
 open to this man's attacks and insults; you are 
 completely defenceless before him. Even when 
 you make your appeal for justice in the court, see 
 what you have to face — the insults of a licensed 
 cad in a wig and gown, the publicity of the press, 
 and — God knows ! — there are always accidents to 
 be dreaded, and justice is never certain ; perhaps 
 when you have undergone all this, you will still 
 find yourself tied to this villain more hopelessly 
 than now. Why should you stand such a risk ?' 
 
 ' And my child, George ?' 
 
 ' Your child ? Why, she would come with us, of 
 course, and learn to love me as a father, as she 
 does already, dearest.' 
 
 ' And when she learned the story, and grew old 
 enough to understand ?' 
 
 ' Why should she ever know the story ?' 
 
 ' If she never did, would that alter the fact that 
 I should be unworthy of her affection? Ah, George, 
 you do not love me as I dreamed, if you would 
 degrade me in my eyes and yom* own. Ah !' she 
 continued, seeing him about to protest, ' I know 
 what you would say. I know you would be sincere 
 in saying it, but the time would come when you. 
 
FLIGHT 251 
 
 too, would despise me. Evil cannot cure evil. 
 Suffering can never be cured by sin.' 
 
 ' The sin would not be ours,' said Venables ; ' it 
 would be the world's, which has brought this misery 
 upon you. If you loved me, Gillian, you would not 
 hesitate.' 
 
 ' I dbo love yon,' said GiUian ; ' and you know it. 
 It is because I love you that I am jealous of your 
 good fame and my own. Spare me, George. Let 
 me feel that one man at least is pure — that one 
 man lives who is incapable of a thought, a wish, 
 which would reflect dishonour on his own nature, 
 and prove his scorn for mine.' 
 
 He hung his head, and a great sob forced its 
 way from his throat. 
 
 ' At least,' he said, when he could trust his voice 
 again, ' you will try to recover your liberty ?' 
 
 ' I must think,' she said ; ' it has all been so 
 sudden, so terrible — of one thing you may be 
 certain : aU is over between him and me. Even if 
 his hypocritical repentance were real, it could not 
 wipe out the past.' 
 
 * Eemember this,' said Venables, * that, whatever 
 happens, I am your servant, your slave, tm death. 
 You have one friend, Gillian, who will see justice 
 done to you. You are tired and iU, my darling. 
 Go home and try to sleep. I shall bring you to 
 reason at last, I know. Good-night.' 
 
 He caught the hand she offered him, and kissed 
 
252 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 it passionately. Then he walked away, but Gillian 
 heard his steps stop before she was beyond the line 
 of shadow cast by the trees. 
 
 The house was silent when she returned to it, 
 and quite dark save for a gleam of light through 
 the shutters of the kitchen where Barbara sat. In 
 the cool night air Gillian walked up and down the 
 lawn, considering the event of the past hour. Sir 
 George's parting phrase, ' I shall bring you to 
 reason at last,' rang in her ears with a gathering 
 clearness and terror in its meaning. 
 
 ' God help me !' she cried to herself ; ' I am 
 walking among fires.' 
 
 The man she loved grew to seem a more pressing 
 danger than the man she hated. She had schooled 
 herself to speak calmly and wisely during the 
 interview, but she dreaded the renewal of his 
 pleadings, clearly foreshadowed in the phrase which 
 haunted her mind. 
 
 ' I am not strong enough to bear it. God knows 
 what I might be tempted to do in this strait.' 
 She stood for a moment, gazing intently at the 
 ground, her fingers knotted together. ' Yes,' she 
 said slowly, ' it is the only way.' 
 
 She hurried within doors, to her bedroom, where 
 she rang the bell which summoned Barbara. That 
 good creature found her packing a portmanteau, 
 and stood astonished. 
 
 ' Wake Miss Dora, please, Barby, and dress her.' 
 
FLIGHT 253 
 
 The woman stared, and then, with a sudden 
 understanding of the situation, began to blubber. 
 
 ' You are a good faithful creature,' said Gillian, 
 kissing her ; ' I think you are my friend.' 
 
 •' God knows I be, my lady.' 
 
 ' I will trust you,' said Gillian ; ' I am going 
 away, you can guess why. When I have a shelter 
 you shall know where I am. I shall be away some 
 time — how long I don't know yet. You will stay 
 here, and look after the place, and let me have 
 news of what happens. And now be quick ; there 
 is no time to lose.' 
 
 She finished her packing, putting a few immediate 
 necessities for Dora and herself in a portable hand- 
 bag, and leaving the heavier packages to be for- 
 warded later. She took a little bundle of bank- 
 notes from her escritoire, and wrote a short note : 
 
 ' I am going away. I leave you master of this 
 house — of all that is mine. I admit your right 
 to make me a beggar — ^you shall never make me do 
 more. I will rather beg my bread than defend 
 myself against you.' 
 
 ' Give that to Mr. O'Mara when he comes to- 
 morrow,' she said to Barbara, as she appeared with 
 the chUd. ' My darling, you are not afraid to go 
 with me ?' 
 
 'No, mamma,' answered the child bravely, 
 though with a quivering lip. 
 
254 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 'We must go away to-night. If we stop here 
 they will take you from me.' 
 
 The child nestled closer to her, looking up in 
 her face with frightened eyes. 
 
 'You will be good — you will not cry? My 
 darling, it is for mamma's sake. God bless you, 
 Barbara ; you shall hear from me soon. Send on 
 these things when I send for them. I shall write 
 to you through Mr. Bream.' 
 
 Again she kissed the honest homely cheek, wet 
 with tears ; then, with Dora clinging to her skirts, 
 she hurried downstairs and from the house. 
 Scarcely fiity yards from the gate she beheld a 
 dark object barring the road, which on closer in- 
 spection resolved itself into a dogcart and a horse. 
 A smaller black object detached itself from it, and 
 became perceptible in the moonlight as Stokes. 
 
 ' Evening, mum,' said that worthy, with a touch 
 of his rabbit-skin cap. 'Evening, little lady.' 
 
 ' Good-evening,' said Gillian quietly. ' You are 
 late on the road, Mr. Stokes.' 
 
 'I've been over to Eadford, mum. The horse 
 had got a stone in his shoe, and I pulled up to pick 
 it out.' 
 
 ' Could you take me over to Eadford ?' asked 
 GUlian. ' I have important business in London, 
 and must catch an early train. I wUl pay you well 
 ior your trouble.' 
 
 'Trouble's a pleasure, mum,' said Stokes gal- 
 
FLIGHT 25 S 
 
 lantly. ' As to payment, I hope you won't talk o' 
 that. I'm proud to oblige ye, mum. The little 
 horse is as fresh as paint; he'll take you there 
 inside of an hour and a half.' 
 
CHAPTEE XXIV. 
 
 MB. STOEES EABNS HIS MONET. 
 
 Stoees assisted Gillian to her seat in the trap, and 
 lifted little Dora in after her, with many apologies 
 for the poor accommodation the vehicle afforded. 
 
 The pony at the first touch of the whip clattered 
 along the road at a pace which might have inspired 
 Gillian with some doubt as to the truth of his 
 master's statement that he had already done the 
 journey to Eadford and back, if in her actual state 
 of miud she had had any attention to bestow on 
 such a trifle. The sense of rapid motion was 
 pleasant to her, for every revolution of the wheels 
 bore her farther from the dreaded wretch who 
 coveted the treasure she strained to her breast 
 with so passionate an affection. The fastest of 
 express trains — the very wind itself — would have 
 seemed a tardy vehicle by which to escape from 
 the pursuit of O'Mara. 
 
 It would not have been easily possible, as we 
 have good cause to know, to exaggerate the lust 
 
MR. STOKES EARNS HIS MONEY 25; 
 
 and cruelty of the man who had originally wrecked 
 her liEe, and who now seemed to have been cast 
 forth from the grave to consummate the ruin of 
 her happiness ; but to Gillian's mind, fevered and 
 half unstrung by anguish, his wickedness took pro- 
 portions altogether unhuman and diabolic. She 
 feared him as a mediaeval Catholic would have 
 feared the sjirit of evil made visible in human 
 form. There was at moments something super- 
 stitious in her dread of him and his capacities for 
 working ill to all he met. Her whole being revolted 
 with indescribable disgust from his presence. The 
 tone of his voice, the touch of his hand, seemed 
 to have physically defiled her ; the passion which 
 had once or twice blazed in his eyes was a threat 
 too horrible to live under. 
 
 No definite thought of the future touched her 
 for a moment ; she did not even pause to think of 
 the desperate character of her enterprise. Friend- 
 lessness, poverty, all the bitterness she had drained 
 to the dregs in the long-past and half-forgotten 
 years of misery which had followed her father's 
 death, were as nothing to her, affording no material 
 for even a passing thought in her exigent desire to 
 put the width of the world between herself and her 
 child and the fiend who tortured h«r. All their 
 terrors, multiplied a hundredfold and plainly seen, 
 would not have checked her flight for the fraction 
 of a second. 
 
 17 
 
258 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 ' Drive to the station, Mr. Stokes, if you please.' 
 
 'All right, mum,' returned Stokea, 'though 
 I'm afraid as we shaU be too late to get anywhere 
 to-night. The last up train left at 8.55 and 
 the last down starts at 10.16. The little 'oss is 
 doing his best, mum, but I'm afraid we shan't 
 save it.' 
 
 Gillian groaned involuntarily and clung to Dora 
 with a tighter grasp. Stokes encouraged the pony 
 with whip and voice, and the little beast responded 
 so gallantly that to the poor lady's dazed senses 
 the trees and hedges of the roadside seemed as a 
 solid and continuous wall under the pallid blue of 
 the effulgent sky deluged with strong moonlight. 
 
 Stokes could perfectly well afford to give that 
 guarantee to the woman he was helping his em- 
 ployer to entrap, for the town was still six miles 
 distant and the train was at ihat moment due at 
 the station. 
 
 Stokes was not altogether a bad fellow — ^he 
 would have passed for a very decent fellow indeed 
 by the side of O'Mara — and his conscience, dull as 
 it was, pricked him sorely at this vile return for 
 the countless kindnesses she had showered on him. 
 But he had, and with good reason, a wholesome 
 dread of the desperate qualities which underlay his 
 chief's affectations. He was more or less in his 
 power, and the promised bribe tempted him. Fear 
 and cupidity together conquered his scruples, as 
 
MR. STOKES EARNS HIS MONEY 259 
 
 they have conquered those of better men before 
 to-day, and will again. 
 
 The trap swung round a bend of the road, and 
 the lights of the little market town flashed in 
 Gillian's eye like a coronet of celestial jewels. 
 
 ' Quick, quick ! for Heaven's sake !' she moaned. 
 
 Stokes lashed the panting and sweating pony to 
 racing pace, and the trap shot through the main 
 street and so to the gates of the station at the very 
 moment when a heavy-headed porter was closing 
 them. 
 
 * Stop, stop !' cried Gillian. 
 
 The porter stopped and stared at her. 
 
 ' I want to go to — ^to ' 
 
 She had not even thought of her destination. 
 
 * The last train's gone, ma'am. There's nothing 
 leaves here tUl the 5.40 for Cambridge to-morrow 
 morning.' 
 
 Gillian sank back to the seat of the trap with a 
 moan of despair. The apathetic porter slammed 
 and locked the gates. 
 
 ' "What can I do ? What can I do ?' asked the 
 poor woman in a broken underbreath. 'Drive 
 on, please ; please drive on !' she said to Stokes. 
 ' Go anywhere. I must get further — further 
 away !' 
 
 Stokes shook his head, and continued shaking it 
 as she looked almost wildly at him. 
 
 ' Can't be done, mum ! Look at the little 'oss- 
 
26o WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 He'd break his wind an' go dead lame inside of 
 another three mile !' 
 
 The poor little beast was standing steaming in 
 the moonlight, his coat ribbed like the hide of a 
 tiger with dark bands of sweat, his head almost 
 between his bent forelegs — a picture of fatigue. 
 
 'It ain't that as I care for,' continued Stokes. 
 ' I'd kill the 'oss if it come to that, 'cos I know as 
 you'd make it good to me, let alone all as you've 
 done for me a'ready, but what'd be the good on it ? 
 There's no place nearer here than Crestside — ^ten 
 miles off — and he couldn't do ten miles to save him 
 from the knacker'E. We'd only get landed in the 
 middle of a bloomin' wilderness !' 
 
 Gillian looked again at the horse, and saw that 
 it was impossible. 
 
 ' "What ■ can I do ?' she repeated in her former 
 tone of terror. 
 
 ' Well, mum,' said Stokes, ' if I may make so 
 bold as for to advise you, I should go to the George, 
 just by here, and get a wink o' sleep afore the 5.40 
 starts. It's a very respectable house, and they'll 
 do you to rights, and call you up in time in the 
 morniug.' 
 
 It was obviously the only thing to be done, and, 
 after a brief pause spent in trying to think of any 
 better plan, Gillian consented to it and bade Stokes 
 drive to the George. They went thither at a 
 walking pace, Stokes descending to relieve the 
 
MR. STOKES EARNS HIS MONEY 261 
 
 horse of his weight and leading him by the 
 bridle. 
 
 A motherly landlady, touched by the pallor and 
 terror in Gillian's face, received her kindly and led 
 her to a bedroom with profuse offers of refreshment, 
 which were declined. The woman promised to call 
 her in time for the Cambridge train, but despite 
 that assurance Gillian did not venture to undress, 
 fearful of falling asleep and hot awakening in 
 time. 
 
 Dora had already forgotten her small troubles. 
 Her mother laid her gently on the bed, and sat 
 watching her by the light of the solitary candle till 
 the tardy dawn began to glimmer above the gables 
 and chimneys of the opposite houses. It seemed 
 to shine with a sweet assurance of safety and fair 
 promise, which quieted her fevered brain. 
 
 The first stage of her flight had been successfully 
 accomplished — more successfully, in fact, than she 
 would have dared to hope. God would watch over 
 her and over the little life He had given her to 
 guard. 
 
 Stokes, meanwhile, was to the full as wakeful as 
 she in his employer's interest. He saw to the 
 stabling of the pony, and groomed him with his 
 own hands with assiduous care, foreseeing the pro- 
 bability of more hard work for him in the morning. 
 He had to be prepared for all contingencies, and at 
 all events must give O'Mara the earliest possible 
 
262 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 news of Mrs. Dartmouth's movements and destina- 
 tion. 
 
 A glass or two of brandy drowned what few 
 scruples still remained to haunt him and painted 
 the future rosy-bright. O'Mara had already pro- 
 mised him a hundred pounds, and, if Stokes were 
 successful in keeping him in touch with the lady's 
 movements, might be relied on to double that sum, 
 generosity with other people's money being a 
 prominent trait of his delightful nature. 
 
 Another glass put quite a pious aspect on the 
 business in which Stokes was engaged. O'Mara 
 might be a bad lot — he was, too, Stokes allowed, 
 and no error about it — but the lady was his wife, 
 and the kid was his kid, and didn't the Bible say 
 that wives were to obey their husbands 5" 0' course 
 it did. Stokes felt inclined to reinforce this view 
 of the case with an additional glass, but, remem- 
 bering the necessity of a cool head for the work 
 before him, refrained, and rewarded himself for his 
 heroism by spending in anticipation O'Mara's pro- 
 mised douceur of two hundred pounds. 
 
 "When Gillian descended, leading Dora by her 
 hand, she found the faithful Stokes awaiting her. 
 
 The pony was between the shafts of the trap. 
 
 ' 'Ope I may have the honour of takin' ye over 
 to the station, mum,' he said, with a finger to his 
 cap. 
 
 Gillian thanked him warmly. The man's attach- 
 
MR. STOKES EARNS HIS MONEY 263 
 
 ment touched her, and seemed in some fashion a 
 good omen. 
 
 They trotted to the station, and Stokes, bustling 
 officiously about, heard Mrs. Dartmouth ask for 
 two first-class tickets to Cambridge. He deter- 
 mined to wait and see them off in the train, for the 
 taking of the tickets might be a mere blind. 
 
 ' Them women are as clever as Old Nick,' said 
 Stokes to himself. ' Ye never know where to have 
 'em, or what they may be up to.' 
 
 Mr. Stokes' knowledge of the sex was by no 
 means despicable, though it had not been gathered 
 in Belgravian drawing-rooms. 
 
 ' She looks awful weak an' ill,' he said to himself, 
 as he furtively watched Gillian from a little dis- 
 tance ; ' had a orful night — anybody could see that. 
 Hullo ! what's up now ?' 
 
 A shriek from little Dora, and a sudden con- 
 fusion among the little knots of passengers and 
 officials on the platform. Stokes pushed forward, 
 and saw Mrs. Dartmouth, with closed eyes and a 
 tint like lead, lying in the arms of a burly farmer, 
 who had caught her as she swooned. 
 
 ' Mr. Stokes ! Mr. Stokes !' screamed Dora. ' Oh, 
 poor mamma !' 
 
 ' Don't be afraid, my lamb,' said the wolf, seeing 
 his chance, and keeping on his sheep's disguise to 
 the last ; ' mamma's all right. — Bring the lady 
 this way, matey. I've got my trap outside. I'll 
 
264 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 get her across to the George, where she slep' last 
 night, and send for a doctor.' 
 
 Gillian was conveyed into the trap, still insen- 
 eible, and driven to the George. 
 
 ' Just a minute, deary,' said Stokes to Dora, who 
 elung to her mother with all her Httle strength. 
 ' They want to take mamma inside, and they can't 
 while you hold her.' 
 
 Dora released her grasp, and Gillian's insensible 
 body was lifted from the trap. In a second Stokes' 
 arm was round the child's neck, his whip descended 
 in a shower of furious strokes on the pony's back, 
 and the trap started at full speed. 
 
 ' I've done the trick !' said Stokes exultantly, 
 ' Get the calf, and the cow will follow !' 
 
CHAPTEE XXV. 
 
 A LAST BECKONING. 
 
 It was yet early on that same morning, when 
 O'Mara, placidly in bed at the Pig and Whistle, 
 was aroused by a loud knocking at the door. 
 
 ' Who's there?' he asked, sitting up in bed. 
 
 ' It's me,' responded the voice of his landlord. 
 ' I've got news for you !' 
 
 ' Wait a minute,' replied O'Mara, and after 
 hastily donning one or two articles of clothing he 
 opened the door. 
 
 ' I've got her, gov'nor,' said Stokes triumphantly. 
 ' It ought to be worth another hundred.' 
 
 ' What is all this ?' asked his patron. 
 
 'I've got the kid,' said Stokes. 'Your wife 
 bolted last night, as you thought she would, and 
 took the little un with her.' 
 
 He gave a detailed and picturesque account of 
 the night's adventure. The sense of triumph iij 
 his own exceeding cleverness quite banished any 
 weakness of pity from his heart. 
 
266 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 'I've had an awful time with the kid, comin' 
 along,' he added. ' She's got the devil in her, I 
 tell you. Half a dozen times she'd ha' been out of 
 the trap, and us goin' full pelt too, if I hadn't 
 tep' my arm pretty tight round her. She pinched 
 it till it's black an' blue, and once she got her teeth 
 fair into it. A regular little wild cat, and no 
 error !' 
 
 ' You didn't hurt her in return, I hope,' asked 
 O'Mara anxiously. 
 
 The anxiety was not dictated by any motive of 
 humanity, as we who know him may easily guess. 
 
 ' Not much, you bet,' responded Stokes. ' What 
 kind of a fool d' you take me for ?' 
 
 ' Good,' said O'Mara. ' We must have as clear 
 a record as possible. An assault committed on a 
 young child might be made to look a very ugly 
 business. Where is she ?' 
 
 ' Locked in the parlour downstairs,' said Stokes. 
 * What are you going to do ? The mother '11 be 
 back here in no time. She'll guess, if nobody tells 
 her, what's gone with the kid.' 
 
 ' Your penetration does you credit, Mr. Stokes,' 
 said O'Mara. 'You have managed things very 
 cleverly. Thou art the best o' cut-throats.' 
 
 ' There's another thing too,' continued the 
 publican — ' Sir George was with her again 
 night.' 
 
 • What, after I got home ?' 
 
A LAST RECKONING 267 
 
 ' Yes. They were together at the bottom of the 
 Bpinney for a good hour and more.' 
 
 ' Did you hear anything of their conversation ?' 
 
 ' No ; I daren't go close enough ; but the moon- 
 light was bright, and I see him kiss her hand.' 
 
 'Ah!' said O'Mara; 'I think, if it should be 
 necessary, that you might remember a little of 
 their talk later on, my good Stokes.' 
 
 ' No,' said Stokes, with a resolute shake of the 
 head — ' no, no perjury !' 
 
 'Perjury!' echoed O'Mara. 'My dear Stokes! 
 Go and freshen up your faculties with a little sleep. 
 Or — stay. Wait tUl I am dressed, and you shall 
 drive Miss Dora and myself down to Crouchford 
 Court. — An invaluable fellow that !' he continued, 
 when Stokes had withdrawn; 'his scruples are 
 amusing — or would be if they were less costly to 
 his employer. Conscience — ^not too much of it, 
 but just enough to put up a man's price — is a 
 splendid thing. He seems to have managed this 
 affair rather cleverly. He has some elementary 
 knowledge of women, too. He's right about Gillian : 
 she'll double back to the Court when she finds the 
 child is gone, like a hare to her form. I shall have 
 trouble with her, and with that rustic booby of a 
 cavalier servente, too. I wonder it the brute would 
 really have proceeded to violence if I had resisted 
 him last night. By to-day I should be free from 
 that kind of annoyance. My lady will alter her 
 
268 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 tune wlien she gets a letter from a London solicitor, 
 stating my claim and my intention to prosecute it 
 to the utmost. She's devilish handsome and well 
 preserved,' he went on, as he stropped his razor ; 
 'she piques me with her confounded airs. It 
 would be something of a triumph to win or force 
 her back, and the discomfiture of her admirer, the 
 baronet, would be a rich treat. It will be a hard 
 fight, and she may go to court with a divorce suit, 
 which would be awkward — confoundedly awkward 
 — especially if she won. But could she win? No 
 mortal creature ever saw me lay a hand upon her, 
 save in the way of kindness. She can't prove that 
 it was I who took that ten pounds. The desertion 
 looks ugly, but I don't think desertion alone is 
 good enough for a divorce, and even then I have 
 my defence — her assumed name and change of 
 domicile. I have done well to strike first — it's 
 always the safe rule with women. A threatened 
 suit for restitution of conjugal rights may turn out 
 to be a very ace of trumps, and frighten her into 
 submission. It's a stake worth playing for, and 
 my hand is not a bad one, all things considered. 
 Fancy that ass of a baronet going back last night, 
 and talking to her from the public road! I can 
 fancy what a virtuous British jury would make of 
 that and her flight an hour later. That's a trump 
 card, and must not be forgotten.' 
 
 Communing thus with himself, he finished hia 
 
A LAST RECKONING 269 
 
 toilet, and descended to the room in which Stokes 
 had fastened httle Dora. The child was sitting 
 silent, and trembling with terror. It was not his 
 cue to set her against him, and he opened the 
 conversation with an ei:gaging smile. 
 
 ' Well, my darling, are you ready to go home with 
 papa ?' 
 
 ' You are not my papa !' said Dora. 
 
 * Oh, but I am, indeed. Won't you give me a 
 kiss?' 
 
 ' No,' said Dora, ' I won't. I don't like you.' 
 
 ' You will like me better, my darling, when you 
 know me better,' said O'Mara. ' I am a really 
 charming person, I assure you. Come, dry your 
 eyes, and don't cry any more. I am not going to 
 hurt you.' 
 
 ' I want mamma,' said Dora. 
 
 ' We shall find her at home,' said O'Mara. ' Gome 
 along, the trap is ready.' 
 
 The child followed him, submissive but obviously 
 distrustful, and Stokes drove them to within a 
 hundred yards of the gate of Crouchford Court. 
 There he stopped. 
 
 ' Go on, Mr. Stokes, if you please,' said O'Mara. 
 
 'Oh no,' said Stokes, with a dry air and a 
 lengthened shake of the head ; ' I've had as much 
 of Miss Barbara Leigh as I want. She's a tartar, 
 that's what she is. I don't want her to see me 
 along 0' you.' 
 
270 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 O'Mara accordingly descended, and, holding Dora 
 by the hand, walked to the house and rang. He 
 was admitted by Barbara, who gave an irrepressible 
 snort of anger and contempt at his appearance, and 
 handed him Gillian's letter. Dora made a motion 
 to run to her old nurse, but O'Mara checked it. 
 
 ' Go and sit in that chair,' he said, pointing to 
 one in the corner behind him. There was so strong 
 a hint of possible disagreeable consequences in his 
 manner that the child obeyed. He tore open the 
 envelope and read the missive it contained. 
 
 ' You've got your will at last,' said Barbara, her 
 hatred of the usurper conquering her prudent feel- 
 ing that it would be best to hide it. ' You've driven 
 my mistress away, poor dear ! Ah ! if she only had 
 •my sperrit ' 
 
 ' Yes ?' O'Mara smilingly prompted her. 
 
 ' She'd have stayed and faced ye, ye smooth- 
 tongued, smiling serpent !' 
 
 ' You are reaUy an extremely disagreeable person,' 
 said O'Mara. 
 
 ' Ay, so you'll find me.* 
 
 'We had better come to an understanding at 
 once,' said O'Mara. ' I am master here ; you are 
 doubtless a hardworking and deserving person, but 
 your appearance — ^to say nothing of your manners, 
 which are deplorably vulgar — dissatisfies me. I 
 like to have well-favoured people about me.' 
 
 ' Ye don't get me out o' this house,' said Barbara, 
 
A LAST RECKONING 271 
 
 folding her arms, ' without force, and I wouldn't be 
 in your shoes if you tried that dodge. I don't go 
 till I'm told to by my lady. If harm comes to her 
 or to that sweet lamb there, you'll find me harder 
 to reckon with than many a strong man.' 
 
 ' Oblige me by leaving the house,' said O'Mara, 
 advancing towards her. 
 
 * If I go,' said Barbara, ' I take Miss Dora with 
 me. Don't 'ee be afeared, my darling, no harm'U 
 happen to 'ee while Barby's here to look after ye. 
 Come to Barby !' 
 
 ' Stay where you are,' said O'Mara to the child. 
 ' Do you dare,' he continued, ' to interfere between 
 me and my child ?' 
 
 ' Ay, do I !' said the honest virago ; ' and what's 
 more, I don't believe she's any daughter 0' yourn — 
 she's o'er good and o'er pretty !' 
 
 ' Take care, woman,' cried O'Mara, stung through 
 his armour of cynicism by the servant's outspoken 
 contempt. 
 
 'Woman or no woman, I'm a match for you, 
 master ! Don't 'ee lay a finger on me. Eaise your 
 hand if ye dare, and I'll write my ten command- 
 ments on your ugly face ! Thank God, there's my 
 lady!' 
 
 Gillian tottered into the room, overcorde with 
 fatigue and fear. Her eyes fell upon Dora, who 
 ran forward with a glad cry and fell into her arms. 
 
 ' I'm glad you're here, my lady,' said Barbara. 
 
272 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 'Yes,' said Gillian, who had grown quite calm 
 again upon a sudden. ' I am here ; I have come to 
 take back what this man tried to steal from me, like 
 the coward he is.' 
 
 ' I am glad to see you,' said O'Mara. ' I expected 
 you.' 
 
 ' You had reason to. You know that I would 
 have risen from my dying bed to save my child 
 from you.' 
 
 ' Pardon me,' said O'Mara quietly, ' also my child. 
 Let me trust, Gillian, that you have come to your 
 senses, and that your return to this house implies a 
 new and growing feeling of wifely duty.' 
 
 Gillian, with her eyes fixed upon his face, touched 
 Dora lightly on the head. 
 
 ' Go with Barby, my darling. You are safe with 
 her.' 
 
 'Ay, that 'she is,' said Barbara; 'but don't stay 
 with him alone. Let me be by.' 
 
 ' There is nothing to fear,' said Gillian. ' Go, 
 leave us, but remain at hand. In a little while this 
 gentleman will be gone, and I shall be again 
 mistress in my own house.' 
 
 'My dear Gillian,' said O'Mara, with a laugh, 
 when they were alone together, 'you amuse me. 
 You are positively splendid.' 
 
 ' What I have to say to you,' said Gillian, ' can 
 be said in a few words. Weigh them well ; they are 
 the last you will ever hear from me.' 
 
A LAST RECKONING 273 
 
 * I am all attention. Let me remind you, how- 
 ever, that you talk nonsense. You said just now 
 that I was about to leave this house. Quite a 
 mistake. I shall remain' — he took a chair and 
 crossed his legs with an easy gesture — ' and if you 
 are a sensible woman, you will remain with me.' 
 
 ' Listen,' said Gillian. ' Last night you terrified 
 me ; your very presence, the thought of what you 
 might say fend do, filled my soul with dread.' 
 
 'Naturally. You see, I commanded the situa- 
 tion.' 
 
 ' In my terror I attempted to escape from you. 
 I was weak and ill, and even as I tried to fly I was 
 struck down. "While I lay feeble and helpless, you 
 had my child stolen from me.' 
 
 ' Quite so. I had warned you of my determina- 
 tion.' 
 
 ' The news was brought to me instantly. Thank 
 God, it did not kill me. No. It cured me of all 
 my cowardice, and gave me a mother's strength.' 
 
 'You still look a little pale,' said O'Mara sym- 
 pathetically. ' Let me get you a glass of wine.' 
 
 ' I feared the world ! I feared the scandal and 
 the cry ; I shrank from the public shame ! I 
 thought, " So long as that man lives, there is no 
 shelter for me, and no escape." ' 
 
 ' Quite right, my dear — except in sweet sub- 
 mission.' 
 
 ' I said to myself, " There is nothing he will not 
 
 18 
 
274 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 do. There is no infamy to which he will not sub- 
 ject me, rather than let me keep my chUd and live 
 in peace." ' 
 
 ' An exaggeration ; I only ' 
 
 'Hear me out. Then, while hastening back 
 home, I thought it all out, and before I had 
 reached that door I had made my determina- 
 tion.' 
 
 ' To be reasonable ? Come.' 
 
 ' To defy the world, to defy all scandal and shame, 
 and to take my stand upon the law itself as a free 
 and fearless woman.' 
 
 ' A vigorous programme,' said O'Mara. ' And 
 bow do you propose to carry it out ?' 
 
 'Your desertion absolved me from all responsi- 
 bility. Your absence for all those years is my 
 justification. I was divorced by your own act, and 
 in proof of that I will invoke the law.' 
 
 ' It won't help you, my love.' 
 
 'We shall see. Next, you left your chUd to 
 starve. Day by day, year by year, I have guarded 
 and reared her, without QVfi sign from you. By the 
 duty so done I had made my child mine only — and 
 in that, too, the law shall justify me.' 
 
 ' You really think so ? Anythiag more ?' 
 
 ' Yes. From first to last I have never had one 
 penny, one crust of bread, from your hands. You 
 abandoned me in my poverty. What came to me 
 afterwards escaped you. It is mine — this house, 
 
A LAST RECKONING 275 
 
 ■with all in it, and all else that I possess is mine ; 
 and that also the law shall prove.' 
 
 ' Try. I am here.' 
 
 ' You will not remain another hour. Tou wiU go 
 as you came.' 
 
 'One moment!' said O'Mara, calmly still. 'I 
 will not attempt to combat your very primitive 
 notions of English jurisprudence. I will pass over 
 your insane presumption that a husband has no 
 right either in his wife's property or in the person 
 of his child. I will merely remind you, my dear 
 Gillian, that should you " invoke the law," as you 
 poetically describe the simple process of consult- 
 ing the nearest solicitor, you will cause very un- 
 pleasant revelations.' 
 
 ' I have thought of all that, and I am prepared. 
 Shame cannot touch me now.' 
 
 ' I, on my side, wUl have an unpleasant duty to 
 perform. I shall have to contend that one reason, 
 and one reason only, accounted for my wife's 
 eccentric conduct on my return, that reason being 
 connected with her attachment to a man who 
 certainly wished to become her husband, and was 
 possibly her lover.' 
 
 'Tou coward!' said Gillian. 'Well, I am pre- 
 pared for that too.' 
 
 ' I shall have also to testify — very unwillingly — 
 that this gentleman and my wife were alone to- 
 gether last night at the bottom of the spinney an 
 
276 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 hour after she had called upon him to eject her 
 lawful husband from her house, an hour before 
 she fled — the presumption being that during that 
 interview her flight was arranged, and that he 
 was to follow her, meet her at some convenient 
 spot, and convey her to some secluded haven of 
 bliss.' 
 
 * Is that all you have to say ?' asked GilUan. 
 
 'I— I think so.' 
 
 ' Then leave this house !' 
 
 ' I shall do nothing of the kind.' 
 
 'You had better go quietly. If you do not, I 
 will not call the law to assist me, but I will 
 summon one who is prepared to take its place.' 
 She moved to the open door as she spoke. 
 
 'Who, pray?' asked O'Mara, with a sudden 
 pallor. 
 
 ' The man whom you call my lover, and whom 
 I love.' 
 
 ' Then,' said O'Mara fiercely, 'you confess it?' 
 
 'Without shame now, and without fear. Yes, 
 I love him. He knows that we are here together. 
 He is prepared at a sign from me to remove you 
 from this house, which, I tell you again, is mine 
 now. Will you go ?' 
 
 ' No,* answered O'Mara ragingly. 
 
 The handkerchief which GiUian had held in 
 her hand during the interview fluttered for a 
 moment at the door, and a few seconds later 
 
A LAST RECKONING rn 
 
 Sir George Venables and Mr. Bream entered the 
 room. 
 
 ' I see,' said O'Mara — • a conspiracy.' 
 
 'Nothing of the kind,' said Bream; 'only a 
 course of treatment which I have suggested.' 
 
 'And which we are here to carry out,' added 
 Venables. 
 
 ' You see, my friend,' said Bream, ' the lady was 
 too precipitate. Had you accepted her generous 
 yielding up of her possessions, and ceased tp per- 
 secute her, you might have been quite comfortable. 
 Now the tables are turned.' 
 
 ' So !' said O'Mara. ' Are you quite aware, 
 gentlemen, what you are doing? Have you cal- 
 culated the consequences ?' 
 
 ' "We have,' said Venables ; ' and at a word from 
 that lady ' 
 
 ' That lady,' said O'Mara, with a bow in Gillian's 
 direction, 'is again to be congratulated on her 
 champions. I put this rural parson aside — he is 
 simply a pertinacious busybody — but as for you, 
 sir, who are obviously my wife's lover ' 
 
 ' Be silent,' said Venables, ' or ' 
 
 ' I will not be silent !' cried O'Mara, with every 
 symptom of outraged virtue in face and voice. ' I 
 am not wa mari com/plaisant, and I do not intend 
 to be either silenced or suppressed. And if I ever 
 do vacate these premises, my daughter, at least, 
 shall accompany me.' 
 
278 WOMAN AND THE MAN 
 
 'I claim my child, too,' said Gillian — 'every- 
 thing I possess ; and I defy you to do your worst 
 against me.' 
 
 'You!' cried O'Mara. 'You! wanton and in- 
 famous ' 
 
 ' That's enough,' said Sir George ; ' out you go !' 
 
 'Very well,' said O'Mara, stepping back out of 
 reach of his arm. ' Observe, I yield to force — to 
 force only. Eemember, I shall spare none of you 
 now. Personally, I dislike publicity, but since you 
 put me to it, madam, the world shall know every- 
 thing — yes, everything, and I think the world will 
 decide with the husband, and against the wife, 
 who pretended to be a widow, and entrapped an 
 innocent clodhopper into a marital engagement. 
 It will be a cause celebre. I shall conquer, and 
 society will be amused. Sir, I salute you. Mon- 
 sieur Busybody, Mr. Cantwell, Mr. Facing-both- 
 Ways, your servant. Madame la soi-disante widow, 
 au revoirf 
 
 He swept a semicircle of bows, and lounged 
 easily towards the open French window. But 
 suddenly he stopped, with uplifted hands of help- 
 less panic. 
 
 'Keep him back!' he cried; 'keep him from 
 me!' 
 
 A shadow darkened the sunlight. Jake Owen, 
 with dilated eyes, stood there glaring at O'Mara. 
 The gleam of steel in his hand warned the onlookers 
 
A LAST RECKONING 279 
 
 of his intent; but before a foot could move Jake 
 sprang, the knife flashed in the air, and O'Mara 
 fell grovelling to the floor. Bream leapt on Jake 
 and wrenched the knife from his hand. 
 ' Back, you madman ! Give me the knife !' 
 'Ay, take it, parson,' said Jake; 'I've done 
 what I came to do.' 
 
 ' Good God !' cried Bream, sinking on one knee 
 beside O'Mara, who had writhed over on to his 
 face, * he's dead !' 
 
 ' Dead !' cried Gillian. ' Murdered !' 
 'Murdered?' said Jake, still with his eyes on 
 O'Mara's figure at his feet. ' No, for I killed him ! 
 He killed my Jess, and it's only life for life !' 
 
 XHS EKD. 
 
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