LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY Qt 
 SANDIE00
 
 FOLLY
 
 Folly 
 
 By 
 EDITH RICKERT 
 
 Author of "The Reaper " 
 
 With Frontispiece by 
 SIGISMOND DE IVANOWSKI 
 
 THE BAKER & TAYLOR CO 
 
 33-37 East Seventeenth Street 
 New Tork
 
 Copyright, 1906, by The Baker tf Taylor Co. 
 
 Published, March, 1906 
 
 Publishers' Printing Company, New York
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 BOOK I. THE HOUSE OF TEMPTATION. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 /. The New Folly i 
 
 //. The Little Lover 10 
 
 ///. Why He Came 23 
 
 IV. The Trap 31 
 
 V. After the Guillotine 40 
 
 VI. The Fellow-Man 55 
 
 VII. Suspense 62 
 
 VIII. The Devil Plays Dummy .... 75 
 
 IX. On the Edge 89 
 
 X. A Play 0} Souls 96 
 
 XI. Life for Life 108 
 
 XII. The Keeping of the Bargain . . .116 
 
 XIII. The Break 124 
 
 XIV. Casting off the Ropes 132
 
 Folly 
 BOOK II. THE CITY OF THORNS. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XV. Dreams 141 
 
 XVI. Reality 155 
 
 XVII. The Last Toss-up 164 
 
 XVIII. The Home-Coming 171 
 
 XIX. The Barrier 183 
 
 XX. The Other Woman 194 
 
 XXI. The Case of the Neighbour . . . .202 
 XXII. At the Shrine 209 
 
 XXIII. The Ferry 224 
 
 XXIV. The Only Way 231 
 
 XXV. Husband and Wife 238 
 
 XXVI. The Sisterhood 245 
 
 XXVII. Help 254 
 
 BOOK III. THE FOOTPATH-WAY. 
 
 XXVIII. Wisdom at Chelsea 265 
 
 XXIX. A Delicate Mission 274 
 
 XXX. Diplomacy 281 
 
 XXXI. By the Sea 292 
 
 XXXII. The Letter 299 
 
 vi
 
 Folly 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XXXIII. "O Folly, Folly I" 308 
 
 XXXIV. Bewilderment 317 
 
 XXXV. Coram 326 
 
 XXXVI. Low Eaves 334 
 
 XXXVII. Mother and Son 341 
 
 XXXVIII. The Conspiracy 350 
 
 XXXIX. The Ninth Guest 357 
 
 XL. "Why Need We?" 362 
 
 Vll
 
 BOOK I. 
 THE HOUSE OF TEMPTATION.
 
 " Strong-builded the house with walls of love, 
 
 But the perilous siege is strong. 
 Ho! a cry below, a cry above: 
 
 "The gates will hold how long?" 
 
 J. HALDANE GORE, The Watch Tower.
 
 Book I. 
 
 THE HOUSE OF TEMPTATION. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE NEW FOLLY. 
 
 NEAR four of the clock on a gay April afternoon, at 
 Sunlands, her Surrey home, Folly came downstairs for 
 the first time after her illness. Bronzino would have 
 been the man to paint her, some three centuries earlier; 
 he would have done justice to the proud uplift of the 
 head, the noble curve of the broad shoulders, the ample 
 sweep of limb, as she descended slowly, but with a firm 
 step and unwavering. I do not know whether he would 
 have chosen to show her poised under the rose- window 
 of ancient glass, with its ambers illuminating the amber 
 of her hair, its royal blues empurpling her golden-hued 
 dress, and its crimsons staining the steps below ; or 
 whether he would have portrayed her leaning over the 
 balustrade of the great staircase where it swings out 
 into the hall, her hands upon the carven imps and 
 
 dragons of the handrail, her eyes, with the look of see- 
 
 i
 
 Folly 
 
 ing a thing new and strange, upon the dusky Madonna 
 over the fireplace below. 
 
 There she hung, like any Juliet from her balcony, but 
 did not perceive her husband at the foot of the stairs 
 until he tossed a tiny bunch of celandines against her 
 cheek. 
 
 She caught the posy and glanced down upon him 
 calmly and critically. She might well have been think- 
 ing that, burly and ruddy as he was, he made no bad 
 figure of a country squire; but he grew uncomfortably 
 aware that he was hot and mud-splashed and entirely 
 out of harmony with her daintiness. 
 
 She tossed back his flowers with the comment : " They 
 don't match my gown see?" 
 
 In silence he returned the despised blossoms to his 
 buttonhole, as she asked indifferently: "Roads bad?" 
 
 He nodded: " I'd have made a bee-line cross-coun- 
 try if I'd known you were coming down. Hey, there 
 want an arm?" He thought for a moment that she 
 was dizzy. 
 
 "Not I. I'm doing this myself, thank you." 
 
 "Come along, then; there's a draught here," he 
 urged. 
 
 "Presently. . . . Well?" 
 
 Her look challenged him to a question, but he could 
 not make out what she wanted. 
 
 " Andrew ! "she laughed. " St. Andrew " 
 
 "What's up?" He obviously did not fancy the 
 canonization. 
 
 2
 
 Folly 
 
 " I've such a shock for you. I'm not the same woman 
 I was last month or even last week or yesterday. 
 I'm somebody else!" 
 
 He grunted: "I could have told you that years ago. 
 You're somebody else every other day. Come down 
 away from that window." 
 
 She shrugged. "How do you like my tea-gown?" 
 
 " Stunning," he remarked, without enthusiasm. 
 
 "So it is," she accepted the praise as her due. "I 
 meant it to be. I planned it out the day before baby 
 came; and I decided then to wear it now. Jordan did 
 the rest." 
 
 "Are you coming down?" he persisted. 
 
 "Oh, you tiresome grub in tweeds! You would like 
 it as well if it were a red and black checked flannel!" 
 
 "I should like you as well," he admitted. 
 
 "You see," she expounded her canon of art, "it's 
 the coppery gold of unfolding beech-buds, and you 
 can't deny that it tones with my hair; while the green 
 is the colour of the young leaves, and I used it in the 
 frills to reflect green into my eyes. If I didn't dress 
 properly, goodman, people would say I was extraor- 
 dinary plain. And they don't, do they? But we're 
 getting away from the point." 
 
 "By no means," said he. "I'm sticking to it. Come 
 down this minute." 
 
 "Sha'n't! Not till I please!" 
 
 In a second he had her by the wrist and was dragging 
 her, half laughing, half resisting, into the drawing-room. 
 
 3
 
 Folly 
 
 "I pleased then," she said, with a sudden flush. "I 
 like you best when you're most disagreeable, Dandie." 
 
 When she had arranged herself in an arm-chair be- 
 fore the fire, he stood looking down upon her, and ob- 
 served politely : " You were about to say ? " 
 
 "It would serve you right if I never told you now," 
 she teased him. 
 
 But he was not without sense: "I don't know that 
 I'm particularly anxious to hear." 
 
 "That's always the way," she said, with a pensive 
 face in her hand. "I tell you I'm made over a new 
 woman and you're thinking about the kennels this 
 very minute." 
 
 "That charge isn't worth answering. Are you going 
 to explain or not ? " 
 
 "Shall you be glad or sorry," she fenced, "to find me 
 different?" 
 
 "I'll not commit myself yet." 
 
 "You'll be glad, I suppose, but you ought to say 
 you'll be sorry. But I should be sorry if you said you'd 
 be glad " 
 
 " Come to the point," said he, but gently enough. 
 
 "Well, it's about that boy of yours upstairs" she 
 did not like being hurried. 
 
 "Mine?" he interposed. 
 
 "Yes, your son. Oh, if you only had a grain of 
 instinct in understanding women!" 
 
 His gentle "I do my best" did not lessen her impa- 
 tience. 
 
 4
 
 Folly 
 
 "Well, perhaps: but you seem to find it very diffi- 
 cult. Now that baby of yours " 
 
 "Will you tell me why you disclaim all share in him 
 at the present moment?" 
 
 "As if it were necessary to do anything else," said she, 
 with high scorn. "Why, I'm his mother!" 
 
 "I see." 
 
 "Oh, no, you don't; not even remotely. A body has 
 to be plain with you. . . . Well, now, in the beginning, 
 I didn't know in the least how to take him." 
 
 "Then you can't expect me to know how to take 
 you," he retorted, with unexpected briskness. 
 
 "I don't; I never did. But that doesn't matter. I 
 
 always hated the sound of the word matron " 
 
 'But you braved that half a dozen years ago, when 
 you married me. Isn't mother rather better on the 
 whole?" 
 
 "No. It means that one has to be old and respon- 
 sible." 
 
 He stood with his hands clasped behind him, staring 
 at a fine copy of the " Gran Duca" that hung just over 
 her head, but not unaware of her watching eyes. "I 
 can't say that I'm disappointed, Florence. I never 
 expected you to like it much, though I hoped you would. 
 But I want to say just a word : jump on me as much as 
 you please; but, for heaven's sake, don't take it out of 
 the poor little chap! He's not to blame." 
 
 " Go on," she urged, tightening her lips in a curious 
 smile. 
 
 5
 
 Folly 
 
 "I had it on my mind all the while you were up- 
 stairs," he continued. 
 
 "Naturally, since you knew I'd hate him. What 
 else?" 
 
 "Well, I decided " 
 
 "You went so far as to decide?" 
 
 "That if you didn't take kindly to him, we'd make 
 sure of the right sort of nurse and pack him off to the 
 mater." 
 
 "You did? How good of you! So I needn't be 
 bothered with him at all?" 
 
 "That's it." 
 
 "And what would the mater think?" 
 
 "She? Oh, she'd have no end of fun. She ought 
 to have had twenty kids instead of one poor specimen. 
 She's a right sort, the mater." 
 
 "I like your plain truths, Andrew. She's not my 
 sort eh ? Tell me now. I suppose you think I might 
 take a fancy to put him out of the way ? " 
 
 "I shouldn't wonder." His eyes twinkled, but he 
 was half serious. "You're a reversion to an old type, 
 you know. You ought to have lived when you could 
 set a little war a-going if you felt bored; or poison off 
 a few relations by way of change. You would have had 
 a merry life; and you would have survived to a ripe 
 age and had a fine tomb. You're sadly out of place 
 to-day." He concluded musingly: "I wonder how far 
 you would go I wonder now." 
 
 "And sometimes so do I," she confessed. "But,
 
 Folly 
 
 ***'* ' 
 
 faith, I never know from one moment to the next what 
 I'm going to do." 
 
 "But the boy," he reverted to the point. "They say 
 he's an uncommonly fine " 
 
 "Child," she concluded for him flippantly. "They 
 always are. Did you ever hear of a baby that wasn't ? 
 I wonder what becomes of the others? Probably sent 
 to baby farms and killed off. Just as well. If the un- 
 commonly fine ones turn out as badly as they usually 
 do, it's lucky that we're spared the growing up of the 
 others." 
 
 "Fireworks," was his brief comment. "The ques- 
 tion is, do you want the mater to have him?" 
 
 "Have you asked her?" she demanded, with a sud- 
 den sparkle in her eyes. 
 
 He smiled. "Not yet, naturally." 
 
 "Not yet," she repeated. "Well, if you must know 
 you're always in such a hurry. ..." She drew him 
 down on her chair-arm, and reached up to stroke his 
 hair; but she had an exasperating trick of letting her 
 hand linger on the little round spot where was no hair 
 at all. "Come, now, I'll tell you. When they first 
 brought him up for me to see, it was on the tip of my 
 tongue to say you will be shocked!" 
 
 "I think I'm immune to shocks by this time, my girl. 
 Go on." 
 
 "It was so like a new kitten. I wanted to say, 'Take 
 it away and drown it,' if only for the fun of seeing 
 nurse's face. But I knew they'd think I was hysterical, 
 
 7
 
 Folly 
 
 so I lay low and remarked only, 'I hope it will grow 
 prettier.' As it was, she said all over the place that I 
 was a heartless woman. But honestly, now, could I 
 have been expected to like it ? " 
 
 "Women seem to make a point of admiring them," 
 he observed. 
 
 "Oh, women " her shoulders went high 
 
 "sheep! But it was a puling, drivelling, lobster-faced 
 squalling thing, with heaps of unnatural black hair that 
 all fell out " 
 
 "What are you coming to?" he demanded. 
 
 "Why, this. Of course, I should have done my 
 duty by him, anyway. We'd talked that over before." 
 
 "A model child," he groaned. 
 
 " But the curious thing was, the very first time I fed 
 him, as soon as his little face lay against my breast 
 heavens! I'm talking nonsense." 
 
 "It's a new sort on your lips, at least," he declared. 
 
 "All these weeks the process has been going on; and 
 I didn't fairly know what had happened until I stopped 
 on the stairway to-day and for the first time in my life 
 saw the meaning of that smoky old Madonna of yours. 
 I think " 
 
 "Yes, yes, you think?" 
 
 She pushed him away, for he was leaning to her more 
 eagerly than she liked. "If you will know he isn't 
 such a bad little thing after all!" 
 
 "You mean that in time you might come to like 
 
 him?" his voice shook with eagerness. 
 
 8
 
 Polly 
 
 She laughed in the old way. "Why, my dear, I al- 
 most think I do!" 
 
 Thereupon he was not to be held off any longer; and 
 indeed, she rebelled but little, looking at him with eyes 
 suddenly grown dark and dim and wistful. After a 
 silence she whispered: "I thought you might like to 
 know." 
 
 "Miracles do happen," he muttered, more to himself 
 than to her. 
 
 "Yes. I should never have believed it of myself. 
 But he was so helpless, and he's growing pretty, too 
 however, we needn't go into that. The mischief's done." 
 
 ' ' Thank heaven ! And what next ? ' ' 
 
 "Ah, that's the point. How can I ever live up to it 
 him, I mean. Poor Folly! You have spoiled me, 
 you and the mater, with that silly pet name. I suppose 
 now I must be wise and good; and it will be precious 
 hard work." 
 
 " So I may look upon you as converted ? " he put the 
 matter lightly. 
 
 "On the Penitent Form," said she, in all humility; 
 then hid her face against his arm. "You will help me 
 to be good ? " 
 
 "Dandie Junior will do that," he answered gently; 
 but he wondered, as he had wondered a thousand times 
 before, what meaning lay hidden beneath her words.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE LITTLE LOVER. 
 
 SUNLANDS lies half way up the southern slope of 
 Cunsden Hill, with a great fir wood at its back stretch- 
 ing as far as the Common; and in front, park lands, 
 not overburdened with trees, rolling down to the river 
 Leigh. The house is low and plain, of a dull stone 
 vivified by an abundance of fine and luxuriant creeper 
 the kind of house that you would suspect and in 
 this case, rightly of being set out with Sheraton and 
 Chippendale, with Lowestoft and old Crown Derby, 
 with a family portrait gallery, a secret chamber, and a 
 ghost. 
 
 And yet no part of it is older than the days of 
 Queen Anne; for it was in the reign of that monarch 
 that the first Andrew Christie, commander of the 
 frigate Rupert, rescued a valuable cargo of bohea from 
 Malay pirates off Singapore, and for this and equally 
 signal services in the American colonies was rewarded 
 with a fat piece of Surrey. To this he added by pur- 
 chase, and, it is said, other devices, until in the present 
 
 day his descendant in the eighth generation owns all 
 
 10
 
 Folly 
 
 that he can see from any window of his house, in farms 
 and in forest-land, in pasture and in common, together 
 with three villages, six hamlets, and the fishing of the 
 Leigh from its source to its junction with the Eden. 
 
 The garden is walled off from the park to surround 
 pretty well three sides of the house; and of this the 
 eastern corner is laid out in formal Dutch fashion, 
 modelled after the tiny enclosed square at Hampton 
 Court, likewise beginning with clipped arbours, and 
 falling away by terraces of grass and quaintly-shaped 
 flower-beds, down to the circular fish-pond set out with 
 stiff dwarf cypresses and trimmed yews. 
 
 Late in April, this fish-pond was rimmed deep with 
 yellow jonquils. One golden morning, Folly, not con- 
 tent with the great sheaf of them that she carried, was 
 stooping for more, when suddenly troubled with a 
 sense of being observed she rose and turned to meet 
 the eyes of the man whom she had familiarly called her 
 "Little Poet," and rarely in jest, be it understood 
 her "Little Lover." 
 
 There was a sudden rain of jonquils, and a great 
 ado collecting the scattered blossoms before the 
 proper greetings could be exchanged. 
 
 " Oh, to be in England 
 Now that April's there," 
 
 was his answer to her challenge: "Where did you 
 drop from?" 
 
 "Did you come for that?" she wished to know. 
 
 "Isn't that enough? Politely, I came to see you
 
 Folly 
 
 gathering jonquils; honestly, I had some business to 
 arrange." 
 
 "Will you come in?" she asked, with formal courtesy. 
 
 "It would be much pleasanter to walk up and down 
 in this arbour. I'll quote you spring verses and love 
 verses " 
 
 "I've heard all you know, I think," she interrupted 
 brusquely. 
 
 "There you're wrong. I've written a few and 
 learned many some that you wouldn't understand 
 any more than you appreciate that exquisite old Ma- 
 donna in your hall." 
 
 "Ah, one learns," said she, with a sudden sweet 
 smile that passed as quickly as it came. "I think we'll 
 go in, however." 
 
 At the porch she paused and turned to him with 
 earnest eyes and lips parted for speech, but he was 
 too quick for her as he smiled and quoted: 
 
 "O quanta siete car a agli occhi mieil" 
 
 She blushed painfully. " You must drop all that sort 
 of thing now. Come in and talk to me of art Italy 
 gossip scandal anything you like but that." 
 
 He said nothing as he lounged upon the window-seat 
 and looked out upon a peculiarly brazen, flaunting 
 tulip-bed. For a little while she posed in an antique 
 carved chair that emphasized her grace of outline; but 
 presently she began to fidget, and sighed very gently. 
 Still he spoke no word. At last she was driven to 
 demand: "Are you never going to say anything?" 
 
 12
 
 Folly 
 
 "I was waiting for my cue, Folly," said he. 
 
 "Not Folly." She was amazingly prim. 
 
 He lifted one eyebrow. "Florence?" 
 
 "Nor that." 
 
 "What am I to call you, then?" 
 
 She shrugged. 
 
 "Mrs. Christie, may I ask, is your husband at 
 home?" 
 
 "In Scotland. Do you want to see him?" 
 
 It was his turn to shrug: "I shall be quite as pleased 
 to see him as he to see me. But something's come over 
 you, or I'm greatly mistaken." 
 
 She smiled at him out of the corners of her eyes. 
 
 "Demure isn't the word you're a perfect pussy- 
 cat. I don't know you. When did I see you last? 
 You have changed." 
 
 "It's nearly a year," said she. "Much can happen 
 in a year." 
 
 "Ah, true," he granted, and turned his face quite 
 away from her. She had to repeat her next question 
 twice before he heard: "Am I prettier?" 
 
 "Prettier? You never were pretty, not even at your 
 best, as you know very well; but you've still the old 
 smile that would turn the head of the devil himself." 
 
 For a moment she seemed content; then asked with 
 hurried irrelevance, "What brought you back?" 
 
 "I thought you didn't want to know?" 
 
 "Well, I do now I mean you are so uninteresting, 
 and one must make conversation." 
 
 13
 
 Folly 
 
 "I'll tell you presently," said he, and turned again to 
 the tulip-bed, apparently unaware that she was study- 
 ing his face. 
 
 Indeed, she was thinking that he too had changed; 
 but she could not see how. Perhaps the long, sharp 
 profile was a trifle sharper, and the square chin a trifle 
 more hard set; but the eyes were as penetrating as ever, 
 as she felt when he again turned to meet her glance. 
 
 "There were four abominable blank white walls in 
 my cell," he began. 
 
 "Cell?" 
 
 "Yes. I've been living at a certosa, you see a little 
 broken-down monastery in the wilderness of the south- 
 ern Alps. You wouldn't know the vicolo even by name. 
 A dozen lean monks, down at heels, sullen " 
 
 She moved restlessly, and he hurried to the point: 
 "You came there every night, you know, and frescoed 
 those white walls." 
 
 "No, faith, I didn't!" She was indignant, but she 
 laughed a little too. 
 
 "Why, sure you did!" he retained certain tricks 
 of speech from an Irish mother. "And weren't you 
 out of place just? You would have been anathema 
 is that it? if those surly fellows had suspected 
 you. I used to chuckle sometimes to think how their 
 shaven polls would have bristled to see what I saw, 
 when I sat in their cloister with the City of God on my 
 knees." 
 
 He passed his hand across his forehead and turned to 
 14
 
 Folly 
 
 the tulips again. She said nothing, but tightened her 
 lips as one that wishes to speak and will not. 
 
 "I was trying to work at your poem you know 
 but I couldn't get on with it. I can't say when you will 
 have it now." 
 
 She frowned in a puzzled way, and studied him in 
 silence. 
 
 "No matter for that. But as to your coming there 
 I suppose I had reckoned unduly upon my virtue in 
 departing last summer, as soon as you said no, I 
 am not going back to the forbidden subject. I thought 
 I had earned the right to be rid of you; and I tried to 
 forget you no doubt about it. I wanted my peace of 
 mind again. I thought it would be a brilliant idea to 
 chain you up in verse see? But you broke loose, 
 night after night, and tormented me like well, like a 
 devil of the good old-fashioned sort." 
 
 "I don't in the least know what you mean," she in- 
 sisted coldly. 
 
 "I daresay not. Why, you came in every conceiva- 
 ble form and guise, but Folly always always Folly 
 and you made those walls blaze! Kind of you, wasn't 
 it? To come wasting the time of a sensible man, and 
 one that might have been a poet, if ..." 
 
 He stopped abruptly and clasped his knee, with the 
 look of one who has just saved himself from saying too 
 much. 
 
 She could speak now: '"Might have been? If?' 
 What do you mean?" 
 
 15
 
 Folly 
 
 He laughed rather harshly: "I'm a long time com- 
 ing to the point; but it isn't easy to get it out. You 
 must be patient." 
 
 Either his words or his look touched her into sudden 
 anxiety. She crossed over to the window seat and 
 leaned forward pleadingly : ' ' Haldane ? " 
 
 "Now who's forgetting?" His tone was light again. 
 " I thought you had given up old names for old friends ? " 
 
 "No matter. Tell me, Haldane. What has gone 
 wrong with you ? Have I done ? " 
 
 "Nonsense!" 
 
 "If you had never known me ?" 
 
 "I should have missed the best thing I've had in my 
 life. Don't talk bosh." 
 
 "'Had?'" she repeated, with her puzzled frown. 
 
 "You put it all into the past, last summer, didn't 
 you ? " And she could make no denial. 
 
 "But if I have hurt you in any way ?" 
 
 " Not you, my not you, I assure you. Some people 
 call it Providence, some Chance, some Fate the woman 
 with the shears that does the mischief. I incline to 
 believe it's sheer bad luck myself; but it's possibly all 
 my own fault when you come to sift the matter." 
 
 " Oh, you talk in riddles," she said sorrowfully. 
 
 "Then maybe I got the trick from you; but I'm com- 
 ing out somewhere. I told you to have patience. The 
 ways you came to me! Never twice the same, of course; 
 a different Folly every day and only a mild sisterly 
 
 resemblance among them all. The first time, you were 
 
 16
 
 Folly 
 
 in sea-green, with corals and slimy tangle in your hair; 
 and I thought it was Undine until I saw your face. 
 You didn't fit the part somehow. You must never go 
 in for tragedy, you know; you couldn't rise above 
 melodrama. You'd make up best for comic opera. 
 However, I adored you, anyway. Of course, I adore 
 you all the time, only you won't believe it. ... " 
 
 He paused for breath, and she wondered at him in 
 silence. Never before had she heard him so light, so 
 flippant, so disconnected." 
 
 "I don't often give way to it, that's why. What was 
 I saying? Oh, yes, another time, you had on that 
 hideous scaly iridescent snaky thing I've seen you 
 wear in town detestable! Always reminds me of the 
 serpent in Paradise makes me feel like Adam. I call 
 it a singular lapse from good taste on your part." 
 
 He waited for protest, and, as none came, added : 
 "You are more silent to-day than I have ever before 
 known you to be." 
 
 She in turn gazed out at the tulip-bed and had no 
 answer ready; but she was thinking: "And you talk 
 more." 
 
 " But when you came to the certosa in it, and put your 
 arms about my neck " 
 
 " Don't speak that way," she broke in sharply. 
 
 "But you did sure! Soft and warm and strong 
 strong enough to strangle me if you had liked. ..." 
 
 "No wonder you can write love poetry!" she tried 
 
 to be scornful. 
 
 2 17
 
 Folly 
 
 " With such experiences ? No wonder." But she had 
 not meant that. 
 
 "You did more. You laid your face against mine " 
 
 "Please, Hal!" 
 
 "A little thinner than it was when I had seen it last, 
 and wet with tears. . . . You don't often weep, do 
 you?" 
 
 "I shall leave you if you don't stop." 
 
 "It was all gospel truth to me. I suppose it must 
 have been illusion, since you deny it. But did you 
 never think of me in that way then?" 
 
 "I may have had foolish thoughts sometimes, but I 
 never never unless it was in my dreams and against 
 my will. ..." 
 
 "It was all against your will, Folly," he said quickly, 
 "and mine too, for that matter. One of the last times, 
 you were like a Greek girl, Nausicaa or somebody, with 
 your hair shining and slipping through your fingers, 
 and your eyes gleaming and tempting and luring. . . . 
 It was then I swore I'd have you, if nothing else in this 
 blessed world!" 
 
 "A dangerous vow," she said softly. "You did not 
 know what you had to reckon with. But why ' nothing 
 else'? You have had much; you'll have more. You 
 talk so strangely to-day." 
 
 " So you're still interested in my career, are you ? I 
 believe that was the way you softened the blow to me 
 last summer ? You said you would be always remem- 
 ber? So I'm talking strangely, am I? It seems to me 
 
 18
 
 Polly 
 
 it's yourself that is strangely suspicious. It's as if you 
 had an instinct. ..." 
 
 "I generally have when there's something wrong," 
 she said, looking away from him into the room. " But 
 you told me to be patient. " 
 
 "A little longer. I don't remember when it was that 
 I cried out in my sleep and roused Fra Antonio from 
 his vigils; but I know he gave me a drink that ex- 
 orcised you; and in the end they said I'd been 
 having fever. A simple explanation eh? When I 
 recovered, I thought I had said good-bye to Folly for 
 ever and a day; but one evening in the cloister the 
 monks were at vespers you came masquerading as a 
 nun, and persuaded me I don't quite know how 
 that you had forgotten me altogether." 
 
 "And so I had." 
 
 "Well well. I got away to Milan as soon as I could 
 there was another reason, as you shall hear presently. 
 And then I came to England. Yesterday" ... he 
 shrugged or shivered, she could not tell which. "To- 
 day I am here." 
 
 "And to-morrow?" 
 
 "That depends" he smiled at her. "You say 
 you had forgotten, but I want you to answer a plain 
 question. Did you ever from the time I went away 
 until now wish me back ? " 
 
 " Did I ever . . . ?" she paled a little; but he did not 
 see this, for he was staring at the tulips again, and in- 
 deed seemed to have forgotten his question until she in 
 turn asked, "Why?" 
 
 19
 
 Folly 
 
 ' Why ? Because I fancied you did that's the worst 
 of cultivating the imagination ; and twenty times I was 
 on the point of coming over to see whether it was so." 
 
 "But I forbade you," she said, with something of 
 sternness. "Last summer we drifted quite far enough, 
 and and since then I have been all right. How could 
 I have been otherwise with my husband?" 
 
 "That's not for me to say. I suppose my second 
 thought was nearer the truth then, when I reasoned that 
 it was your vanity I had touched, not your heart. And 
 yet, if I believed that, I should not be here now." 
 
 "You must believe it," she said hurriedly. " Do you 
 remember the day we parted last summer?" 
 
 "Those things are not soon forgotten," he answered, 
 with a tinge of bitterness. 
 
 "Tell me what I said." 
 
 "You said a lot; but the point of it all seemed to be 
 that while you had not broken your vows to your hus- 
 band, neither had you kept them that in future he 
 should be the barrier between us." 
 
 "Ah, that was it; and it was true. And I think it is 
 all right. You have not told me what you came for; 
 but have you heard nothing about me lately?" 
 
 "Nothing. Why?" 
 
 "Not in town?" 
 
 "I haven't seen anybody you know, I think." 
 
 "There is news." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 He waited; but, after a pause, she said only : "You'd 
 better tell me what you came for." 
 
 20
 
 Folly 
 
 "No, not now; it needs more consideration. What's 
 your news?" he persisted. 
 
 "I'd rather show you," she declared. 
 
 "Your news?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 She smiled as she said, brushing back her fine light 
 hair: "Look at me well, Haldane. It's the last time 
 you'll ever see the me you put into your verses." 
 
 "What do you mean?" he asked, following her as 
 she rose to go. " Are you mad ? " 
 
 "No," she smiled at him over her shoulder 
 "only changed, as you have already observed." 
 
 He seized her hands then: "Folly, there's something 
 I want to I must " 
 
 "Don't make love to me," she protested, and re- 
 pented of the words before they were fairly out, for she 
 saw that she had misread his intention. 
 
 "Not yet. I'll wait a bit." He dropped her hands 
 and turned away. " I must think a little longer. Show 
 me your news, then." 
 
 At the door she turned to face him, with one hand on 
 each post and her most whimsical expression; but for a 
 second his look checked her utterance. She had 
 known, of course, that he would be watching her all 
 men did but instead of passionate admiration, she 
 encountered an unseeing stare that went through her 
 to what? Still, she recovered herself sufficiently to 
 toss him a butterfly kiss on her finger-tips and to chant 
 teasingly: "It's good-bye to Folly, you know, good-bye 
 
 to Folly!" 
 
 21
 
 Folly 
 
 She was not pleased when she found herself a pris- 
 oner; and she blocked her ears in vain to the angry 
 voice that stormed and threatened: "You go too far. 
 I've never kissed you yet; but I will. What do you 
 mean? Tell me." 
 
 In self-defence she said demurely: "I expect Andrew 
 every minute." 
 
 "What the devil !" He would have kissed her 
 
 then, but she, daring him to the last moment, said: 
 "You should have been like this a year ago. I'm dead 
 to you now." 
 
 Before he was aware that his grasp had loosened she 
 had slipped away. Once free, she let her laugh float 
 down the stairway, and the teasing chant: "Good-bye 
 to Folly ! Good-bye to Folly ! " 
 
 22
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 WHY HE CAME. 
 
 THE baby objected to having his invisible hair 
 brushed, and howled with tears. The nurse would have 
 yielded the point, but the mother was inflexible, on 
 grounds of discipline, as she took care to explain. 
 Further, she declined to take him downstairs until the 
 creases had disappeared and his face was again its 
 normal pink. Even then she loitered from window to 
 window of the pretty blue room, and strayed along the 
 frescoed rhymes, which she herself had painted in 
 quaint procession round the four walls, to make the 
 nursery an abode fit for a baby king. It was only when 
 she perceived the nurse staring in plain wonder at her 
 delay that she finally held out her arms for the child. 
 Hence, some time had elapsed before she slowly de- 
 scended the great stairway, playing at the pretty game 
 of catch-and-kiss with the tiny fist that flapped some- 
 times against her cheek and sometimes in the air. 
 
 She felt, rather than saw, that somebody was waiting 
 at the foot of the steps; and had held out the baby with 
 her sweetest smile before she perceived that it was her 
 husband, not her guest. 
 
 23
 
 Folly 
 
 His look of pleased surprise altered upon her abrupt : 
 "How funny! I thought you were Haldane Gore. I 
 was just bringing the boy down to show him." 
 
 "Gore?" he repeated slowly. "I thought he was 
 abroad ? " 
 
 "He turned up here an hour ago." 
 
 She was busying herself with the baby's frills when 
 Christie said : " Where's my welcome ? " 
 
 "Chin-chin," she retorted gaily, tilting up her face 
 so that he might kiss it if he pleased. "You haven't 
 been so long away that I need be extravagantly glad, 
 need I?" 
 
 "Not at all polite merely," said he, feigning not to 
 have seen the offered privilege, as he opened the draw- 
 ing-room door. 
 
 Gore rather prided himself on the quickness of 
 his self-control ; but it was sorely tried that morning, 
 when he turned to meet Folly with a passionate phrase 
 on his lips, and found her doubly entrenched behind 
 a stiff-looking husband and an elaborately-attired 
 infant. 
 
 He smiled afterward, remembering his own coolness, 
 quite sure that he had shown no trace of embarrassment, 
 as he shook hands with Christie and said what he con- 
 sidered the proper things about the snub-nosed full- 
 moon of babyhood. 
 
 Folly looked displeased when he observed: "Rather 
 like you in the features, isn't it ? What do you 
 
 call it?" 
 
 24
 
 Folly 
 
 "He is Andrew Junior, of course," she answered 
 with dignity. 
 
 And Christie broke into a sudden twinkle, adding: 
 "It's a pity you didn't return in time to stand sponsor 
 at his baptism." 
 
 "Thanks, I couldn't have done it. I shouldn't know 
 how. Doesn't one have to promise that he won't fall 
 into sin or something? I couldn't have undertaken it, 
 especially" he was about to add, but stopped in time 
 "considering who is his mother." 
 
 Christie looked at him oddly, but could scarcely have 
 gathered his mental self -admonition : "If you must be 
 a fool, H. G., don't be a dam-fool." 
 
 Folly did not hear all this, as she was turning 
 her charge over to the nurse; but she came up as 
 Christie said: "You'll be stopping with us some 
 time?" 
 
 "Thanks, no. I have an engagement in town to- 
 night." 
 
 "Not to dinner?" 
 
 "I'm afraid not." 
 
 " Sorry. See you at luncheon, then." 
 
 He had turned away when Gore said slowly: "I 
 think I must return by the next train. I had only an 
 hour or two to spare. Going abroad again at the end 
 of the week." 
 
 Christie made a gesture of polite regret: "Afraid I 
 must leave you anyway. There's a man of mine been 
 waiting to see me all morning. No doubt Mrs. Christie 
 
 25
 
 Folly 
 
 will ... " There followed a proper exchange of civili- 
 ties and adieus. 
 
 When the two were again alone, she faced him with 
 a quick: "So you're going?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And you haven't told me " 
 
 "I'm knocked out, you see bowled over by a six- 
 weeks-old is it ? youngster." 
 
 "What has he to do with it?" she demanded. 
 
 "Why in short everything," he laughed. "But 
 I'm glad I came, for several reasons. It's just as well 
 to know that you don't care a rap about me." 
 
 "Do you think," she asked slowly, "that I ever 
 did?" 
 
 "I don't know. Perhaps not. You thought so once. 
 So did I. But it will be easier now to know that you 
 don't." He laughed suddenly : " I suppose it can't do 
 any harm, as things are, to tell you what I came down 
 for. It may amuse you: it was only to ask you to 
 throw up the sponge, and" 
 
 "And ?" 
 
 "And come away with me." 
 
 She bit her underlip: "Why? What claim have 
 you ?" 
 
 "Ah, that's the point. I thought after much think- 
 ing that if you still cared, perhaps I had a sufficient 
 claim. But there's the boy. And you don't care." 
 He began to walk about the room, picking up things 
 
 and setting them down again, all the while intoning a 
 
 26
 
 Folly 
 
 foolish little song that he had made long ago and she 
 had once said she hated. It begins : 
 
 "When I was young and went to war " 
 
 "I know there's a strange reason a good reason," 
 she said, under her breath. 
 
 He paused and looked straight at her, but answered 
 only in the words of the song: 
 
 "Now I am old and cracked and " 
 
 " Don't sing that nonsense," she interrupted irritably. 
 "Well, then" he continued his roving "how do 
 you like this ? 
 
 " ' I had a wife in Middelburg, 
 And one I had in Dene; 
 But when they asked me ' " 
 
 "Oh, that's worse!" 
 
 "Well, what did they ask me? The answer is: 
 
 " 'I could not choose between.'" 
 
 "Oh, Hal, Hal!" there were tears in her eyes. 
 
 "My dear girl, I'm trying to tell you something with- 
 out using plain English. And first it's one way and then 
 another; but they all fail. You are blind. I must be 
 going." 
 
 With her hands clasped across her knees, she looked 
 at him: "I know it's terrible. And I'd rather have it 
 from you than from anyone else." 
 
 "There's reason in that, perhaps" he paused be- 
 27
 
 Folly 
 
 fore her. "But I was a cad to mention the matter at 
 all. Of course, I didn't understand then how things 
 are. You'll have to know sometime. It can't make 
 much difference to you." 
 
 "Tell me," she pleaded. 
 
 "Here goes, then. I'm sentenced, that's all." He 
 laughed and resumed his pacing. 
 
 Her face showed that she did not understand. 
 
 " Don't you see what I mean ? We all die sooner or 
 later; but I've the luck of knowing my limit. I came 
 back to England especially to find out." 
 
 "What is your limit?" she asked, scarcely above a 
 whisper. 
 
 "A year, more or less. Now do you sec ? : 
 
 "Who said so?" 
 
 " Gregory. The other chaps wouldn't commit them- 
 selves." 
 
 "Were there many doctors?" 
 
 "A whole hive buzzing about me. That was Greg's 
 doing, too. But they pretty well agreed, I think, that 
 the game is nearly up and there's nothing to do. Do 
 you see now why I wanted you ? Abominably selfish ' 
 of me to come, wasn't it ? But it doesn't matter now. 
 'I had a wife '" 
 
 "Ah, stop! They didn't tell you that it is hope- 
 less?" 
 
 He stood before her again. "I can't say. I knew a 
 chap once, an old sailor had the same thing. He was 
 
 cheerful called it a bad throat, and was always ex- 
 
 28
 
 Folly 
 
 pecting to get the better of it; but it did for him. It 
 upsets you to hear about such things, doesn't it? I'm 
 a brute. I'll be off. Don't worry." 
 
 "They may be wrong I mean the doctors," she 
 said quietly, after a pause. 
 
 " Sure. But Greg's pretty thorough, as a rule." 
 
 She rose, crossed over to the fireplace and leaned her 
 elbows on the mantel, with her face in her hands, star- 
 ing at the clock. "You spoke of a particular train?" 
 
 "Yes. I can do it easily. No, thanks, I'd rather 
 walk. Well good-bye for the present." 
 
 They shook hands, casually it seemed; but his thin 
 hot fingers gripped hard hers that were passive and 
 cold. 
 
 "I shall hope for better news of you," she said, not 
 lifting her eyes. 
 
 "You are very good," he answered, with a touch of 
 irony. 
 
 "You will let me hear? I shall expect to hear," she 
 continued, in the same restrained voice. "And you will 
 leave nothing undone? It is a duty. . . . And there's 
 always the chance. ..." 
 
 " Of discovering the bacillus ? Sure. Only he's been 
 discovered rather often before." 
 
 "I " there speech failed her altogether. 
 
 "I'd no business to come thrusting my penny trou- 
 bles on you, you know. It would have been different if 
 you had cared. Don't waste another thought on me. 
 I'm mortal glad you have the little chap." 
 
 29
 
 Folly 
 
 She did not realize that he had gone until she found 
 herself staring at the closed door, and wondering that 
 the room whirled and grew dark about her. It was 
 absurd that she who almost never fainted. . . . 
 Through the gathering dimness there shot before her 
 mind a strangely clear memory of Haldane and herself, 
 walking through the woods, just before she had sent 
 him away. They had come upon a rabbit in a trap, 
 not dead ; and when she had turned sick at the cries of 
 the hurt thing, he had dragged her away to a fallen 
 log, saying: "Put your head down so on your knees. 
 Brings the blood back." And then he had gone away 
 to free the rabbit or to kill it. ... To-day, even while 
 the sound of his musical drawl was still lingering in her 
 ears to-day it seemed that he was the hurt thing in the 
 trap. . . . 
 
 She dropped her face upon her knees; but too late, 
 for with the very act her thinking came to an end. 
 
 3o
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE TRAP. 
 
 A GREAT shock mercifully stuns, and blunts the edges 
 of feeling; but the little attendant circumstances of life 
 that hover round it sting waspishly, although the very 
 pain of them may speed the healing of the hurt. 
 
 The soft-toned gong from Sumatra that announced 
 luncheon stirred Folly from her realisation that the 
 centre of her life was no longer her husband and child, 
 but this man whom she had once held lightly and sent 
 away, who had again come to claim her, with the grip 
 of death upon him. 
 
 At first she would not go down, and made up a dozen 
 excuses to send ; but presently she perceived the futility 
 of resistance. Thousands of times she would have to 
 live through these daily functions why shirk one? 
 She descended the broad sweep of the stairway, grace- 
 ful, seemingly nonchalant, and a little late as usual; 
 and, as usual, her husband was waiting for her. 
 
 Christie was in a merry mood that day. He was pros- 
 pering with the world; he had made a lucky deal in 
 Scotland, and had heard upon his return that a doubt- 
 Si
 
 Folly 
 
 ful speculation had proved a success. He was full of 
 anecdotes and funny stories. 
 
 His wife, across the table, found that it was possible 
 to laugh, to listen and comment, to return joke for joke, 
 to eat salad, to talk lightly of her visitor and other 
 matters. The wind chased the clouds along the tree- 
 tops, the fitful sun streaked the grass with gold, the 
 blue Persian dozed on the hearth all unchanged 
 since breakfast- time. Her husband talked on and on; 
 but what she heard chiefly was the rumble of the north- 
 bound express. Now it would be at this station, and 
 now at this; and now its passengers would be scatter- 
 ing among the thoroughfares of London. 
 
 The hour wore away, and Christie said, as they rose 
 from the table: "I shall be busy with the rent-roll all 
 afternoon." 
 
 She left him to his cigar, almost glad to return to 
 her trouble. It was a long dizzy journey up the 
 stairway; but she had a faint comfort in the knowl- 
 edge that she had played well the beginning of the new 
 game. 
 
 In the passage above she hesitated just perceptibly, 
 then turned aside into the nursery. The baby was 
 asleep by the fire in the cradle that had rocked four or 
 five generations of Christies. Folly came in so softly 
 that she was not perceived by the nurse sewing in the 
 window embrasure; bent over the child, touched his 
 cheek, drew back the coverlet a trifle, moved the cradle 
 a few paces further from the heat; leaned and looked 
 
 32
 
 Folly 
 
 for some moments, then stole away as silently as she 
 had entered. 
 
 She went into her own room, at last alone 
 with her sorrow. Immediately she crossed to the long win- 
 dow that opened upon the balcony, and flung it wide to 
 the sweet air and showery sunshine. "I must keep 
 quiet," she said to herself, " and think it through. It's 
 impossible to go on like this. There's a way out and 
 it's for me to find. I always find a way." 
 
 But for a long time she only stared across the fir-tops 
 to the open wold, and beyond the open wold to the 
 cloudy blue Downs that hide the Channel. Her one 
 conscious thought was that in all this bewildering new 
 life of the spring, she alone was in the shadow of death. 
 
 To be quiet she pleaded with herself. Quiet 
 when the great wings of love were beating in her heart! 
 What in the wide spaces of this earth mattered any- 
 thing but his life ? To go away with him to be happy 
 a little while; and then there were many paths that 
 led out of suffering people had found them before. . . 
 
 There flashed before her mind a sudden image of the 
 Morgue at Paris, as she had seen it once in her old 
 student time. For days and days she had walked past 
 the low excrescent structure by the bridge, goading 
 herself into the belief that as an artist she ought to go 
 in, hating herself for her cowardice in shrinking from 
 what was there. And at last she had entered. A choice 
 of ways ? There was a man in the prime of life with a 
 bullet-hole in his green and sunken temple; he looked 
 3 33
 
 Folly 
 
 as if he had been clever, prosperous. . . . The girl 
 drowned, they said, poor thing! Her forehead was too 
 high; it needed curls. Doubtless she had worn them 
 in life and was pretty. Stripped of them, she looked 
 unnaturally bare, immodest. . . . And the old woman 
 yet not so old with the cavernous cheeks they had 
 recorded her as a clear case of starvation. . . . Had 
 one the choice of ways? For Haldane the course was 
 appointed, unless he chose to cut it short. . . . 
 
 " So young to die! " she broke into a sob " so much 
 too young O God!" She sank upon her knees and 
 laid her face on her arms crossed on the balustrade. 
 "I must be quiet and find a way." 
 
 One of the gardeners was standing just below, study- 
 ing with a critical eye the tulip-bed that same flaunt- 
 ing tulip-bed. He whistled in friendly rivalry with a 
 blackbird that swung on a bough above him. He was 
 to be married soon, she remembered. The banns had 
 been read twice; and Andrew was doing up a cottage 
 for the young folk. Every-day honest love theirs. 
 They would be poor always, and stupidly happy; and 
 would bring up a large family just as ruddy and stupid 
 and happy. And each of these in turn would find a 
 mate and do likewise; and so they would go on forever 
 and ever, world without end 
 
 "Amen!" she said aloud, and laughed a little; and 
 then again, to think that she had laughed before. 
 
 After all, what did it matter whether Haldane, or 
 Andrew, or she, or anybody, was happy? Happiness 
 
 34
 
 Folly 
 
 was a luxury to be snatched in odd moments; but to 
 play the game that was what we were put into the 
 world for. . . . 
 
 There were stone flower-vases at intervals along the 
 balustrade; and from some of these earth had been 
 washed over and strewn along the coping. She began 
 idly to trace a pattern in the clay; to crumble it and 
 toss it in the air. 
 
 "Clay dust in the wind and sun wet into clods 
 by the rain frozen, thawed, mixed, scattered, taken 
 up by plants that are fed upon by beasts we're made 
 of that; and to it we return when the circle of trans- 
 formation is complete. Here's a speck Andrew; and 
 one for Haldane and one for me. I push them about, 
 toss them into the air: let them settle where they will. 
 Does God play that way with us, I wonder ? . . . And 
 we think that we're so important; we matter so much 
 to ourselves; perhaps the grains of dust do, too." 
 
 But then she caught her breath with the gasp: "He 
 loves life I can't let him die!" 
 
 It came to her presently as very odd that she should 
 be striving this way for some one else she who had 
 always been the centre of her little world. Even in her 
 dimly-remembered home she could see herself as the 
 spoiled baby. At school she had always led in the 
 mischief and the games. With Andrew her comfort 
 was put before every other thing. Only with her child 
 had she begun to learn slowly the joy of giving without 
 return; and now suddenly, the centre of her life was 
 
 35
 
 Folly 
 
 outside herself, and she was struggling to regain her 
 balance. There was an element of unfairness in the 
 dispensation that stirred her to flame: "If I had not 
 sent him away if I had not tried to do my duty . . . 
 I was willing to give him up; but not for this." 
 
 She had walked voluntarily a mile or two along the 
 stony path of virtue; and God had demanded that she 
 follow it all the way through the endless desert. . . . 
 
 She must leave this nonsense, she told herself, and 
 come to the facts; and of these the one great reality was 
 that his life was in danger and must be saved. But 
 how? She considered the possibility that the disease 
 might be of a less perilous nature than he had supposed; 
 but she knew that he would not have rested until he 
 had made sure. She even asked herself whether he 
 might have deceived her, to test her love; but the man- 
 ner of his coming and going was sufficient to vindicate 
 his honour in that. ... It all turned then on the 
 chance of a remedy. Had they thought of everything? 
 Would they try everything ? He was not a rich man 
 she found some faint comfort in considering ways and 
 means. Her money was tied up; but the income, all 
 or nearly all, she could devote to this purpose. ... If 
 he would have it ? Ah, she must wait until he sent her 
 news, and then everything that brain could devise or 
 hands could effect should be tried. . . . And if in the 
 end it all came to nothing . . . ? 
 
 She stepped back into the room and began to move 
 
 aimlessly about, but all at once put her hands to her 
 
 36
 
 Folly 
 
 ears as if to shut out some unwelcome sound. She 
 knew that the house was absolutely still, and yet the 
 air seemed ringing with the words: "Would you go to 
 him then? Would you go?" She walked up and 
 down, up and down, to avoid answering that question. 
 
 In the midst of this hurly-burly, she heard another 
 cry the angry wail of a child that thinks itself 
 neglected. Mechanically she opened her door and 
 turned towards the nursery, but before she had gone 
 many steps the sound changed into the half-contented 
 gurgle that usually follows gentle jogging on a knee. 
 
 On a sudden impulse she turned aside into a room 
 that she used as studio when, as happened more and 
 more rarely, the whim for painting seized her. 
 
 "Would you go?" was still in her ears, as she went 
 up to the easel on which stood an unfinished portrait. 
 It seemed to her as she drew near that its quizzical 
 smile deepened, as if saying: "Are you coming, then, 
 after all?" 
 
 She drew a long breath as she stood there with her 
 hands clasped behind her. She was always best at por- 
 traits, but this was better than she had supposed. 
 She had somehow caught the elusive spirit of the man, 
 which informed the heavy brow, gave changing lights 
 to the gray-blue eyes, twisted the smile and set the jaw, 
 cast a network of fine lines over the tanned skin, thinned 
 and whitened the light hair about the temples. . . . 
 She knew that it was himself. . . . 
 
 In the nursery adjoining, the baby's gurgle became 
 37
 
 Folly 
 
 again a fretful cry, but ceased suddenly, replaced by 
 the sound of a man's voice humming. She had 
 scarcely realised that it was her husband soothing the 
 child, when he came in through the open door, with 
 the boy in his arms. 
 
 She did not move away from the easel. "What do 
 you think of this?" 
 
 He lifted his eyebrows, but answered quietly enough: 
 "It's the best thing you have done; but I didn't know 
 he had sat for you." 
 
 "Nor did he. I had some rough sketches and a pho- 
 tograph; but it was painted chiefly from memory. It's 
 alive, is it?" 
 
 "The hand is particularly good," he commented. 
 "Those cigarette stains now are convincing; and the 
 ring " 
 
 She turned away a moment; she had given Haldane 
 the seal that he always wore on his little ringer. 
 
 "Better send it to the Academy next March." His 
 tone was cool and critical, but not unfriendly or even 
 suspicious. 
 
 "Have you finished for to-day? What were you 
 doing in the nursery? Where's nurse? What's the 
 matter with baby?" she demanded, in a breath. 
 
 "Answer 'em all at once eh?" he said good- 
 humouredly. "Here goes then. Yes. Amusing my- 
 self. I don't know gossiping in the kitchen prob- 
 ably. A fit of temper. Anything else?" 
 
 She held out her arms to the child, but was her- 
 self taken prisoner. 
 
 38
 
 Folly 
 
 "Now I've got you both," said he. "One for each 
 arm." 
 
 She laughed with unnatural shrillness. "Safe. In a 
 trap. How long can you keep me there?" 
 
 "How long? As long as I please. Or rather" 
 his underlip shot out " as long as you like to stay. I 
 don't want you longer than that." 
 
 She laughed again, and he demanded the reason. 
 
 " I was remembering what Mab Patrick said to me 
 on our wedding-day that you were so suitable that 
 was her word. But if it's true, you know, you'll be 
 able to keep me in the trap forever." 
 
 "I don't want to," said he curtly. "If at any time 
 you wish to go, you can go when you damn please! 
 I'll not stop you." 
 
 "But this?" she wondered, taking the baby from 
 him. "Would this?" 
 
 39
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 AFTER THE GUILLOTINE. 
 
 GORE walked slowly down the elm-shaded road to 
 the station, trailing his stick behind him, and whistling 
 under his breath. He was meditating that the process 
 of guillotine was not so unpleasant, once the head 
 had rolled into the basket. Love passion hope 
 responsibility worry despair were words breath 
 lighter than thistle-down; what remained was the 
 present moment untouched by the shadow of past or 
 future. 
 
 A small boy in pursuit of a cat plumped squarely 
 into him, was seized and held fast: "What's your wish, 
 my man ? What do you want more than anything else 
 in the world?" 
 
 The urchin stared. 
 
 " Come, now, tell me. You shall have it." 
 
 "Pho!" with the contempt of unbelief. "Lemme 
 go." The prisoner wriggled vainly for freedom. 
 
 "I mean it, you know. You'd better tell." 
 
 "What you givin' us?" He was still incredulous. 
 
 "What you like." 
 
 40
 
 Foliy 
 
 Then the boy accepted the situation. "Marbles," 
 he said briefly. 
 
 Dazed at first by the coin in his hand, he presently 
 gave a whoop of joy that was worth hearing. 
 
 "To-day and to-day," Gore was thinking, as he 
 entered the station. "Three hundred days, perhaps 
 more. It's something even for a penny-poet with the 
 world behind him." 
 
 The train was late, but he was not impatient as he 
 strolled up and down the platform, his eyes bent upon 
 a sturdy young willow swaying, although with tough 
 resistance, as the clouds drifted. And as he walked, 
 the words came: 
 
 " Oh, the lusty wind is driving his sheep 
 
 In the endless meads of blue; 
 And the whisper that stirs the buds from sleep, 
 
 Biddeth the heart of you: 
 'Come, come, with the crust of frost have done! 
 
 To-morrow 
 
 For sorrow, 
 To-day be glad in the sun! ' " 
 
 He was standing under the willow when the rhymes 
 continued, and he listened to them as to a voice sing- 
 ing: 
 
 " Oh, the thrill of green on the bare, black tree 
 
 Tingles again in my heart; 
 And the things that were, and the things to be, 
 And the things for aye set apart, 
 41
 
 Folly 
 
 Now now are all with my life at one! 
 
 To-morrow 
 
 For sorrow, 
 To-day be glad in the sun!" 
 
 He took out his note-book, but put it away without 
 writing. His to live, not to give his head seemed full 
 of rhymes, now that he had laid aside rhyming. He 
 had produced his share of poor verses enough to 
 encourage the paper trade and furnish hack-work to 
 critics. For the rest of his days he would look on, and 
 learn what life could teach a man so sharply and igno- 
 miniously relegated to the office of spectator. 
 
 After that, for a while he was content not to think 
 at all. His mind was full of scraps of old melodies that 
 he had loved and sung in the past; and these drifted 
 in and out as they would : 
 
 "'When as the rye reach to the chin, 
 And chopcherry, chopcherry ripe within' 
 
 that's for summer, and it's only April now. 
 
 " ' Drink to-day and drown all sorrow, 
 You shall, perhaps, not do it to-morrow ' 
 
 ah, that's the idea I was trying to get. But as for 
 the wine-bibbing, I think my way is the better. 
 
 "'The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet' 
 42
 
 Folly 
 
 there now, I shall have time to read my Chaucer 
 again. 
 
 " 'Young lovers meet,' 
 
 and Petrarch 
 
 ' old wives a-sunning sit ' 
 
 here's another chap has found out the joy of the sun. 
 It was all said centuries ago all I could ever find 
 to write . . . ' 
 
 He travelled third class, with a feeling that in his 
 detachment perhaps because of it he must keep 
 near to humanity. As a broken link, he felt the more 
 his place in the chain. But the crowded stuffy carriage 
 changed his mood. At first, some chance association 
 brought up a memory of his initial journey to London, 
 nearly twenty years before. He had travelled in a car- 
 riage as tightly packed, as evil-smelling, no doubt; but 
 then his eager fingers were feeling for the pulse of life, 
 and droll enough he was too keenly alert, too for- 
 ward, too strenuous, to count its beats. He was blinded 
 by his own hopes, deafened by the rhymes he was to 
 sing, to the reality about him. . . . On this day, he 
 could look quietly and see things as they were; but 
 looking, he grew chilled. He believed that he could 
 read, in a measure, the history of each face; and he 
 was saddened by the sordid commonplaces they 
 seemed to tell. Narrow and respectable, careworn 
 always, smug occasionally, diseased here and there 
 
 43
 
 Folly 
 
 bodies and souls moving restlessly, working aimlessly, 
 bound, according to their various lights, for the king- 
 dom of heaven what had he in common with such as 
 these? Like them, he was born and grew, loved and 
 worked and suffered, and would die; but, for the rest, 
 there was the gulf between them, that they accepted 
 whatever came, with small thought and less question- 
 ing, while he pondered and strove to find the reason 
 beneath the things themselves. . . . He smiled at his 
 own conceit; but soon, wearied of this unprofitable 
 comparison, he turned to his window and watched the 
 gliding past of the chequered earth, with the green 
 pasture-lands, budding crops in the red-brown loam, 
 and distant purple-blue woods. He reminded himself 
 that he was living in the moment now; and yet the 
 more that he strove to fix his attention on the visible 
 colours without, the more he found himself fluttering 
 over the pages of the invisible book of memory. 
 
 He seemed to see again the Yorkshire fells, and an 
 Irish mother who danced with him in and out of the 
 heather; the dull form of an ancient grammar school 
 as case-hardened as four hundred years of tradition 
 could make it; and then his father's warehouse and 
 the sickening smell of the wool. For him the bells of 
 Beverley tolled out nothing but wool wool wool 
 all the long years that he sat at his desk alternating 
 accounts with surreptitious verses on stray sheets of 
 paper. 
 
 His reward came on his twenty-first birthday, when, 
 44
 
 Polly 
 
 by way of gift, his father announced that he should 
 thenceforward have a third part interest in the busi- 
 ness. All at once it had seemed to him that his throat 
 and nostrils and eyes were stuffed with wool, that it 
 was packed about him, smothering him, until at length 
 he freed himself by choking out the words: "I don't 
 want it. I'm going to be a poet." 
 
 "God-dam!" he could hear yet the amazed voice 
 of his father. " You are, are ye ? And when, I should 
 like to know?" 
 
 "Now." 
 
 "And where, then?" 
 
 "In London." 
 
 The old man looked at him, knocking the end of 
 his stick against the floor, as if with the fierce desire of 
 beating something. There were sparks in his blue 
 eyes, but his voice was quiet too quiet as he growled : 
 "And what have ye got to write about?" His question 
 was wiser than he knew. 
 
 "Wool! "the boy had laughed Byronically. "But 
 I shall learn something else." 
 
 Then the old man had fallen a-trembling, 
 and his voice rose high: "Poet, is it? And you the 
 only son I've got! That's your mother's doing; and 
 she in her grave. Poet? Like Tom Moore and all 
 that ruck? Be off, then! To-day, mind! I'm done 
 with ye God-dam!" 
 
 And so he had journeyed up to London with a bag- 
 ful of verses, and had found them poor provender. He 
 
 45
 
 Folly 
 
 had the usual experience to look back upon alterna- 
 tions of debt and starvation; but in the course of a 
 year or two he had acquired the rudiments of the art 
 of pot-boiling. 
 
 He smiled now to remember how, the winter's night 
 on which he had received his first cheque, he had sat 
 down and written a letter to his father, asking to be 
 taken back, and concluding: "Wool-stapling is about 
 as pleasant as this and much more honourable, and 
 pays many times over." For hours he had sat huddled 
 in a blanket, turning the letter about in his stiff fingers; 
 and in the end he had thrust it into the candle-flame, 
 with a "Hang it! I'll hold on." 
 
 It was a curious apprenticeship for a poet sixpenny 
 lodging-houses, the Salvation Army Shelters, the 
 Embankment, the Park; stone-breaking, harvesting, 
 hop-picking in summer (barring the time he was at 
 sea); in winter, copying at the British Museum, with 
 one deadly season of clerkship in the office of a Jewish 
 pawn-broker. And much of the while there went on, 
 mornings and nights and odd moments, the heart- 
 gnawing, brain-lacerating business of competing with 
 other starveling producers of rubbish more often 
 unsuccessfully in fifth-rate penny papers; and off 
 and on there was an addition to the bookf ul of unpub- 
 lished verses. 
 
 In the end he was defeated, came to the blank wall 
 of destitution; and, sucked of vitality and hope, fell 
 into the way of a recruiting sergeant and took the 
 
 Queen's shilling. 
 
 46
 
 Folly 
 
 The African pictures were less sharp to remember. 
 He saw himself again as despatch rider in the Yeo- 
 manry, captured and shut up in a Boer prison for getting 
 rid of the documents that he carried; he saw Pietje 
 Volkers, who had disguised him as a Dutch woman and 
 helped him through the gate, and sobbed on his shoul- 
 der in Dutch and English, when he was safely past 
 the sentries. He remembered with a thrill a horse 
 which had scrambled under fire up the side of a kopje 
 that ordinary beasts refused to climb; and with a kind 
 of wonder, he saw himself on the summit of this same 
 hill, crouching behind his dead horse himself dehu- 
 manized, half -blind, half-dead, shooting like a machine 
 and ticking off one mark after another as it dropped, 
 with no consciousness that he was turning living targets 
 into carrion. And he had set out to be a poet! 
 
 He saw himself penniless in Cape Town, joking 
 himself into a job in the Public Works Department 
 nothing less than a billet as lamp-lighter and 
 favoured by virtue of his gentlemanly and literary 
 propensities as evinced in the joke, with a series of 
 unfrequented back streets. And at the last enteric 
 had done for him, and brought him to a sort of mission- 
 ary home where the mode of life for a time had pricked 
 him into a violent and unnatural atheism. . . . 
 
 At the dramatic moment came a letter saying that 
 his father was dead and had left him perhaps ironi- 
 cally two hundred a year for life; and that the capital 
 of this annuity was to be turned over at his death to 
 
 47
 
 Folly 
 
 one of the many charitable institutions that swallowed 
 the bulk of the fortune. 
 
 Two hundred a year well, it enabled him to bring 
 out a thin volume of verses. Fame turned an eye upon 
 him. He produced a more ambitious collection and a 
 play. Fame smiled, and all doors were thrown open. 
 He found himself in comfortable chambers, with 
 money in his purse, and more sudden friendships than 
 he knew what to do with. He met Folly and began to 
 flatter himself that he knew the meaning of life. She 
 had sent him away, but his very exile had not lacked 
 romance until the unlooked-for pain was there, and 
 the iridescent bubble that he had been blowing until it 
 was inconceivably perfect and radiant, and he thought 
 that he held it safe in his hand broke and left nothing 
 but an invisible speck of soapy moisture. 
 
 He turned away from this to remember the other 
 women who had crossed his path. 
 
 "The Rose of Beverley," who furnished a title for 
 his earliest invention, came first, a fair enough blossom 
 of godly ministerial stock. She would have made an 
 excellent wife for a Yorkshire wool-stapler, perhaps 
 even for one who wrote verses and published them 
 with discreet initials in the local papers, after he had 
 retired from business. Pretty Rose! He had written 
 her the quarter of a century of sonnets, rhyming "hair 
 of gold" with "love that never grows old," or was it 
 " cold " ? She was married long since to a country doc- 
 tor; and by this time would be as fat as her mother, 
 
 48
 
 Folly 
 
 her rose-leaf cheeks now beefy, and her "hair of 
 gold " a dusty drab. . . . 
 
 There was a gap of years between Rose and Le*onie. 
 Ldonie Leonie! She belonged to the time of starva- 
 tion and despair. He could see her still a slim black 
 figure beneath the light of a street lamp. Very pink 
 and white under her shadowy hat, with the sparkle of 
 diamonds in her ears and of tears in her eyes that 
 was Le'onie. She began with the old story of a lost 
 address, new to him then; and he set out with her to 
 find it, wondering how she came to be hanging on his 
 arm, and why he was telling her his troubles, and si- 
 lencing all doubts and country scruples with her own 
 explanation, that she was French. 
 
 When they found the house, after no great difficulty, 
 and he perceived that he was a dupe and she a decoy, 
 he turned without a word to leave her. A moment the 
 misty darkness was between them; the next, she was 
 clinging to him and her face against his was wet with 
 tears. She had forgotten her rouge as she sobbed out 
 her misery, pleading that he was not like the others, 
 and that she wanted no money, for she must die soon, 
 they had told her, but she was lonely and afraid, and she 
 wanted somebody who was different different. . . . 
 
 He never knew, nor, perhaps, did she, where truth 
 ended and fiction began in her story; but it served its 
 purpose the devil best knew how and bound them 
 in an alliance against the terrors of the city. 
 
 For months he believed that her anxiety and presci- 
 4 49
 
 Folly 
 
 ence alone had kept him from suicide; and at the same 
 time she put away her false colours, and, for all her 
 wasting, seemed to grow younger. She said that she 
 was happy for the first time within her remembrance. 
 
 With the earning of a little money, he offered to 
 marry her, but she laughed in derision: "You me? 
 What a come-down! Silly, you will be a great man one 
 day, and then poor Le"onie! Non, nonl" 
 
 When he pressed the matter, she would only sing: 
 
 "Le pawure merle n'a perdu le bee." 
 
 When he appealed to her reason, she retorted in music, 
 
 "Comment chantera-t-il le merle?" 
 
 until the cough came upon her and thrust everything 
 else aside. 
 
 "When I am dead " she began once. 
 
 He could not quieten her. 
 
 "But, yes, I shall be dead you do not believe? 
 You must go to sea. And why? To let the winds 
 blow away" she turned a sob into a shrug "the 
 memory of me. It is better you should forget. You 
 did not yet know much, although you have more years 
 than I. But you may remember me one little bit not 
 more. Sometimes I can see you as you will be. If I 
 had been a man but there, I was poor, and I never had 
 one chance. You can grow out of the mud . . . And 
 there will be another woman, but no matter for her now." 
 
 5
 
 Folty 
 
 She never would tell her story said it didn't matter 
 and presently died. And he, having used his last 
 shilling to bury her, remembered her entreaties, and 
 shipped before the mast. During his first voyage, he 
 wrote several little poems about her, and put them 
 away with the others, and there was no more to be 
 said of Ldonie. 
 
 The other women all belonged to his prosperous 
 time; the memories of them glided past the carriage- 
 window more quickly than the fields without. They 
 made a quaint enough procession : a farmer's daughter 
 with whom he had tossed hay ; a frail poet for whom 
 he had translated Heine; a pretty miss of ample means 
 and irreproachable family, whom he had thought of 
 marrying until he heard by chance that she had already 
 planned her trousseau, and the site and furnishing of 
 her house, while waiting for him to come to the point; 
 a baronet's widow who expounded his verse to her 
 friends; and Folly. . . . 
 
 He looked up, relieved to find that the carriage was 
 nearly empty. There remained only one other man, 
 who sat coughing in the opposite corner. 
 
 "Not much better off than I am," thought Gore. 
 
 His first impression of Folly was so overlaid with 
 embroideries of his later fancy that it was difficult to 
 disentangle. They had met at a small club that he 
 occasionally attended for the side-lights that it threw 
 on human nature. 
 
 It was one Crandall, a newspaper man, who had first
 
 Folly 
 
 introduced him to the Disciples of Isis, with the c6m- 
 ment that the men, one and all, "just escaped great- 
 ness," while the women were " elect souls who cultivated 
 and adored the talents neglected by a blind world." 
 He had concluded : " They're all rather mad, but amus- 
 ing, you know." 
 
 So Gore had gone and listened to a paper on the 
 symbolism of Tennyson's "Maud," and had come 
 home and laughed a year's laughing over the exposi- 
 tion. In the heat of the discussion he had been struck 
 by an opinion expressed. A spectacled young philoso- 
 pher had risen and begun his speech with: "A day or 
 two ago, I heard Mrs. Christie say that half of 'Maud' 
 is rot and the other half is rubbish. ..." 
 
 "Who is Mrs. Christie?" asked Gore, amused at her 
 heresy. 
 
 "One of the vice-presidents," said Crandall. "Not 
 here to-night. I met her years ago in Paris, when I 
 was on the World, and she was a gawky art student, 
 living in an attic in the Montparnasse. I believe she 
 rowed her guardian no end to get there; and finally 
 broke away from him, and hired an aunt to go about 
 with her. Her father was a military man, you know 
 K. C. B. and all that. He died out in India, I believe 
 . . . We had some good times together. Not so bad 
 at her work a certain amount of style and a 
 trick of catching likenesses. She might have come on; 
 but she married a comfortable man, and art flew out 
 
 the window. It's all the same, I suppose no genius 
 
 52
 
 Folly 
 
 Wasted. Incidentally, she has become charming and 
 leads her husband a life and some of the rest of us 
 as well. Of course, she only comes here for a laugh 
 occasionally." 
 
 "What is she like?" Gore had felt impelled to ask. 
 
 " Oh, I don't know. You can't put her into a word 
 or two. Want to meet her eh ? I'll manage it. She's 
 not a beauty Lord, no! But she's good fun, in a 
 Lucrezia Borgia sort of way." 
 
 He had been amused and interested, and had endured 
 to be bored by the Disciples several times before the 
 opportunity came of meeting her. He never could re- 
 member the details clearly, but suddenly he heard her 
 name; she was looking at him; and he had set up a 
 little separate shrine for her in his soul an altar only 
 this morning stripped of its flowers and dismantled. 
 
 He often thought that it was her voice that charmed 
 him first. Before he could tell what she looked like, 
 her marvellous tone-music was changing the world for 
 him, with its eager: "I have read every word you have 
 written!" 
 
 "Not you!" he had laughed, remembering the host 
 of unsigned pot-boilers. 
 
 She had guessed his thought: "Then I hope to find 
 the others before I die. " 
 
 "Heaven forbid!" he had exclaimed. 
 
 " I believe" she had paused so long that he had time 
 to study the peculiar brightness of her eyes, the whim- 
 sical delicate curves of her lips, the halo from the light 
 
 53
 
 Folly 
 
 above on her fine-spun hair. "I believe the world has 
 used you badly so badly that you don't care " 
 
 "And that's true," he had admitted, taking up her 
 unfinished sentence. 
 
 " Can't we make it good to you in one way or an- 
 other?" She was ready for flight to some one await- 
 ing her across the room. 
 
 "If I may, be so bold" he was beginning; but she 
 understood and anticipated him. 
 
 "Tuesdays" and gave an address in Sloane Street. 
 
 They looked at each other a long moment, he dazed 
 with the rush of new feeling; she, with a curious ex- 
 pression of uncertainty, of doubt, of regret even, as if 
 she had been over-hasty. 
 
 "Beg pardon, sir. Do you live in London?" a voice 
 broke in upon his dream. 
 
 54
 
 CHAPTER VL 
 
 THE FELLOW-MAN. 
 
 THE man in the opposite corner had moved along to 
 the seat facing him and was leaning forward eagerly. 
 
 "I have lived there. Why?" 
 
 "I'm going up for the first time in many years," said 
 the stranger. "To a hospital, to be looked over. I 
 thought you might know which is the best." 
 
 "I see," answered Gore, and studied the man's face 
 before he spoke further. It was hollow and heavily 
 shadowed, but the eyes were eager and hopeful. If he 
 had any doubt that it was a case of phthisis, he would 
 have known by the deep-set futile cough that the man 
 strove to smother in his handkerchief. 
 
 "There's not much the matter," he declared, when 
 he could speak. " Only this cough, and getting rather 
 thin. But the missus was that bent on my coming; 
 she believes in being on the safe side." 
 
 "Just so," said Gore. "Well, there's Guy's, and 
 Bart's, and St. Thomas's, and Charing Cross, and half 
 a dozen others. I don't know that there's much to 
 choose among them. Or Brompton. I believe Bromp- 
 ton is especially good for" he hesitated. 
 
 55
 
 Folly 
 
 "For what, sir?" was the eager question. 
 
 "For a cough," said Gore gently. 
 
 "Then I'd maybe best go there. The missus, she 
 docs worry that much about my cough. She'd have 
 come with me herself, only there's nobody to mind the 
 shop. I'm a greengrocer, sir, in Guildford. I believe 
 I've got one of my cards here. As neat a little place as 
 you could fancy; and we have built up the business 
 ourselves within the last dozen years. It would be a 
 pity to have it fall to pieces; and the kids are all at 
 school yet. ..." 
 
 It struck Gore, as he studied the bit of pasteboard 
 that summed up the calling of "Thomas Stubbs, Green- 
 grocer," that here was a case of special pleading. To 
 avoid answering it, he asked: "How did you get your 
 cough?" 
 
 "It's only a bit of a cold, sir came on in the winter, 
 through driving about in the rain, I suppose. I was for 
 going to the chemist to get some stuff; but my missus, 
 she do set her foot down sometimes, and she said I must 
 go to one of the big London hospitals and have it put 
 right at once. There's no use holding out against the 
 missus when she makes up her mind to a thing, so off 
 I come." 
 
 "They know more about these things in London," 
 said Gore, at a loss for encouragement. 
 
 "So they do, sir; and yet I'm fearful there ain't no 
 sense in it, but it runs in our family to think so that 
 once I get into their clutches, it'll be none so easy to 
 
 get out again." 
 
 56
 
 Folly 
 
 "Nonsense. How many children have you?" 
 
 "Four, but we've buried eight." He was plainly 
 surprised at the question. 
 
 "They died young?" Gore found it difficult to get 
 to the point. 
 
 "Different ages, sir. Didn't seem to have no con- 
 stitutions to speak of. Sometimes it was a mere 
 cold. . . ." 
 
 "And your parents?" Gore persisted. 
 
 " I don't remember my father. They say he dropped 
 down one day with a bad heart; but mother, she lived 
 on a few years, always a-coughing. ..." 
 
 He stopped, moved by some strange association of 
 ideas, then said: "You'll be thinking we're a weakly 
 lot May I ask if you're a doctor yourself, sir?" 
 
 " No, but I've a friend who'll be able to tell you what 
 to do. He's one of the cleverest doctors in London. 
 We'll ask him." 
 
 The greengrocer looked worried: "Begging your 
 pardon, sir, but it would come expensive." 
 
 "Let that take care of itself I'll see to it." 
 
 Stubbs gazed through the window: "A man must 
 make some sort of fight for his life." 
 
 Gore started and frowned, then asked: "Why?" 
 
 "Why? Why? Now, that's not so easy to put into 
 words. I suppose it's nature. If you was to see a bull 
 coming for you across a field, you'd either get out of his 
 way or face him square; you wouldn't stand still and 
 let him mangle you but I don't know why. If you was 
 
 57
 
 Folly 
 
 dropped into the water, you'd strike out, even if you 
 couldn't swim; and if you was took bad of a sudden, 
 you wouldn't turn your face to the wall and give up. 
 When a man don't know what he's made for, or what 
 he's got to do, it's his business to hang on as long as 
 he can leastways, to my thinking." 
 
 Gore looked at him meditatively: "You want to live 
 to be an old man?" 
 
 He leaned forward, his clasped hands shaking be- 
 tween his knees, and returned to his special pleading: 
 "It's against nature to die young. I tell you, I've one 
 of the nicest little homes in Guildf ord. I can't be asked 
 to leave it; it wouldn't be fair. Just when I'd got it all 
 a-going and the children getting on so well at their 
 school that's why I .don't want to take no risks. 
 I'm young yet, you see, not forty no, sir, not forty. 
 I've got thirty good years to live yet thirty, sure, 
 accordin' to the Bible and maybe more maybe 
 more. There's time enough to begin to think about 
 going." 
 
 "Thirty years?" thought Gore. "Thirty months, 
 perhaps, or less; and he knows it in his heart. Poor 
 wretch, he's fighting against a dead certainty." 
 
 "My boy Tom, now," continued the eager voice, 
 "he's almost a man; in ten years or so he'll be able to 
 manage the business. And George, he takes to his 
 books like a parson ; I want to lay by a bit to help him 
 to more schooling. And the little kid, he's hardly 
 learned to kick his heels about yet, but he fights his 
 
 58
 
 Folly 
 
 mother like a Dutchman. S'help me, I shouldn't won- 
 der if I lived to see him a general! " 
 
 "He's talking at God through me," mused Gore, 
 "begging off sneaking out." Aloud he asked: 
 "Any girls?" 
 
 "Lucy her mother worries now and then because 
 she's not so strong as some; but she'll come on all 
 right. I'm planning to buy her an organ next year, or 
 maybe a small piano, if I can get one cheap, second- 
 hand. I'd like her to be able to do something besides 
 housework when we come to be thinking about a hus- 
 band for her. ..." 
 
 He stopped, short of breath, and suddenly buried his 
 face in his hands; as suddenly raised his haggard eyes 
 to Gore's, as if he expected to surprise the truth there: 
 "Would it seem just to you, sir?" 
 
 "I don't know that I can tell you what is just and 
 unjust," answered Gore, "but it's clear to me that you 
 want to live, though you don't know why." 
 
 "It's good enough, this life," said the greengrocer, 
 with something of dogged despair in his tone; "and for 
 all the parsons' talking, we don't know much about 
 any other." 
 
 Gore looked at him with a sort of contrition. A while 
 before, he had said to himself that these people did no 
 thinking; and here was his same problem of life and 
 death cropping up, and a fellow-man wrestling with it. 
 What could he say to help ? 
 
 "It's no good worrying," he got out at length. 
 59
 
 Folly 
 
 "What's to be is to be doesn't that satisfy you?" 
 
 The greengrocer looked at him: "Put yourself in 
 my place, sir." 
 
 Gore smiled faintly: "That's soon done. What 
 then?" 
 
 "What then?" the other man grew fierce. "How 
 would you f eei that's what I want to know ! " 
 
 Gore pondered: "Well, there are two ways of taking 
 it : to be resigned and to make a fight. The former is 
 temptingly easy ; but the latter I believe you are right 
 it's the good fight that counts; the rest doesn't 
 matter." 
 
 "It matters a deal to me," said the other man. 
 
 "Ah, but it doesn't lie in your hands, you know" 
 he wondered that he should be prescribing for his own 
 case from his diagnosis of another's. 
 
 He considered then how it would be to take his own 
 advice. Here was Gregory insisting that he himself 
 needed a holiday, urging that they go away somewhere 
 together, suggesting this and that in the way of treat- 
 ment. What if a man ought to fight. . . . 
 
 "You'll see the doctor," he said aloud. "You'll 
 both do what you can; and whether you win or not, 
 that's the end of the matter for you." 
 
 "I must win," muttered the man. 
 
 But Gore had a dim memory of some old Norseman 
 who was thrust into a torture-pit full of serpents, who 
 nevertheless sang to the very end, to chagrin his foes: 
 
 "I shall die laughing." 
 
 60
 
 Folly 
 
 Defeat of the body was certain; but who should 
 claim victory over the soul ? He felt a thrill of admira- 
 tion for the little greengrocer who had roused his own 
 spirit of war. A thought of the woman intruded; but 
 he thrust it away. 
 
 " Below hatches ! " he smiled to himself. " None but 
 fighting-men on deck." 
 
 61
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 SUSPENSE. 
 
 THROUGH May and June and July, Folly was wait- 
 ing at Sunlands for news that never arrived; and early 
 in August Mabel Patrick wrote that she was coming 
 down for a few days. 
 
 Christie was unfeignedly glad to hear of her pro- 
 posed visit. He had reached the conclusion that to 
 understand Folly he needed more brains than he had 
 been taught to believe he possessed. There seemed no 
 end to the vagaries that sometimes drove him to the 
 woods to meditate upon the possibilities of the married 
 state. 
 
 Early in May, he thought to please her by voluntarily 
 suggesting where always before he had required to be 
 teased that it was time they should transfer them- 
 selves to town. 
 
 "I'm not going at all this year," she answered. 
 "Let the house, if you like." 
 
 Delighted but dazed, he felt it his duty to make sure: 
 "But you always ?" 
 
 "Not this year," she said. "I want to be quiet at 
 
 Sunlands." 
 
 62
 
 Folly 
 
 He shook his head over her: "You've lost your wits, 
 I take it." 
 
 "Oh, no," she retorted lightly, "but I've acquired 
 an infant, you see." 
 
 This might be a part of the miracle, he reasoned; but 
 he could offer nothing further in the way of an explana- 
 tion. He was content to cover up his secret delight 
 with an indifferent, "As you please," and to write at 
 once to his agent, lest she change her mind about the 
 house. 
 
 But if he hoped for peace, he found it only in his 
 woods and streams. In the house he was haunted by 
 a sense of vague unrest, reflected from her restlessness, 
 to which he had no clue. 
 
 He had his own method of dealing with her unreason- 
 able irritability, and occasionally he scored, as for 
 instance : 
 
 "Andrew, what makes you so freckled?" she asked 
 one day at breakfast. 
 
 "The sun, I suppose," he answered absently, ab- 
 sorbed in the day's quotations. 
 
 "Can't you do anything about it?" she continued 
 impatiently. 
 
 "Do?" He roused himself a moment. "Do about 
 it? What? Oh, the sun freckles, I mean. Cer- 
 tainly, stay in the house, and I won't!" He retired 
 within the shell of his newspaper. 
 
 Another time: "You're the woodenest-looking man 
 
 I know!" 
 
 63
 
 Folly 
 
 "Do you want to paint my portrait? I'll get up an 
 expression. But I can't look like Gore. Are you 
 cold?" 
 
 She had shivered and moved away. 
 
 He had not the faintest conception how his good- 
 natured indifference teased her nerves until she wished 
 that he would fall into a rage and break furniture. He 
 had no idea how she hated the shabby comfortable 
 clothes that he wore open-air clothes redolent of 
 the woods, that suited his figure as the bark suits 
 a tree. Nor did he dream of the torture to her 
 of the three meals a day with him hours when she 
 was goaded into saying cruel things, the more so 
 when the grim set of his lips told that she had reached 
 the quick. 
 
 He gathered chiefly that she had always an inordinate 
 desire for the post, and that she was perpetually disap- 
 pointed of something that she expected, inasmuch as 
 she was most unbearable as soon as she had seen the 
 letters. 
 
 One morning, as he was observing this pecu- 
 liarity, he had an inspiration that broke forth into a 
 quite unpremeditated remark: 
 
 "Is it that little fool man that's troubling you?" 
 
 She looked at him straight. "You mean Haldane 
 Gore? I haven't seen him since April" she caught 
 back the date "nor heard from him for I forget how 
 long. We don't write." 
 
 He pushed back his chair so hastily that it fell over, 
 64
 
 Folly 
 
 and went to stand by the window, pursuing his thought 
 aloud: "If I thought you wanted him " 
 
 He turned to study her, but her face was mocking: 
 " Well ? " she asked. "What then ? " 
 
 "If I thought you did you should have him and be 
 damned!" he concluded, under his breath. 
 
 She laughed : " You don't know. Perhaps I shouldn't 
 be damned. God might be merciful, as they say He 
 is just." 
 
 "It's no good asking you," he persisted. 
 
 "Not the least bit in the world. Here's a letter from 
 Mab. She's coming down in a day or two a visit of 
 ceremony to the baby, she says." 
 
 Christie selected and lighted a pipe, with the look of 
 one who is considering deeply. 
 
 Presently he said: "And I've an invitation here 
 from Flood. He's going to cruise for a fortnight 
 about the Balearic Islands. Should you mind if I 
 join him?" 
 
 He was quick enough to catch her look of relief. 
 Indeed, he had prepared the trap and she had walked 
 into it. She was glad to be rid of him, then, he saw. 
 But at least it was some comfort she could scarcely 
 be in better hands than Mrs. Patrick's. 
 
 "We shall try to do without you," said Folly, with an 
 assumption of regret. "Mab will be disappointed; 
 but by this time she's used to your sudden flights. We 
 shall be dull, of course." 
 
 He looked at her a bit wistfully : "It isn't exactly dul- 
 5 65
 
 Folly 
 
 ness I should complain of. But it seems somehow as 
 if the skies had fallen these last few months." 
 
 " So they have," she said quietly. 
 
 He waited a while; then: " Can't you tell a fellow?" 
 
 It was her turn to pause. "Not easily," she said at 
 length. "I will, if you insist." 
 
 He waved away the idea: "It must come of your 
 own accord. But tell Mab if you can." 
 
 "I will try," she said, meeting his eyes honestly. 
 
 So Christie went away yachting, without further 
 questions; and soon after, Mrs. Patrick came down to 
 inspect and pass judgment on the youthful heir. This 
 occupied her quite a day; and it was not until the sec- 
 ond luncheon that she gave a glance to the mother : 
 
 "You're looking well, Folly mine." 
 
 "Thanks. It's gratifying," was the dry answer. 
 
 "But aren't you well?" 
 
 "Blooming." 
 
 "Then what ?" 
 
 "I am gaining in weight, I believe. I shall be a fat 
 old lady, if I live long enough. But I don't consider the 
 topic edifying." 
 
 "Edifying fancy!" lisped Mabel. "Do you want 
 to be edified ? I shall not make talk any more. I try 
 to be polite about your two Dandies and you answer 
 me in monosyllables; I mention your health and you 
 cut me short " 
 
 "Mab, do you know a Mr. Gregory?" interrupted 
 
 Folly brusquely. 
 
 66
 
 Folly 
 
 Mrs. Patrick looked uncomfortable: "Know him? 
 Yes. Why?" 
 
 " What is he like?" 
 
 "Tall, thin, ancient Egyptian eyes and nose and 
 beard " 
 
 " Stuff! I don't mean his looks." 
 
 "Soft of speech and and sharp of knife," said 
 Mabel, with a nervous little laugh. 
 
 "Good at his work, then?" 
 
 " Rather. But he wastes a lot of time over pathology 
 they say. It's a pity." 
 
 " Why ? " Folly was upon her. 
 
 "Because he'd get on faster if he stuck to the one 
 thing. But, anyway, he's assistant surgeon at one of the 
 big hospitals. Guy's ? No, 'pon my word, I forget." 
 
 "Is he quite the best man you know?" Folly was 
 very much in earnest. 
 
 Mabel blushed: "I protest! This catechism is grow- 
 ing lop-sided. It's my turn now. What do you want 
 to know for ? " 
 
 "Don't bother!" Folly thrust this aside. "I have 
 a good reason." 
 
 "Bless the girl!" Mabel was playing rather ner- 
 vously with her glass. "I've heard people say" her 
 colour came and went "that he's very good indeed 
 for some things." 
 
 "What things?" 
 
 "Oh, heaven knows! I'm not going to answer any 
 
 more foolish questions." 
 
 67
 
 Folly 
 
 She made a hasty flight for the door but was captured 
 and pinioned in Folly's strong arms, while Folly's 
 voice said imperatively: "Tell me." 
 
 "He's been very successful with some delicate opera- 
 tions," she confessed, toying with Folly's chain. 
 "There was an account of one in the Lancet. I didn't 
 understand it very well; but it had something to do 
 with the throat " 
 
 "Throat?" Folly let her escape and made no 
 attempt to follow. 
 
 But a few moments later, as Mrs. Patrick sat in her 
 room over a letter that made no headway sat by a 
 window with a puzzled worried look in her eyes she 
 was not astonished to find her hostess standing over 
 her. 
 
 " I want his address, Mab." 
 
 "Queen Anne Street," said Mabel. "Wait a min- 
 ute. I'll find you the number. But he's abroad now. 
 Do you want to consult him ? " 
 
 "Yes," said Folly, and for a second it seemed as if 
 she might speak. Then she drew on the mask: "For 
 adiposity. I wish to be a thin old woman." 
 
 Mrs. Patrick put out a hand and pulled Folly down 
 to her knees on the floor: "There's no necessity, if you 
 go on this way. I knew you were not all right, of 
 course, but I wanted you to tell me." 
 
 "Tell you what?" said Folly obstinately. "I'm 
 well enough." 
 
 "Perhaps. But your mind or spirit, shall we say? 
 68
 
 Folly 
 
 is being torn to rags. Come up to Whitby with me. 
 Oh, don't jerk away like that. Don't breathe, if I tell 
 you a secret. I'm writing a novel; and it's to be out in 
 the spring if I have to pay for it myself. Come along 
 and help me, and you may forget your troubles." 
 
 "It's a pity you've a good income, Mab," was the 
 unexpected reply. 
 
 " Cross my heart! Now all my investments will blow 
 up, or whatever it is investments do when you don't get 
 any money. I don't want to be poor." 
 
 "No, but you might have a chance of doing some- 
 thing, if you were. You've got ability enough ; but the 
 way is made too easy for you. You just play at work." 
 
 "And a lucky thing, too, in this stupid old world, 
 that some people do play. We're far too solemn. 
 Don't preach at me. You look like a tragedy queen; 
 but I'm too fat and rosy to belong to the order of Poor 
 Things, and I won't. If my dear husband hadn't left 
 me enough to live on, I might have done some lively 
 worrying by this time; but thank heaven, he did, so 
 I needn't bother. I'm not like you: I don't wear my- 
 self away to rags over an invisible and intangible trou- 
 ble. Never mind, I'll write a good book when you've 
 painted a good picture." 
 
 "I've done that," answered Folly, with sombre eyes; 
 and put aside Mabel's eager questions with, "No, it 
 isn't on exhibition. I must go and write to Mr. 
 Gregory." 
 
 " But I told you he was away. Oh, yes, letters will be 
 69
 
 Folly 
 
 forwarded, of course, if that would do you any good." 
 
 After a silence, Mabel looked out across the fir- wood, 
 saying softly: "We're like Pyramus and Thisbe, you 
 and I. We love each other; but there's a great wall 
 between us." 
 
 Folly said nothing. 
 
 " Can't we break it down?" 
 
 After a pause: " I don't see how." 
 
 "Well" Mabel made a brave pretence at cheer- 
 fulness "we shall have to squint through the hole, 
 then. But should you mind very much if I tell you 
 the name of that wall? It's Haldane Gore." 
 
 At this, Folly's head dropped lower, until her face 
 was hidden in Mabel's lap. There was a silence until 
 Mrs. Patrick said, with a caressing hand on the soft 
 light hair, "You want to confess and can't, it seems. 
 I suppose I must do it for you. Of course, I under- 
 stood from the very first that you were oh, well, not 
 in love with him we'll admit that there's no word for 
 it in English. But, as I have tried vainly to hint to 
 you several times, I don't think you knew quite 
 how serious a matter it was for him. I gather now that 
 there have been complications, and that you've found 
 out, and that you're having a bad attack of con- 
 science " 
 
 "Not conscience," whispered Folly. "If it were 
 only that " 
 
 "Only!" gasped Mabel. "What's the world coming 
 
 to? Well, then, what?" 
 
 70
 
 Folly 
 
 Folly lifted a flushed face: "I'd like to tell you, Mab, 
 but I can't; the words stick. Wait till I've seen Mr. 
 Gregory. When do you think he will be back?" 
 
 "I'm not his keeper, dear really; I don't know. 
 And I don't see what he has to do with your case." 
 
 But Folly seemed not to have heard her: "I've 
 waited three months and more; I can't stand it much 
 longer. I'd go to-morrow and and find somebody 
 else; but, honestly, I'm afraid afraid to leave Dandie 
 for fear I should never. ..." 
 
 "The baby?" Mabel scoffed. "You are a devoted 
 mother!" 
 
 "No, I meant my husband," answered Folly slowly. 
 
 "Truly, you've lost your senses," laughed Mabel. 
 "He has no scruples about leaving you." 
 
 "He knew I wanted to be rid of him," said Folly 
 quietly. " He got on my nerves. But I'm afraid if I 
 once got away there's no telling what what I might 
 do. ... I might not come back. ..." 
 
 "Why, dear child, dear child, you're forgetting all 
 about the baby." 
 
 "Oh, no!" The tawny head went down again to be 
 stroked by Mabel's dimpled comforting hands. " I'm 
 hanging on to him for dear life ! " 
 
 Mrs. Patrick thought a little while before she ob- 
 served: "You're making a great mystery of something; 
 and if you can't tell me, there's an end of it. But you 
 
 mustn't deny that you're fond of little Dandie " she 
 
 waited.
 
 Folly 
 
 "He's all right," Folly granted. 
 
 "And he ought to keep you straight. He's a sensible 
 laddie admires his mother already howls for her, 
 even in the arms of his nurse. ..." 
 
 "He'll outgrow all that," said Folly. "He may live 
 to curse me for bringing him into this cheerful world, 
 as I have cursed my " 
 
 " Oh, hush," said Mabel. " Let the dead rest." 
 
 " I never loved them. How could I ? I never knew 
 them. I was a mere babe when they sent me away to 
 school, and went of! to India and died of cholera. I call 
 it shirking parental duties!" 
 
 "Well, don't be so fierce," pleaded Mabel. "I don't 
 suppose they enjoyed dying of cholera." 
 
 "I could have forgiven them if they had taken me 
 along, because then I might have died of it, too, years 
 ago. But it's hard lines that just because they wanted 
 to marry I should have to pay the penalty for such a 
 long time. ..." 
 
 "I don't know what you mean," said Mabel. "I 
 don't suppose you could help being; I daresay you 
 wanted to be. And if you hadn't been their child, you 
 would have been other people's. But what is the 
 good speculating about such things? If you want me 
 to declare that there's a curse upon you, wording itself 
 out to a bitter Nemesis, I'll do so at once, and then 
 we'll be all comfy again." 
 
 Her purring voice made Folly smile. She seized the 
 
 plump hands as if she found strength or comfort in 
 
 72
 
 Folly 
 
 them, and said more quietly: "You were always a 
 mainstay, Mab through all those lonely school-days. 
 Be good to me now. I can tell you only this: if you 
 knew that some horrible thing was coming down upon 
 you swiftly, surely, inevitably and you could not run 
 away, or stop it, or lift a finger against it, or do any- 
 thing but wait and count off the days before you knew 
 it must happen. ..." 
 
 "But you wouldn't, you know," said Mab comfort- 
 ably. "Things don't come about that way." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Rubbish! Nonsense! You exaggerate. It won't 
 be as bad as you say ; or even suppose it is, you'll have 
 the strength to bear it. Why, you suffer fifty times over 
 in anticipation. Have a little faith and wait. You 
 never know what turn " 
 
 " Faith in what ? " said Folly bitterly. " Miracles ? " 
 
 "Faith in" Mabel hesitated "faith in the 'ulti- 
 mate decency of things.' " 
 
 Folly got to her feet: "I haven't risen to that creed 
 yet. But I'm only boring you. Shall we go for a drive, 
 or or what?" 
 
 Mabel held fast to her hands so that she could not 
 get away. 
 
 "I had such a vivid memory of you just now at the 
 old studio Lamoreau's remember? I was very late 
 and the rest of you had been at work a long while. 
 You had a model posed as a Greek athlete, and he had 
 fainted. ..." 
 
 73
 
 Folly 
 
 <f He had been starving for a week. I remember." 
 
 " and fell and cut his head on the edge of the dais. 
 It happened just before I came in ; and what did I find ? 
 All the other girls huddled and chattering and crying; 
 and you alone on the platform, with his head in your 
 lap. I can see you this minute, with your frowsy hair 
 it was so then, dear and a charcoal smudge on your 
 nose, and the blood dripping between your fingers as 
 you held the cut together." 
 
 " It was nothing," said Folly. "You had the sense to 
 send for Lamoreau and a doctor. What's your moral ? " 
 
 "Only that you've got a man's courage, girl; and if 
 you're in trouble, you'll fight it through like a man. 
 There now! Don't say Mab has no faith in you." 
 
 "I'll wait," said Folly. "I'll hang on to the last 
 notch if only for the baby's sake. But when I reach 
 the breaking-point " 
 
 "You won't break," said Mabel. "Trust me. And 
 when I can help " 
 
 "I suppose," said Folly, with a curious smile, "that 
 God could help; but somehow I've given over 
 praying. ..." 
 
 74
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE DEVIL PLAYS DUMMY. 
 
 ONE morning in October, when blue haze was fold- 
 ing in hills and sea, Mrs. Christie the elder was sitting 
 alone in her drawing-room, tinkling over minuets 
 by Haydn and Mozart, and now and then for- 
 getting them in memories more than half a cen- 
 tury old, as her sweet blue eyes gazed across the dim 
 waters of the bay. And so dreaming and fingering, 
 she was startled out of her serenity by the abrupt en- 
 trance of her daughter-in-law, smart and smiling gaily, 
 with feverish cheeks and restless eyes. 
 
 "Good-morning, materkin," she called from the 
 door. " The bad penny again." 
 
 The little old lady, pluming herself after the swift 
 and reckless embrace, and adjusting her glasses over 
 eyes that saw far more than they appeared to see, 
 asked shrewdly: "Well, Folly, well? How are you? 
 You look your name to-day." 
 
 Thereupon the visitor flung a feather-adorned 
 Gainsborough hat on the table, whence it dropped to 
 the fender without attracting her attention, and drew 
 a footstool up to the old lady's knee, saying cheerfully; 
 
 75
 
 Folly 
 
 "Do you want to keep me out of the clutches of the 
 devil, materkin? You're the one person in the world 
 who might do it." 
 
 "Blue devils?" was the dry response. "Take a 
 tonic." 
 
 Thereupon the old lady settled the folds of her black 
 satin gown, arranged her fichu, played with her rings 
 and even turned her delicate white-rose face seaward 
 again, as she awaited a storm of protest, or ridicule, or 
 temper. Folly hated the bare suggestion of illness. 
 But nothing came; there was an abject silence until the 
 elder woman looked back with a brisk: "What's up? 
 I smell feathers singeing." 
 
 "I am," said Folly calmly, as she rescued her hat, 
 "altogether unless you find a way out." 
 
 "Materkin" dimpled all about her sweet mouth. 
 "Symptoms?" she asked. 
 
 "I've no symptoms." Folly was still quiet. "You 
 don't believe me ? " 
 
 "I always believe you. I'm sure it's very bad. 
 How are my two boys ? " 
 
 "Well." 
 
 "Andrew didn't come with you?" 
 
 "No; he went to a meeting of the Archaeological 
 Society. They've dug up some scraps of a Roman villa 
 near the mouth of the Leigh." 
 
 "Why didn't you bring the baby to visit his grand- 
 mother?" 
 
 "Honestly, I wanted to see if I could do without 
 76
 
 Folly 
 
 him, or he without me. And then I have some business 
 to see to. A baby is so fearfully dependent on one, 
 mater." 
 
 " You mean, one is so fearfully dependent on a baby." 
 
 "I thought when they were once weaned" began 
 the daughter-in-law. 
 
 "That shows how little you know about it. 
 There 's all the great business of teething ; and be- 
 fore that's very far on, you have to begin to think about 
 talking and walking. And then, before you can draw 
 a long breath, you find yourself in for measles, whoop- 
 ing-cough, chicken-pox, croup ... I had no end of 
 trouble with my Andrew. Croup, you know. Night 
 after night, I thought he would never see the morning. 
 But we're a tough lot, we Christies tougher than your 
 side of the family, my dear. We needn't worry about 
 mumps and scarlatina yet a while. When they do 
 come, you won't have any time to be tired of life." 
 
 This was a shrewd hit. Folly said: "There are 
 other things in the world besides babies." 
 
 "Heaven forbid that I should deny it!" returned 
 the old lady. "But then, you see, a first baby is 
 such a distraction and an amusement and a game 
 altogether; I should think he might occupy you for 
 a while. I never had but the one," she added 
 regretfully, then laughed "so I gave him a lot of bring- 
 ing up." 
 
 "Tell me how you manage it, mater," said Folly, 
 having scarcely heard this. "I know you do care for 
 
 77
 
 Folly 
 
 all the little daily things about you. That's why I 
 came to you. I want to learn. ..." 
 
 " Do you need to learn to be interested in your own 
 child ? Come, now," said the old lady. "It's different 
 with me. I've only the little things left. What else 
 should I do with them? Swear at them?" 
 
 "And you never get tired living?" 
 
 "Why should I? I'm too old for all that nonsense* 
 I'm in for a good time now." 
 
 "If I could ever get to that " 
 
 "In fifty years?" was suggested. 
 
 "But when one is young, it's all trouble and 
 temptation " 
 
 "You children always want to eat your cake and 
 have it. What's wrong now?" 
 
 Folly shook her head to indicate the difficulty of 
 explaining. 
 
 "Tell Andrew then." 
 
 Folly laughed at the idea. "But, mater, can you 
 think what it would be like to have the thumb-screw 
 on for months ? " 
 
 "No, and I don't suppose you can. It's more 
 likely that you've stuck your thumb into a crack, 
 and wonder now why the door pinches it. I hate talk- 
 ing in the dark. Let's drop the matter till after lunch- 
 eon, and then you'll tell me what's on your mind. I'll 
 be seeing about your room now." The old lady 
 swished away, pleased with the fancy that she still did 
 her own housekeeping. 
 
 78
 
 Folly 
 
 Folly stood idly by the desk, looking across the gar- 
 den to the sea: 
 
 " I wonder what she would say if I told her the whole 
 story? If it came to a question of my going but it 
 won't, of course. . . . Still, I should have to have 
 money, or I should be no good only a burden. 
 ... I shall lose my mind if I keep on like this much 
 longer. . . . ' 
 
 She turned away from the desk, stooping to pick up 
 some papers that her sleeve had brushed to the floor, 
 and found that they were three ten-pound notes. Care- 
 less little mater! was her thought. She must lose no 
 end of money, leaving it tucked away in unlocked 
 drawers, and strewn about over her desk. It might be 
 worth while to teach her a lesson. 
 
 But indeed her reasoning process was slight and 
 imperfect. The movement was almost instinctive 
 wherewith she thrust the notes into her glove, as she 
 went upstairs. 
 
 When she was alone in her room, she drew them 
 forth and looked at them in a kind of surprise, but with 
 scorching cheeks. Then she tossed them carelessly on 
 the sofa, with her wraps, and went to the glass to ar- 
 range her hair. 
 
 "Thief," she murmured. "You a thief? It's rather 
 a joke. Almost worth keeping up for a while. I be- 
 lieve I could do it, if there were any need of money 
 if it would be of use but what's the good?" 
 
 A tap at the door sent her to the sofa, all in a flutter; 
 79
 
 Folly 
 
 and she answered unsteadily, the notes burning in her 
 pocket. 
 
 "No, thank you, Susan, I have everything," she said 
 to Mrs. Christie's companion, who had come in to 
 look after her comfort. Her face went hot and cold, 
 and she kept glancing at the sofa, as if she feared that 
 by some magic the notes had got back again. 
 
 Throughout luncheon she waited for the loss to be 
 mentioned; but nothing was said. Thirty pounds 
 not much, in all conscience ; yet if she had intended to 
 go. ... it was a useful sum. But the immediate 
 problem was how to return it gracefully and dramati- 
 cally. Her mother-in-law was serene, full of mischief, 
 and disposed to tease, and gave her no chance whatever. 
 
 After luncheon, when Mrs. Christie was settled for 
 her afternoon nap, Folly found the cigarettes that were 
 always kept for her in a certain drawer of a certain 
 cupboard in the library; and smoked fitfully, as she 
 watched the mist drizzling into a slow rain upon the 
 garden trees and shrubs. 
 
 " Myrtle cedar rhododendron ; rhododendron 
 cedar myrtle" she was repeating to herself, without 
 any sense or profit whatever, when she caught sight of 
 Susan hovering in a troubled manner over the desk. 
 
 "Lost something?" she was impelled to ask. 
 
 "Oh, no, I don't think so," said Susan. "Mrs. 
 Christie sent me to but they don't seem to be here. 
 Later on, I daresay she'll remember exactly where 
 
 she put them." 
 
 80
 
 Folly 
 
 "If I went up to town to-morrow," thought Folly, 
 "I could see Mab and ask her whether Mr. Gregory 
 has come home. If not, another doctor ... I could 
 find out where Haldane is now. . . . But when he has 
 not sent me a word?" Ah, that was the crux! To go 
 when one might be superfluous unwelcome? And 
 yet not to go when she had the money, and he might be 
 dying for lack of means to do everything possible. . . . 
 "I can't go," she said, and threw her cigarette into the 
 fire; but the words that reechoed in her mind were: 
 "I can't stay." Later: "I couldn't make any of them 
 understand." And again: "I ought to take every 
 penny that I could get." And still again: "If I were 
 a man, I should say, 'Morals be damned!'" Further: 
 "There'd be no harm in asking Mab; she might know 
 something." And as she rose to go in to tea : "It's high 
 time to have done with this nonsense and return the 
 notes." 
 
 At tea the talk was of whist. Folly was reluctant; 
 but Mrs. Christie was bent on managing it. "Susan 
 and I will play together, and you shall be Dummy's 
 partner. That will do very well, your brain against 
 the two of us. She'll be back from the post in a mo- 
 ment." 
 
 There was a silence in which Folly might have intro- 
 duced the matter of the bank-notes; but she chose to 
 say: "I suppose when one's money is tied up like 
 mine, it's impossible to get at it." 
 
 "When it's a lawyer's knot, I judge so, my dear." 
 6 81
 
 Folly 
 
 "You see, little Dandle will have heaps; and mine 
 is such a pittance. I sometimes fancy I'd like to spend 
 it." 
 
 "You do pretty well with the income, I imagine," 
 chuckled the old lady. 
 
 " Oh, but one can't be very extravagant on five hun- 
 dred a year. If I wanted to do something big, like 
 buying an air-ship, or an opera all to myself, or or a 
 laboratory, I couldn't afford it, you see." 
 
 "But why should you want a laboratory?" asked 
 Mrs. Christie. "And if you do, you can always beg 
 from Andrew." 
 
 "That's exactly what I can't do in this case," in- 
 sisted Folly; but thereupon Susan returned, and Mrs. 
 Christie was all for the game. 
 
 However, Susan first asked for a conference about 
 some household matter; and Folly moved about from 
 picture to picture, catching a word here and there, 
 through the murmur of their voices. Once or twice she 
 turned and opened her lips to speak, but no sound 
 came. 
 
 When they were settling to the game, she did indeed 
 summon resolution to ask, "Something gone wrong?" 
 
 But the old lady gave her no opportunity: "Nothing 
 to trouble you about, my dear; I daresay it will right 
 itself in the morning." 
 
 Folly looked at her hard, then took up the cards and 
 shuffled them. All at once, as she began to deal them 
 out, it shot through her mind that she might shift the
 
 Polly 
 
 responsibility to the shoulders of chance or fate. All 
 she had to do was to play fair; and the cards should tell 
 her whether she must walk along the broad road of 
 wifehood and motherhood, or seek him that she loved 
 among the bypaths that the world eschewed. Dummy 
 should decide the question once for all she perceived 
 the way. A game within a game, that should be it. 
 Let the mater win and Susan, it was of no consequence ; 
 but she should play against Dummy, and all that he 
 stood for, and of the two of them, who took most tricks 
 should score as winner. She would stake all on this 
 throw and have done with the torture of suspense; and 
 she would play fair . . . fair. . . . 
 
 "What aie you smiling about, child?" asked Mrs. 
 Christie. 
 
 "My own nonsense, dear. Suppose suppose 
 Dummy were the devil himself?" 
 
 "Why, then, you'd get burnt ringers," was the retort. 
 
 "I believe I could play with him," she insisted. 
 
 "Well, well, we are waiting," grumbled the old lady. 
 
 Folly was as conscious of a definite plunge as if she 
 had dived into cold water. Dummy should be the 
 devil, if he it was that tempted her to leave all that she 
 had, for love's sake; and she would play against him 
 for husband and child. ... It was an insane thing to 
 do, she said to herself ; and yet she swore that she would 
 hold to the innings. 
 
 "Now we shall see what you make of the game, with 
 all your cleverness," said Mrs. Christie presently. 
 
 83
 
 Folly 
 
 "So we shall" she was in grim earnest. 
 
 A little later, the old lady asked: "Why do you keep 
 all your tricks apart from Dummy's?" 
 
 "It's a whim a fancy," she answered lightly; but 
 followed every step of the game with a painful caution, 
 and fever hi her cheeks and eyes. 
 
 " Dummy has all the cards," she said hoarsely after a 
 time. "Look: ace, king, knave, ten what show has 
 the poor queen ? It's Dummy who's winning this game, 
 mater. I can't do any better, can I ? " 
 
 "Extraordinary!" said Mrs. Christie, studying the 
 cards. " No, I don't know that you can. But then it's 
 all the same, as you're partners, my dear." 
 
 And Folly smiled. 
 
 But soon her lips began to droop, for in the very next 
 deal Susan made a brave show of trumps; and in the 
 necessity of meeting these, Dummy lay, a crushed heap 
 of low cards, swept away, time after time, by her own 
 fighting-men. At the end of the second game, her 
 heart was cold, for she good, dutiful, pious Florence! 
 had thirty tricks and Dummy only seventeen. 
 
 By this she knew well enough which way her will 
 was bent; but still she played fair. 
 
 In the rubber, Dummy, not allowed the slightest 
 advantage, began nevertheless slowly to gain upon her. 
 Folly's heart beat to suffocation as she counted trick 
 after trick to his credit. When he came abreast, she 
 bit her lip to keep in a cry; and when he passed her, 
 
 she trembled so that she could scarcely hold the cards. 
 
 84
 
 Folly 
 
 She was deaf to the triumph of materkin in winning the 
 rubber; but her face wore the look of one who after 
 long wandering in a labyrinth of blackness has come 
 upon a sunny way of exit. 
 
 And she had played fair. Outwardly yes; but she 
 put her hands up to her burning face, with shame that 
 all the while her heart and will had been with the 
 Adversary. 
 
 She came to her senses with the discovery that she 
 had risen; and that the two other women were staring 
 at her in wonder. Suddenly she caught up a pack of 
 cards and shook them over her head, so that they 
 crowned her for a second and then trickled down to the 
 floor, and lay scattered far and wide. 
 
 "I love cards!" she said, with a laugh that ended in 
 a sob; and fled to her room to avoid explanation. She 
 did not hear her mother-in-law's murmured: "I shall 
 look in upon her presently. The girl is beside herself 
 to-night." 
 
 Her shadowy room was peaceful in the firelight, with 
 the soothing drip of rain from roof to balcony outside. 
 She sat down on the hearth-rug, hugging her knees and 
 shivering in the very breath of the flame. She was 
 tired, now that the die was cast; and she was glad that 
 there was no more thinking to be done. She had 
 wronged materkin ; she would wrong her husband and 
 child. There was no room for conscience. Nothing 
 remained to her but a year of Haldane's life no, months 
 only and afterward she must pay . . . 
 
 85
 
 Folly 
 
 Presently she began to walk the floor as she Un- 
 dressed; and then she was considering ways and 
 means, and planning how she should find him, and 
 what she should say. . . . She hated the ticking of the 
 rain; it seemed to measure off the moments and so few 
 were left to her so few. Oh, why had she waited so 
 long? 
 
 She flung her rings and brooches and watch care- 
 lessly upon the table; but caught them up and hid 
 them, with the sudden thought that they might be 
 turned into money, when money was so precious to the 
 saving of a life. 
 
 Her fingers trembled and fumbled so that she could 
 scarcely pull down her hair. She wished she had 
 brought her maid, but remembered with a sudden thrill 
 of joy that she would no longer have a maid, if she gave 
 all her income to Haldane. And then, strangely enough, 
 she played with her delicious hair, and dreamed her 
 dreams, as if there were to be no sorrow in this sacrifice 
 of all for a little Yet, she might have an- 
 swered, it was the one thing, the one thing that she 
 wanted in this world. 
 
 When at length she put out the light, she lay with her 
 hands clasped under her head, staring at the fire until 
 its last flicker died away. She was so absorbed that she 
 did not hear a faint tapping at her door; and sat up in 
 terror when a shaft of light shot across the ceiling, a 
 shadow appeared, and the transparent trembling hand 
 
 of materkin, shading a candle-flame. 
 
 86
 
 Folly 
 
 "Not asleep yet?" she chirruped. "I think you'd 
 better tell me what's on your mind, lass." 
 
 "I shouldn't have finished by morning," laughed 
 Folly. "It's sleep that I need now, mater that's 
 all." 
 
 The old lady came and stood by the bed, still shad- 
 ing her candle from the flushed face on the pillow. 
 
 "Better tell me," she insisted. 
 
 Then Folly raised herself on her elbow and said des- 
 perately: "It's money I want and money and 
 money!" 
 
 "Is that all?" asked materkin. "Debts eh? Ex- 
 travagances ? We can soon make that right. Don't 
 want to ask Andrew I see. Too proud. I feared it 
 might be something more serious. Well well chil- 
 dren! You shall have a cheque to-morrow my free 
 gift. It's a pity, now. I've mislaid thirty pounds some- 
 where in the house to-day. You might as well have 
 had that too. ..." 
 
 But Folly was sobbing in her pillow: " Don't, mater- 
 kin, don't ... I can't ..." 
 
 "Oh, you hysterical women!" the old lady quite 
 shut herself out from the class; but the scolding soon 
 turned to pity: "Child child, you are all a-tremble. 
 Don't worry about it. We shall make it all right in the 
 morning. Kiss me now and go to sleep. Good-night." 
 
 Folly drew the sweet old face close and held it long : 
 "I can't let you go now without telling you." 
 
 But chance again blocked her way. "No," said 
 87
 
 Folly 
 
 materkin. "I won't listen to another word to-night. 
 I've heard enough. I don't care what you've done or 
 undone. You're a silly unstrung child! In the morn- 
 ing, when you have some sense, we may talk." 
 
 Folly looked after her, feeling suddenly the futility 
 of protest. She had set her foot on the path, how 
 could she turn back? And if she meant to sin hope- 
 lessly against them all, was it so much worse ? 
 
 "You'll stay in bed to-morrow?" asked Mrs. 
 Christie. 
 
 " No, I must go up to town I must indeed." 
 
 " I see incorrigible ! " 
 
 She waved her hand and closed the door, leaving the 
 sinner in well, perhaps, almost as much punishment 
 as she deserved. 
 
 88
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 ON THE EDGE. 
 
 "As for Mr. Gregory," said Mabel, a bit moodily, 
 "he hasn't returned yet, and I don't know when he's 
 coming." 
 
 "How do you know?" asked Folly. 
 
 "How do I know what I don't know?" Mrs. Patrick 
 laughed to cover her evasion. 
 
 "Mab," said Folly, "are you engaged to him, or 
 trying not to be ? " 
 
 "Neither," said Mrs. Patrick, with dignity. "We 
 are good friends; but he is so Quixotic that I'm out of 
 patience with him. Besides, he doesn't write often." 
 
 "Where is he then?" 
 
 "He was at Biarritz." 
 
 " But what for ? Of all the places " 
 
 "Fine air fine sea," said Mabel succinctly. 
 
 "Do you think I could find him?" 
 
 "No doubt. My dear friend" Mabel grew ironic 
 "is your adiposity (was it?) become so serious as all 
 that?" 
 
 "Very likely," was Folly's strange answer. "And if 
 
 I go, I shall be burning my ships behind me." 
 
 89
 
 Folly 
 
 "I wouldn't go just yet, if I were you" there was 
 malice in Mabel's tone "you'll be missing some one 
 else." 
 
 "Who?" Folly's eyes anticipated the answer. 
 "He's not in town?" 
 
 "He is, though. I met him in Cavendish Square 
 yesterday." 
 
 "For how long?" 
 
 "Didn't ask." 
 
 "And stopping where?" 
 
 Mabel shrugged: "If you'd sent me word that you 
 were coming. ... But you like to jump on people." 
 
 Folly mused: "I daresay I could find him." 
 
 There was a pause, then Mabel said: "I'm losing 
 all patience with you, Folly. You expect me to under- 
 stand and sympathize; and you tell me nothing at all." 
 
 But Folly, busy with other thoughts, laughed: "It's 
 a funny world. And Gregory in Biarritz." 
 
 At this Mabel gave her up: "I can't bother with you 
 any longer. I leave you to your own devices. I'm due 
 at the studio anyway." 
 
 "What's going on?" asked Folly, without interest. 
 
 "The Disciples are, to-night. They're going to give 
 a play about souls and such-like things. They invited 
 me to the rehearsal. They borrowed the studio be- 
 cause they couldn't afford a hall. Will you come?" 
 
 As Folly did not at once answer, she continued: "I 
 mentioned it to your little poet-man. He may be 
 
 there." 
 
 90
 
 Folly 
 
 "Don't call him that!" flashed from Folly. 
 
 "Well, I call a spade a spade," Mabel defended her- 
 self, "and he is all that, you know." 
 
 Folly hid her face in her hands. "I'll think about it. 
 I haven't any clothes, you know." 
 
 "I told Mr. Gore that he would find it amusing," 
 continued Mabel, with a sidelong look at her friend. 
 "They are going to dress symbolically, in gauze and 
 peacock's feathers. That's what they want me for, to 
 cast an artist's eye on the costumes. Bless them, I shall 
 do that; and if they're not properly attired, I shall 
 make a row. I think he'll be there. You've all after- 
 noon to get up something. Sorry I'm too short to lend 
 you any of my garments. You'll come ? " 
 
 "I'll see," was as much as Folly would say. 
 
 When Mrs. Patrick returned, full of glee over the 
 humours of the rehearsal, she found her friend in the 
 same chair, in the same attitude. 
 
 "You've not budged!" she cried, disappointed. 
 
 "Oh, yes. I telephoned to Sloane Street. My dress 
 is here. Come and see. I thought I'd be a ' soul ' too, 
 for once in my life." 
 
 "How sweet!" exclaimed Mabel, clasping her hands 
 in ecstasy, " and how strange ! What is it ? " 
 
 "Fine spun wool," said Folly, lifting a fold of the 
 fleecy skirt. "Andrew ordered it for me when we were 
 up in Shetland several years ago. The woman got the 
 idea and said she could make it; but it took her nearly 
 three years, knitting most of the time. I haven't had
 
 Folly 
 
 it long; and I've never worn it. But I think it might 
 suit this occasion, don't you?" 
 
 There was more meaning in her tone than Mabel 
 chose to understand, so she took refuge in admiration: 
 " It's finer than spun silk finer than Valenciennes, or 
 point d'Alencon or Limerick. I never saw anything so 
 exquisite! And those bows of flame-coloured velvet 
 on the shoulders and down the corsage and edging the 
 flounce; and the girdle to match, and the nasturtiums 
 for the hair! You'll look I don't know how you'll 
 look to-night, Folly!" 
 
 "Young again, I hope; I've been old so long." 
 
 "You're not" Mab reached up to lay anxious 
 hands on the tall friend's shoulders "you're not in 
 special need of me to-night?" 
 
 Folly chose to misunderstand: "For the bows, yes; 
 and more especially for the nasturtiums. Let me see 
 perhaps I am symbolic, too. What shall I stand for? 
 The woolly sheep touched with sacrificial fire a 
 burnt offering ? How would that do ? " 
 
 "I shall wear black," said Mabel soberly, as she 
 released her, "and if you kill my faith in you, it shall 
 be my mourning." She endeavoured to take a lighter 
 tone: "And you mustn't do it, dear; for I can't rise 
 to tragedy. I look far too comfortable even in the 
 blackest black." 
 
 Folly studied her toe as she moved it about on the 
 fender: "If I should be happy to-night I mean, by 
 any chance I have earned it. I have come through 
 
 hell to get here." 
 
 92
 
 Folly 
 
 "There you go again," Mabel's despair was comic. 
 "I can't follow you. You'll drive me distracted with 
 your allegories! Why can't you talk the King's Eng- 
 lish?" 
 
 "Shall I?" asked Folly, looking straight at her. 
 
 "Well, I'm sure I prefer it. And you needn't make 
 me feel a criminal by staring at me that way. What 
 are you up to ? I believe I ought to telephone for your 
 husband or a keeper." 
 
 "I can't quite tell you what I'm up to," said Folly 
 slowly, "because it all rests on the knees of the Fates. 
 I can't peer into the future. But I've planned, and I've 
 schemed, and I've sinned in a way you wouldn't be- 
 lieve and I'm going to take my roses now. To-mor- 
 row" she would not put into words the thought that 
 they would be withered, but turned aside with the 
 question "who was it said Carpe diem?" 
 
 "Horace, I believe." 
 
 "Yes. He was an old sinner, too, wasn't he? But 
 he had a good time and people liked him none the 
 worse for it then; nor, for that matter, do they now. I've 
 been starving, but there are roses still . . . voildl 
 How like you my hair?" 
 
 "I have yet to learn that roses satisfy hunger," 
 objected Mabel. "I should advise plain bread and 
 Andrew gives you plenty. Your hair ? Are you trying 
 to look like a Madonna?" 
 
 "Is it wrong? It's another side of me, you know. I 
 want to be different this one night." 
 
 93
 
 Folly 
 
 Mabel reflected, then said deliberately: "I suppose 
 that means you are going in for a love scene with 
 Haldane Gore." 
 
 Folly looked at her with flaming cheeks: " I have not 
 deserved this from you, Mabel." 
 
 "I think you have," said Mrs. Patrick slowly. "Oh, 
 yes, I almost think you have. If it is true, may you be 
 forgiven, for you are setting about it deliberately!" 
 
 "You are not so far from the truth," answered Folly, 
 in a soft undertone, "yet far enough; for, of course, 
 
 you could not know But it's no use talking. We 
 
 should only lose our tempers. You will just have to 
 wait. And what I do, I stand by." 
 
 Then Mabel was seized with a sudden panic: "Tell 
 me, Folly, tell me before it is too late ! I wish we weren't 
 going; I wish I hadn't met him ; I wish " 
 
 "He may not come," said Folly, still softly. 
 
 "You don't believe that." 
 
 "It does not matter whether he comes or not. Oh, 
 yes, I am speaking the truth. There are ways and 
 ways. ..." 
 
 " Promise me one thing," began Mabel. 
 
 But Folly seized her and began an improvised dance- 
 step to the burden of a song that Mabel had never 
 heard before: 
 
 "Plait, plait, the withes of the waving willow tree." 
 
 "Promise me" Mabel was losing her breath. 
 
 " So I weave at my baskets weave weave 
 
 And with love flown away, still I grieve and grieve " 
 
 94
 
 Folly 
 
 Mabel jerked herself free : " Where did you get that ? " 
 "There's another stanza," said Folly, "and that's 
 better. 
 
 " 'So I braid at my baskets braid braid 
 And with love in my heart I am all unafraid ' " 
 
 "Is it one of his?" asked Mrs. Patrick. 
 "Plait, plait the withes of the waving willow tree," 
 
 sang Folly. 
 
 "I asked you to promise " 
 
 Folly was walking before the long glass, watching the 
 sweep of her train; but she turned now, no longer 
 attempting evasion: "Well, what? What shall I 
 promise?" 
 
 "Not to be rash," pleaded Mabel. "Come to me 
 first." 
 
 "If I am rash, I am rash," said Folly, "for what is 
 to be is all written in the stars. Shall I pass ?" 
 
 "Ora pro nobis," sighed Mabel. "I can do nothing 
 with you. " 
 
 Then Folly began another dance-step of her own, 
 and whirled her white cloud backwards and forwards 
 through the room : 
 
 "Plait, plait the withes " 
 
 We all die, Mab; and I sometimes think a short life 
 
 and a merry Are you ready ? Don't tell me we've 
 
 nearly an hour to wait! What have you got from 
 Mudie's?" 
 
 95
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 A PLAY OF SOULS. 
 
 IN proper time the play of souls came on; and while 
 the disembodied spirits drifted yearningly and philo- 
 sophically across the stage, Folly smiled upon them, 
 and applauded as if she had no other interest or care in 
 the world. 
 
 Between the acts she herself became a little centre of 
 attraction; and Bob Crandall, watching from a dis- 
 tance, grinned and muttered: "Moths and the flame! 
 Alas, poor Mabel!" 
 
 Folly laughed and chattered, and gave no outward 
 sign of the heart-leaps with which she beheld each 
 fresh face at the door. She had been quite honest when 
 she told Mabel that it did not matter whether he came 
 this night; her mind was fully made up. But never- 
 theless, she feared to meet his eyes; for she knew that 
 in a moment, before she could catch her breath, they 
 would tell her what she needed to learn. 
 
 She was overcome by a sudden impatience of the 
 endlessly chanting fools on the stage, bit her lip, and 
 had to keep it sucked in to conceal the blood. 
 
 After a while Crandall went up to her, flattered in 
 96
 
 Folly 
 
 spite of himself by her pretty interest in his analysis of 
 his own mental vacillations, as to whether it was worth 
 while to bestow his presence upon the play. He sur- 
 prised himself by concluding with a rout of compli- 
 ments. 
 
 "I'll make Gore savage," he chuckled maliciously. 
 
 "Yes?" Her tone was sufficiently indifferent; he 
 could not have guessed that his vapid talk was become 
 suddenly pregnant. "He is in town?" 
 
 "Left him at the club, glum as a parson over Punch. 
 I worried him to come and support me, but he fairly 
 jeered me out of the room." 
 
 "I've not seen him for a long time," she said. "Has 
 he been back long?" 
 
 " Only a day or two. Some business or other. Go- 
 ing abroad again at once, he tells me. I say, do you 
 suppose it's a Great Work, or what? He's a perfect 
 will-o'-the-wisp and mute as an oyster. I couldn't 
 get a word out of him as to what mischief he's up to." 
 
 "Oh?" she said indifferently. 
 
 Then he spoke of the dancing, and demanded her 
 card; and she gave it to him. There was a hush of 
 voices and a settling of draperies as the curtain-bell 
 rang; and Folly, whose eyes had been wandering again, 
 got swiftly to her feet, with a gesture to Mrs. Patrick 
 and a word to the amazed Crandall, and made her way 
 to the door. In the sudden darkness that followed the 
 lowering of the lights, she held out her arms blindly. 
 
 Neither knew how long it was that they had been 
 7 97
 
 Folly 
 
 standing with clasped hands in the dim hall, while the 
 past faded into an evil dream, and the future was for- 
 gotten, before the present grew too tense, and she said : 
 
 " People may be coming out. We can go into Mab's 
 study. That isn't being used to-night." 
 
 She seemed to be impelled to talk all the while : " She 
 scribbles there when she isn't inspired to paint. She'd 
 do either better if she let the other alone, wouldn't she ? 
 It isn't locked, I know. Yes, this door. We can be 
 quiet here for a few moments do you mind?" 
 
 "Don't be silly!" he admonished her; and her only 
 sense was a wild prayer of thankfulness that the old 
 voice was as yet unchanged. 
 
 The little room was dark, and Gore groped for the 
 matches, by the faint light that came through the half- 
 open door : " Do you know where she keeps them ? " 
 
 "No, nor does she, except when the maid's just been 
 tidying. Let me have a try." 
 
 She put out her hand to the wall, but found him 
 instead; and in a flash the barriers were gone. But 
 she drew away at once, stumbling against Mabel's 
 chair; then sank into it with her hands before her 
 face, as if she feared that even in the dark its tale 
 might be read. 
 
 He closed the door softly, then felt his way to the 
 chair, and leaning across its back drew her hands away 
 and held them fast, with his face close against hers: 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Why didn't you write to me all these months?" 
 98
 
 Folly 
 
 "How could I dream that you wanted to hear?" 
 
 "But I said . . . and you promised. ..." 
 
 "I think not if you remember," he answered 
 quietly. "I never intended to do so. I had done with 
 you, then or rather, I thought you had done with 
 me. I took it you feigned a polite interest. I did not 
 want to write symptoms there's no fun in symp- 
 toms." 
 
 She struggled to control her voice as she asked: 
 "You are a little better ?" 
 
 "Not much" he seemed amused. 
 
 "No worse?" 
 
 "Not much" he hesitated. 
 
 "I knew nothing. I could not help. Can you be- 
 lieve that it has been killing me?" 
 
 There was a silence before he said: "It is so new to 
 think that you care at all. I had got used to the 
 other. Poor little Folly " 
 
 "Yes, poor Folly," she repeated. "And what are 
 you going to do?" 
 
 He would have kissed her then, but she withdrew her 
 hands, crying with a sort of desperation, "Oh, we must 
 find the matches and talk it over talk it over " 
 
 And presently her sleeve knocked the box to the 
 floor; and he found it and lighted and adjusted the 
 gas reading-lamp. All the while she sat with lowered 
 eyelids, as if she were unwilling or afraid to look at 
 him. He divined her thought and laughed, saying: 
 "I'm not so changed that you need mind." 
 
 99
 
 Folly 
 
 Then she took courage and raised her eyes; and 
 when she saw that he was indeed the same, only rather 
 pinched about the nose, and with deeper hollows in the 
 temples, she dropped back into Mabel's chair with a 
 sigh. 
 
 He remained standing by the desk. "Well, what's 
 to talk over?" he asked, rather brusquely. 
 
 "Me," she began; and then, as if to gain time, 
 added hurriedly: "Bob Crandall said you weren't 
 coming." 
 
 " Somebody dropped in at the club and told me you 
 were here. So I reflected for a while which makes 
 the matter rather worse and then I came. Now you 
 have the truth." 
 
 "What are you doing for it?" 
 
 He followed her turn of thought: "Nothing. Hang- 
 ing about. Gregory's doing." 
 
 "Is he was he with you, then?" 
 
 " Dragged me off to Biarritz. Said it was a cheerful 
 place, and he wanted a rest, anyway. Experiments on 
 me now and then. He's got a kitchen and a zoo there; 
 and occasionally he takes a few days off and runs up to 
 Paris. I don't try to follow his messing about ". . . he 
 seemed to muse. 
 
 "Yes? Yes? It's good to know he's with you," she 
 said eagerly. 
 
 "I didn't want him to come. I was for going away 
 alone, but I couldn't shake him off stuck like a 
 
 leech." 
 
 100
 
 Folly 
 
 "Yes, yes; then all this time hasn't been wasted. 
 Oh, I am thankful for that! Do you know, I came up 
 now because I couldn't bear it any longer to consult 
 him to ask him " 
 
 "You're not ill?" he jerked out. 
 
 "No, to ask him to ask him to put aside his 
 practice and do what he is doing." 
 
 "And who was to pay?" he demanded bluntly. 
 
 "I was. I could have offered him nearly five hun- 
 dred a year. It's nothing, but it's all I have. ... I 
 have tried and tried to think how I could get more. 
 But I believed that perhaps he might being your 
 friend " 
 
 He had no word of thanks, but came and knelt by 
 her chair; and she smiled upon him. 
 
 "He sent me over now to see Mortimer and get his 
 opinion. He thinks he's on the track of something. 
 He won't say a word; but I know by the glint in his 
 eye. It's extraordinary what fools your clever men are 
 sometimes. . . . Oh, I gave up hoping long ago too 
 much trouble the present's good enough. And I 
 should have packed him back to his business, only, you 
 know, he's so jolly well pleased with his poor little 
 beasties and messes ... I hate to throw cold water. . . . 
 And besides, ninety- nine fellows fail, and the hundredth 
 man gets it. . . . " 
 
 "You do hope!" she cried passionately. "Ah 
 hope!" 
 
 He smiled at her : "I wish I could paint you now : an 
 101
 
 Polly 
 
 angel crowned and touched with the flames and flowers 
 of life. If I had the brush of Sargent, I could make 
 my fortune. It's a new idea the angel Folly ' ' 
 
 "Among the lost," she whispered, and dropped head 
 and arms together on her knees, with a sudden sob. 
 
 He went away from her then, and toyed with a paper- 
 knife on the table, pale with the sense that his resolu- 
 tion was slipping from him fast, though he clung to it 
 as a drowning man to a rope that is being slowly drawn 
 away from his failing strength. 
 
 "Hal, will you take that money?" 
 
 He smiled a negative : "What for ? " 
 
 "It might help. Gregory might be able to do 
 more " 
 
 "Nonsense!" 
 
 " Mortimer then " 
 
 "I've seen him. He knows it's all bally rot. I shall 
 have to tell Greg when I get back. But he'll probably 
 stick to his idea all the same; he's as obstinate as a 
 
 Pig." 
 
 "There may be something in it," she pleaded. 
 
 "There won't be your money in it not while I am 
 alive," he asserted vigorously. 
 
 "Not if " the words refused to come; but he 
 
 read them in her face. 
 
 "Don't say it, Folly." 
 
 "Why, it's been waiting for months to be said." 
 But she was almost choked by her heart-beats before 
 
 she got it out : " Not if I come, too ? " 
 
 1 02
 
 He walked away to the window: "Ah, that needs 
 consideration. But I thought we had threshed it all 
 out in April?" 
 
 She shook her head. "The case is quite different 
 now." 
 
 "How different?" 
 
 "Well, it's that I am different, then. Your need is 
 greater than theirs." 
 
 "You think so?" His tone sounded cold. 
 
 "Ah, Hal, don't consider" she held out her hands. 
 "I've tried all I could, and I'm done. Just take me 
 away somewhere." 
 
 "Your husband?" he asked, returning to the paper- 
 knife, and studying it as if it were a great curiosity. 
 
 "He has had his chance." 
 
 "And the boy?" 
 
 "He doesn't need me so much now; he will need me 
 still less. Other women with children have done the 
 same. ..." 
 
 "Are you excusing yourself?" he asked, speaking 
 harshly, but with no harshness in his eyes. 
 
 She looked straight before her without answering. 
 
 "People your friends the world?" 
 
 She shrugged. 
 
 "Is there no one ?" 
 
 "One one!" she cried; and then, in sudden fear: 
 "Hal, I begin to doubt you!" 
 
 He came and stood looking down upon her then: 
 "You need never do that. But I am thinking for 
 
 103
 
 Folly 
 
 you. It's so much to lose and for such a short 
 time." 
 
 " To-day and to-day and to-day," she answered, 
 smiling upon her finger-tips; but while he was wonder- 
 ing how she had arrived at this philosophy of his, she 
 was overcome by fright again, and clutched his arm, 
 whispering: "How long?" 
 
 "I don't know any more than I knew in April; but 
 not long compared with a life-time with yours." 
 
 She leaned back in her chair, with a low laugh: 
 " But need mine be so long?" 
 
 He studied her before he answered: "In common 
 decency it must go on to its natural limits." 
 
 "And do you see me old ?" she still defied him. 
 
 "1 have known old women decayed, toothless, 
 hollow, hairless, patched and coloured and unre- 
 spected; and if you come with me now " 
 
 { 'I shall be like that? It's a pleasing picture. But 
 my flame will have burned out long before." 
 
 "You don't know what you're talking about! " he 
 said, with sudden anger. "Love burns down, and joy 
 and hope; but the embers of life go on and on, even 
 when they are smothered in ash. How then?" 
 
 "I'm willing to pay, if you are." She did not flinch. 
 
 At this, something gave way in his resolve, and he 
 went again to lean over her chair. 
 
 "I willing?" he said. "God knows how you tempt 
 me. But you? I'm not willing you should pay, be- 
 cause you don't know the cost. I should be a brute if 
 
 I let you come, Folly." 
 
 104
 
 Folly 
 
 She rose, trembling, and clinging to her chair; "And 
 what should I be if I come?" 
 
 "Only Folly only dear Folly," he said, with a brave 
 show of gentle amusement. 
 
 She sank back again and strove to grasp the situa- 
 tion: "I don't understand you. You have changed. 
 I suppose it's your illness. You mean, that you want 
 me to go back home?" 
 
 He nodded slightly. 
 
 "That you won't take my money? That you want 
 me to wait and wait and wait until you die?" 
 
 " If you were with me," he began, then changed the 
 form of his sentence: "For one thing, I want to spare 
 you a " he hesitated "a damned ugly sight." 
 
 "But Gregory haven't I as much right ?" 
 
 "It's Gregory's profession." 
 
 "Not in this case oh, not in this case; he's your 
 friend, while I. . . ." She controlled her voice and 
 went on: "I can see plainly enough that you have 
 changed. You have slipped away from me there's a 
 veil between us and you don't need me now." 
 
 He returned yet again to the paper-knife, in an 
 obstinate silence. 
 
 "Do you?" she pleaded. 
 
 "No," he answered, without looking at her. 
 
 "I should be only in the way?" 
 
 "Yes." He tossed the fragments of the paper-knife 
 from him. 
 
 There was a silence until she said presently, in her
 
 Folly 
 
 old light manner: "We're missing the best of the play, 
 talking nonsense here. Shall we go back ? " 
 
 He assented with a nod. She rose, shivering a little, 
 and glanced about the room as if uncertain what she 
 ought to do or say next. 
 
 "Perhaps you'd better put out the light," she sug- 
 gested, as he did not move. 
 
 "I will, soon." 
 
 She tried to summon her wits, one hand gathering in 
 her trailing skirt, the other moving restlessly from fore- 
 head to throat and back again. "So it is the end?" 
 she asked at length. 
 
 And when he could not look at her or answer, 
 she drew near, and clasped white pleading hands 
 against his breast. Her voice, sweeter and more 
 penetrating in its grief, breathed upon him: "Havel 
 lost every-thing with you, then? Can I no longer 
 tempt you?" 
 
 He could only seize the hands to keep her away, as 
 he stumbled for words : " My loss my loss. But you'll 
 be happy yet." 
 
 With that she left him; but when she reached the 
 door, laid her face against the panel, as if she could 
 go no further: "I don't know what's to happen now, 
 since you won't have me." 
 
 He cursed his own feebleness that could find nothing 
 better to say than: "It's rough on us both, girl; but 
 you'll see it through." 
 
 "I? So Mab said. But you? Ah, you have gone 
 106
 
 Folly 
 
 millions of miles away from me already so it doesn't 
 matter. ..." 
 
 He put his arm about her then, thinking she would 
 fall; but she withdrew at once, conscious of the im- 
 palpable barrier between them. Then suddenly her 
 courage came back in a wave, and she towered above 
 him magnificently: "I'm sorry I've been such a fool. 
 I haven't escaped the common lot of women; but I 
 trust I've learned my lesson. Please forget to-night. 
 . . . Good-bye." 
 
 He was whiter than she, as they clung to each other's 
 hands in silence; then he opened the door for her, and 
 she went away without looking back. 
 
 As she stood at the studio door, she was aware of the 
 subdued clapping of hands and polite bravos: the 
 play of souls was done. 
 
 107
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 LIFE FOR LIFE. 
 
 So Haldane Gore was not seen at the play after all; 
 but Mrs. Christie stayed on, drank coffee, and danced, 
 and discussed the action with much friendly eulogy of 
 acts and actors. 
 
 Mabel's eyebrows were disapproving, and once or 
 twice she suggested that Folly go home. 
 
 "Shall I retreat?" said Folly, laughing. "Do you 
 want to do me out of my dances ? It's a funny thing, 
 Mab. I'm haunted by an old tale that I've read some- 
 where I can't remember the name of it or how it went ; 
 but there was a knight who rode under a portcullis, 
 and this fell upon his horse, and left him inside with 
 the one half, and the other half outside. ..." 
 
 "Well?" asked Mabel uneasily. 
 
 " Can you think how the horse felt ? " 
 
 "I'm sure you'd better go home; you're overtired." 
 
 "But I told you this was my one night, and I in- 
 tended to be happy; and it's not half done yet." 
 
 Mabel believed that she understood dimly some- 
 thing of what had happened; but before she could 
 
 speak Crandall came up with his programme. 
 
 108
 
 Folly 
 
 So Folly danced and smiled, and knew by the faces 
 of the men about her that she was quite as charming 
 as in the old days before she married Andrew. She 
 danced with any one who laid claim to a number, 
 and could not tell afterwards who had been her part- 
 ners. She talked as in a dream, wondering now 
 and then that what she said should pass as not unrea- 
 sonable. 
 
 She had no idea of the time, when she was awakened 
 into full consciousness by a crash. She seemed to have 
 been dancing with Crandall again, for he was standing 
 with her by a window, and one of them must have 
 knocked over the flower-pot that lay in fragments at 
 their feet. Between them and the light, against a back- 
 ground of whirling figures, stood Mabel, and Mabel 
 was saying: 
 
 "Folly, Andrew is in the study; he wants to see 
 you." 
 
 "Oh, not there!" flashed to Folly's lips; but she 
 could not tell whether she had spoken the words or not. 
 
 "What does he want?" she asked, turning away 
 from Crandall. 
 
 "Go and see. Don't be frightened," said Mabel 
 pityingly. 
 
 So she passed in and out among the dancers, and 
 found her husband standing by the green-shaded light 
 in the little room where she had looked her last upon 
 Haldane Gore. 
 
 She faced him in silence, twisting her handkerchief 
 109
 
 Folly 
 
 between her fingers, wondering if by any chance the 
 two men had met. 
 
 "I think we'll go home by the midnight train," said 
 he gently. 
 
 She awaited the explanation, which came at once: 
 "The little chap's been taken rather bad." 
 
 " Dead ? " was all she could say. 
 
 "Nonsense!" He affected cheerfulness. 
 
 She thrust the green shade up so as to throw a strong 
 light on his face: "You're not deceiving me?" 
 
 He met her eyes squarely: "No, I left him better. 
 But there's no time to lose, or we shall miss the train. 
 Get your cloak. Mab understands." 
 
 Afterwards she fell back again into her dream : there 
 was a long stairway, a room full of cloaks, and a night- 
 mare of a struggle to make a woman understand which 
 was hers, when she had lost her check for it and could 
 not remember its colour. But at length she was in a 
 swift-pattering cab, with the wind streaming against 
 her face, and the double line of lights down the street 
 turning into streaks that ran to meet each other far 
 away where there was a great congregation of coloured 
 lamps. . . . Somebody was with her in the cab, talk- 
 ing of telegrams. To her amazement, she found that 
 it was her husband, and wondered why he was there, 
 and where they were going. 
 
 "You didn't get any of them?" he was saying. 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "You shouldn't have run away like that," he expos- 
 HP
 
 Folly 
 
 tulated. "As much mystery as if you had been going 
 to elope. I tried to reach you through the mater first, 
 then at Sloane Street; and by the time I remembered 
 that Mabel was at home, I suppose you had gone out. 
 But I found there was an express, and I wasn't any 
 good at Sunlands anyway, so I thought the best plan 
 was for me to come and fetch you. We shall just do it, 
 I think." 
 
 "You haven't told me what ?" 
 
 "Croup," said he. 
 
 She shivered, and he put up the glass. But she had 
 turned cold at the memory of something his mother 
 had said. 
 
 "It's nothing to worry about," he tried to comfort 
 her. " I used to get it often when I was a little chap." 
 
 "I know." 
 
 "The mater used to sit up nights with me " 
 
 "Oh, don't!" he touched conscience there. "Was 
 it Jenny's fault?" 
 
 "I don't think so pure accident. They were 
 caught in a shower, you see. It might have happened 
 any day." 
 
 She understood well enough that he was excusing 
 her absence to herself; but remorse cried out: "I 
 shouldn't have let them go, if I had been at home oh, 
 I shouldn't!" 
 
 "Now you are blaming me," he said, to turn her 
 thoughts, although he knew very well that it was her- 
 self she was scourging. 
 
 in
 
 Folly 
 
 He went on to explain in a matter-of-fact way what 
 he had done, and how his mother had sent Susan on 
 by the first train. She felt an unreasonable pang of 
 jealousy that Susan should be in her place; but she 
 was a little comforted too. 
 
 She did not speak again until they were alone in their 
 compartment : " People don't die so quickly, Andrew ? " 
 
 But he only said: "Not often. We must hope." 
 
 The train was well out of the suburbs before she said : 
 "If it did happen, I should know it was a judgment 
 from God." 
 
 He looked at her keenly from under his shabby cap; 
 but he neither stirred nor spoke. 
 
 Presently she moved a little closer: "Andrew, I 
 think now I ought to tell you everything." 
 
 She was somewhat daunted by his cool: "As you 
 like." 
 
 " Don't you want to know?" she demanded. 
 
 He meditated a moment, then: "What I want to 
 know I find out for myself. What you wish to tell is 
 another matter altogether." 
 
 She looked at him in wonder. Was he so dense as 
 she had supposed ? How much did he know or guess ? 
 And did he think or suspect that this confession was a 
 voluntary act of penance a peace-offering to God ? 
 
 "It's this way," she said, with an effort at self-pos- 
 session. "To-night I had a balance in my hands, 
 whether to stay or go. I thought I could choose; but 
 the one way was barred to me, and now the other " 
 
 112
 
 Folly 
 
 He did not commit himself as to how much meaning 
 he got out of this tangled speech. 
 
 " Did you know that that Haldane Gore is dying?" 
 
 "No," said he. 
 
 "You know that I that we " 
 
 He did not wince : "I knew that." 
 
 "Then you know that we did our best " She 
 
 closed her eyes against the persistent vision of a little 
 child fighting for breath. "You know that we have 
 always tried to do what was right." 
 
 "I know," said he more quickly. 
 
 "Until to-night. To-night I had made up my mind 
 to drop everything and go away with him. ..." 
 
 He turned abruptly from her and stared at the 
 blank window, not seeing that it reflected his own grim 
 face and her drooping head. 
 
 "Well," said he harshly, "why didn't you?" 
 
 "He would not have me," she answered steadily. 
 
 It was a long time before he asked : " Do you know 
 why?" 
 
 "It comes to me now," she said. "At first I thought 
 he had changed ; but when I remember all that he said, 
 and how he looked, I know that he was only holding 
 both of us to our duty." 
 
 "Why do you tell me all this?" he demanded. 
 
 " I have already explained. I'll make it clearer. It's a 
 bargain, I tell you, with God with the powers that rule 
 earth and heaven. If the baby is spared, I shall take 
 
 it as a sign. ... I shall know my way. If not ..." 
 8 113
 
 Folly 
 
 "I understand," said he. "This is a warning to me. 
 You are gambling again; but you don't quite know 
 the stakes you are playing for." 
 
 She turned her passionate eyes upon him: "I will 
 not lose them both!" 
 
 He looked at her steadily and she interpreted his 
 glance to mean: "And where do I come in?" 
 
 "You go to the wall," said she, "but you've had 
 your chance." 
 
 "It seems, then," said he slowly, "that you are 
 prepared to throw me over, at any moment, for this 
 man who may, or may not want you " 
 
 "I have no doubt in the world!" she cried. "But I 
 should make sure oh, very sure, before I " 
 
 "Dropped me eh? Well, there's sense in that," 
 he said bitterly. "And I am to owe whatever favour I 
 get from you in the future to the continued existence of 
 my son? Is that it? Sounds rather odd." 
 
 "You are to pity me and him and all of us," she 
 whispered, "because you are strong." 
 
 She moved nearer and laid her tired head on his 
 shoulder. He neither repulsed her, nor drew her to 
 him; but after a moment, seized her hand that was 
 toying with the clasp of her cloak seized it and held it 
 fast, chafing it and stroking it, in a sort of gentle pity. 
 
 The carriage was waiting for them at the station; 
 and the coachman leaned forward at once, with a reas- 
 suring message from the doctor. 
 
 They drove in silence until they turned in through 
 114
 
 Folly 
 
 the gateway at Sunlands; then Folly said, more to 
 herself than to him: "I knew it could not happen be- 
 fore I got home." 
 
 In the empty brightly-lighted hall, she unclasped her 
 cloak as if strangled by the weight of it. Then she 
 turned to him, white enough under the radiance of her 
 hair; and he found occasion to wonder that he under- 
 stood her appealing glance. 
 
 "I'll go up and see," he answered, as if she had 
 spoken. 
 
 But she shook her head, and her resolution sprang 
 forth full-grown. 
 
 "No," she said, tossing him her cloak, "I shall go. 
 That is mine to do everything is mine. I shall try to 
 be like your mother." 
 
 She ran up the stairway, and he heard her softly open 
 and close the nursery door ; and the little wail that began 
 in the interval, assured him that all was still well. 
 
 He stood looking down at the empty cloak that he 
 carried on his arm. It was in some measure a symbol 
 of his marriage.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE KEEPING OF THE BARGAIN. 
 
 NOVEMBER at Sunlands is as little dreary as that 
 month of fogs can be in England, for there is nearly 
 always a good breeze blowing off the Downs, and the 
 house turns its windows to every ray of sunshine. Usu- 
 ally Christie was more than content with his inheritance 
 in this time of blazing logs, when a man could give his 
 time to his collections, and the new books and journals; 
 but in this strange year of his life he wasted many hours 
 in lonely fireside ponderings over questions of duty and 
 conduct. It was seriously unlike himself to carry 
 through trains of conjecture, as: "If so-and-so hap- 
 pened, I should," etc., or "In such and such a case," 
 etc. But by the time that he was relieved of immediate 
 anxiety concerning the child's health, he found that the 
 habit had become invincible. 
 
 He had no doubt from the first that Folly intended 
 to hold to her bargain with Providence : her child's life 
 over against her lover's. Horrible as the idea was, it 
 furnished him with grotesque amusement ; no one but 
 
 Folly could have devised it. 
 
 116
 
 Folly 
 
 Meanwhile, she made a slave of herself to the 
 baby, relegating the nurse to the humble post of wait- 
 ing attendant. Her devotion would have been funny if 
 it had not been rendered touching by the grim tragedy 
 behind it. She was practical, too, in her fighting spirit; 
 for upon learning from the doctor that attacks similar 
 to the first were to be expected, she surrounded herself 
 with all possible appliances, and learned by rote the 
 things to be done in case of emergency. To a stranger 
 watching, it would have seemed that her child was the 
 most precious thing on earth to her; but her husband 
 sometimes wondered whether in fighting for its life, she 
 realized also a battle for honour against passion in her 
 soul. 
 
 They were bound to meet often during these days; 
 and at first, upon each occasion, both were conscious 
 of awkwardness and discomfort. It was not possible 
 to allude to her wild confession the night he brought 
 her from town ; but each read the memory of it in the 
 other's eyes. 
 
 And yet, when she had recovered a little from the 
 shock, Folly in the nursery was a picture quaint and 
 pretty enough to distract any man from estate business 
 and local politics, riding, newspapers and correspond- 
 ence with learned bodies. Unf orbidden, Christie found 
 it extremely pleasant to look in, many times a day, to 
 discuss steam-kettles, the vagaries of a thermometer, 
 the pros and cons of glycerine soap, and the symptoms 
 
 of teething. And when there was nothing more to be 
 
 117
 
 Folly 
 
 Said, he often stood, shifting his weight like a school- 
 boy, studying the two by the fire. 
 
 He could not tell whether he liked them best with 
 small Dandle making tangles in his mother's hair, or 
 asleep in the cradle with her foot on the rocker and her 
 hands busy with Shetland wool. She went on making 
 an endless store of tiny socks and jackets and shirts; 
 and it crossed his mind once or twice that she looked 
 upon this array of things as in some sense a pledge 
 from whom, who might say? that he would live to 
 wear them all. From the look of her face it seemed 
 sometimes as if she were knitting all her hopes and 
 dreams into the intricate stitches, as if to hold those 
 fragile blessings safe there for all tune. 
 
 One day he stumbled upon them at the time of the 
 bath, and broke out in a boyish exclamation : 
 
 "I say ! You ought to be painted like that, you 
 know." 
 
 "Quick, the screen," she chid him. "Don't come 
 too near; you're just in from the cold air." 
 
 She knelt by the bath on the hearth-rug, enveloped 
 in a vast blue pinafore, with the nurse looking on, half 
 superior, and half indignant at being deprived of office. 
 Between her own clumsiness with the sponge and the 
 baby's wilful splashing, she was much spotted with 
 water, and her hair hung in damp tendrils about her 
 flushed face. Nevertheless, she was laughing a re- 
 sponse to young Dandie's liberal display of his six 
 
 teeth, and crooning love- words to his gurgles of triumph 
 
 It8
 
 Polly 
 
 in having made her so wet; and the man looking on, 
 could scarcely believe that she was the pale passionate 
 woman who, only a few days before, had been willing 
 to abandon all this at the call of a stranger. Was it 
 acting, he asked himself, or the pride of a spirit that 
 held itself rigidly to a self-imposed contract ? He could 
 not tell. 
 
 One thing he noticed, that much as she cuddled the 
 baby, talked and crooned and laughed over him, she 
 never sang any of the old lullabies that he had learned 
 to listen for in the early spring. Hesitatingly he asked 
 her one day. She shook her head. 
 
 "That would be too much. It has cost dear enough 
 to do what I do." 
 
 He rarely blazed as he did then; and yet first he 
 stood some seconds before her, restraining speech until 
 he could master his words: "We don't want you here 
 Dandie and I if you regret " 
 
 Again she shook her head with a glance at the child 
 that lay crowing on her knee : 
 
 "I don't regret. It was a fair bargain. But you ask 
 me to sing." 
 
 He laughed: "I think I'll go back to my cottage im- 
 provements." And he strode downstairs, wondering 
 if many men were so perplexed, so harassed, in the 
 devious ways of married life. 
 
 But she went to the door and called him back: 
 "Andrew, will you see to it that the telephone is never 
 
 out of order?" 
 
 119
 
 Folly 
 
 "What? There's nothing wrong with it never 
 has been." 
 
 "Then keep it so," she insisted. "We mustn't take 
 any chances." 
 
 " You borrow trouble," he said more kindly. " You'll 
 be distracted when he comes to whooping-cough." 
 
 "I have everything else ready," she pursued, "but I 
 just remembered the telephone. They do go wrong 
 sometimes. . . . There's no reason why he shouldn't 
 grow up perfectly healthy." 
 
 "He'll live to be eighty," Christie agreed heartily. 
 " But you've got to expect croup and the like." 
 
 She turned her head suddenly and went back into 
 the nursery. He followed and found her bent over the 
 cradle, listening to the child's breathing. Presently she 
 looked up and smiled, perhaps touched by his ex- 
 pression : 
 
 " It's all right. I'm a bit nervous." She held out her 
 hand to him: "You're the best man in the world, An- 
 drew St. Andrew! You ought never to have been 
 afflicted with a Folly. What could you expect?" 
 
 "He could not have expected a more devoted mother," 
 said he, keeping her hand. 
 
 "Ah, materkin?" she flushed faintly. "If I were 
 half as good " 
 
 "You're holding your own," was as much as he 
 thought it wise to suggest. 
 
 They came no nearer to an understanding; but even 
 
 this was enough to show them that patched-up lives are 
 
 1 20
 
 Folly 
 
 not intolerable. He clung to the secret hope that the 
 boy would yet bring them together. 
 
 On an afternoon late in the month, with the sun 
 shining clearly between the bare branches, Folly from 
 the window saw her husband riding away down the 
 avenue. She wondered where he was going, and was 
 faintly vexed that he did not glance up toward the 
 nursery. Then she thought about him for a while, and 
 pondered whether he might be lonely now that her life 
 was so utterly absorbed in the duties of motherhood. 
 Yet she knew that she dared not relax not for a mo- 
 ment lest that other grief should catch her in its 
 claws again. . . . 
 
 She fixed her attention upon tracing out the curves 
 and crooks of the branches, upon the homily of a squir- 
 rel over an acorn, upon the degree of purple in the 
 Downs upon various incidents and details of the 
 landscape before her, that might keep her thoughts 
 away from the Forbidden Country. 
 
 There came a sudden chill of twilight as the sun 
 dropped into a cloud; and with it a stir within the 
 room, and the rasping choke that she dreaded and 
 yet listened to hear. 
 
 Instantly her finger was on the bell, and before the 
 frightened nurse came running, she had lighted a spirit- 
 lamp and flung a blanket on the fender to be heated. 
 There was no time for fear or hesitation ; all her powers 
 rushed into action. She hurried one maid to telephone 
 for the doctor, another to fill the hot bath, a third 
 
 121
 
 Folly 
 
 to send a groom to try to find her husband. 
 She herself, with swift strong fingers that neither trem- 
 bled nor fumbled, had unswathed the gasping little 
 body by the time that the hot water was ready. 
 
 She worked, and her mind remembered as she 
 worked; she thought of all things possible and did 
 them. And when the maids huddled together, aimless 
 and weeping, she sent them away, all but the nurse; 
 and dry-eyed went through the whole process that she 
 had so often rehearsed in anticipation. 
 
 She watched the struggle for breath, the little fists 
 beating the air, the blackening of the face; and with 
 grim lips never once relaxed her efforts until the child 
 grew still. 
 
 Then, as the nurse offered a fresh hot blanket, she 
 pushed it away and turned her back; so sat until the 
 doctor came in. And Jenny was afraid to move or 
 speak. 
 
 He was a grave silent man, and crossed over to her 
 without a word. She looked up, and they understood 
 each other. 
 
 He was brief in his examination; and when he would 
 have taken the child from her arms, she drew the 
 blanket close: "Not yet. I knew when it happened; 
 I did all I could." 
 
 He asked a few brief questions and she answered; 
 then turned to him sharply : 
 
 "If you had come sooner " 
 
 "Who can annihilate space?" he said. "But there 
 122
 
 Folly 
 
 was nothing else to do. These attacks are sometimes 
 irresistible." 
 
 "In half an hour or less," she seemed to be thinking 
 aloud. 
 
 "Less much less often," he said. 
 
 They heard the grating of a key, and the opening and 
 closing of a door below. 
 
 "My husband" she was still quiet. "I must go 
 tell him." 
 
 "Let me" he began, but she shook her head, and 
 rose and laid the child in its cradle; then she left the 
 doctor with the sobbing nurse, and went downstairs 
 alone. 
 
 She found Christie glancing over a pile of letters on 
 his desk. 
 
 "Did you meet Cobb?" she asked. 
 
 He turned to look at her and saw what had happened. 
 
 "Yes," she whispered. "You cannot blame me." 
 
 He would have taken her into his arms, but she held 
 him off with hard ringers: "I must go upstairs again. 
 They will tell me what to do. Nobody shall touch him 
 but myself." 
 
 Not a single moment could he keep her; nor had she 
 a pitying glance for his grief. 
 
 123
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE BREAK. 
 
 SHE did not shrink from all there was to do; 
 and when it was finished, sat, neither weeping nor 
 complaining, with her arms about the cradle. She 
 would not move to eat or sleep until her husband 
 came and fetched her, neither speaking nor requiring 
 speech, but insisting, in a manner that left no room 
 for choice, that she hold to the ordinary functions of 
 life. 
 
 She was grateful to him for not troubling her with 
 sympathy, and for arranging that they should have 
 none of the pomps and paraphernalia of funerals. 
 They went alone they two and he let her hold the 
 child in her arms all the way. 
 
 They came back through a drizzling rain and found 
 Mrs. Patrick in the lower hall. 
 
 "Yes, I sent for her," Christie confessed. 
 
 Folly looked at her as if she had been a stranger, 
 then crossed over to stare into the blazing logs. 
 
 There seemed an unnatural stillness in the house 
 that hushed Mabel's voice: "Andrew, I have been 
 
 interfering in your affairs. One of the maids was telling 
 
 124
 
 Folly 
 
 me this morning that those Hunters in the village are in 
 trouble. The boy has sprained his ankle in a trap 
 poaching, I suppose and the old people are helpless 
 with rheumatism . . . and there's no one to earn a 
 penny. ..." 
 
 "I'll ride over and see what can be done," he said, 
 looking at his wife. 
 
 "And then you'll come up and tell us about our 
 poor neighbours," said Mab, slipping an arm through 
 Folly's. 
 
 The afternoon wore away in rain and mist; and 
 Mabel, her fingers busy with lace-work, talked on and 
 on, telling stories of suffering, and sacrifice, and help 
 in trouble; and contented herself with monosyllables 
 or silent rebuffs. 
 
 Finally she tossed her braids and pattern on the 
 table: "This must come to an end, you know." 
 
 "It has come to an end," said Folly quietly. 
 
 "You must rouse yourself." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " I don't want to think you selfish." 
 
 " I am selfish. I always was." 
 
 "That's no reason why you should continue to be." 
 
 Folly shrugged. 
 
 " My dear girl, you are not the only one in the world 
 who has suffered. For heaven's sake, think of other 
 people! " 
 
 Then she saw that she had blundered, as Folly said: 
 
 "I am thinking of one other." 
 
 125
 
 Folly 
 
 "There there there" Mab spoke impatiently 
 "I always put my foot into it. But I'll be blunt now. 
 You should be thinking of one other and that's your 
 husband." 
 
 Folly smiled: "You do not know about the compact, 
 you see; Andrew does. I offered to go with Haldane 
 that night at the play. He would not have me. I need 
 not tell you why. Then Andrew came for me you 
 know how; and I said that if baby were spared, I 
 should hang on here; if not " 
 
 Mrs. Patrick was pale as she seized Folly's hands: 
 "You were mad. You cannot reason like that. It's 
 the twentieth century." 
 
 "If not," continued Folly, "I said that nothing else 
 should keep us apart if he needed me and wanted 
 me. . . ." 
 
 "And you say Andrew knows?" Mabel was in- 
 credulous. 
 
 Folly nodded. 
 
 "And what does he think?" 
 
 "He never said. I don't read his thoughts." 
 
 "Oh, my dear, my dear, you don't know what you 
 are saying! Have you considered well?" 
 
 "The only point that needs consideration now," 
 answered Folly, "is whether Haldane would be the 
 better for my going." 
 
 "There, you see, you have doubts yourself," urged 
 Mabel. 
 
 "Perhaps," said Folly, and added, with sudden 
 
 126
 
 Folly 
 
 energy: "But you must help me there. What do you 
 hear from Gregory?" 
 
 Mabel was silent, taken aback by the suddenness of 
 the demand. 
 
 "It doesn't matter, if you won't speak; I can always 
 go to Biarritz myself." 
 
 "They are no longer at Biarritz," slipped from 
 Mabel. 
 
 "Where then?" 
 
 "Do you think I shall encourage you in your mad- 
 ness?" 
 
 " It's all the same. I shall do without you. But you 
 shall tell me one thing : how is he ? " 
 
 "You hurt me, Folly please, my wrists! He is 
 much the same, I believe." 
 
 "And that hope that hope of Gregory's . . .?" 
 
 "There is so little time, you see," said Mabel pity- 
 ingly. 
 
 "Ah, that is it so little time. I must waste none. 
 And you won't tell me where he is? Surely, Gregory 
 can't stay away much longer; and then he'll need 
 somebody. ... I can read it in your face: Gregory 
 talks of coming home, or Haldane won't let him stop 
 on ... and he will be alone. ..." 
 
 "Perhaps " began Mabel. 
 
 "I was deceived at first," Folly interrupted. "My 
 pride, I suppose. I thought he had changed. . . . 
 But afterwards, I understood : it was as hard for him as 
 for me ... I shall not wait now. I shall go at once. 
 
 I shall find out ... I can at least be there. I can 
 
 127
 
 Folly 
 
 watch from a distance; and when he needs me. . . . 
 He will need me. ..." 
 
 "You are deliberately cutting yourself off from the 
 past ? " said Mabel. 
 
 "From you?" asked Folly keenly. 
 
 "No, I don't count. You know I shall always be 
 the same; but people ..." 
 
 "People!" was the scornful echo. "Mabel, he is 
 dying, and I am here." 
 
 "May I speak to Andrew?" asked Mrs. Patrick 
 suddenly. 
 
 "If you like," said Folly. "He knows all you can 
 say." 
 
 Mabel waited no longer, but went down to the study, 
 where she found Christie, returned from his errand, 
 seemingly idle. At least, she could not perceive that 
 he had been working or reading. 
 
 "I arranged what I could for those people," he 
 began; but paused, perceiving that she had some 
 definite thing to say. 
 
 "Do you know her latest mad plan?" she asked 
 abruptly. 
 
 "Well, yes" he arranged loose sheets of paper on 
 his desk "I suppose so." 
 
 "Surely you will stop her?" she cried, in a breath. 
 
 "What good would that be?" he demanded. 
 
 "Her name and yours" said Mabel faintly. 
 
 "Of course. Well, I don't know what more you 
 
 would have me do ? Lock her up ? Set a watch-dog ? 
 
 128
 
 Folly 
 
 She would probably escape if she were bent on it; and 
 then the scandal would be worse. However, that's not 
 to the point. My attitude isn't the common one, per- 
 haps, but it's this : what isn't mine in fact I won't have 
 in form." 
 
 It was a long speech for Christie to make. Mabel 
 was astonished and almost frightened to hear that he 
 was so far from insisting on his legal claim. 
 
 "And is there no way out?" she asked helplessly. 
 
 "One I can see," he answered, with a sombre look. 
 
 "And that?" 
 
 "Time enough to talk about it when it's come. 
 Some things are bettter not discussed beforehand. 
 When there are two men in such a case, according to 
 our modern ideas one must get out." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 "I assure you that it isn't important at present. 
 If it comes to a question of her good name and 
 mine, I shall consider. But now would you go with 
 her?" 
 
 " She wouldn't have me," said Mabel forlornly. 
 
 "You will try?" 
 
 "Of course. But where you have failed, what can 
 I say ? And yet all the time, while I know she is wrong, 
 and I try to reason with her " 
 
 "In 'Paolo and Francesca,'" said he, smiling 
 faintly, " the part of Giovanni is awkward to play." 
 
 "You wouldn't you wouldn't ?" she stam- 
 mered. 
 
 9 129
 
 Folly 
 
 "That method seems to be out of date. I have my 
 own." 
 
 "You wouldn't you couldn't divorce her?" she 
 persisted. 
 
 He looked reproach: "Trust me. I shall manage it 
 decently. Will you ask her to come down now ? " 
 
 Folly obeyed at once, and found him standing with 
 his back to the light. 
 
 "As to money " he began abruptly. 
 
 "I have my own income," she interrupted. 
 
 "Further than that, there will be your usual allow- 
 ance for as long" he was in some doubt how to con- 
 clude his sentence. 
 
 "No, thank you," she said quickly. "I want money 
 I need it; but I want my freedom more." 
 
 "I'm sorry," said he slowly, "that I cannot give you 
 that altogether." 
 
 "You you are good" she tried to express grati- 
 tude. 
 
 "Spare me that. The only straight thing is to 
 let you go; but I'd give my right hand " he 
 held it out in his extreme earnestness "if I could 
 make you see your mistake! If ever you want 
 help " 
 
 She shook her head in proud refusal. 
 
 "I suppose I'd better better clear out to-night, and 
 then you can take your time." 
 
 She tried to control her trembling as she said: "You 
 
 have never once pleaded for yourself, Andrew. Don't 
 
 130
 
 Folly 
 
 think I did not notice don't think me utterly without 
 regard for you and your name. ..." 
 
 "I think you'd better let me help you upstairs," he 
 urged gently. 
 
 At the door of her room he paused, breathing hard: 
 "It's good-bye, I suppose." 
 
 "Andrew, I swear to you, if he were not dying " 
 
 " Don't ! " he exclaimed roughly. " I'm only human." 
 And without kiss or caress he turned and left her.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 CASTING OFF THE ROPES. 
 
 MRS. PATRICK woke the following day with a violent 
 headache, wondering whether she had slept a single 
 hour during the night. Nevertheless, she entered the 
 breakfast-room at the usual time, and was amazed to 
 find Folly seated at the little bureau in which she kept 
 her household accounts and other business matters. 
 She looked round with a faint smile as Mabel entered. 
 
 "I am trying to set my house in order," she said, 
 writing rapidly as she spoke. "Andrew went by the 
 ten o'clock train last night." 
 
 Mrs. Patrick sat down by the fire; and as the maid 
 was bringing in the breakfast, she made no further 
 comment than a low- voiced: "And have you been to 
 bed at all?" 
 
 Folly did not answer; but as Mabel continued after 
 that in pensive silence, said presently: "I suppose we 
 must eat." She stamped half a dozen envelopes: 
 "There, I think that completes everything." 
 
 "What have you been doing?" asked Mabel, as they 
 
 took their places at the table. 
 
 132
 
 Folly 
 
 "Getting ready," answered Folly, in a tone of sur- 
 prise. 
 
 "You are going, then?" Mabel groaned. 
 
 "Did you ever doubt it?" 
 
 "What shall I say to you what can I?" 
 
 "Fish or bacon?" asked Folly. 
 
 Then Mabel hid her face, laughing and crying to- 
 gether. 
 
 "Don't be hysterical," said Folly. "We're always 
 having to choose, you know. You won't? Well, you 
 shall have fish; it's good for the nervous system." 
 
 Mabel pushed away her plate: "It isn't too late yet, 
 Folly." 
 
 "Much," was the calm answer. "Mrs. Brent can 
 take charge perfectly well until Andrew decides what 
 he wants to do with the house." She rose and returned 
 to the fire. 
 
 "Do you mean to say," implored Mabel, "that you 
 are going to work all morning on a cup of coffee and a 
 scrap of toast?" 
 
 "It's enough," answered Folly. "Besides, I've done 
 most of my work. I'm just thinking over what I may 
 have omitted." 
 
 "For Andrew's comfort?" asked Mabel ironically. 
 
 "To be sure. I needn't add the little worries 
 to the big." She counted off on her fingers, ending: 
 "And the letter to mater. Do you know, Mab, I 
 remembered this morning that I am just a common 
 thief." 
 
 133
 
 Folly 
 
 Accustomed to Folly's forms of speech, Mabel waited 
 without comment. 
 
 "It's quite true. Last month I stole thirty pounds 
 from Andrew's mother, and got fifty pounds more 
 under well, I suppose they call it false pretences. 
 It wasn't kleptomania, either just insanity. But last 
 night, when I was thinking more sanely, I decided that 
 I wouldn't keep it after all. There couldn't be any virtue 
 in it, got that way. I'll use my own and no more. So 
 I'm returning it this morning with a letter. Poor little 
 materkin! But it shows what I might come to yet." 
 
 "Do you know," said Mabel. "I lay awake nearly 
 all night, thinking about your affairs?" 
 
 "I'm sorry," answered Folly, "because you can't 
 mend them. What time do you propose going up to 
 town?" 
 
 "I don't know" Mrs. Patrick brushed aside the 
 question. " But, Folly, you wouldn't greatly mind my 
 going with you to Biarritz, would you? You could 
 always shake me off at any time " 
 
 "I'm not so sure of that," mused Folly. "But I am 
 quite clear that it is better for me in every way to be 
 alone." 
 
 "I want to go," insisted Mabel. 
 
 "No" Folly stood at bay. 
 
 Mabel was silent, but looked decision unutterable. 
 
 "I don't want you, Mab," said Folly gently, "and 
 what's more, I won't have you. And people will 
 
 say " 
 
 134
 
 Folly 
 
 "Do you think that you alone can brave public 
 opinion?" protested Mab. 
 
 "They will say that you are running after you know 
 whom." 
 
 The tears rose to Mabel's eyes. "I don't care," she 
 insisted stoutly. 
 
 "But you do. And what will he think himself? 
 Anyway, I don't know what's to happen, and I won't 
 have you in the mix-up so there you are!" 
 
 Mrs. Patrick seized Folly's cold fingers in one last 
 entreaty: "You have just told me you repented about 
 the money, and how will it be about the greater sin ? " 
 
 "It wasn't repentance," answered Folly wearily, "it 
 was superstition. I hadn't had time to think about it 
 before. And I'm tired of arguments. Oh, we have 
 talked, Andrew and I." 
 
 Mabel's spirit was suddenly aflame: "You should 
 have had a brute of a husband to beat you into sub- 
 mission!" 
 
 "It would have been so easy, then," was the unex- 
 pected answer. "It is Andrew's very goodness that 
 scourges me. Do you suppose I have not considered 
 every inch of his position as well as my own? And 
 when I have lost half the time in holding to my lawful 
 duty, can you say it is not necessity that drives me? 
 Ah, if you could make me see with other eyes, you 
 would have the power of God himself!" 
 
 "And that's true," said Mabel sorrowfully, as they 
 parted. 
 
 135
 
 Folly 
 
 They met again at luncheon and made a show of 
 eating and talking, but accomplished little of either. 
 Any attempt on Mabel's part to hark back to the sub- 
 ject of the morning was met by an impenetrable barrier 
 of silence. 
 
 As they left the table Mrs. Patrick said: "I have 
 decided upon the three o'clock train." 
 
 "Certainly," said Folly, "I will order the carriage. 
 And afterward,s Barker can come back for me." 
 
 "You are going ?" 
 
 "At four-fifteen. I can't be ready before. You 
 won't mind going up alone?" 
 
 "You'll come to me in town?" 
 
 "Thank you, dear. I shall be crossing to-night, I 
 hope." 
 
 As they said farewell, Mabel whispered: "You can 
 never get rid of me, you know." 
 
 And Folly: " Bless you, dear!" 
 
 She waited until the carriage turned the curve, then 
 went upstairs into the empty nursery. 
 
 It was nearly four o'clock when she came out, with 
 the look of one who had passed through the deepest 
 waters and, though panting still from the struggle, 
 hopes and strains toward the land. 
 
 The carriage had been waiting some time, the lug- 
 gage strapped on, and Barker was consulting his 
 watch and growing uneasy, when she came down and 
 after a moment's hesitation in the hall, went into her 
 
 husband's study. 
 
 136
 
 Folly 
 
 Already it had a despoiled look : the desk was locked, 
 the blinds were down, and there was an indescribable 
 bareness as if some important thing were missing. So 
 strong was this feeling upon her that she made a definite 
 search to discover what was gone; and after a time 
 remembered that it was numerous photographs of her- 
 self, at all ages and in all guises, together with the 
 large carbon of herself and baby, the only one that she 
 had ever had taken. But whether he had carried them 
 with him, or locked them away out of sight, she could 
 not divine. 
 
 At the beginning of the new life, she stood and looked 
 back upon the old; in the presence of the untried, she 
 remembered much that had been sweet in the ways 
 that she was leaving. 
 
 "Oh, I am sorry, I am sorry!" she thought, with a 
 pang. "And I never told him." 
 
 All in a moment she grew weak and feared that she 
 could not go, so summoned her failing strength and 
 almost ran out of the room. 
 
 Once in the carriage, she did not look back; and 
 when she arrived at the station, just as the train stopped, 
 with scarcely a second to spare, her remorse gave way 
 to the strong exultation of one who, whether for right 
 or wrong, for blessing or woe, has cast off the ropes and 
 entered upon a new voyage. 
 
 137
 
 BOOK II. 
 THE CITY OF THORNS.
 
 'May Love, by whom alone we live, 
 
 Fullness grant of grace ; 
 One fleeting hour may he give, 
 Ere Death shall win the race." 
 
 J. HALDANE GORE, after Holbein.
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 DREAMS. 
 
 ON a low round hill between the headland of Higuer 
 and the broad sandy plage lies the walled town of 
 Espinal the grim half-empty shell of an ancient Span- 
 ish city, decaying among its maize fields. Of its origin 
 history knows no word; but legend tells how a poor 
 shepherdess, cursed with an incurable disease, was one 
 day watching her flock high above the sea, when sud- 
 denly against the sky she beheld a lady all shining with 
 gold, her feet whiter than the blossoms of a thorn-tree 
 on which they rested. As the shepherdess knelt, know- 
 ing well that this could be only the Mother of God, the 
 Lady stooped to pluck a spray of flowers, let it fall at 
 the poor woman's feet, and said smiling: "Remember 
 me by this." And straightway she was gone. But 
 where the thorn blossom had dropped among dry 
 heather and stinging gorse, now it floated in a tiny 
 spring that bubbled from the earth, and grew ever 
 larger as it welled. And when the shepherdess bent in 
 all reverence to gather up the flower-spray, the moment 
 that her hand touched the water she knew that she 
 
 was healed. So she took the holy thing in her kerchief, 
 
 141
 
 Folly 
 
 daring not to lay finger upon it, and carried it to her 
 priest and told him her tale. 
 
 In witness whereof you have to-day the chapel and 
 shrine of Our Lady of the Thorn-tree, together with 
 the sisterhood that still tends the unwithered sacred 
 spray in its golden reliquary, and the manifold de- 
 scendants of the sacred tree that crowd the cloister, and 
 the sacred spring that still bubbles in the crypt. And 
 again, you have the name itself Espinal, place of 
 thorns in later days bestowed upon the valley-town 
 that grew up and blossomed and died in the cult of this 
 wonder-working shrine. 
 
 And still the miracle goes on from day to day, from 
 year to year; and the tale of those that are healed covers 
 the chapel walls with golden letters. Every April, from 
 all the country round, there is a pilgrimage to the 
 mountain-church of Espinal; and after, until the year 
 swings back in its circle, at the harvesting or by the 
 fireside, the peasants tell of the fresh cures that are 
 wrought. 
 
 At other seasons, the town is as dead as its ancient 
 monarch, Sancho Clawfoot, who sleeps in the black 
 fort that crowns the hill. The emblazoned gateways 
 are undefended and half broken away, and the moat 
 is choked with Indian corn. The cathedral, gilded 
 within by the piety of those that have built them stately 
 tombs there, and without by the golden- fingered sun, 
 is crumbling away, stone by stone. The high shuttered 
 
 houses, with their carven roofs and balconies overhung 
 
 142
 
 Folly 
 
 with flowers, seem always silent and empty; and few 
 are they that pass up and down the mouldering stair- 
 ways. It is nearly three hundred years since, in a 
 petty war, she perished whose battlements had daunted 
 the Romans, and defied the Goths, and turned aside 
 the Moors; and she will never wake again among the 
 cities of the world. She has had her Cid, not sung like 
 him of Burgos; and in her time she has sent flotillas to 
 the Indies; and now she boasts by way of citizens a 
 handful of fisherman that net the bay at her feet, and 
 a few nail-workers and makers of hemp-soled alpar- 
 gatas, who toil a little, and smoke much, and sing now 
 and then, as they hammer and bind along her shady 
 streets. One of the world's retreats is Espinal, un- 
 written, unsung, unvisited. 
 
 It was by the idlest concatenation of events that 
 Gregory and his patient found themelves in the " City 
 of Thorns." Gore had all at once sickened of Biarritz 
 and threatened a return to England; and Gregory, in a 
 maze of futile experiments, worried, hopeless, but teased 
 onward by an indomitable will, had plucked up cheer 
 to say: "Let's drop everything for a week or two, and 
 have a look over the Border." 
 
 So they had journeyed idly from one wayside station 
 to another, till they came to Erro, where there is noth- 
 ing but a miserable inn and a neglected unlovely 
 church. Undoubtedly they would have gone farther, 
 had not Gore noticed a dusty diligence, empty yet 
 
 143
 
 Folly 
 
 waiting at the door of the jonda, as if it hoped to pick 
 up a passenger or two. In the spirit of adventure, they 
 essayed it; and without asking its destination, jogged 
 comfortably along with the driver, now dropping a 
 limp mail-bag, now picking up a packet of medicine, 
 or, it might be, a country-girl with a basketful of fowls 
 on her head, or a priest too fat to walk between the 
 confines of his parish. After many kilometres, they 
 judged, of easy mule-work, they alighted on the sandy 
 bank of a river that emptied into the sea before their 
 eyes; and upon their demand what place was this, 
 they were seized by a brawny Basque ferryman, and 
 dragged to the corner of his hut, the while he pointed 
 to the sudden apparition of a great mountain and a 
 city on a dome-like hill in its shadow, ejaculating, 
 "Higuer Espinal" upon which, at that time, they 
 were none the wiser. Even more, he raised a forefinger 
 toward the spire that flung itself into the sky far above 
 them, and murmured, "Nuestra Senora de las Es- 
 pinas," and bared his head, with the sign of the Cross, 
 making a prayer. 
 
 They were rowed over, in and out among the shal- 
 lows of the tidal stream, and when they had climbed 
 the steep Calle Marina, through the war-beaten gate, 
 and had set eyes upon the empty winding street above, 
 with its double burden of many- coloured houses, they 
 said to each other that this was the quiet place they had 
 been looking for, all their lives. 
 
 Still in the spirit of adventure, they had established 
 144
 
 Folly 
 
 themselves in a little fonda, all stucco and carvings 
 and balconies outside; and within, clean and bare and 
 silent in that at this season there were no other guests 
 than themselves. 
 
 From their windows they could watch the misty sun 
 climb out of the sea and burn into a white radiance that 
 streamed down upon the huddle of red roofs over- 
 topped by the black fort and the golden-domed cathe- 
 dral; they could watch it sink behind the ridge of pur- 
 ple mountain with its sky-piercing spire. 
 
 Through sunny lazy days, all too short, they wan- 
 dered between the cliff-like houses, where the streets 
 were often given over to rooting pigs or goats browsing 
 on the grass between the cobbles. Very soon they 
 began to exchange greetings with the children, and to 
 talk with the elders, feeble relics of an old humanity 
 that has lingered on in this one spot for perhaps two 
 thousand years and more. They idled on the walls, 
 and worked out the ancient plan of the city, and the 
 engineering devices by which it was at length over- 
 thrown. More than once they sailed out with the fish- 
 ermen; and often they trod the stony foot-paths among 
 the Basque farms and orchards, set out with heavy- 
 timbered gay-painted, galleried homesteads, gabled 
 unevenly, proudly carved with name and date and the 
 arms of the valley, hung out above with great bunches 
 of dried herbs that sweetened all the air, and tenanted 
 below by the beasts of the field. 
 
 In these quiet days they forgot time. Whether on the 
 10 145
 
 Folly 
 
 sands, or high on the hill, or within the barbaric 
 church, or on the bench at the door of the jonda, 
 Gregory pondered over the various aspects of his prob- 
 lem, and strove to gather up his scattered results into a 
 theory that should further his intention; while Gore 
 mused upon the beauty that informed the scene, and 
 sometimes had a dim sense that his singing-gift might 
 return. 
 
 But the change came with the swiftness of tragedy, 
 on a day when the fine weather broke in a gust of 
 blinding rain. 
 
 Gregory came in from the post and found Gore 
 staring at the ragged sodden garden. 
 
 "Still at your beloved tamarisks?" said he, feigning 
 good cheer. 
 
 But Gore was alert with: "Any letters?" 
 
 "One for me, and some papers. That's all the post 
 office saw fit to hand over." 
 
 They sat down to luncheon in silence. Gore twid- 
 dled his spoon, without attempting to eat. 
 
 "Look here," said Gregory suddenly, "this won't 
 do. We've wasted enough time. I think we'll go to 
 Paris. I've a new notion that you might consult 
 Brousseau." 
 
 "Consult the devil!" said Gore hotly. "You've got 
 to get back to London, as I've said fifty times already. 
 When a man can't take a hint ..." 
 
 "Hints?" said Gregory. "It's my business now to 
 
 see that you take your beef-tea." 
 
 146
 
 Folly 
 
 "Spoon-meat," grumbled Gore. "The next stage 
 will be a feeding-bottle. If I've got to die, star- 
 vation is better than the alternative. Pass the 
 oranges, will you ? With them I can still pretend to 
 be a man." 
 
 There was another gloomy silence, during which 
 Gore played with his orange, then he said with a 
 laugh: "What particular demon of the legion is it that 
 tempts a man to hope for the impossible ? " 
 
 Evidently Gregory read a particular meaning into 
 these words for he responded: "But why should she 
 write?" 
 
 "Why, indeed?" Gore was ironic. 
 
 Gregory hesitated: "I have a piece of news for you. 
 My letter was from Mrs. Patrick. ..." 
 
 " I knew it. Is the wooing on or off ?" 
 
 "I am not aware of any wooing," answered Gregory 
 stiffly. "The news is they have lost their child." 
 
 Gore was silent a long time before he said, as if 
 thinking aloud, "What will she do now?" and followed 
 it up with a quick, " By God, man, if I were half alive, 
 I'd go back yet!" 
 
 "You would, would you?" said Gregory drily. 
 "Then it's a good thing you're not." 
 
 "You don't know ..." 
 
 "I know there's been a hell of a muddle, and you'd 
 make it worse if you could." 
 
 " Don't jump on a man that's down." 
 
 "I'm not jumping; but I don't want you to get 
 147
 
 Folly 
 
 back into that tangle. You do the right thing 
 for once in your life the sort of thing any decent chap 
 would do and then when you've got safely away, 
 you want to go back and upset the whole business." 
 
 " Don't you worry. I'm not going back. So let me 
 have my howl in peace." 
 
 Gregory shrugged: "I don't mind. But I'm going 
 back to Biarritz anyway and then very likely to 
 Paris." 
 
 "Same old thing?" asked Gore. 
 
 Gregory nodded : " I've a new idea. ..." 
 
 "Oh, drop it ; you're not the hundredth man. Go back 
 to your surgery. There's something indecent about 
 the way you're trying to stretch out my existence." 
 
 "What have you been doing this morning?" asked 
 Gregory, to turn the subject. 
 
 "Working six lines or so. Pater's allowance, 
 wasn't it? But I'm not proud of them. Going to be 
 in this afternoon? Then I'll retreat. I don't want to 
 get on your nerves." 
 
 "Turn it the other way about," said Gregory, 
 unoffended. 
 
 He began to arrange his pamphlets and papers, and 
 Gore went upstairs to a certain shabby green arm- 
 chair in which he often found comfort. It was adapted 
 by long experience to a lounging body; and he had 
 rendered it more companionable by a series of friendly 
 and suggestive holes burnt by the ashes of countless 
 
 cigarettes. Here he fell to smoking idly and watching 
 
 148
 
 Folly 
 
 the grey sea pour its tides along the sands; but soon 
 perceived that he was vaguely disturbed by the absence 
 of the woman across the way. 
 
 His room had two windows, one overlooking the 
 roofs below on the hill, the top of the city wall, the 
 beach and the bay; the other facing a narrow cross 
 street and a tall house let out in tenements. In the 
 room on a level with his, he had been wont to study his 
 neighbour, as an excuse for not working. On this day, 
 he was displeased to find that her shutters were closed; 
 perhaps she too was cold and desolate, and had gone 
 with others of her kind to huddle over a brazier of 
 charcoal. 
 
 She reminded him vaguely of Folly, this young 
 Basque woman, with her wavy tawny hair. She ap- 
 peared to be a seamstress, living quite alone with her 
 baby. From Monday to Saturday she bent over her 
 machine; but on Sunday she went soberly to mass in 
 the morning, leaving the child with a neighbour; and 
 in the afternoon she and the baby together blossomed 
 like flowers on her little balcony. 
 
 At one time or another, Gore had seen most of her 
 little domestic operations. They were done frankly, in 
 the full light of day. She had no scruples against comb- 
 ing her beautiful hair before a looking-glass by the 
 window; and then she was like Titian's "Laura 
 Dianti," heavier of build, more exuberant than Folly, 
 he remembered. . . . Often he would hear her chir- 
 ruping to the baby to keep it quiet, as she moved about 
 
 149
 
 Polly 
 
 getting her breakfast ; and sometimes she sang it lulla- 
 bies in a strange soft tongue of which he understood 
 no word, to plaintive tunes that made the body throb 
 and thrill with the longing to dance. 
 
 Sometimes she leaned far from her balcony, perhaps 
 aware of his watching presence ; and then he could see 
 that she was very different from Folly, with full rosy 
 lips that might be sweet, but were not over-sensitive, 
 or prone to forbid. 
 
 She always ate her breakfast by the window, dipping 
 her hard roll into a bowl of chocolate. He may have 
 imagined that the smell of it drifted to him across the 
 street, but he was very sure in his own mind that it was 
 not coffee she drank. Sometimes, as she sat munching, 
 she had her baby across her knees; and the picture of 
 the two of them against the dim background of the 
 room made him homesick with longing for a life that 
 he should never know. Sometimes, when apparently 
 for no reason at all, she smiled out into the sunshine, 
 with a swift sparkle of eyes and teeth, he could have 
 cried out to her: "Come over, Folly!" 
 
 He often wondered who the man was; she seemed 
 so absolutely alone. Of a Sunday evening now and 
 then, she would bring out writing materials to the 
 window, and purse her lips over a long-enduring letter. 
 And even when the pen spared her blots, there were 
 times when her left hand was not quick enough to wipe 
 away the tears, so that her page was rarely other than 
 
 ink-splashed, he was sure. . . . Was the man a sailor, 
 
 150
 
 Folly 
 
 he wondered, and would he come back some day to 
 make her happy ? It would be a different life- tale then 
 from his own and Folly's. . . . 
 
 To-day he missed her indeed, he found that he 
 could not work without seeing her busy and happy over 
 the way; she had become in some curious manner his 
 only inspiration. 
 
 "Where's the bit I was doing this morning?" he 
 rummaged among the loose sheets in his portfolio. "I 
 must have torn it up by mistake with the other stuff 
 no, here it is," He began to read: 
 
 "A little church where village feet that press 
 The vintage, meek the way of prayer have trod, 
 And beaten out the name and lineage 
 Of him whose crest ..." 
 
 ' ' Smells of decay already, ' ' he muttered. ' ' B etter cut 
 it short. Suppose I have a fancy for messing with such 
 themes, what's the good of them to the living? I'm 
 outside the garden, ready for the unknown road ; they're 
 still within, among the flowers and snakes, thanking 
 God that the call is not for them yet. If I write at all, 
 I ought to try to help them to live, not to die that 
 comes without learning. 
 
 "Posterity? I wonder what put into my head that 
 old Viking sentry who scratched a picture of himself 
 and his horse on a stone, and wrote: 'So-and-so kept 
 watch here.' And I who know the tale have forgotten
 
 Folly 
 
 the name. That was a little thousand years ago. And 
 in ten thousand? . . . There's nothing washes out so 
 fast as printer's ink. But for the present even, have I 
 got anything that needs to be told ? 
 
 " ' The builder with his trowel wrought a day ' which 
 is the very point. To the rubbish heap, my friend. 
 
 "'Thou errant lad' but who cares for an old 
 monk's scrawl on a musty manuscript? Away, 'thou 
 little piping boy!' 
 
 " ' Oh, it's I that stray along the windy moorland 
 road' . . . there are banshees enough for All Souls' 
 Eve. 
 
 ' That winter's night 
 When hawthorn white 
 Bloweth as in May, 
 God's self once dight 
 His streaming bright 
 Lanthorn for our way. ' 
 
 " Rather old-fashioned and out of date that. Here 
 goes; they'll all come out papier mache' dolls one day, 
 or something equally delightful and useful. ... If a 
 man can't be a great poet, he has no business to be a 
 poet at all. The little I had to say, I've said, and it 
 will be forgotten soon, as it deserves to be. And now 
 that we've cleared the board, it remains only to write 
 no others. What can a half-man do with himself but 
 get out of the way as fast and as decently as he can ? 
 
 f l Now as for Greg he's got to go home next week. 
 152
 
 Folly 
 
 The little game he has been playing is a dead loss all 
 round. I believe he only keeps it up for appearance's 
 sake. He must get back to his Mrs. Patrick; and I 
 shall make shift where I am. What's the difference ? I 
 have arranged everything. Ah, if she were here. ..." 
 
 He turned aside from the perilous sweetness of that 
 thought, and scribbled a while : random verses, phrases, 
 scraps of thought blurred, distorted. At last he gave 
 up the attempt, and tossing his fifth cigarette, scarcely 
 begun, through the window, to rejoice the goatherd 
 then piping below with his flock, he clasped his hands 
 behind his head, and gave himself over to the host of 
 forbidden dreams that came thronging. 
 
 He heard Gregory's voice below, and wondered idly 
 who was his visitor. Perhaps, after all, if by some mira- 
 cle it was Folly Folly come to take the chain of his 
 days into her strong white hands, and to. weave them 
 into a web of joy Folly, fled from hcftne and duty at 
 the call of his love Folly come to the City of Thorns. 
 
 He deluded himself into thinking that it was a 
 woman's voice that he heard hers; but presently sank 
 back in his chair, mumbling: "Dreams dreams." 
 
 Soon the vision returned, with teasing lips and allur- 
 ing eyebrows. She called him foolish for wanting her, 
 she laughed and said she would not stay; and with the 
 very speaking, she cuddled on his arm-chair, whisper- 
 ing: "I don't love you one little bit; but I've come to 
 torment you as long as as long as ..." 
 
 He sprang to his feet, staring about the room. The 
 153
 
 Folly 
 
 words had been so plain so plain: "Tell him I am 
 here." 
 
 He tried to speak to call to Gregory; but his voice 
 stuck in his throat. "Like everything else, damn 
 it ! " he cursed. 
 
 As soon as he had reasoned himself into a state of 
 quiescence, back she came, sweeter than before and 
 kissed him. . . . That voice again intolerable! It 
 sounded like a smothered cry, and he could distin- 
 guish no words; but it was so real that he seemed to 
 feel its cadence lingering in the air after it had ceased. 
 
 He listened, every nerve on the strain; but aside 
 from the opening and shutting of a door below, the 
 house was absolutely still. 
 
 Before he had recovered his train of dreams, Gregory 
 came hastily up the stairs. 
 
 "What's wrong?" he asked, reading suspicion and 
 even a strange conviction in Gore's eyes. 
 
 "She is here?" 
 
 "No." But his face betrayed the truth. 
 
 " She has been." 
 
 " She has gone away." 
 
 Gore started to his feet and would have left the room 
 without a word; but Gregory caught and held him in 
 his arms. 
 
 "No, you don't," said he quietly. "Hear what I 
 have to say first." 
 
 154
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 REALITY. 
 
 GREGORY was not aware of any feeling of surprise 
 when the pale narrow-eyed woman whom the Basque 
 servant showed into the sitting-room announced her- 
 self as Mrs. Christie, and asked to see Gore. He was 
 conscious of thinking only that the ferryman was late; 
 or else that she had had a long search for them, which 
 in a place where there were only two Englishmen was 
 almost incredible, if she knew enough Spanish to ask a 
 question or two; or it might be that she had had the 
 grace to hesitate before she entered their door. 
 
 "He is upstairs," he answered, pushing forward a 
 chair. " Can I do anything for you ? " 
 
 "Is he much worse?" she asked. Her appearance 
 was so obscured by her long travelling cloak and veil 
 that only from her voice could he judge of the charm 
 that had drawn his friend's mind from its pivotal 
 centre. 
 
 He shrugged. 
 
 "I came from England to find out." As Gregory 
 said nothing, she added: "I may see him now?" 
 
 155
 
 Folly 
 
 "In a moment" he was striving to gain time. 
 "May I ask how you found us?" 
 
 "Easy enough" she smiled faintly. "I got the 
 Biarritz address to which letters were forwarded; and 
 there, they directed me further. You have not an- 
 swered my questions." 
 
 "As to seeing him" Gregory flushed "I cannot 
 forbid that at present not even as his physician. 
 But as his friend, may I ask you without impertinence 
 whether you quite realize the state of affairs?" 
 
 "I realize that he is very ill," said she. "And you 
 have told me nothing more." 
 
 "You would not observe much change; but the dis- 
 ease has progressed. A crisis is possible almost any 
 day; but yet under the best conditions it may be 
 staved off for a considerable time." 
 
 "What do you mean by 'the best conditions'?" she 
 demanded. 
 
 "Perfect quiet peace of mind proper care" he 
 was beginning; but seeing the light in her face, gave 
 his sentence a rough turn: "Every woman jthinks she 
 can supply those, no doubt." 
 
 "And is she wrong?" she asked, in her thrilling 
 voice. 
 
 "To be candid" he frowned upon her "I find 
 myself in a most awkward, not to say embarrassing 
 position." 
 
 "It need not embarrass you," she answered coolly. 
 
 "You have only to take me as I come." 
 
 156
 
 Folly 
 
 "You don't understand" his tone softened a little 
 in spite of himself. "I mean, as to my own course of 
 action." 
 
 "Ah!" she said, and waited. 
 
 "As his physician, I believe in telling you plain 
 facts, if you demand them; as his friend, I am not clear 
 where my duty lies." 
 
 "Then I should think you'd better speak as the phy- 
 sician. Have you any hope of a cure ?" 
 
 "None." He met her eyes squarely, and she did not 
 falter. 
 
 "You thought once " 
 
 " Ah, yes, and I still think it may be done. I may even 
 be on the right track. But not in the time not in the 
 time" he concluded rather to himself, as if forgetting 
 her presence. 
 
 She was silent a moment, with bowed head, then 
 looked up bravely: "But if that is true, I have no time 
 to lose." 
 
 "What do you think you could do for him?" asked 
 Gregory bluntly, studying her with frank curiosity. 
 
 "Do you suppose I have not asked myself that 
 question hundreds of times?" She caught her breath, 
 and turned upon him: "What do you think?" 
 
 "I think probably you could hasten his death." 
 There was stern condemnation in Gregory's voice. 
 
 "How?" she would know. 
 
 "Put the case," he continued more gently. "When 
 a man is ill, the very physical changes that precede the 
 
 157
 
 Folly 
 
 end usually cut him loose from life and the desire of 
 
 living long before " 
 
 He spared her the conclusion of his sentence; and 
 she was quick to ask: "As his friend now, can you say 
 that he has already forgotten me?" 
 
 No; it was evident that he could not honestly say 
 that. 
 
 "Ah!" she forgot her sorrow in triumph "then I 
 have still a little time." 
 
 "A little while" he granted her "a little while 
 longer, it may go on. But do you expect a dying man 
 to love you? The idea is horrible absurd, as well. 
 We put all those things away before." 
 " Do we ? " she asked. " Do we ? " 
 And he only: "Is it worth the sacrifice?" 
 But she insisted: "I am the judge of that." 
 He thought her dense. "Oh, I know, when one 
 wants to give, it's difficult to realize that the gift may 
 not be advisable or or acceptable." 
 
 She seemed not to have caught the last word: "If 
 you had seen me at Biarritz," she began hastily, and 
 then stopped and changed the form of her thought: 
 "It was not by an easy way that I came here. Even 
 when I had got so far only to find you gone I had 
 another struggle to reason out whether I was doing 
 not right, but what was best for all of us. I walked up 
 and down the sands up and down before the Casino 
 there you know? I never once thought of turning 
 
 back; but to go on where one was not sure when the 
 
 158
 
 Folly 
 
 other had made no sign it seemed temptingly easy 
 rather to slip off the rocks into that vivid sea and forget 
 everything. But it would have been shirking. Oh, I 
 thought it well out, as I tramped backwards and for- 
 wards until my feet were like lead. And in the end, di- 
 rection came by chance or, if I were superstitious, I 
 should say by revelation. The sands were hot in the 
 sun that day; and as I wandered among the crowd of 
 strangers, I caught sight of a man sitting unobserved, 
 it seemed, in the shadow of the Casino steps. I could 
 have thought I did think that nobody else saw him, 
 for his dress should have attracted wonder, even jeers. 
 
 It was a sort of white monk's robe and sandals " 
 
 Gregory's eyes asked plainly: "Why all this to me?'* 
 "And his hair and beard were chestnut brown and 
 uncut, and his eyes as blue as the sea on which they 
 were bent; and he sat absolutely still, with his hands 
 clasped over a long staff that I afterward saw was a 
 shepherd's crook. Every time I went up and down, I 
 felt impelled to look at him; but he never seemed to 
 have moved or withdrawn his eyes from the sea. The 
 last time, then I had made up my mind to go away 
 from the temptation there I found him standing and 
 leaning on the crook; and as I gazed, he fixed his eyes 
 upon me, and I forgot everything else in the world. I 
 don't know whether he spoke; I seemed to see the 
 words coming from his lips: "The path of thorns for 
 you." I don't know what followed I was blind and 
 when I looked again, he was gone." 
 
 159
 
 Folly 
 
 "I remember," said Gregory suddenly, "we heard of 
 that man. The story came to me that he was harm- 
 lessly mad, and believed himself one of the prophets ; but 
 somebody told Gore that he was an impostor had 
 been an artist's model and made a living by palmistry 
 and fortune-telling . . . that's Biarritz for you." 
 
 "No matter, it served," she said, with a touch of 
 enthusiasm in her voice. "As I turned away, the 
 meaning of the words flashed upon me as fiercely as if 
 it had been written in fire: "The path of thorns 
 Espinal." But still I was not content. I said, I will 
 try one more test it will be the third and I will abide 
 by the lot, whichever way it falls. I was mad, no doubt; 
 you will say so. But I had no hesitation. I walked 
 straight into the Casino and staked all on a single 
 throw: Espinal or the rocks. I took the first money I 
 touched and threw down a ten-pound note; two sec- 
 onds later I gathered up five thousand francs. So I 
 came." 
 
 What could he do with a woman like this? thought 
 Gregory. Aloud he said: "Have you no fear in play- 
 ing with your life and fate?" 
 
 "I knew," she answered quietly, "but I wanted the 
 seal of chance. What can you say?" 
 
 "Nothing but go ahead and pay after," he replied 
 coldly. 
 
 "We're in the minority, and must suffer for that, I 
 suppose. Society exacts its payment; but if I can do 
 
 anything to make it less hard for him now ?" 
 
 160
 
 Folly 
 
 He turned to her impatiently; he had answered that 
 argument before: "He is bound to suffer. What on 
 earth can you do? You'll remember my words when 
 it's too late." 
 
 "Let him decide, then, whether he wants me," she 
 said. 
 
 He smiled bitterly. " Oh, it's a great thing, this eter- 
 nal you and / business. It carries on the universe, no 
 doubt; but there's no virtue in it, as your poets are 
 always declaring. It's selfish selfish to the core." 
 
 "What is there in this world that is not?" she met 
 him. "But I grant it I grant anything you like; it 
 makes no difference. Only tell him I am here." 
 
 "There it is again," he turned upon her angrily 
 " selfish, and unreasonable. You would snatch from 
 him the right to die in peace, because you claim you 
 cannot live without him. You drop all other duties to 
 torment him the last months of his life; and a year 
 hence it will be all the same. I tell you, there's a time 
 and place for loving in the scheme of the universe; but 
 to let it dominate you master you. ..." 
 
 "When you have done with your sermon," said she, 
 quiet but very pale, "you will tell me where to find 
 him?" 
 
 Gregory winced, for of all men he most hated preach- 
 ing. 
 
 "I have only just come into my right," she con- 
 tinued, " and it is not you who shall keep me from it." 
 
 "Very well" he gave up the contest. "I will tell 
 II 161
 
 Folly 
 
 him and trouble you no longer." He got as far as the 
 door, there paused. "All the same, I might add a 
 word to show you his own point of view." 
 
 She trembled and shrank away from him in her 
 chair. 
 
 "You are not sure, for all your bravado," he faced 
 her keenly. "You have a deadly fear well, we need 
 not put it into words. The other day, he showed me a 
 poem he had just written. It began, 'Love is a vam- 
 pire.' It was pretty bad, I should think I am no judge 
 of such things; but it revealed a sense of what I con- 
 sider a piece of raw truth truth that we politely cover 
 up when we can truth that you are ignoring, and that 
 will be your undoing. I tell you there's no place for 
 you in his life now; and he is beginning to realize it. 
 Only beginning, I admit; but in a month a week, 
 perhaps, who can tell ? " 
 
 "You think you understand me, but I am sure you 
 do not," she answered slowly. 
 
 "And there's your blindness just there," his fore- 
 finger was harsh. "You think you are giving, sacrific- 
 ing, and the rest of it; and all the while you are sucking 
 blood, drawing life I am brutal? " 
 
 "Yes," she gasped. 
 
 "I know what I am talking about, and as his friend 
 I warn you." There was no mistaking the solemn con- 
 viction of his tone. 
 
 She could not speak, and he waited with his hand on 
 
 the knob. "Shall I tell him you are here?" 
 
 162
 
 Folly 
 
 "No," she whispered, and could say no more. 
 
 "Your own heart tells you I am right," he pursued 
 relentlessly. 
 
 "I should do harm I should hurt him " It was 
 
 impossible to say how far this was a question. " Then 
 I must go away ? " 
 
 "You will spare both much suffering," he said 
 grimly. 
 
 She rose and approached the door. "If he should 
 ask about me ever will you tell him I came to Es- 
 pinal and went away again ? " She broke short with a 
 cry: "Oh, I can't I can't! Not for his sake even. I 
 must see him one minute one little minute " 
 
 "I think you will be better advised," said he, as 
 gently as he could. 
 
 She arose to go, and something in her expression 
 moved him to seize her arm: "No rocks, mind." 
 
 She shrugged. 
 
 "You will not be quite such a fool, I hope," he cried, 
 with vehemence. 
 
 "If I am not," she answered slowly, "it will be be- 
 cause I have still some faith that what must be shall be. 
 I suppose you are right; it is difficult enough. And 
 you are honest. But it may be that you cannot keep 
 us apart. I shall wait. ..." 
 
 She gave him a long, steady look, as he held the door 
 open for her; then went away without finishing her 
 sentence. 
 
 163
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE LAST TOSS-UP. 
 
 SHE walked slowly away without purpose or aim. 
 She knew that the rain was driving fast, and raised her 
 umbrella against it. She was conscious of climbing a 
 steep road, where the cobbles were shining and slip- 
 pery; and of turning her back on the sea where it raced 
 along in surf pounding the beach; and she observed 
 that she had entered a short avenue of interlaced feath- 
 ery tamarisks, that she passed a fountain and a stone 
 table with benches where women might work and sing 
 in the summer-time. But for the drip of the rain she 
 would have sat down there, being all at once overcome 
 by a heavy lassitude. 
 
 She dragged herself onward, and came to a lofty 
 panelled oaken door; and by the carved saints and 
 angels above it, with the Virgin crowning all, she per- 
 ceived that she was before a church. 
 
 She entered, without knowing why, except that it 
 was easier to go on than to turn back; and was at once 
 confronted by a great darkness, with here and there pin- 
 points of light, crowning tapers that illuminated the 
 
 164
 
 Folly 
 
 gold of obscure altars. With a sense of refuge and 
 comfort, that still involved scant recognition of the 
 place as a cathedral, she dropped upon a bench before 
 the nearest shrine; the faint odour of incense, the si- 
 lence, the shadows were all narcotic to her pain. 
 
 Here and there against the mist of candles was out- 
 lined a black figure kneeling at the feet of the Holy Ones. 
 And presently Folly slipped to her knees, not thinking, 
 scarcely praying, unless a blind straining towards 
 help that is withheld be counted as prayer. But by de- 
 grees the ponderous altar, with its twisted gilded pillars, 
 and the sculptured wealth of divine imagery and 
 symbolism, out of all keeping with a wasted town, 
 pressed upon her mind. She found herself noting even 
 the tawdry lace and worsted flowers bestowed by poor 
 but loving hearts. But chiefly the painted figure which 
 forms the centre of these gorgeous devices of the 
 goldsmith's art drew her eyes. It was of wood, 
 antique in carving, rich in gold vestments, with a 
 sweet frail face that haunted her with a sense vague of 
 familiarity. It was when she discovered or fancied 
 some resemblance, in type or in spirit, to the Ma- 
 donna at Sunlands that she bowed her head under the 
 thronging memories. Everywhere her sacrifice was 
 refused. What was her place ? What should be the 
 end? 
 
 She looked up at last, and found Haldane Gore 
 standing in the aisle by her side. 
 
 "I am come for you," he said. 
 165
 
 Folly 
 
 And she could find no answer but: "How did you 
 know I was here?" 
 
 He smiled upon her. "There are no English ladies 
 in Espinal; and many hands pointed the way to the 
 church. The streets that look empty are full of eyes 
 above. Once within, I saw the candle-light on your 
 hair" in the close atmosphere she had put away her 
 veil "and that was all I needed." 
 
 She turned aside, faltering: "I don't want your 
 pity." 
 
 "My pity, girl!" his voice should have been reas- 
 suring; but she noted with a stab of pain how much 
 of its old music was lost. "Are you ready to come 
 home?" 
 
 "Where is that?" she asked. 
 
 "Where we two are together," said he, and laid his 
 hand upon her arm. 
 
 She shook it off gently. "No please. " 
 
 As they looked at each other, he was thinking with a 
 faint sense of amusement how odd it was that a man 
 could hold a fort unshaken for six months, then lower 
 the flag in the twinkling of an eye. And she was won- 
 dering how best to ask the question that struggled to 
 her lips and yet could not be uttered at all. 
 
 "Why did you come, then?" he smiled at her. 
 
 " Espinal is the place of thorns," she murmured, as if 
 to herself. 
 
 "And you are used to cotton- wool!" 
 
 "I shouldn't have minded anything, I think," she 
 166
 
 Folly 
 
 answered, with a sudden strength. "But now I am 
 going away again because ..." 
 
 "We can talk better in the cloister," said he, and 
 drew her arm through his. 
 
 They walked slowly round the four sides, between the 
 elaborate tracery of the arches that opened upon the 
 dank garden, and the walls with their broken effigies 
 and faded frescoes that mark the graves of forgotten 
 warriors and ecclesiastics. 
 
 "Why do you come and go away again? Gregory? 
 I thought so. He said as much. And when he had 
 done talking, I followed you at once, as you see." 
 
 "But he was right?" she urged. 
 
 " Perhaps. What's the good of bothering now about 
 right and wrong ? We've wasted enough time already, 
 and only succeeded in warping ourselves, and making 
 others miserable. I'm done fighting. Let's give it up; 
 for after all, you had to come." 
 
 "Yes," she answered, "after all, I had to come. Do 
 you mean that we should not bother about anything, 
 but just be happy?" 
 
 He nodded, laughing. "Something very like that. 
 Happy as people never are when they have a life-time 
 before them." 
 
 "But Gregory said I should be a vampire. ..." 
 
 " Drop Gregory. Now you are here, I can't do with- 
 out you, and I won't! I am like a thirsty man who has 
 found a spring in the desert." 
 
 Her face was no less sombre. "To keep the figure, 
 167
 
 Folly 
 
 if you are the traveller, In the very nature of things you 
 must journey on and leave the spring behind in the 
 desert." 
 
 His face had gone a dull red. Suddenly he dropped 
 it on her shoulder. "Don't argue. I want you. I'm 
 selfish. Come." 
 
 She just touched his forehead with her finger-tips, 
 smiling with dim eyes; but gave no answer at first. 
 After a time, as he did not speak or move, she said 
 softly: "And Gregory?" 
 
 "He's gone." 
 
 "Gone?" 
 
 "Back to Biarritz, and so home. There was just 
 time for a train. I heard him out; and then I told him 
 what I meant to do. He understood, and will have got 
 away by now; it was the only thing." 
 
 "And what did he say?" she asked sadly. 
 
 Gore hesitated: "Not much. Only that love has 
 knocked out friendship pretty well since the world 
 began. And that's true, isn't it?" 
 
 "It's rank ingratitude" she was beginning; but he 
 stopped her. " No more of that. We're dropping right 
 and wrong, you know. Where's your luggage?" 
 
 "At the diligence office. You see, I made no pro- 
 vision for retreat. And yet I did not bring it the whole 
 way, either." 
 
 "We'd better go at once and see about getting it fer- 
 ried over." 
 
 They left the cloister by a passage that opens 
 168
 
 Folly 
 
 into a patio or courtyard, surrounded by mean 
 houses. 
 
 Here she turned to him with a faint smile. " I haven't 
 fully made up my mind yet, you know. Gregory 
 talked and you talk, and what am I to think of it all ? 
 The scales are hanging in the balance what is to tip 
 them the one way or the other?" 
 
 "My need," said he hastily. 
 
 "Yes, but it's one need over against another need," 
 she was beginning. 
 
 And he: "We must make an end of this foolery." 
 
 Suddenly from a black doorway two ragged urchins 
 tumbled out, close-locked in a fierce silent struggle, 
 and wrestled back and forth over the cobbles. 
 
 "There it is," said he. "It's been like that with me 
 ever since I gave you up : the self that cried out for you, 
 and the self that remembered you and counted the 
 cost. Here's a solution. I'm reckless now. Toss up. 
 Let them fight it out. Choose your man; and if he 
 wins, you have your way, which is mine, too, now; 
 otherwise. ..." 
 
 She could not resist the challenge. "The blond then. 
 He's smaller, but wiry and full of pluck. ..." 
 
 "Are you giving or taking odds?" he asked. 
 
 But before she could answer, her little champion had 
 knocked his opponent into the gutter, and was pound- 
 ing his head against the stones. 
 
 Gore dragged off the sulky victor and held him up, 
 tousle -headed and snarling, for judgment. 
 
 169
 
 Folly 
 
 But Folly was bending over the vanquished, endeav- 
 ouring to fasten her handkerchief about a small deep 
 cut over his left eye an attention which he doggedly 
 resisted, as no doubt thinking it a lace- edged bit of 
 coddling, unbecoming the dignity of a man. A 
 peseta he accepted as a sufficient salve, and disap- 
 peared round the corner, grinning triumph over his 
 conqueror, with a last upward thrust at the bandage, 
 and blood trickling afresh down his dirty cheek. 
 
 Another peseta to the victor scarcely atoned for the 
 injury to his pride; and he retired, red-faced and 
 muttering. 
 
 "There we did wrong," said Gore. "We rewarded 
 them alike, when one was wrong and one right; 
 and one was the better man of the two, but it did him 
 no good." 
 
 "What matter for that?" she cried, flushed and 
 laughing, as if a heavy weight had fallen from her 
 shoulders. "I knew we should win; it was written in 
 the stars. But it was you this time who cast the lot. 
 Come now, we can be happy at last" her face grew 
 dim again, as she added softly "for a little while." 
 
 x;o
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE HOME-COMING. 
 
 IT was amazing to see how quickly she took com- 
 mand. She would not listen for a moment to Gore's 
 crossing the ferry with her, but sent him to the fonda 
 to prepare her welcome home, as she phrased it, declar- 
 ing herself able and eager to manage and direct any 
 number of boatmen and porters and muleteers. And 
 in this mood she had her way. 
 
 Gore returned to the inn and straightway drove the 
 sewra-proprietress distracted with his demands for 
 things unheard of in that place that should increase the 
 English lady's comfort. He chose for her a room like 
 his own, facing the sea, and immediately insisted upon 
 a dozen alterations. There must be fresh curtains, and 
 larger rugs, and a more comfortable arm-chair, and a 
 shelf for books, and flowers. . . . Afterwards, there 
 was a chattering as of angry swallows in the kitchen, 
 where the senora conferred with her domestics. And 
 where was she to get such flowers in Espinal at this time 
 of year? In the sitting-room he was scarcely less exi- 
 gent, so that by the time his chocolate and water were 
 
 171
 
 Folly 
 
 brought up the nerves of the whole household were 
 a-flutter. 
 
 But the twilight was settling, chilly and heavy with 
 clouds, before Folly came in, fresh with damp air, her 
 eyes dark and brilliant with excitement, holding out 
 her hands in a way that seemed to forbid embrace. 
 
 "It is not the same. You have been altering. How 
 pretty the tamarisks!" Her glance roved about the 
 room, as she held her fingers toward the red charcoal. 
 "You have thought of everything. No, you are not to 
 move. That Basque girl will show me the way. Why 
 was I so long ? Oh, I sent my luggage on. I believe it 
 has been below for ages, but they never noticed, of 
 course, being Spanish. I must you know, then? I 
 went back to the cathedral. No, don't take me up yet. 
 Not to think or to hesitate, but only to realize, and to 
 wish, and, perhaps, to pray a little. You don't mind ? 
 Of course we were sure before that it had to be; but 
 somehow I could not help wanting a well, perhaps a 
 blessing on our new life." 
 
 "Wheedling the other world, since this is bound to 
 be harsh" he smiled at her and, suddenly overcome 
 by weariness, dropped back into his chair. 
 
 "Yes" she was very serious about it "but we'll 
 put all that away now and and live." She fell on her 
 knees by his side, and he drew her close with that 
 sense of fulfilment, of completeness, which is the most 
 perfect and the rarest joy that life gives. 
 
 But into his peace, into the thankful cry of his heart 
 172
 
 Folly 
 
 that their struggle was done, came the sudden stabbing 
 pain that brought the sweat of agony to his face. She 
 felt him tremble; and misunderstood, and drew closer, 
 while he was fighting the groans that strove for utter- 
 ance. The sweetest moment of her life had become for 
 him, in the space of a breath, almost too terrible to bear. 
 He held her in silence, with the single thought that, at 
 any cost, he must hide from her this beginning of the 
 end until she had had her little taste of the life she 
 craved. 
 
 The light of the brazier was on her face and hair, but 
 his features were in shadow; and the love- words on her 
 lips found no response but in his clasp. 
 
 She might have divined the truth, had she not been 
 so absorbed in the strangeness of her new joy. As it 
 was, she withdrew after a time, perhaps unconsciously 
 a little chilled by his tension, or frightened, or shy, and 
 declared that she must go and dress herself to his 
 liking. 
 
 "You are always to my liking," he had answered; 
 and what devil of memory brought it into her mind 
 that her husband had often used these very words? 
 
 She rang for the grave-eyed Basque chambermaid 
 to help her unpack and shake out and hang up her 
 gowns; and she herself arranged the dressing-table, 
 and smiled often into the glass, and said again and 
 again how she was happy at last 
 
 And when the maid had gone, she brought out the 
 only white dress among all the black array one that 
 
 173
 
 Folly 
 
 had got in, she scarcely knew how, perhaps because it 
 had no trace of colour about it. 
 
 "I can't wear mourning this one night my great 
 night," she was thinking, as she stroked the creases out 
 of the plain white poplin. 
 
 Suddenly, as her fingers played among the frills, 
 they came upon a small brown stain, forgotten ever 
 since the dress had been put away after its one wear- 
 ing. The memory flashed up : there had been people 
 to dinner gossips, slanderers, whom she hated 
 and afterwards she had sent for the baby, sound 
 asleep in the old cradle, to show them; perhaps to 
 disarm their tongues by a glimpse of her domesticity, 
 perhaps only to give herself the joy of holding him at 
 a forbidden hour. And thus rudely awakened he had 
 not cried, as they all expected, but had sat up, dewy- 
 eyed with sleep, and had played with her chain, and 
 knocked her coffee-spoon against the frill. It was 
 difficult to remember that the brown spot remained and 
 baby was gone. . . . But to wear the dress was im- 
 possible. . . . She must go down in her black, after 
 all 
 
 For some reason that she did not trouble to define, 
 she adorned herself with gems not the splendour of 
 diamonds, or the purity of pearls, or opals, the stones 
 of misfortune, but topaz and amethyst and sapphire 
 and ruby and emerald, so that she sparkled with many- 
 coloured rays as she came down the long polished 
 coldly-lighted corridor and stairway, and found her 
 
 174
 
 Folly 
 
 lover in the same dark room, in the same attitude over 
 the brazier of charcoal. 
 
 "No lights?" she demanded gaily. 
 
 And he : " So soon ? I didn't expect you for half an 
 hour yet. We dine here. There's no one else at the 
 fonda, and the vast bare dining-room is insufferable. 
 Shall I ring?" 
 
 They had the lights on then, and they laughed and 
 talked quite in the old comfortable fashion over the 
 strange soup, and stranger fish, and meat dishes 
 strangest of all. 
 
 But to Gore the courses seemed interminable; for 
 the part that he was playing grew every moment 
 more difficult. The soft-voiced maid moved about de- 
 liberately in her hemp-soled sandals; Folly lingered 
 and toyed with her many-coloured fires, and the hands 
 of the clock seemed spellbound. 
 
 And Folly noticed only, with a sudden chill, that 
 while he made a pretence at each course in turn, he 
 took not even the specially-prepared broth that she 
 perceived would have been his only dish had be been 
 alone. 
 
 "Now for coffee and cigarettes," he continued his 
 show of gaiety. "And would you mind having the 
 lights off again? They they hurt my eyes rather 
 to-night." He had a hope that in the darkness he 
 could still keep from her the burning pain that devoured 
 thought and feeling. 
 
 '75
 
 Folly 
 
 "I shall like it," said she, "because I want to talk 
 to you, and I always talk best in the dark." 
 
 So they were again alone in the red glow, and he 
 made an attempt at smoking, but after a moment 
 quietly knocked out the fire and dropped the cigarette. 
 
 "You are too tired," she began, "and it is my fault. 
 It must never happen again." 
 
 "I should hope not," he tried to jest. "I shouldn't 
 want you coming every day." 
 
 "No, that's over for a lifetime. But I'm going to 
 tell you what to expect of me." 
 
 He tried to laugh, but the sound was so unlike what 
 he had intended that he quenched it in the hasty ques- 
 tion: "And what do you expect of me?" 
 
 "Nothing," she said, "nothing at all. Provided I 
 can make you happy." 
 
 She expected nothing, and yet her fingers sought his, 
 and she drew his hand to her lips and kissed it. And 
 she thought to make him happy, at a time when life 
 could spell nothing but pain. And while she restrained 
 her eagerness to caress, he lacked strength even to re- 
 spond to her hesitating touch. 
 
 "You are cold," she said gently. "Shall I ring for 
 more fire ? No ? A rug then ? I shall not let you be 
 uncomfortable; you don't know what a tyrant of a 
 nurse I can be." 
 
 He felt that it was incumbent upon him to say some- 
 thing, to explain, to respond; and he pulled himself to- 
 gether. "It's the excitement, I suppose. I shall be all 
 
 176
 
 Folly 
 
 right to-morrow. Tell me what you were going to 
 say." 
 
 " You are trembling," she insisted. "And we should 
 be peaceful now you and I." 
 
 " Yes," he answered. For the moment it was a physi- 
 cal impossibility to say more; but presently resisting 
 the bitter cry within him, "Can't you let me alone?" 
 he got out: "lam. Don't worry." 
 
 Perhaps some instinct warned her off dangerous 
 ground. "The strange thing is, I knew it the moment 
 I entered the room the home-feeling, I mean; and I 
 have never had it before in all my life. Even in my 
 husband's house, I always felt somehow like an hon- 
 oured guest the way was made so smooth for me, and 
 yet I was not a part of it all. I didn't really belong 
 there. I thought when baby came perhaps it might be 
 different but we won't talk of that. To-day I under- 
 stood. It was not what you had done to wel- 
 come me; nor even, I think, the fact that you were 
 here, so much as the sense that at last I was needed 
 there was something for me to do, and for him I loved 
 best in the world. ... To give all and do all, in that 
 way what more can happiness be ? " 
 
 He could not utter his groan: "You are wrong; 
 there is nothing for you to do when pain is master." 
 
 Aloud he stammered: "I don't know this new 
 unselfish Folly." 
 
 "She's not so different from the old one," she re- 
 torted. "It's only a potentiality developing. Before, 
 
 12 177
 
 Folly 
 
 there was nobody to call it out. ... I shall be useful, 
 you will see; I can be practical that's another side 
 you don't know. And I shall begin this moment with 
 a stupid question. Since Gregory has left you, will he 
 throw over the work he has been doing ? " 
 
 "Don't know and don't care," he managed to say. 
 "What does it matter now?" 
 
 She misunderstood utterly. "It matters everything 
 to me. You can go on with his treatment ? " 
 
 "If I like," he answered indifferently. "There's a 
 decent doctor here; and at Biarritz, of course " 
 
 "Paris," she whispered. "You shall come to Paris 
 with me; and we shall spend every penny we have in 
 the world. ..." 
 
 The pain threatened to get beyond control. Gore's 
 voice was harsh as he interrupted: "It's no good, I tell 
 you. It was too late six months ago. Not a step" his 
 vehemence ended in a gasp. 
 
 "Very well" she submitted but for the time, he was 
 sure. "I won't trouble you about it any more now. 
 We will take the days as they come" her voice quiv- 
 ered, but she plucked it up bravely and continued : 
 
 " I have all sorts of plans for doing things. I can be 
 your secretary, and I will read to you Spanish, if you 
 like; only I don't know much. Is there some one who 
 could teach me?" 
 
 " One of the Sisters at the Shrine," he got out. 
 
 "I will make you happy for a long, long time " 
 
 Long? Every moment was endless to him, while she 
 178
 
 Folly 
 
 Was in the first flush of her joy. The helplessness of 
 love when the grim forces of the body are at war! 
 
 "You will let me do everything I can? " 
 
 "I will let you" he yielded to a momentary shud- 
 der "have your own way in all things." 
 
 "Then I am content," she murmured, "for my way 
 will be your way." 
 
 "Are you sure of that?" he tried to ask lightly. 
 "That's still another Folly." 
 
 "There have been so many Follies from the begin- 
 ning," she answered soberly. "But I think this Folly 
 is a stranger to them all; and I am sure she is yours 
 at your will " 
 
 She laid her head upon his shoulder, and both were 
 outwardly quiet; but he was wondering, with a 
 kind of wild impatience, how he could bring endear- 
 ments to lips that were stiffened with pain, or caress 
 her when his whole body shrank into one great long- 
 ing for quiescence; and she was thinking that the 
 flaw must be in herself, that prevented their perfect 
 understanding the continuance of that exquisite 
 joy that had lasted but a moment, when she first came 
 to him. . . . 
 
 He stirred involuntarily and a faint groan escaped 
 him. She sprang to her feet with a tender little cry: 
 "Ah, you are exhausted, and I am keeping you up I 
 You must go to bed. And to-morrow. ..." 
 
 "Yes, to-morrow," was all he could say. 
 
 "You will be better to- morrow 1" 
 179
 
 Folly 
 
 "I shall be all right. And we can talk again. We 
 shall have all the time now." 
 
 "Perhaps I have been troubling you?" There was 
 a real question under her feigned laugh. 
 
 Troubling him? His only thought was how to be 
 rid of her quickly, and sink under the burden that he 
 could not bear longer without sign. Her wistful 
 " Good-night, then," was a fresh torture. She longed 
 for kisses; and God! how the thought of all such 
 things sickened him then. Was it perhaps better after 
 all to tell her so in the beginning ? 
 
 "You you will be patient at first with a sick man?" 
 he stammered out. 
 
 "Yes, oh, yes," she said earnestly, and waited. 
 
 He bent his will into a fierce effort to make her go, 
 cursing himself that he had brought her to this pass. 
 But he had not dreamed the pitiful defence! that 
 Nemesis could pounce so quickly. 
 
 "To-morrow we shall be happy yet." It was hor- 
 ribly lame; but it was the best he could do. 
 
 She was silent a moment, then she spoke cheerfully: 
 "How otherwise? I shall turn on the light now. . . ." 
 
 "No, no," he interrupted hoarsely. 
 
 "But why what Hal, are you in pain? What is 
 the matter?" 
 
 "Not at all nothing only a little used up, as you 
 have guessed. I shall rest a moment, and then I have 
 something to do before I come up-stairs." 
 
 Thereupon she bravely made the best of the situa- 
 180
 
 Folly 
 
 tion: "If you don't go soon and I can see this light 
 from my balcony I shall come down in my dressing- 
 gown, like any old harridan of a nurse, and scold you 
 as you deserve!" 
 
 It was all acting. Each knew it and knew that the 
 other knew. But at least she had got in some measure 
 to feel his attitude. 
 
 "It was only a little thing that I neglected put off 
 doing earlier," he explained. 
 
 And she: "Very well. But don't be long about it." 
 
 With that she opened the door before he could reach 
 it, looking very pale where the light crossed her cheek. 
 As he stood just within, she was conscious of thinking 
 that the shadows played strange ghastly tricks with a 
 face. 
 
 He made a last effort and held out his arms. "I will 
 come soon." 
 
 Then she, with her face hidden against his shoulder, 
 whispered: "No, not to-night. You will be better 
 alone. We shall talk to-morrow." 
 
 With that she went upstairs, and smiled at her own 
 reflection in the glass. "We shall be happy yet." 
 
 She watched until the light below ceased to shine 
 across the street; then after a while went to sleep, 
 smiling, with wet lashes. 
 
 As soon as he was alone, Gore opened his bureau 
 and took out a small syringe and bottle. 
 
 "Pity I couldn't have taken it sooner; but she would 
 have noticed she would have been sure to notice. I
 
 Polly 
 
 must try what I can do without her observing anything 
 out of the way. It's never been quite so bad before." 
 
 He tore off his coat and cuff, rolled up his shirt- 
 sleeve, and added another prick to the cluster on his 
 forearm. 
 
 "It's become a pretty game," he thought, as the pain 
 grew less intense. "All through a moment's weakness. 
 . . . And Greg tried to save us. ... But there's no 
 use thinking of that. . . . And there's no going back. 
 . . . The only thing to do is to let her have her way 
 to fight these attacks to keep it from her all I can 
 to make her as happy as . . . " 
 
 He felt a stupor from the drug overpowering him, 
 and stumbled to his feet, lest she, seeing the light, 
 should come down and find him thus. 
 
 All the way upstairs the words kept mumbling 
 themselves over in his brain: "As happy as as happy 
 as . . ." 
 
 He paused at her door for a moment: "I wonder if 
 she is happy?" there was no sound f rom within 
 "or asleep and forgetting?" 
 
 He passed on to his own room, in his ears the insist- 
 ent refrain: "As happy as as happy as happy ..." 
 
 182
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE BARRIER. 
 
 "WHAT is the date?" asked Gore, as he moved his 
 face to avoid a sudden flicker of sunlight on the wide 
 couch under the window that faced the street. 
 
 "Haven't an idea. I've lost count of time," an- 
 swered Folly cheerily, and as if his speaking had 
 stirred her from some train of thought, dropped her 
 work heedlessly on the floor and went towards him. 
 
 "Is that my new smoking- jacket you are trampling 
 on ? " he demanded, in mock anger. 
 
 She rescued it, smiling, and proceeded to shake his 
 pillows. 
 
 "Don't fuss," he protested. "They're all right. I 
 shall be up again in a day or two." 
 
 At his impatient movement she desisted, but re- 
 mained standing by him, with one knee on the couch, 
 staring across the way with unseeing eyes. 
 
 In the full sunshine she looked worn almost as 
 haggard as himself, he thought, with a stir of impa- 
 tient remorse. Feeling his eyes upon her, she glanced 
 down at him anxiously, with parted lips. 
 
 "Nothing nothing," he answered her unspoken
 
 Folly 
 
 question. And to his own amazement found himself 
 asking: "Are you happy?" 
 
 "Why, my dear" her voice broke a little, and she 
 fell on her knees and put her cheek to his. 
 
 After a time he stirred, and she drew away. Then 
 he said: 
 
 "I always supposed happiness dwelt on the moun- 
 tains a long climb up, and a swift drop down, and 
 a brief moment of sojourn. And you mean to tell 
 me you are there?" 
 
 " Far on the way," she insisted, " oh, very far. I used 
 to think there were many roads, such as fame and 
 wealth and the like, and I tried them all; but they 
 stopped short at the foot of the mountain. So only the 
 way of love remained and I took to that, though it was 
 steep and difficult, and at one time I thought inacces- 
 sible; but now I am climbing on, and sometimes the 
 peak is so plain that I can almost put out my hand and 
 grasp it." 
 
 "But never quite," he said. 
 
 " So far. But what I mind is this. We are both on 
 the same trail, and close together; but more and more 
 I lose you. It is as if clouds rolled between us, and even 
 your voice came to me muffled as through a fog. . . . 
 I have worked the figure to death. Hal, tell me what 
 it is?" 
 
 "Nonsense!" he exclaimed. 
 
 " You are ill and I am well can it does it make 
 
 so much difference as that?" 
 
 184
 
 Folly 
 
 "It's the difference between a whole woman and a 
 piece of a man," he said lightly. 
 
 "I know. I preferred the piece to the whole of any- 
 body else. And I am content with each day, only I 
 fear but you won't let me fear. ..." 
 
 " Certainly not," said he. "Why fear ? " 
 
 "Why?" she repeated. "I fear that I cannot 
 stand it I mean what I mind is, feeling that you suf- 
 fer, and being helpless to help, by the very fact of your 
 pain being shut out from your real self. O Hal, you 
 hide it from me; there are times when you bang the 
 door in my face!" 
 
 "What have I to hide?" there was scorn in his 
 laughter. " Would you have me make a fool of myself ? " 
 
 "I would have you I think I would have you to 
 be yourself, as if you were alone." 
 
 "Folly, Folly!" he answered, with double meaning. 
 
 "You can't deny it, can you ? That you are acting a 
 part? That there's a barrier between us? That I 
 can't come on the other side ? " 
 
 "It isn't your time yet to see with my eyes," he said 
 gently. 
 
 "Not when I love you so?" 
 
 "Perhaps the less for that." He corrected himself 
 hastily. "I mean, you exaggerate the bar, or what- 
 ever you call it, between us. There is nothing but " 
 
 "Ah, but!" 
 
 " what must be." His thought was: "I could tell 
 you in a word death." Aloud he continued : "Come, 
 
 let's drop it and be merry. Read me La Voz. " 
 
 185
 
 Folly 
 
 But she shook her head: "First tell me how I fail 
 you?" 
 
 "Silly girl!" he raised himself on one elbow, to lend 
 force to his admonition: "You fail in wasting time 
 wondering where you fail." 
 
 She would not have that, but sank lower on the 
 floor, and laid her cheek against his hand. "O mis- 
 ery! Hal, can't we break it down ? " 
 
 He looked at her bent head, smiling absently as he 
 thought: "Break down the barriers that death is so 
 insistently, so irresistibly building? It is like Folly to 
 try." 
 
 Aloud he said: "Well, then, let's sum up the 
 situation, if you must; and after that, let it rest. 
 My poor girl, in a word you are disappointed disillu- 
 sioned " 
 
 "No!" she breathed fiercely. 
 
 " But yes. Naturally, you are too loyal to admit it. 
 You loved a sentient being with a certain amount of 
 brain, of will, of well, of life-force, say. What have 
 you got? A physical shell, dropping to pieces daily; 
 a burden; a lump; a care and anxiety that gives you 
 no peace. ..." 
 
 "I would not be without it for the world!" 
 
 "Not you. But you miss the man you used to 
 know. ..." 
 
 "Not yet, not yet. O Hal, a little longer for my 
 
 SclrvC* * 
 
 Her distress at once wearied and irritated him. 
 186
 
 Folly 
 
 "Well, well, we shall do our best, my girl. But you 
 were speaking of a barrier. ..." 
 
 "Yes, a barrier, that is all," she answered steadily. 
 "You insist that you are not there behind it. That is 
 not true; I will not have it so. You are there; but I 
 cannot find you. With all my love I cannot find you. " 
 
 He turned away from her to the window. "I don't 
 know I don't know." What could all this self- 
 analysis matter, when pain was incessant, unendurable ? 
 
 He remembered suddenly the cry of the old Norse- 
 man: "I shall die laughing." It was not so altogether 
 easy when the torture was drawn out over months; but 
 for her sake he made another struggle against the 
 quagmire of melancholy, and essayed a laugh. It was 
 a failure as he knew by her next words. 
 
 "You're not worse to-day?" she asked nervously. 
 
 As he did not at once answer or meet her eyes, she 
 pleaded: "You are not, I tell you, you are not! Why, 
 yesterday but to-day you did eat a little, and the 
 doctor said. ..." 
 
 She broke down, but quickly resumed her courage, 
 with an eager: "We must go somewhere for help 
 Biarritz Paris London; there is help in the world!" 
 
 "Let a fellow alone, can't you?" The smile atoned 
 for the words. 
 
 " Say you're not worse then." 
 
 "I'm not worse then." 
 
 "There it is, the barrier so distinct, so impalpable. 
 
 You fail to understand even my anxiety." 
 
 187
 
 Folly 
 
 He might have answered, "And you my pain?" 
 But instead he clutched at a straw of comfort for her: 
 " You see, we worked several hours this morning. ..." 
 
 "That's it. Of course. How silly of me! I am 
 stupid! You will have some Chartreuse?" 
 
 He made a gesture of refusal, but she insisted. He 
 turned away and shielded his face as he drank; but 
 she would not be spared, setting her lips grimly, with 
 the thought : " I must bear to see it. I must go through 
 with it all to the very end." 
 
 "Better now?" she asked, with amazing good cheer. 
 "I thought so. To-morrow you must do less." 
 
 "Nothing," he corrected her. "To-morrow I shall 
 be idle on the sands, perhaps and you shall read me 
 what shall you read me? A fairy tale to make us 
 forget the flatness of this daily world what have we 
 got unread?" 
 
 She was wondering as he spoke whether, if once she 
 could climb over that impenetrable thicket in his mind, 
 she should come upon nothing but a sterile plain, or 
 the home-valley with its twinkling fires would await 
 her soul. 
 
 She answered softly: "I think you must not be idle 
 altogether. I want you to get on with the 'City of 
 Thorns.'" 
 
 "No good," said he cheerfully. "I won't be driven. 
 It isn't worth it." 
 
 "I know better," she insisted. 
 
 And "I know better," he sparred with her. 
 1 88
 
 Folly 
 
 "Some people will be glad of it a few, you know. 
 It's worth while pleasing them." 
 
 She touched him there, and he turned away. 
 
 He could see his neighbour, the Basque woman, on 
 her balcony, scattering crumbs to a flock of chirping 
 pigeons. He thought that she looked pale and un- 
 happy, more than ever like Folly his Folly. And 
 what was he to do when the tension of life was loosen- 
 ing day by day ? 
 
 He was not aware that he had spoken aloud until her 
 arms were encircling him. " I know. I cannot hold you. 
 You're slipping slipping. ..." 
 
 Still as in a dream he muttered: "It will never be 
 finished anyway." 
 
 He was thinking of the poem then. She let him go. 
 
 " Italy now shall we try for Italy in the spring ? 
 This Spain is inhospitable all mountain and desert 
 and sea. Let's get away from the City of Thorns, and 
 walk in the olive-gardens of Fiesole. You shall be 
 Simonetta you are rather like Simonetta; and I 
 should have to be a new Botticelli, painting you in 
 verses instead of colours; but no, my part is that of 
 Giuliano, who gave up the ghost. ..." 
 
 His wits were surely wandering, she thought. " Don't 
 hurt me so," she implored. 
 
 "It's like that old fresco in the cloisters here, death 
 in all its forms steaming up through the earth into the 
 merriment of the feast. A church may be beautiful in 
 
 its decay, or a house, or a tree why can't I do the act 
 
 189
 
 Folly 
 
 gracefully? What's the matter? What have I been 
 saying?" He lapsed into the bitterest inner cry upon 
 his selfishness, that struggled with a growing stress 
 upon the need and the impossibility of self-control. 
 
 "Never mind," she said, with nervous tugging at 
 a hideous woollen fringe on his couch. "I can't stand 
 it" she caught herself "this fringe, I mean. Lend 
 me your knife. I must cut it off." 
 
 "Cut it off cut it off," he repeated, looking at her 
 strangely. 
 
 "When I think of the future " she began. 
 
 He winced, but it was no part of his penance to add 
 the burden of his self-reproach to what she already had 
 to bear. And yet when he put himself in her place and 
 tried to imagine how it would be with her after he was 
 gone. . . . 
 
 "Hang the future!" he essayed. 
 
 "Ah, yes, hang the future!" she followed him. "I 
 could bear to think of it to think of our separation 
 if now, while we are together, I could be to you what I 
 thought, what we hoped . . . once when there was no 
 room for hope ... I could live on through this life, 
 and life upon life, if I thought that in the end we should 
 understand. . . . But I know nothing except that now 
 we are farther apart than before, when we were sepa- 
 rated." 
 
 "Poor girl" he pitied her, but he was too weary to 
 reason, or even to follow out her reasoning. 
 
 "I can't make them out the different kinds of love. 
 190
 
 Folly 
 
 When I was engaged to Andrew, I was what they call 
 in love with him I nineteen, he twenty-nine. He ought 
 to have known his own mind; and I think he did. I 
 believe" she hesitated "he cares for me now more 
 at least, in a way you never did." 
 
 He had opportunity for protest, but lay silent. 
 
 "When we were engaged, I used to ask myself what 
 I liked about him. Sometimes I thought it was his 
 steady eyes; but now I see them as dull and colourless, 
 knowing yours. And again it was his strength, but I 
 hated that after I knew you. He is good. He gave me 
 all he had. Why couldn't I go on caring for him to the 
 end of our days ? . . . You came, and at first I laughed 
 to myself at your defects. I said you were little and 
 ugly, and everything that I did not like; but it was all 
 a sham, to hide from myself that there was some qual- 
 ity in you that called forever to me, something that I 
 couldn't escape. But as for Andrew " 
 
 He had to prompt her: "Well?" 
 
 "When we were married, I found out what it was I 
 had loved. I'm being honest now. I loved his love of 
 me. I believe many women marry for that." 
 
 "But what does it all come to?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes, that's what I want to know; I want to sum it 
 up. Why couldn't I stay in the safe circle of his affec- 
 tion? Why did my soul go out to you ... ?" 
 
 "A miserable piddling ugly little scribbler. ..." 
 
 She laid her hand softly on his lips. 
 
 "I don't see where it was wrong where it is wrong 
 191
 
 Folly 
 
 now. How could I help coming? But now O Hal, 
 Hal the comfort I thought to bring you is no comfort, 
 my love is helpless. ..." 
 
 He tried to soothe her: "Considering how you dose 
 me and feed me ..." 
 
 " Not that way. Don't talk that way. I can't bear it." 
 
 " Could you bear it better if I tell you the truth of the 
 situation as I see it?" 
 
 He read assent in her pale uplifted face, and con- 
 tinued slowly: "To my thinking, each body-cell has 
 its corresponding spiritual manifestation. A man is a 
 commune of physical forces, a plexus of soul-life inex- 
 tricably tangled, mutually dependent. And when de- 
 cay crowds out the one, the other flickers away spark 
 by spark." 
 
 " And after ? You leave me no hope," she whispered ; 
 then suddenly buried her face in her hands, but with- 
 out weeping. "I can't bear it." 
 
 He gathered his failing strength into a fierce "You 
 can. Nothing is unbearable, once it is done." With an 
 effort he raised himself to look at her face. "But it's 
 killing you to see me go off." 
 
 "No. . . ." 
 
 ''That it might come quickly 1" he muttered, and 
 fell back, gasping. 
 
 There was a silence while she cut the offending 
 fringe into fragments. He turned away from her, with 
 indistinct words that she did not hear: "Even a beast 
 
 crawls away somewhere to die alone." 
 
 192
 
 Folly 
 
 "What did you say?" she asked; and grew suddenly 
 aware that he was struggling for breath. 
 
 It was horrible. For a moment she was too para- 
 lyzed to rush to the bell. When she stirred he caught 
 her back in a sort of frenzy. 
 
 "No" it was a sign rather than a word. "Go 
 away" she saw the words, even if she did not hear 
 them. 
 
 In answer to her appealing arms there was only that 
 terrible word : ' ' Away ! ' ' 
 
 When she understood that he wanted to be alone in 
 his agony, she went outside and stood at the door 
 listening, and in a blind way praying, until the room 
 was still again. 
 
 Then she dared not enter until she heard his voice 
 speaking her name. Fearfully she opened the door 
 and seeing his outstretched hand, ran across to him 
 with a pitiful cry: "You should not have shut me out 
 you should not!" 
 
 "It is kinder to us both," said he gently, "that you 
 should be away when such things happen. Always 
 until to-day I have been quick enough. ..." 
 
 "But suppose. ..." 
 
 "We'll not suppose." 
 
 "No, you are right," she said quietly. "We'll not 
 suppose. I must obey you in all things." 
 
 She passed her hand lightly, caressingly, across his 
 brow, but he made no response by word or look. He 
 was given over wholly to pain. 
 13 193
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE OTHER WOMAN. 
 
 THERE came storms late in March, and the sea beat 
 a heavy surf along the plage, while the wind twanged 
 wild music from peak to peak of the mountains. But 
 it was on one of these inclement days that Gore, who 
 had been lying silent and almost impenetrable to 
 Folly's utmost efforts, suddenly roused himself and 
 declared that business, more or less important, but 
 hitherto forgotten, called him into the town. 
 
 "No," he said in answer to her unspoken appeal, 
 "I don't want you this time, my dear. Call one of 
 those fiacre- things, if you like; it will take me safely 
 enough where I want to go; and when I come back, if 
 you have been very good, I may tell you what I have 
 been up to. But it's not a matter for you to meddle 
 with." 
 
 She made little protest; she was becoming used to 
 sitting outside the door of his mind. She arranged 
 everything that she could devise for his comfort, and 
 let him go. 
 
 Afterwards she tried to read in the sitting-room; but 
 194
 
 Folly 
 
 book after book fell from her lap, and she sat watching 
 the wind-beaten yellow sea until she had fear of her 
 desolation. She tried her bedroom, but this was even 
 more forlorn. With a sudden resolve that was almost 
 instinctive, she rose and went along the passage to 
 Haldane's door. There she paused and was about to 
 knock, but smiled at her own foolishness in forgetting 
 that he was away, and still rather timidly went in. 
 
 It was the green arm-chair that she wanted, and the 
 smell of the cigarette-smoke that was so associated with 
 his presence. Sitting there and dreaming, as he was 
 wont to sit and dream, she was conscious of a respite in 
 her trouble, of a momentary comfort that repaid her 
 in part for the care and suffering she had endured 
 for his sake. 
 
 After a time she found herself staring at the window 
 across the street, closed against the wind, yet revealing 
 the figure of the neighbour- woman of whom Haldane 
 had told her his fancies. She found herself wondering 
 how long the creature had been sitting so erect and 
 still. She could not be asleep? or dead? A mass of 
 white needlework lay before her on the table; but she 
 did not move to touch it, or stir from her stiff attitude, 
 her elbows on the table, and her face in her hands. 
 
 Folly grew anxious and tried to avoid watching, and 
 to think of other things. She had had a letter that 
 morning from Mabel Patrick; and by its happy tone 
 she knew that Gregory had returned, and the wooing 
 was once more on. She was not jealous but, rather, 
 
 195
 
 Folly 
 
 glad of their happiness. Mabel could make a man 
 Very comfortable by his own fireside, while she she 
 had a stinging pang at the thought that perhaps after 
 all she had hurt Haldane more than she had helped. 
 Perhaps something might have been done they might 
 have gone to Paris they might still go to Paris, only 
 Gregory had been so sure they had all been so sure 
 and Haldane himself had been so indignant, so upset, 
 at the bare suggestion of using her money that way 
 why, he would not even let her pay the bills here. 
 . . . Still, she might have insisted . . . even in a 
 hopeless case. . . . Oh, the woman! The woman! 
 Would she never move? 
 
 Haldane had been away an hour and three quarters. 
 He would be tired certainly. The exertion might have 
 overcome him might have brought on syncope. . . . 
 And yet she could not have prevented him from going. 
 When his will was bent upon a thing, or against a thing, 
 it was not hi her power to divert it. ... She told her- 
 self forlornly and no doubt it was the truth that this 
 was why she had been in the end submissive to give up 
 all hope of a cure, and to take the days with him as 
 they came. 
 
 She paced the floor with increasing anxiety. Should 
 she go in search of him, and where and how ? She got 
 her hat and long cloak and returned to the window, 
 looking up the wind-swept street. But then again her 
 eyes were drawn across the way; and full of an unrea- 
 sonable irritation against the motionless figure, on a 
 
 196
 
 Folly 
 
 sudden impulse she ran downstairs and across the 
 cobbles, and up the rat-eaten mouldy steps on the other 
 side, to the door that she judged should be the right 
 one; there knocked and knocked in vain, until at the 
 last pressure of her knuckles the weak spring gave 
 way and the door opened inward. 
 
 She had known what the room would be like, even 
 to the baby on the bed and the unfinished garments 
 scattered about on the chairs. But the woman by the 
 window, with her face hidden in her clasped hands, 
 did not turn or move. 
 
 A moment Folly looked at her, noting that the ra- 
 diant crown of hair, only a little paler than the heavy 
 drop ear-rings that fell against the tawny cheek was 
 indeed, as Haldane had said, like enough to her own. 
 Then she touched her gently on the shoulder, and the 
 woman looked up, heavy-eyed, without surprise or 
 question. 
 
 "What is the matter?" asked Folly, in her broken 
 Spanish. 
 
 " Nothing, sefiora, nothing." The answer was in the 
 soft mumble of one more accustomed to Basque than 
 to the resonant tongue of Castile. 
 
 " Are you ill?" 
 
 "No, se flora." She was almost sulky; but as she 
 turned away to the window, perhaps to escape the 
 stranger's gaze, Folly saw that she had wept until her 
 cheeks were swollen and her eyes would scarcely open. 
 
 "Tell me about it," urged Folly. 
 197
 
 Folly 
 
 "The senora knows that there is a hospital in the 
 Calle Pamplona? I went there this morning. ..." 
 
 "Yes? Yes?" urged Folly. 
 
 "My God, we shall starve the three of us the 
 baby and the little one that is to come ! They told me 
 I must not work at the machine for months; and I am 
 a shirt-maker. Senora, to make them by the hand . . . 
 that is impossible. " 
 
 "And your husband?" asked Folly, and would have 
 liked to take the words back. 
 
 "Me?" said the woman simply. "I have no hus- 
 band." 
 
 And Folly waited, seeing that more was to come. 
 
 "He is a poor man, sefiora, and he has a family of 
 his own; but he has always been good to us and given 
 us what he could spare. He paid for the machine here 
 that I might get work, so that we should never 
 starve. But now he is gone." 
 
 The tears rolled down her cheeks so slowly that they 
 almost seemed to furrow their way. She caught them 
 on her wrist, and wiped them off quickly as if she 
 knew that they would sting. 
 
 "And you have no friends?" 
 
 "No, senora." 
 
 "None?" 
 
 " My mother is dead. My father is a respectable 
 man, and has a wine-shop in Deva. His family 
 are neighbours, and that is why he brought me away 
 here . . . and at first he paid the rent, but 
 
 198
 
 Folly 
 
 now. ... It is two years since first I came to Es- 
 pinal." 
 
 "And could you not go into the hospital?" suggested 
 Folly timidly. 
 
 The woman shook her head and spread out her 
 palms. 
 
 "But what will you do?" 
 
 The Basque woman had no answer to that. 
 
 With a sudden memory of Haldane, Folly went to 
 the window, opened it and from the balcony looked up 
 the street; but a gust of wind drove her within. The 
 woman paid no attention to her action. 
 
 "You must rouse yourself," said Folly sharply. 
 
 "Yes, seftora, yes " but the tone was lifeless. 
 
 Thereupon the baby set up a shrill wail, but his 
 mother sat plucking at her apron as if she had not 
 heard. 
 
 So Folly lifted the strong-legged black-eyed child and 
 set him upon her knee, where he at once began raven- 
 ously to gnaw at her chain. 
 
 "He is hungry. You must feed him," urged Folly. 
 
 "What matter, if he must starve sooner or later?" 
 came the apathetic answer. 
 
 And Folly looked down at the youngster as he twined 
 his fat brown fist round one of her fingers and drew it 
 to his mouth. He was just such a ruddy solemn-eyed 
 infant as Murillo painted many a time among his 
 cherubs. So looking, she tried to harden her heart 
 against the sinner. The woman had been comfortable 
 
 and respectable, and she had staked her all on a chance 
 
 199
 
 Folly 
 
 of happiness, and had lost. Let her pay, then, as others 
 must pay. But the innocent child and the unborn? 
 
 "Have you been happy?" she asked suddenly. 
 
 "Yes," said the woman, and her face changed, as if 
 for a moment a light had passed over it. She thought 
 it worth while perhaps it compensated even for such 
 despair as this. . . . 
 
 She rose and put the child into its mother's arms. 
 "And you don't know where he is now?" 
 
 "But yes in America. I cannot say the long name 
 of the place I must write to sometimes. Three months 
 and more he is gone. He will be rich one day, and then 
 he will return and give money to the Church. ..." 
 
 "And you will be happy again," concluded Folly 
 sadly. 
 
 " I do not know, senora. That rests with the Saints 
 and the Holy Mother. But I wait and I hope. ..." 
 
 And now she seemed to be forgetting her immediate 
 troubles. 
 
 "But will not his family go out to him instead?" 
 asked Folly. 
 
 "Sometimes he writes that it must be so. I cannot 
 say. But I do not think of that.' 
 
 "I will see to it that you do not starve," said Folly 
 slowly. "Come to us over the way until you can 
 work again. It is not fair that they should suffer." 
 
 The woman fell on her knees in a passion of weeping, 
 and clung about Folly's skirts. "May all the Saints 
 pour blessings on you and your husband!" 
 
 200
 
 Polly 
 
 Folly frowned as she stood in the bare room, tall and 
 stately, with her long black cloak gathered about her, 
 and her wide black hat shading her delicate pinched 
 face. Honesty demanded confession, she was think- 
 ing; and after a time said coldly: "Thank you. But 
 he is not my husband." 
 
 "Ah" a light broke over the woman's face. "That 
 is better for me. That is why you understand and 
 have mercy." 
 
 But Folly drew sharply back. "No, I don't know 
 that I do ... I can only guess ..." 
 
 The Basque studied her wistfully, then held up the 
 baby towards her. "May God send you this comfort, 
 sefiora; and then you will know. ..." 
 
 But Folly drew back still further, with a little cry; 
 and the woman, thinking that she had presumed, laid 
 the child on the floor, so that it touched the hem of 
 Folly's skirt. So kneeling, she lifted up her hands in 
 prayer to the Holy Mother. . . . 
 
 "Oh, hush!" cried Folly. "You don't know" 
 the sentence ended in a sob. 
 
 But the woman prayed with all her heart. 
 
 201
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THE CASE OF THE NEIGHBOUR. 
 
 AFTER all, she had not heard the clatter and tinkle of 
 the mules that brought back the fiacre, and she was 
 amazed and relieved to find Haldane writing at the 
 bureau in their sitting-room. 
 
 "So you ran away?" he began, as if to forestall any 
 similar charge from her. 
 
 "Yes. I was so tired watching for you, and fearing 
 something might have happened. I have been gos- 
 sipping with your neighbour across the street." 
 
 "Have you now?" He turned smiling, and pushed 
 aside his pen and paper as if the writing were of no 
 importance. " Tell me about her." 
 
 "Yes, presently. You are quite all right? Can I 
 get you anything?" 
 
 He whistled a moment, jingling keys and coins in 
 his pockets. "I intended to buy some cigarettes and 
 forgot all about it." 
 
 She opened one of the table drawers. "But I told 
 you this morning I had put a fresh box here." 
 
 She brought him one and offered a light, and con- 
 tinued standing by him, with her hand on his shoulder. 
 
 202
 
 Folly 
 
 "I don't know whether you will consider that I have 
 been good enough. ..." 
 
 " Can't say till I hear what you have been up to." 
 
 She came to the point at once: "Well, that woman, 
 you know she isn't married. And the man has de- 
 serted her. She has barely been able to keep from 
 starving; and now she is ill and can't work much for 
 a time. ..." 
 
 "Can't the man be found?" 
 
 "He is in America. And he has a family in Deva. 
 And there will be another child soon. So I. . . ." 
 
 " Of course you did. To her great gain." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 " Look at the way now things come about. He makes 
 a home for her and deserts her. She has a bad time. 
 You step in and act good angel. And the world spins 
 merrily on." 
 
 "Is that the way you think about it?" She crossed 
 the room and sat down at one of the windows, looking 
 out at the stormy sea. "Do you suppose he reasoned 
 it all through before he decided to give her up?" 
 
 "Hardly. But he doubtless persuaded himself 
 and her that he was acting for the best. And Provi- 
 dence or luck sent you." 
 
 "He stole from her everything that she had, and left 
 her alone," said Folly bitterly. 
 
 He turned a shade paler, and fumbled with the 
 cigarettes and matches before he found words: "Does 
 
 she take it so badly then?" 
 
 203
 
 Folly 
 
 She hesitated, remembering the woman's change of 
 manner when help had been offered. 
 
 "Has she had nothing out of it, and is she incon- 
 solable even now?" he followed up his advantage. 
 
 She was honest: "No. She has the baby, and she 
 hopes. ..." 
 
 She stopped, not seeing what in her words could 
 have brought that grey look over his face. 
 
 "It is nothing," he reassured her. "I haven't had 
 such an outing for weeks. But I shall be the better for 
 it afterward. I must take another soon, and you shall 
 go with me. Some jolly excursion among the moun- 
 tains eh? I shall be able to get about more with the 
 turning of the year; I'm a good deal stronger to-day 
 as it is. ... To return to that woman: you were say- 
 ing? Ah, yes. Anything that would take her out of 
 herself would serve the same purpose, wouldn't it?" 
 
 "I don't know," she answered slowly. "And what 
 else would take her out of herself ? " 
 
 "Oh, you women, you women!" It was a weak 
 evasion and both knew it. 
 
 "Nothing would take me out of myself or console 
 me in such a case," she insisted. 
 
 "You are very young yet, Folly," he said, after a 
 silence, "and you lack imagination. Think of the 
 years and years before you. ..." 
 
 "That's exactly what I don't want to think about." 
 
 "You'll be happy when you grow old," 
 
 "It may be so." 
 
 204
 
 Folly 
 
 "I understand. It doesn't concern you now; noth- 
 ing does but the present. I suppose a perpetual tooth- 
 ache would kill a man's hopes of immortality. Every- 
 thing goes down before pain; at least does it? But 
 there is a remedy." 
 
 "Well, the remedy?" she faced him, breathing 
 quickly. 
 
 " Draw the tooth. One sharp wrench then peace." 
 
 "It's a beautiful figure," said she ironically, "but 
 what is the tooth in the case of our neighbour ? " 
 
 "It doesn't apply correctly," he granted, "but on the 
 whole, the man seems to be the tooth; and he has 
 drawn himself by emigrating." 
 
 "Heavens, is that your doctrine?" she spoke hur- 
 riedly, as in a sort of fear. 
 
 "If they were unhappy together?" he suggested. 
 
 "They were not she was not. But it is possible 
 that he grew tired of her." 
 
 "We don't know enough of the circumstances to 
 come out anywhere in our argument. However, if in 
 the long run she is not unhappy. ..." 
 
 "She lives on hope. But in her place I should go 
 mad, I think." 
 
 "Even with the child?" he asked anxiously. 
 
 "Perhaps partly because of the child," she con- 
 fessed. 
 
 A great relief shone from his face; he wiped his fore- 
 head, and for a moment held his handkerchief there 
 
 without speaking. But at last: "I feared you would 
 
 205
 
 Folly 
 
 think otherwise. And you see there are so many other 
 things that can take one outside one's self. ..." 
 
 "Don't go over them," she interrupted brusquely. 
 "I don't want to talk about them. We'll consider the 
 woman saved and happy, if you like . . . since I am 
 to supply her with bread and cheese. But how about 
 the man?" 
 
 "Ah, there you see, we don't know. He may be a 
 villain, or he may be only a poor wretch who could find 
 no other way out." 
 
 She was silent, looking seaward, and seeming to 
 listen to the boom of the surf. 
 
 "Take another case," he persisted. "If you had a 
 finger almost cut off, hanging by a strip of skin, would 
 you let it be, or call in a surgeon and try to heal the 
 wound?" 
 
 "What are you getting at?" she turned again, in a 
 sort of fright. 
 
 "Never mind, then. Let's talk of something else. 
 Oh, you wanted to know where I've been? Do you?" 
 
 "Not especially," she answered, from the window. 
 "Not unless you want to tell me." 
 
 "I must want to tell you, I suppose, although it's 
 only a stupid matter of business. Come here, girl, and 
 sit by the fire. What's the good of mooning over that 
 beastly sea?" 
 
 "I wasn't mooning; I was only trying to imagine 
 how she felt when she knew he was sailing on it 
 
 away from her forever that's all. You want me to 
 
 206
 
 Folly 
 
 come over? Well, what's the stupid business then that 
 I wasn't to meddle with or know about until it was 
 finished?" 
 
 He spoke lightly: "A business that every man ought 
 to attend to early in life, and that most men leave until 
 late. I've been making my will." 
 
 She bit her lip for self-control, and looked at the red 
 charcoal. 
 
 "My father's money all goes, of course, to that 
 perverted charity; but my own, little as it is I have 
 left that to you, of course. You know how it was 
 earned, and you shall say what is to be done with it. 
 But there is one condition. ..." 
 
 "Must we speak of such things now?" she inter- 
 rupted piteously. 
 
 "Now or sometime. Better now. You are to have 
 all the manuscripts and notes, but not to publish them 
 understand? Keep them as long as you will, and 
 destroy them before you die." 
 
 "I am jealous for your name," she said earnestly. 
 
 "It must stand or fall by the little I have finished. 
 This last year's crop must not live after the warped 
 and thwarted mind that produced it. Or would you 
 rather I should destroy them myself?" 
 
 "Oh, no, no mine," she whispered. 
 
 He went over to her and kissed her; and they had 
 a moment of understanding and peace. 
 
 But then, after a struggle for self-control, she fell 
 
 a-sobbing, and he had to comfort her as best he could. 
 
 207
 
 Folly 
 
 "You don't take it properly. Why don't you admire 
 my enterprise in accomplishing the feat, witnesses and 
 all, in this unbusiness-like land of Spain?" 
 
 "You might have let me help," she said, "or you 
 might have let it slide. Hal shall we go up to Paris 
 now that you are a little stronger to see to see . . .?" 
 
 "I don't want to be bothered any more," he said, 
 with unusual sharpness. 
 
 "But we're doing nothing!" 
 
 "We've done everything." 
 
 "Are you very sure?" 
 
 "Sure?" he laughed it aside. "Everything short 
 of miracle that's the only thing left. From your point 
 of view, it's reasonable to keep on trying, I suppose" 
 he seemed to forget himself a little " but as for me, I'm 
 tired of the fuss. I want to be let alone." 
 
 There crept over her the slow conviction that the 
 more she strove to comfort him with her love in his 
 hour of need, the further he slipped away into the 
 shadow, beyond the reach of the utmost she could do. 
 
 It was perhaps with a sense of compunction that he 
 again bent over her and stroked her hair, for indeed 
 her case was like to approach that of the neighbour. 
 
 208
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 AT THE SHRINE. 
 
 THE last week in April, Espinal rejoices in the fes- 
 tival of Our Lady of the Thorn-tree. All the balconies are 
 heavy with flowers, and draped with banners and gay 
 carpets. The cathedral bells fill the air with their 
 jangling, and from distant Higuer comes the faint 
 single peal of the Chapel that crowns it. Little 
 girls are tricked out with beads, and their brothers strut 
 about with half -munched pastries in their hands. All 
 the world dances under the limes. . . . 
 
 But it is the procession of the Virgin that brings 
 town-folk and country-folk to squeeze one another 
 along the foot-wide pavements of the Calle Mayor, 
 while Our Lady is borne from her shrine on the hill to 
 grace with her presence the cathedral of the city she 
 brought into being; and afterwards returns as she came, 
 followed by a host of pilgrims eager to kiss the sacred 
 thorn, and to dip into the eternal spring of healing that 
 flows from beneath her altar. 
 
 Folly was leaning from a balcony of the fonda, this 
 
 too decked out by the pious fingers of their landlady, 
 14 209
 
 Folly 
 
 when she spied, afar off, the hillside streaked with scar- 
 let and purple and gold that moved cityward, to the 
 hilarious outcry of bells. 
 
 A while she watched in silence, then called over her 
 shoulder: "Haldane, will you come and see?" 
 
 "Is it worth the effort?" he asked. "I'm deep in 
 my book. " 
 
 But presently he came and stood by her side as the 
 chanting ecclesiastics, with the jewel-decked canopy, ' 
 passed beneath. Together they watched until the last 
 vestment had turned into the alley of tamarisks that 
 leads to the cathedral, with the people pressing close 
 behind to get the Archbishop's blessing. 
 
 "I wish we had thought of it sooner; we might have 
 gone, too," said Folly. "A good man's blessing would 
 have done us no harm." 
 
 "We might still join the pilgrimage" Gore spoke 
 absently, his eyes roving here and there among the 
 crowd "if you incline to be religious." 
 
 She laid on his arm a hand that shook with nervous 
 excitement. "Laugh at me if you will, but I do want 
 to go I want you to go. I want you to try the spring. 
 You said the other day that there was nothing could 
 save you but miracle. Since then I have prayed 
 night and day. . . . Call it madness, if you will; but 
 let us try. ... if you love me, Hal. . . . Who 
 knows . . .?" 
 
 "Poor Folly to what lengths would you not go?" 
 
 he said sadly, rather to himself than to her. 
 
 210
 
 Polly 
 
 "And I have been reading. I have read the Gospels 
 and the Acts, and other books about those that are 
 helped still to-day; and there have been many cured 
 that were much worse than you." 
 
 "No doubt," he granted idly. "But faith is the first 
 essential." 
 
 "And you ?" she could not say more. 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 " Then I might have faith for you. I could I can 
 so easily, if it would make you well!" 
 
 He smiled at her logic. "Faith is uncompromising 
 and before the proof." 
 
 She did not stop to consider what he meant. "You 
 will do this one thing for me?" she pleaded. 
 
 To himself he said : " It would be a test of my strength 
 show me at least where I stand." And aloud: 
 "Folly more folly! But if it would give you any 
 peace. . . . We might drive up and see what it is like 
 there?" 
 
 As she was putting on her hat, struck with a sudden 
 thought she unlocked her strong-box and took out gold- 
 pieces enough to crowd and weight her purse. 
 
 They drove through a ruined gate off the route of 
 the procession, not altogether escaping curiosity; but, 
 as soon as they had passed beyond the moat, found 
 themselves in the country among the upspringing 
 maize and bending poplars, alone with the larks. 
 
 Slowly they wound along between the apple-orchards 
 
 and tillage and pasture, up the hillside sprinkled over 
 
 211
 
 Folly 
 
 with the many-coloured slant-roofed timbered Basque 
 houses, all the way the sea being to their left, and the 
 purple mountains, chain beyond chain, to their right, 
 until they reached a level place where the broad road 
 begins to zigzag sharply backwards and forwards 
 across the steep slope, and where an ancient narrow 
 way blocked with great square stones, incredibly un- 
 even in their relations to one another, and worn smooth 
 by thousands of feet, points straight up to the spire of 
 the shrine, passing as it ascends the several stations of 
 the Cross. 
 
 Would their Excellencies proceed by the road, asked 
 the driver, or would they prefer to have him wait while 
 they walked up the old way of the pilgrims ? 
 
 Folly glanced quickly at Gore, and he read her un- 
 spoken wish. To please her he bade the driver wait, 
 and offered her his hand, saying: 
 
 "Now we take to the foot-path, the old patient way 
 for humble-minded sinners like ourselves eh, Folly?" 
 
 But after all it proved nearly too much for him. It 
 was a jagged and narrow path, steep as befits a road 
 to virtue, he commented with a laugh, when he was 
 forced to rest. 
 
 "Look" he diverted her attention from himself to 
 two hollowed-out places in a great boulder among the 
 artificially-laid stones. "The pilgrims all tread in one 
 another's footsteps, and the impression is as of one 
 man, isn't it ? It might be a symbol of the succession 
 of generations." 
 
 212
 
 Polly 
 
 "Shall I call the driver?" she asked anxiously. 
 
 But he would not listen to that; and in the end they 
 came out panting, on the terrace before the shrine. 
 
 As they sat on the low stone wall under a shelter of 
 fir-trees, they could see the returning procession as a 
 parti-coloured streak on the hill below the city wall. 
 
 They were satisfied to wait and look and listen as 
 the spectacle drew near; and as they sat there, talking 
 little and in low tones, they heard an Adios behind 
 them and turning, beheld an old priest whom Folly 
 at once greeted as the confessor of the Sisters to whom 
 she, at her first coming, had gone for Spanish lessons. 
 
 "You do not take part in the festival?" asked Gore, 
 by way of continuing the conversation. 
 
 "Yes, yes, presently, presently. I have a bad foot 
 and it is a long walk to the town." He, too, sat down 
 on the parapet, with the suffering member stretched 
 out to its own easing. "You English people," he con- 
 tinued, "are usually interested in our churches. You 
 have seen the Shrine?" 
 
 Upon their negative he consoled them: "Another 
 day then, when there is no feast. You are Roman 
 Catholics?" 
 
 And as they again said no, he mused as if to himself, 
 with genuine compassion: "What a pity! What a 
 pity!" 
 
 Then Folly plucked up her courage and asked, 
 flushing hotly: "Father, is it true that only Roman 
 
 Catholics are healed at the spring?" 
 
 213
 
 Folly 
 
 He meditated a moment before he answered: "I 
 never heard yet, my daughter, that grace has bounds 
 or limits." 
 
 "Could anyone be healed?" 
 
 He smiled at her eagerness. "If he had faith?" 
 He put his answer in the form of a question. 
 
 " We we came to-day ? " Speech failed her. 
 
 But he seemed to understand, for at that he looked 
 serious and said nothing. 
 
 She fumbled in her purse for treasure, but he stopped 
 her with something of sternness: "You will not find, 
 my child, that Our Lady of Thorns sells her blessings." 
 
 "For your poor" she was faltering, but he waved 
 that aside: "Out of a full heart shall you give. . . . 
 Come in with the others, my children of this country; 
 and if the Holy Mother has compassion on you .... 
 who knows?" He smiled and with a salute, strolled 
 away. 
 
 "He is a good man," she whispered, "and he be- 
 lieves. You will try, Haldane ? For my sake ? Oh, I 
 think I have forgotten how to pray!" 
 
 She leaned against him, trembling; and so they sat 
 in silence until they heard the breathless chant of the 
 pilgrims climbing the difficult way. Then they rose 
 and went forward a little to meet them; but still 
 looked on from afar, while the priests and choristers 
 passed from the sunlight into the candle-lit church. 
 And still they waited, while some went by that were 
 
 lame, and others that were bent, and shaken, and 
 
 214
 
 Folly 
 
 scabbed by horrible diseases; and some that were 
 idiots, with death's heads that wagged and grinned; 
 and some that were blind; and some that were carried 
 by two or three. When these were gone within, with a 
 great band of friends come to pray with them, the tiny 
 church was full; and yet outside the roadway was as 
 crowded with spectators as if the number were un- 
 diminished. 
 
 The two who stood apart listened to the chant 
 of prayer and psalm, within and without, as they 
 watched the sun sinking in a lemon-coloured sky 
 streaked and blotched with cloud-masses as purple as 
 
 the mountain-peaks on which they rested 
 
 It seemed to them equally impossible to go in and to 
 go away. 
 
 Presently they heard the click of an iron gate and 
 looking down, perceived that they were just above an 
 outside door that led from the crypt. Both drew back 
 as a young girl, flushed and wet-eyed, with water- 
 drops on her dark hair, came up the steps, followed by 
 a group of weeping women. 
 
 For her life, Folly could not have refrained from 
 leaning forward with the hushed cry: "You are 
 you ?" 
 
 The girl stopped and stared and shivered; then a 
 light came over her face. "Healed!" she whispered 
 back; then broke into a sweet shrill hymn of praise to 
 Her that had wrought the wonder. 
 
 At this, Folly waited no longer, but seized Gore's 
 215
 
 Folly 
 
 hand, and had dragged him to the church door before 
 he realized what she would be at. 
 
 "No, no," he frowned at her, as the kneeling crowd 
 stirred and made room for them. 
 
 But in her madness was an impetus that brooked no 
 resistance. People bent aside for them, perhaps divin- 
 ing that here was some unusual thing, so that it almost 
 seemed as if a path opened before them as they 
 went, until they found themselves at the top of the 
 dimly-lighted stairway into the crypt, on which 
 crouched, knelt, and lay, the procession of those going 
 down to be healed. From below came the chanting of 
 the priests as they cried for mercy on the sick; from 
 above, the responses of the congregation, shrill with 
 many women's voices, quivering with excitement and 
 an indefinable suggestion of tears. 
 
 Gore perceived that there was no restraining Folly, 
 carried away as she was by the religious ecstasy of the 
 peasants about her; and half sick, half disgusted, yet 
 unwilling to leave her, unable to drag her away, he 
 leaned against the damp wall, and watched the slow 
 downward progress of the afflicted. Presently he be- 
 came conscious that the step below him was empty of 
 the leprous-looking man who had been kneeling there, 
 and that two bearers with a paralytic between them 
 were pushing hard behind. 
 
 Folly turned to him with brilliant eyes. " Come. It 
 can do no harm." 
 
 "Where are your beads and your mass-bpok?" he 
 216
 
 Folly 
 
 whispered back; but at her look, suffered himself to 
 follow her down the dark way. " If it would satisfy her, 
 why not ? " he asked himself. 
 
 The spring, if spring there were, was built in and 
 roofed over with a golden tabernacle. Facing the 
 source of miracles was an altar surrounded by iron 
 standards filled with hundreds of tapers; and these 
 filled the crypt with a golden haze, and were reflected 
 in many colours in the jewels of the Shrine. The yellow 
 light of these candles innumerable outlined the black 
 frocks and sallow faces of half a dozen young ecclesi- 
 astics, who with outstretched arms monotonously in- 
 sistently repeated the orisons that echoed up the 
 stair-way. An old priest the same who had spoken 
 to the strangers on the terrace outside was muttering 
 some ceremonial procedure, while two acolytes were 
 ready, one to hand out a cup containing the precious 
 liquor, the other carrying a basin and napkin, to sprinkle 
 or to lave, as the father might direct. 
 
 The leper was turning away with dripping face and 
 hands, when Folly, her lips parted in the effort, to draw 
 breath calmly, advanced to the rings of candle-flame. 
 
 The acolytes looked at her inquiringly, but the old 
 priest nodded toward the man; he was accustomed to 
 illness in many forms. 
 
 And singularly enough, at this moment, Gore's one 
 sensation was of a parching thirst that seemed to swell 
 his tongue and intensify the aching of his throat an 
 
 hundredfold. He had no more hesitation than a way- 
 
 217
 
 Folly 
 
 side beggar in reaching out for the double-handled 
 antique silver cup. 
 
 The sparkling water cold and faintly, deliciously 
 sweet was a veritable godsend to him; but almost at 
 once he found himself quelling the suspicion that 
 perhaps it was medicated to produce an immediate 
 effect of stimulation. 
 
 When he turned to Folly, however, he found her 
 kneeling on the stones, with her arms outstretched like 
 those of the young priests, and her lips moving in re- 
 sponse to their prayers. 
 
 "Come, come," he muttered roughly, "it's high 
 time we got away from this." 
 
 They stumbled up the outside stairway, where was 
 now assembled a little awe-struck crowd, constantly 
 recruited from the worshippers in the church, to watch 
 the return of the healed and to sing praises in their 
 behalf. 
 
 They made no difference in the case of the strangers; 
 but some of the women pressed forward and demanded 
 what was the miracle that had been wrought. 
 
 And when they made no answer, there was a certain 
 mumbling of discontent among the old people; and a 
 rude joke or two passed along the lips of the young 
 folk. Therefore, instead of making their way onward 
 through the crowd, with one accord they faced up the 
 hill; and leaving the road, took to a steep narrow path 
 that led through rock-strewn heath land towards a 
 ruined square tower on the summit, erected long ago 
 
 for watching or defence. 
 
 218
 
 Folly 
 
 But before they had climbed half the distance, Gore 
 dropped exhausted on a boulder; and Folly, with her 
 shoulder behind him for support, knelt in the heather 
 at his side. She slipped her hand into his and together 
 they gazed at the shadowy ranges of the Pyrenees, 
 from the green foot-hills in the plain below to the pur- 
 ple peaks that vanished among the approaching clouds. 
 
 Suddenly she released her hand and hid her face, 
 saying bitterly: "The fool the fool I am!" 
 
 "It was rather like storming the gates of heaven," 
 he admitted. 
 
 "It was that; but if we had got in ah! And now 
 we shall be punished for our presumption." 
 
 "I don't know what made me drink," he mused. 
 
 "I I did," she insisted. "I dragged you there." 
 
 " Perhaps but yes, I do know why I drank. I had 
 a deadly thirst; and the water was very good." 
 
 "Oh, hush, it's blasphemy!" 
 
 "Why so? I may be the better for it." 
 
 "No, no, you will never be better," she said, in low- 
 voiced despair. 
 
 " But, my dear girl, what did you expect ? A cure on 
 the spot?" 
 
 "I don't know. I don't know what I expected. I 
 am at my wits' end." 
 
 " Clearly. Then, can't you let yourself be content to 
 let things work themselves out as they must ? " 
 
 But she still brooded: "We are taught to believe in 
 miracles. I thought this was a supreme test." 
 
 219
 
 Folly 
 
 "Miracles there are undoubtedly, but they happen 
 in the soul; and the soul is the source of half the 
 maladies of mankind. I mean it literally. And these 
 are cured by faith. But with me it's a war of cell 
 against cell. Like must meet like in the struggle 
 for life and death. Hence, faith is the strong op- 
 ponent of unfaith, poison of poison, microbe of 
 microbe. And we live or die by the winning of the 
 stronger. So why trouble ? . . . You must bend to the 
 inevitable." 
 
 "No!" flashed from her lips, her eyes; her whole 
 body breathed protest unending. 
 
 "No, you never would, I suppose. It isn't in your 
 nature. You possess the doubtful virtue of not know- 
 ing when you're beaten." 
 
 "Oh, you talk of virtue!" she cried bitterly; and 
 then turned to pleading: " For my sake, Hal, don't give 
 up. I can't stand it. You are all I have or want in the 
 world." 
 
 He looked at her sadly enough, his exhilaration fol- 
 lowed by a profound depression. " There you are wrong 
 we are wrong; you should have or want other things." 
 He put his arms about her. "You struggle and you 
 struggle, beating your wings against the laws that cage 
 us all in. Give over." 
 
 She clung to him, breathing hard. "I cannot face 
 the thought of the future." 
 
 "You need not, you should not. The angels of the 
 
 future are jealous of the treasure they guard." He 
 
 220
 
 Folly 
 
 added to himself: "But it's the present that's killing 
 her God! to make an end of it!" 
 
 "Up to to-day," she continued, "I had some wild 
 hope. I thought that Providence something would 
 intervene I have always found the way before. ..." 
 
 She rose as if to continue her climb to the tower over- 
 head, that looked still as inaccessible as it had seemed 
 from the shrine below. But after a few steps she 
 stopped, knee-deep in the heather, the sea-wind ruffling 
 her hair, and stretched out her arms to the mountains. 
 "I would worship any God any that would save us 
 to each other!" 
 
 He made no answer. She turned and found him 
 struggling for breath. 
 
 Her arms were quickly about him, but with a gasp or 
 sign, "Let be," he slipped from her hold down among 
 the heather. 
 
 She looked at him, with a strange cold sense that the 
 inevitable punishment had been swift. 
 
 Then she put her hands to her mouth, and gave a 
 shrill call for help once twice which brought a 
 herd-boy running over the brow of the hill. 
 
 With a kind of detached interest, she watched him 
 crossing himself in prayer, as she set forth briefly what 
 had happened and what they must do. 
 
 Gore was unconscious when they lifted him between 
 them, and bore him down the winding path to the de- 
 serted road that led to the shrine. 
 
 Here, when her desperate strength would have carried 
 221
 
 Folly 
 
 her yet further, the herd looked at her face and was 
 wise. He insisted that they lay down their burden, and 
 that she keep guard while he went for help. 
 
 He had not gone twenty steps before he encountered 
 two soldiers, raw conscripts from the fort over the hill, 
 on leave to see the fiesta. 
 
 These understood and were quick of foot and hand; 
 and so quietly displaced Folly, and left the herd to 
 return to his goats. 
 
 She never knew what she said to them, or how she 
 rewarded her first helper; but she remembered as in a 
 dream walking between throngs of people, and finding 
 somehow, somewhere, the waiting cab. And she 
 remembered directing the men to put up the hood and 
 to place Haldane so that she could support his head; 
 and then giving them something that turned their faces 
 ruddy with delight. 
 
 All the way to Espinal, as they drove between 
 the maize-fields, she found herself thinking coldly 
 that this was the end it was surely the end, and 
 
 nothing mattered And there crept into her 
 
 mind a sort of dull wonder that she could bear it ' 
 so well. 
 
 But still he did not die; and as they drew near the 
 city walls, while she was chafing his hands, he returned 
 to a show of consciousness. 
 
 "For my sake," she whispered, with white lips. 
 "Fight for it." 
 
 He looked at her with a sort of dumb reproach. Had 
 222
 
 Folly 
 
 he not been fighting far beyond his strength, to the 
 limit of his will, these last six months ? 
 
 "Did you think I was done for?" he got out pres- 
 ently. 
 
 "I thought it was my punishment," she said. 
 
 "For fighting nature? And still you urge me on? 
 How many more times do you want to go through with 
 this eh? Do you suppose it will become easier with 
 repetition ? How long ? " 
 
 "Oh, hush," she said. "I am thankful for this little 
 gamed." 
 
 223
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 THE FERRY. 
 
 HE was really wonderful, she told him almost gaily, 
 when she came downstairs the day after the festival 
 and found him already at his desk. 
 
 He gave brisk replies to her anxious questions, and 
 even teased her about her more than maternal solici- 
 tude. 
 
 "You're the only boy I've got," she defended her- 
 self ; and that put an end to his joking. 
 
 But she little dreamed what was in his mind, as he 
 sat apparently absorbed in his letters. After a sleepless 
 night, during which he had revolved a score of times 
 every phase of their situation and every possible way 
 out of it, he rose early and went downstairs, resolved 
 that never again should she have to pass through the 
 experience of the day before; and found on the table 
 a letter from Gregory that offered a solution. "It 
 would be barbarous," he said to himself, "yet it is pos- 
 sible perhaps the only way. And the time has come." 
 
 The arresting passage in the letter contained only a 
 
 few drily-stated facts: "Christie is at Biarritz. He 
 
 224
 
 Folly 
 
 gave Mrs. Patrick his address, and she assures me that 
 she knows he intended you to have it. I don't know 
 how she knows; but she insists that I send it on to you. 
 Make what you will of it. " 
 
 "I must think it well over," he mused; but for a 
 long time could get no further than: "That was always 
 the stumbling-block leaving her desperate and alone 
 in a strange land. But how to manage?" 
 
 Unconsciously Folly helped in the sealing of her own 
 future. She said: 
 
 "I have a letter here from Mabel. She writes that 
 Gregory knows a man who has been very successful hi 
 treating cases like yours. Some Frenchman wait a 
 moment; I'll find the name. He has recently opened a 
 sanatorium at Elizondo. Evidently Gregory approves 
 the plan, or, you see, Mabel wouldn't suggest it." 
 
 "That we go there?" he asked. Would she never 
 understand that it had been too late a year ago ? 
 
 "I was only thinking that, since you are better this 
 morning, I might go and look over the place. I could 
 do it in a day ; and if it seems advisable. . . . We can't 
 stay here much longer away from everything" he 
 interpreted rightly the distress in her voice; in the event 
 of further crises, she wanted every possible means of 
 prolonging life. 
 
 It was fully time to act, he thought, studying the 
 Biarritz address; yesterday had proved it. Then he 
 said aloud: "It might be a good plan. You will go 
 
 to-day then?" 
 
 15 225
 
 Folly 
 
 He gave himself up to a mathematical problem. If 
 she should depart by the ten o'clock ferry and dili- 
 gence, she would have ample time for the one-seventeen 
 train; and if he telegraphed to Christie so that he could 
 get the eleven-something from Biarritz, they would be 
 bound to pass on the way. And if the diligence drivers 
 stopped to chat and smoke a cigarette, as they often did, 
 the two passengers would doubtless recognize each 
 other. ... He could not see any way out of that; he 
 must take the chance. But after all, such a meeting 
 might involve a possible solution. If Christie came by 
 a later train, the two travellers would probably meet at 
 Erro station. This would not mend matters, and 
 would endanger the further plan of action that he was 
 rapidly forming. 
 
 He hesitated no longer, but sent his telegram when 
 Folly had gone upstairs to prepare for her journey. 
 
 Then, haunted by the sense of what he was doing, he 
 followed and knocked at her door. 
 
 She was so amazed to see him there that he felt 
 bound to trump up an excuse. "I came to tell you" 
 he said, and stopped. 
 
 Perceiving that she was about to tie her shoe, he 
 suggested, "Let me," and had knelt before she could 
 prevent him. 
 
 When he had done this, to his own amazement and 
 hers, he laid his head on her knee. 
 
 "Why, my dear!" she exclaimed. "You're not so 
 
 well then? I won't go." 
 
 226
 
 Folly 
 
 But he looked up at once. "You shall go. Why not ? 
 I'm all right." 
 
 When she made no answer beyond looking at him 
 keenly, he rose and fetched her cloak, and held it out to 
 her to put on, saying: "You will miss the ferry." 
 
 As she slipped her arms into it, he suddenly drew her 
 back, cloak and all, and kissed her with an intensity of 
 emotion that he had never shown before. 
 
 "Why, Hal" she was frightened by his strangeness 
 " what is this ? You are surely worse ? I will stay at 
 home to-day." 
 
 With that, he conceived the necessity for acting, and 
 played his part so well that she was reassured, only 
 wondering that he should linger about and watch her 
 as she arranged her hat and veil, and found her gloves 
 and purse. 
 
 "I will walk to the ferry with you," he said; and 
 when they came down into the garden, picked a flower 
 and gave it to her a strange red blossom with a 
 purple heart, the name of which neither knew. 
 
 They walked slowly along the empty street that 
 echoed the sound of their footsteps; and after a little 
 while, he took her arm and drew it through his. 
 
 She mistook the action for weakness, and pretended 
 to push him away. "Go home. You will tire your- 
 self." 
 
 "No," he answered; and looking into her face, 
 asked : " You trust me, do you ? " 
 
 "Yes," was all she said. 
 
 227
 
 Folly 
 
 "Trust me always." 
 
 Her face grew heavier with trouble, and he hastened 
 to forestall her words : 
 
 "My dear, I do honestly assure you that you need 
 not worry about me to-day." He added under his 
 breath: "Or after or after. God grant it!" 
 
 "I should not go," she said anxiously, "only, you 
 see you see, it's another hope. ..." 
 
 They passed under the ruined gate; and just beyond 
 met the goat-herd with his brown flock. The man 
 stopped his piping and entreated custom. 
 
 Gore shook his head, but Folly said, "Please to 
 please me; it will do you good," and he yielded. 
 
 The herd stooped to his milking, and the shaggy 
 flock browsed here and there among the cobbles. When 
 the glass foamed over, said Gore: "Let us drink it to- 
 gether, you and I, in earnest of drinking together one 
 day the cup of joy." 
 
 She barely touched the glass, and then he; and they 
 looked at each other and laughed, she with tears in her 
 eyes. 
 
 "We must try again," he said, and they made a 
 ritual of it, drinking alternately until the glass was 
 empty. 
 
 So for a moment they stood poised, it seemed to 
 him, between the City of Thorns and the sea the 
 last moment they should be together in this world 
 of men. . . . 
 
 "The ferryman is waiting," she murmured softly; 
 228
 
 Folly 
 
 and they passed along to the end of the rough stone 
 causeway over the sands, where Kiki, the wrinkled 
 Basque, sat patient on a thwart. She was to be the 
 only passenger, it seemed. 
 
 "Is not the senor coming too?" asked the oarsman. 
 
 "Yes," cried Gore, suddenly unable to resist the 
 temptation; but she was firm and, laughing, held him 
 off with both hands. So they stood another long mo- 
 ment, she in the boat, he above on the causeway. Then 
 there came a strain upon their clasp ; and looking down, 
 he saw a foot of water between them. 
 
 "The senor wishes to come?" asked the ferryman 
 again, prepared to lay hold of the pier. 
 
 But Folly was vehement. "No, no, you misunder- 
 stand," said she in Spanish. "He cannot come." 
 And to him in English : " Go home and rest. And don't 
 meet me to-night or wait up for me. There's no telling 
 when you will see me again." 
 
 He had hesitated while he might have leaped, and 
 now a wide stretch of water was between them. 
 
 He strained to catch every look of her face, long after 
 its features were blurred together; and as if fascinated 
 by his intentness, she gave him gaze for gaze until she 
 reached the opposite landing. Then he saw the flutter 
 of a handkerchief and she was gone. 
 
 He made a hasty movement and looked upstream 
 and down; but he knew well that none of the fishermen 
 came so far within, and that by the time the ferry re- 
 turned, the diligence would be gone. ... He was 
 
 229
 
 Folly 
 
 alone, dizzy with the sun beating on the sands, and in 
 his ears the shrill piping of the goat-herd, softened to a 
 plaintive tenderness, far up in the City of Thorns: 
 
 230
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 THE ONLY WAY. 
 
 NOT long after Gore had returned to the inn, a tele-' 
 gram was brought to him, containing the words: 
 " Coming by eleven-fourteen train. Christie." 
 
 During the hours that intervened, he was busy 
 enough; but when his visitor was announced, between 
 three and four, he told the seftora, who passed him in 
 the hall, that everything was pretty well ready. 
 
 As he opened the sitting-room door, he saw the 
 Basque maid on the stairway, and called her to give 
 some nonchalant and seemingly insignificant order; 
 then went in, his hands in his pockets, perhaps to em- 
 phasize a slight air of bravado, and closed the door by 
 leaning against it. 
 
 Christie returned his nod, and awaited in silence 
 what he might have to say for himself. He was stand- 
 ing by the window as Gore came in, and did not ad- 
 vance, or take the offered chair. Nor did Gore meet 
 him more than half way, as he faced him, leaning on 
 the table more heavily than Christie knew. 
 
 "The point is," began Gore abruptly, as if the 
 matter had been previously under discussion, "I 
 
 231
 
 Folly 
 
 asked you to come here to-day because I am leaving 
 Espinal." 
 
 This sentence was meaningless to Christie, and he 
 made no comment. 
 
 "The ferry goes in less than an hour, so I must be 
 quick and plain. In a word, I am deserting her." 
 
 "You" Christie's fist clinched, and he jerked 
 sharply about; then he remembered the other man's 
 weakness and controlled himself. "May I ask why 
 I am honoured with this communication?" 
 
 "Certainly. When you know the facts, you may 
 wish to take her back." 
 
 He had got it out now, and was able to walk up and 
 down with more ease of mind, while awaiting the re- 
 sponse. 
 
 But Christie was slow to say: "I expected a different 
 state of affairs; I can make no sense of this." 
 
 "You expected to find me dying; well, so I am, and 
 that is why I am going away." 
 
 "What else?" asked Christie, as he paused. 
 
 "What else? Why, I hardly know. It is for you to 
 put questions. I have stated the case to you; and I 
 have written to her." 
 
 "Have you any reason to believe that she would 
 wish to be taken back?" 
 
 "None whatever," Gore was forced to confess. 
 
 "She does not wish it then? She chose to leave me; 
 if she comes back, it must be of her own free will." 
 
 " Suppose she should be willing, how could she know 
 
 that the door is open?" 
 
 232
 
 Folly 
 
 Christie turned upon him keenly: "Well first and 
 last I take it, I am her husband." 
 
 "Is that enough?" 
 
 And Christie: "By this time she ought to know 
 something of me." 
 
 "And you of her?" asked Gore. 
 
 "I don't care to discuss that with you," said Christie 
 curtly. " I gather you are wanting to be rid of her ? " 
 
 "You are wrong," said Gore calmly. "I have al- 
 ready given you a sufficient reason for my act; but I 
 can tell you more. You speak of being her husband; 
 well, so you are, as much so as when she left you six 
 months ago. She has been playing nurse to a captious 
 invalid, and that's the end of the matter." 
 
 Christie looked at him hard, to get the truth. 
 
 " Believe it at your leisure. Yes, it's been a fizzle 
 or rather, I have from the beginning; and I don't 
 enjoy admitting it. But it seems the only straight 
 thing to do. Now do you wonder that I want to save 
 her still if lean?" 
 
 It seemed long to both before Christie muttered 
 under his breath : " The folly of it ! " 
 
 "That's it" Gore laughed and choked, and leaned 
 heavily over the back of a chair. "The Folly of it, oh, 
 the Folly of it!" He asked suddenly: " Did you by any 
 chance pass her on the way?" 
 
 "I saw a woman I thought like her; but it was only 
 a glimpse. The diligence did not stop. And she was 
 not looking at me." 
 
 233
 
 Folly 
 
 " I have taken advantage of her absence," said Gore, 
 drawing out his watch. "I want to get away at four- 
 thirty. I decided weeks ago that this must be the end 
 sooner or later; but I didn't reach the point until yester- 
 day. She'll have some chance of getting over it, once I 
 am gone; but this dragging business with six months 
 more of it, Lord, she'll be done for herself! You 
 see?" 
 
 "I begin to understand," said Christie; but was by 
 no means clear of his bewilderment. 
 
 "I couldn't find a decent way until I heard you were 
 at Biarritz, by a piece of luck. ..." 
 
 "Luck!" echoed the other. 
 
 "Well, whatever your business was; it's no affair of 
 mine. But I tell you it gave me my clue. I couldn't 
 have left her here alone. ..." 
 
 All at once Christie awakened to a certain grasp of 
 the situation. " So you propose to sneak off and get me 
 to face the music?" he demanded, with a brutality the 
 more amazing for his previous quietness. "Is that 
 it?" 
 
 "That's one way of looking at it," said Gore, though 
 his colour wavered and paled. "You may think it 
 cowardly ..." 
 
 "Damned cowardly!" 
 
 "But to me the greater cowardice is staying on. " 
 
 "I'm no judge. As a rule, I don't run away," said 
 Christie coldly. 
 
 "By God, man " began Gore, but remembered 
 
 234
 
 Folly 
 
 that the other could not be expected to know what he 
 knew; so fell silent again. 
 
 "And what part do you propose that I should play 
 in this little game?" asked Christie. 
 
 "I propose nothing. You have the facts." 
 
 "Very few," objected Christie, "very few. Your 
 side of the story. Perhaps I ought to wait ..." 
 
 "If you have anything more to ask," said Gore 
 impatiently, "be quick about it, for I have no intention 
 of losing my boat." 
 
 "She does not suspect this act of yours?" Self- 
 restraint made visible marks on Christie's face. 
 
 "Not to-day, at least; but she cannot be altogether 
 unprepared for something of the sort. She may think 
 I could not do it." 
 
 "And if I wash my hands of the matter, and return 
 to Biarritz by the next train?" 
 
 "You are a just man," answered Gore, "and you 
 will put the blame where it belongs." 
 
 "On you?" 
 
 "On me." 
 
 "Were you then responsible for her coming here?" 
 
 "Certainly I could have prevented her staying." 
 
 "And that you did no more mischief ..." 
 
 "Is my misfortune and your gain. I intended no 
 generosity." 
 
 "And now you are going where?" 
 
 "That does not matter, I think. I shall not cross 
 your path again." 
 
 235
 
 Folly 
 
 He read for a moment a hot curse in Christie's eyes, 
 that he had ever crossed their path; but this faded 
 almost as it came. 
 
 With an effort, Gore went on to practical details of 
 times and arrangements; and when at last he paused 
 for breath, Christie said : 
 
 "Thanks. I should not have supposed you to be a 
 poet." 
 
 "Not all poets are fools," began Gore, then turned 
 his sentence with a laugh, "but perhaps I am not a 
 poet. The point is, is there anything else?" 
 
 "I think not," said Christie after a moment, and 
 paused again. " I came to Biarritz anticipating that 
 there would be trouble; but I certainly never expected 
 anything as singular as this." 
 
 "We are rapidly restoring it to the normal," said 
 Gore. "Well?" He was obviously waiting for his 
 visitor to go. 
 
 But Christie appeared to think that it devolved upon 
 him to say something: " I hope that you ..." 
 
 "Thanks don't trouble." 
 
 They looked at each other, keenly aware of the 
 awkwardness of their position; but Gore contrived an 
 ironic smile. "You're not playing up to your part as 
 the injured husband." 
 
 "Hang it!" said Christie, and held out his hand. 
 
 Gore shrugged. "How can we?" 
 
 But Christie did not withdraw. 
 
 236
 
 Folly 
 
 Then Gore was ashamed of his hesitation. "After 
 all, you win," he declared. "Mark my words." 
 
 "I shall meet her at the ferry," said Christie, taking 
 up his hat and preparing to go. 
 
 But Gore stopped him. " I say," he continued, with a 
 curious perplexed smile, "I can't very well ask you to 
 
 be gentle with her; but after all " he brushed his 
 
 hand across his eyebrows. 
 
 "We are in the same boat, would you say?" asked 
 Christie. 
 
 Then Gore found his jest: "No I shall be 
 aboard Charon's I mean Kiki's in ten minutes." 
 
 "It was the straight thing," said Christie huskily; 
 and afterwards, now and again, wondered to the end of 
 his days whether Gore had heard. 
 
 237
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 HUSBAND AND WIFE. 
 
 IT was long past twilight when Folly returned. From 
 the shadow of the gateway, Christie saw her climbing 
 up the sandy road, then retreated and followed her 
 until she had entered the inn. 
 
 He gave her a little time measuring it by his watch 
 under a light that -projected from a balcony above 
 time enough to miss Gore, not time enough to learn the 
 truth. 
 
 He had himself announced by name; and she came 
 to meet him, her eyes flashing in her white face: "He 
 is dead?" 
 
 "Oh, no, no," he answered, with sudden uncon- 
 trollable impatience. "Don't be absurd. But I have 
 come to take you home, if you will." 
 
 She shrank away from him. "Why? Where is 
 he ? " her voice grew shriller. 
 
 "Be quiet, and I will tell you," he said, hoping by 
 sternness to soothe her. 
 
 She looked at him piercingly ; then suddenly lost her 
 self-command, rushed to him and seized his arm: "I 
 
 have been quiet too long. Tell me tell me ! You shall 
 
 238
 
 Folly 
 
 tell me! I shall shriek I shall tell me what has 
 happened!" 
 
 "Not while you are in this state," he answered 
 grimly. 
 
 She sank in a huddle on the floor at his feet, and 
 with her thumbs pressed against her forehead, rocked 
 herself backwards and forwards in abandonment to 
 her grief : "O Andrew, have mercy!" 
 
 He seized her wrists and held her still, saying with 
 deliberate scorn: "You are not on the stage." 
 
 She was quiet then, but she did not rise: "Tell me." 
 
 "He has gone away," said Christie, as gently as he 
 could. 
 
 "You mean he has left me?" she breathed; and 
 upon his assent, gave a low cry: "Ah, I knew I knew 
 it would be so!" 
 
 He was silent, helpless to console, and angry at his 
 own helplessness. But he pulled her unresisting to her 
 feet, and put one arm about her to keep her from falling. 
 
 "Will you come home?" he asked again. 
 
 But she seemed not to have heard. " Tell me more," 
 she pleaded; and was very still while he, judging that 
 the simple truth would be least grievous, went through 
 the tale as he understood it. 
 
 "Then," she said, by way of conclusion, "then there 
 is nothing to be done?" 
 
 " Unless you try to follow him, " he suggested keenly. 
 
 "Not again," she whispered. "You said there was 
 a letter?" 
 
 239
 
 Folly 
 
 "One moment," he urged. 
 
 She had walked away and laid her hand on the cop- 
 per ring of the bureau; but she turned again. 
 
 "There will be time enough for that." He had a 
 definite theory that it would not do yet to leave her 
 alone with her trouble. " You must answer me first. 
 What do you intend to do ? " 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 " You can't stay here." 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Where will you go?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "You must find out and tell me," said he brusquely. 
 
 She said nothing. 
 
 " Come, come, this won't do. You must rouse your- 
 self." He assumed harshness. 
 
 She laughed a little at that. "It's what I told the 
 woman across the way; and when I gave her money, 
 she was cheerful again. Her lover deserted her, and 
 I heard her singing yesterday." 
 
 He thought her crazed with grief, and said gently: 
 "I don't want to trouble you; but you must let me take 
 charge of everything now. ..." 
 
 "You!" she cried astonished. 
 
 His face flushed, as he said more passionately than 
 she had ever before heard him speak: "By God, who 
 has a better right ? " 
 
 She was silent, fumbling to open the drawer. 
 
 He swung her fiercely round to face him. "Not yet. 
 240
 
 Folly 
 
 Look here, I've asked you twice before. Will you come 
 home with me?" 
 
 She turned wide eyes upon him. "You asked me 
 that ? I did not hear. You would take me back again ? " 
 
 He did not deem further assurance necessary. 
 
 "After all this this ?" 
 
 Still he held her attention by waiting. 
 
 "But I have treated you abominably ..." she 
 began. 
 
 " Well ? " He did not deny her self -accusation. 
 
 "You could forgive that?" 
 
 " You are my wife. Answer me." 
 
 " Some men would have gone into the divorce courts 
 for less," she said, as if to herself. 
 
 "Have I sufficient grounds?" he asked. The ques- 
 tion was at once involuntary and irresistible. 
 
 "No," she said, without further attempt at self- 
 justification; and did not seem surprised when he 
 answered: "I knew as much." 
 
 "Let me go," she breathed. 
 
 "Not yet not yet," he said grimly, feeling that 
 almost the worst of his punishment was to have to seem 
 to punish her. " I want you to know that, in any case, 
 my offer would have been the same. But will you 
 come ? " 
 
 "You can force me to go, by law, I suppose," she 
 answered indifferently. 
 
 "Am I likely to do that?" 
 
 "No" she considered these bubbles on the surface, 
 16 241
 
 Folly 
 
 with her life-joy at the bottom of the deep waters. 
 "No, you are too proud; but you could by right ..." 
 
 "Have I always claimed my right?" 
 
 "No; you are good good." She pleaded again: 
 "Oh, if you are good, let me go now!" 
 
 He seized her hands. "I don't trust you." 
 
 She turned her face away, with a tearless sob; and 
 all at once pity overcame him. He drew her close and 
 laid her head on his shoulder. "There now, have it 
 out can't you?" 
 
 But she tried to free herself. " I want my letter." 
 
 Then he pushed her away so violently that she 
 almost fell; and as quickly made a movement to catch 
 her. "You're too much for a man too much for me, 
 anyway! I'll not leave you until you have answered 
 my question " 
 
 "No!" said she, sharply. 
 
 "You won't come? Very well. That settles it. 
 Will you go to the mater?" 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "Well, will you name somebody to whom you will 
 go?" 
 
 She was calmer now. " Either I should be a burden 
 to them all, or they would misjudge me. ..." 
 
 "You know the mater's boast that as a judge's 
 daughter she keeps clear of the Bench. As for myself 
 good Lord, don't bother about me!" His tone was not 
 far from irony. "And as for other people ..." 
 
 "I'd rather stay here," she interrupted suddenly. 
 242
 
 Folly 
 
 "And fret yourself to death? Well, I don't propose 
 to let you, so there's an end of that. We must find 
 another way." 
 
 But in truth he was at a loss. He ran rapidly 
 over the possibilities, but could not find one that 
 he thought would serve her in this hour of need. 
 And left to herself, she had every temptation to take 
 her own life, and lacked not the courage, as he well 
 knew. 
 
 "There is a way," she said, after a pause. "The 
 Sisters up on the hill they would be kind. They care 
 for sick people. I don't know whether they would have 
 me . . ." 
 
 He knitted his brows over this unexpected solution. 
 
 "They would understand what it is to die and yet 
 live on and on." 
 
 Still he said nothing, and she concluded wearily: 
 "I could be quiet there. It's all I want to sink out of 
 sight. I'm sorry to be such a trouble to you. You can 
 wash your hands of me then." 
 
 "Have your way," he said at last. "That must do 
 for the present. Later on ..." 
 
 She escaped from him and found the envelope that 
 she had been seeking in the bureau drawer. "Later? 
 There is only now for me." 
 
 She was about to go upstairs when he laid a clench- 
 ing hand on her shoulder: "You must promise me to 
 do no harm to yourself." 
 
 "Don't you hurt me" she shrank from his grasp. 
 243
 
 Folly 
 
 "The harm has been done, I think; but I promise. I 
 will not shirk the future." 
 
 With one more word he let her go. "Remember," 
 said he, "when you are ready to see me again, I shall 
 be waiting outside your door." 
 
 244
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 THE SISTERHOOD. 
 
 DURING the month of May, Folly almost lived in the 
 garden of the Sisters, that hangs on the steep hill 
 overlooking Espinal. But she haunted not so much 
 the little square in front of the house, with its stiff beds 
 of begonias and geraniums, and rows of oleanders, as 
 the old wild slope with the brook tumbling through it 
 in cascades along a mossy track of boulders to the Itsu 
 in the valley below. Here she found plum-trees and cher- 
 ry-trees, gnarled and bent, as if under their weight of 
 bloom, and a few hoary olive-stumps, and wild flowers 
 growing among the sprawling ivy and bramble. It is 
 to other gardens as a ruin among houses ; and perhaps 
 that was why Folly preferred to sit there, on the stone 
 wall at the lower margin, where the road is cut through 
 the rock beneath to sit there and look down upon the 
 valley that had seen the efflorescence and withering of 
 the passion-flower of her life. 
 
 The Sisters were troubled about her, because she 
 was so silent, and would not leave her to the solitude 
 
 that she craved. They would come out, one after an- 
 
 245
 
 Folly 
 
 other, demure little figures in their black garb, with the 
 broad white collar and the gleam of Virgin blue under 
 the head-dress ; and when she wanted most to be alone, 
 they would talk to her about the garden and the spring 
 and their poor folk down in the city. 
 
 Still she loved them all, and at times listened willingly 
 to their chatter, and tried to make answer as if she 
 were one of themselves. 
 
 But that was difficult, for talk as they would, they 
 always came sooner or later upon some stumbling- 
 block of faith, or habit of thought, that drove them 
 apart, so that they could only look at each other wist- 
 fully across the gap and wonder why God had made 
 souls so different. 
 
 With Sister Christina, Folly tried first to speak of her 
 trouble. She was an exquisite young Andalusian, with 
 big burning eyes that still shed tears when she spoke of 
 her mother. "I can remember coming home with her 
 through the vineyards, with baskets on our heads, and 
 the air full of the smell of the grapes. And she sang 
 little songs ah, and I shall not see her again in this 
 world!" And although she might not give way to her 
 weeping, she would look at times so sorrowful and so 
 home-sick that Folly felt sure she would understand 
 her own grief and longing. 
 
 " But no," she said, " it is a sin to feel so. We must 
 submit us to God's will and be happy." 
 
 "And be happy," Folly repeated. "Sister, Sister, 
 
 even you cannot always do that." 
 
 246
 
 Polly 
 
 "That is because I am so sinful," was the prompt 
 answer. 
 
 "And yet you do not know had you a lover?" pur- 
 sued Folly, forgetting to be kind. 
 
 "Heaven defend!" answered the little nun, all a- 
 blush. 
 
 "Then you know nothing about my trouble," said 
 Folly. 
 
 They were walking in the cloister that adjoined the 
 chapel, and had reached a splendid broken tomb cut 
 into the wall. 
 
 "Who was she?" asked Folly, pointing to the effigy. 
 
 "A patroness of ours I do not know how many 
 hundred years ago. And I forget her name. But she 
 was daughter and sister to a king, and mother of many 
 princes; and when she was young they say she was so 
 wicked that the friars used to call down judgments on 
 her head; and suddenly she repented, and gave all her 
 wealth to this house, and died here very holy." 
 
 "And what were the sins of her youth?" asked Folly. 
 
 "Ah, that the Mother would never tell us," said 
 Christina. "She read it to us out of a book and she 
 always skipped that part. I know, because Sister 
 Eulalia stumbled upon it one day; but she never told 
 me what it was. But still, as soon as you repent of 
 your sins you will be happy. I always am." 
 
 " I am going to say a wicked thing, Sister," answered 
 Folly. "I believe that she" she pointed to the effigy 
 
 in ruff and farthingale, jewels and high-heeled shoes 
 
 247
 
 Folly 
 
 "was happier in her conscienceless days when life was 
 love and love was life, than after, when she graced 
 your foundation here." 
 
 "You think that?" said Christina. "Oh, I must go 
 and do something I had forgotten." And she fled 
 away shocked. 
 
 With Sister Teresa, Folly alluded to this same sinner 
 and benefactress of old; and the sombre-faced nun 
 answered : 
 
 " She went down into the deeps to find salvation. It 
 comes in many ways even through sin." 
 
 "How through sin?" asked Folly. 
 
 "Scourge thyself and thou wilt know," said Teresa, 
 harsh- voiced and fierce in her admonition. 
 
 " But how ? " Folly persisted. 
 
 "Give thyself no peace. Drive thyself to do the 
 
 things thy soul loathes, all the days and all the nights 
 
 
 "That is not living," protested Folly, roused even 
 to indignation. 
 
 Teresa's face blossomed into a sudden smile. "It 
 leads to life beyond life," she said. 
 
 But Folly left her, thinking sadly: "That is 
 her way, not mine. As we are all different, there must 
 be a separate path for each of us; but to find it 
 how?" 
 
 In her quest she turned to Sister Ursula, whose face 
 wore always a tranquillity that it seemed no joy or dis- 
 tress could change. 
 
 248
 
 Folly 
 
 "Tell me, Sister," said Folly one day, "does nothing 
 ever trouble you ? " 
 
 "How could I be troubled?" was the calm reply. 
 
 " But some of us poor folk out in the world are always 
 asking : ' How not ? ' " 
 
 Ursula spread forth her arms, with a sudden gesture 
 of welcome: "Then leave the world and come to us." 
 
 Folly closed her eyes, and tried to see herself in the 
 blue and black garb, shut in forever with the self that 
 was her chief torture; and in that moment she knew 
 that the picture was impossible. 
 
 "But what should I do here to keep an untroubled 
 mind?" she asked. 
 
 "For me, it is enough to pray, and to contemplate 
 the Goodness of the Father, the Sacrifice of the Son, the 
 Comfort of the Holy Spirit, the Beatitudes of the Vir- 
 gin, the Glories of the Saints. ..." 
 
 So far had Ursula gone, rapt in her recital, before 
 she noticed that Folly had sunk on one of the stone 
 benches, and was weeping bitterly : 
 
 "O Sister, Sister, I am all different! And I rebel 
 against my lot, day and night. And I shall never find 
 peace." 
 
 "In the fold of the Church is always peace," was 
 Ursula's only answer. 
 
 On another day, Folly, in the wild garden, met Sister 
 Monica, who always let herself in through the small 
 wicket, as she came up from teaching her little school 
 
 in the town below. And there was upon her face a 
 
 249
 
 Folly 
 
 weary look that made Folly ask impulsively: "Are you 
 happy, Sister?" 
 
 Monica glanced at her, and the lines in her face were 
 smoothed away as she laughed: "What a foolish 
 question!" 
 
 "But I want to know." 
 
 "I can't tell you then. I'm too busy to think about 
 it." 
 
 " But why did you look so tired as you came in at the 
 gate just now?" 
 
 "Oh, that was because I had to punish a boy for 
 stealing a pencil; and I'm afraid he'll end in prison 
 one day, for he's done similar things before." 
 
 "And you were sad for him? Are you only sad for 
 other people?" 
 
 "It would be a stupid thing to be sad for one's self, 
 would it not ? " asked Monica, in her practical way. 
 
 "I don't know. Most people are. But tell me do 
 you like teaching the children?" 
 
 "Not particularly. What does that matter? When 
 I gave myself to the Church, I surrendered my likes 
 and dislikes, of course." 
 
 "Of course," echoed Folly, and waving farewell, 
 turned down one of the overgrown side-paths. "She 
 has no self left swallowed up in the whole; but she 
 does useful work. Is that the way, I wonder?" 
 
 She had been with the Sisters several weeks as guest 
 and lodger, when she came into the little formal garden 
 
 on a morning, and found the nuns sewing, while one read 
 
 250
 
 Folly 
 
 aloud; and a little apart from them, where the 
 murmur of the voice was pleasant and not disturbing, 
 Mother Miguel herself, and with her the old priest 
 whom Folly had seen very often since the day of the 
 pilgrimage. 
 
 Mother Miguel beckoned her to come and sit on 
 the other side of the bench; and the old man greeted 
 her in a fatherly manner, as if they had been long 
 acquainted. 
 
 "You are happy here, my child?" he began, some- 
 what abruptly. 
 
 "Happy?" she repeated wistfully. "I am trying to 
 learn how to live." 
 
 "And what have you learned?" he asked keenly. 
 
 " That peace is not to be had for the asking, nor light 
 by prayer." 
 
 He answered in a strange figure: "Peace is the rare 
 blossom that crowns the thorny cactus ; but if the plant 
 spread out its leaves to the light and air of heaven, the 
 flower will surely come." 
 
 "Thorns thorns," she sighed. 
 
 He studied her sharply some moments, then put a 
 direct question: "Thesenor who came here with you 
 one day is he better ? " 
 
 "He has gone away," she answered. 
 
 "Ah, so they tell me," he continued genially. "In a 
 little town there is much talk. And will not come 
 back?" 
 
 "And will not come back." 
 251
 
 Folly 
 
 "And the senora she would like to continue here 
 with the Sisters?" 
 
 "I cannot tell. No here is no peace for me." 
 
 "The senora is not of the Church," he murmured 
 gently. 
 
 "No, but I have lived among the Sisters. They have 
 seen me through the darkest places. They have done 
 for me all that they can. But I am different. Perhaps 
 I shall find light elsewhere." 
 
 "Surely, surely," said Mother Miguel, in her deep 
 comforting voice, "we none of us live in darkness all 
 our days. The seeker shall find." 
 
 And the priest: "A physician cannot prescribe with- 
 out knowing the nature of the disease." 
 
 "Why, it is simple enough," said Folly. " I have lost 
 hope and faith and " 
 
 "Ah" he smiled so genially that she could not take 
 offence "out of the fold, you see, out of the fold." 
 
 She smiled back at him with more interest than she had 
 previously shown: "That cannot be, for I do not admit 
 that I am a sheep at all." 
 
 "Ah ah," he shook his head laughing over her con- 
 fession. " It is a pity, but if it cannot be helped ? When 
 salvation is given freely but you would work out your 
 own? Well, well ..." 
 
 He rose and stood with his hands clasped over his 
 belt, looking down upon the Mother Superior. 
 
 "I think it is time," said he; and the words did not 
 
 seem to refer to anything that preceded or followed. 
 
 252
 
 Folly 
 
 Then he blest them all and said farewell and went 
 his way. 
 
 When Folly would have returned to her garden, 
 Mother Miguel still held her hand a moment. " Dear 
 child, dear child, you do not belong among my chil- 
 dren; but you will find your place."
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 HELP. 
 
 ON a fair evening, perhaps a week later, Folly sat 
 alone on the lichen- covered wall at the foot of the gar- 
 den. She looked down the shaggy slope across the 
 broad valley, dotted with cypresses and poplar-enclosed 
 farm-steadings, to the golden city on its dome-like 
 hill; and beyond, at the river delta reflecting every 
 rose-tipped cirrhus in the pale sky; and farther be- 
 yond, at the black and jagged mountain-ridge 
 above which streamed the trailing yellow lights of the 
 vanished sun. But she was staring beyond and farther 
 still, and watching with inner vision the sunset as 
 it might appear from a ship westward bound across 
 the violet sea. . . . 
 
 There came into her consciousness the sound of slow 
 footsteps on the rough path. She did not turn as she 
 wondered idly whether this was Sister Teresa ready to 
 chide her; or Monica, to make her laugh; or Ursula, to 
 torment her with the presence of a sainthood to which 
 she might never attain. 
 
 But the voice that said, " Good-evening to you, Folly," 
 from the depths of the brier-grown arbour, belonged to 
 
 354
 
 Folly 
 
 none of these; and brought the dreamer to her feet in a 
 maze. 
 
 " Materkin ! How ever did you get here ? " 
 
 "In the usual way," was the composed answer. 
 "You look as if you suspected a magic carpet up my 
 sleeve." The little old lady blossomed into dimples as 
 she came forward, looking as much at home as in her 
 own garden. 
 
 "What have you come for?" asked Folly, pressing 
 back into the hedge. 
 
 But Mrs. Christie advanced still further, and caught 
 her. "You, my girl. It's time to be coming home." 
 
 "Home where?" 
 
 "Well, to England, speaking generally. To a work- 
 house, asylum or orphanage, if no other place is open 
 to you." 
 
 But Folly was bent on her own train of thought. 
 
 "Who brought you here?" 
 
 "Guess now. Myself? Susan? Nobody? That 
 silly Andrew had me swathed inches-deep in 
 cotton wool, and handled me like a box of loose 
 eggs, when I wanted to be gadding about and seeing 
 things. Fancy, at his age, treating a poor old 
 mother so!" 
 
 "Did he send you?" 
 
 "Not he." 
 
 "Bring you then?" 
 
 "My dear child, he came back and fetched me by 
 slow stages like a royal progress." 
 
 255
 
 Folly 
 
 ' ' Came back ? Where from ? ' ' 
 
 "To the best of my belief, from Espinal itself." 
 
 "O poor Andrew here? And I never dreamed 
 that he would stay ..." 
 
 "What possible difference could it have made to 
 you?" the old lady asked shrewdly. 
 
 "Oh, none of course; but I am a there's no word 
 bad enough for me. And I've been trying to learn, too; 
 but the lesson is hard. I didn't want to be a burden to 
 anybody; and I'm out of the way here, and the Sisters 
 are kind. ..." 
 
 " You can't help being a burden to somebody, so you 
 must get even by letting somebody else be a burden to 
 you." 
 
 She saw that she had pricked more deeply than she 
 intended, and hastened to add: 
 
 "So come home with me, and let us be a burden to 
 each other." 
 
 "I can't think of it" began Folly. 
 
 "Oh, well, then, I must wait, and explore the coun- 
 try, until you can begin to think of it. Bless you, child, 
 I haven't had such an outing for years!" 
 
 "It's no good your waiting," protested Folly. 
 
 " Why not ? I've nothing better to do. Susan is with 
 me, and I'm sure the Sisters will make us very com- 
 fortable. In ten years or twenty, you may be ready to 
 change your mind." 
 
 "It's ridiculous!" said Folly. 
 
 " What your changing your mind ? " 
 25.6
 
 Folly 
 
 "No, I mean, to be besieged by you and and 
 Andrew in this way." 
 
 " Nonsense, it makes a change in our humdrum lives, 
 and if you find us a bore, we shall just have to lie 
 low. ..." 
 
 "You see, you don't know the whole story," urged 
 Folly. "If you did ..." 
 
 "Fiddlesticks! I've heard all I want to know from 
 Andrew. I'll wait for the rest until you're a trifle more 
 cheerful." 
 
 "Cheerful O mater!" 
 
 "Well, my dear, you surely do look forward to being 
 rather more cheerful some day, don't you ? I thought 
 I was being cautious. Mind you, I said only 'a trifle.' " 
 
 But at Folly's look, the transparent jewelled hands 
 went out and drew her close. "I know. The present 
 is everything. I know. I know." 
 
 After a time, Folly lifted her head saying earnestly: 
 " It isn't a question of doing right, mater; if I could only 
 make myself be right. . . .But there's another me in 
 me . . ." 
 
 "Now that's philosophy," said the old lady briskly, 
 " and we must get away from it as fast as we can. Oh, 
 I know all about the Me and the Not-Me, the Ego and 
 the Non-Ego, and the rest of the rubbish. And a lot of 
 suicides they are responsible for, too." She lifted her 
 glass to study a bit of red lichen on the wall. "Look 
 here, now, I'll tell you what you're trying to do; you're 
 trying to stand outside yourself and study your own 
 17 257
 
 Folly 
 
 anatomy. Suppose you had been a beetle you might 
 well have been a beetle but for some trifling accident. 
 Should you try to stand on your shell and see how you 
 were made? It's in the nature of the case that no 
 beetle can talk like a Huxley about his own organs. Sen- 
 sible beetles study only their neighbour ants and grass- 
 hoppers, and the flies that they catch for dinner do you 
 see my parable?" 
 
 "What flies shall I catch for my dinner?" asked 
 Folly wistfully. 
 
 " Come to Westmouth and we shall see." 
 
 But Folly was looking again at the black mountain 
 that hides the western ocean; and her thoughts were 
 with the ship that had sailed beyond her reach forever. 
 
 "You think I don't know how it hurts? Why, girl, 
 I lost Andrew's father. And I was young then; and 
 for a time all my faith in life was torn to rags. But I 
 had to set to work a- mending it; and in time, oh yes, 
 in time, I found that I had a more beautiful thing than 
 before. And since we are talking in parables : charity, 
 now, that's a whole stuff, the robe of the spirit, always 
 strong, always fresh, lasting a life-time; and hope is 
 like a tapestry never-ended, into which we weave 
 our daily dreams; but faith, that's a frail heirloom, 
 always tearing, always mended; but where we stitch 
 at it, often with tears, we find that not merely have 
 we made it good, but we have embroidered it over 
 with the treasures of our own lives, so that in the end 
 
 it is a sacrificial garment Why must I always 
 
 258
 
 Folly 
 
 be talking nonsense ? The air is rather chilly. Shall 
 we go in ? " 
 
 "Will you take my arm?" said Folly. 
 
 Mrs. Christie laid her lace-mittened hand upon it, 
 patting it softly now and again, as they paced along by the 
 wall; and presently the old lady pointed to the little 
 town whence lights were beginning to leap out among 
 the blue shadows. " Espinal," she said. " It is time 
 to leave it now." 
 
 "You know what it means, mater? I'm afraid I 
 must carry its thorns with me wherever I go." 
 
 " No, leave it all leave it, " was the emphatic an 
 swer. "I tell you, you can." 
 
 Folly smiled her unbelief. 
 
 As they turned into the forecourt, among the olean 
 ders, Mrs. Christie said further: 
 
 "When you come to me, you need not fear being 
 troubled by Andrew. He will take us home, that's all. 
 You won't mind that ? " 
 
 "But I can't be the means of parting you." 
 
 "Parting us? He can climb the garden- wall by 
 night, and I'll meet him Juliet-fashion, weather per- 
 mitting." 
 
 "But you are his mother!" 
 
 "Yours too; and you need me most just now." 
 
 " But people would say ..." 
 
 "A fig! We can stop them or cut them." 
 
 "But I should be so good-for-nothing such a 
 
 drag ..." 
 
 259
 
 Folly 
 
 "My shoulders are strong" she laughed. "You 
 said that before, but I don't believe you there, you know. 
 You are warped. ..." 
 
 "Ah, yes." 
 
 "And we want to bend you straight again." 
 
 Hereupon Susan met them ; and then followed greet- 
 ings and explanations and dinner; and Folly had 
 ample time to ponder, as perhaps it was intended that 
 she should ponder. 
 
 At all events, Mrs. Christie presently managed it that 
 they two should be alone, each by a window looking out 
 upon the star-lit sky and twinkling lights of the valley. 
 
 But Folly was slow.to speak. 
 
 "Well?" said Mrs. Christie at last. 
 
 "I can't stay here, you see." 
 
 "I know." She smiled to herself, thinking that the 
 priest was a wise man, and that when he and her An- 
 drew had put their heads together, they were bound to 
 be right, as in this case. 
 
 "I love the Sisters, but their way is not mine. They 
 have renounced this life; I must go on seeking till I 
 find the way to live it." 
 
 "You will find it," was the soft answer. "And you 
 will come home with me?" 
 
 "Wait till you hear the whole story; I can tell it 
 now." 
 
 She told it without flinching, without sparing her- 
 self, or reserving the shadow of an excuse; and when 
 
 she had done, she asked : 
 
 260
 
 Folly 
 
 "Can you not see?" 
 
 " Better than you think much better, child. And I 
 say again, the only way is to come home with me. 
 Tear out the thorns, and set to work a-mending. It's 
 the only decent thing to do." 
 
 One long moment Folly hesitated; then she threw 
 herself into the loving arms held out to her. "Teach me 
 your way, mother!" 
 
 261
 
 BOOK III. 
 THE FOOTPATH-WAY.
 
 " They that have the true gift of love eschew the 
 clamorous highroads where men jostle one another as 
 they press forward to the City of Triumph ; and seek 
 rather the foot-paths of humble service, and enter 
 the more speedily into the dwelling of Peace." 
 
 J. HALDANE GORE, Commonplace-Book. 
 (Unpublished.)
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 WISDOM AT CHELSEA. 
 
 GREGORY drove to Chelsea one afternoon in June 
 with trouble in his heart; and, knowing by long experi- 
 ence where Mrs. Patrick was likely to be, tapped at the 
 door of her studio. 
 
 It was a discouraged "Come in!" that greeted him. 
 
 "I knew it was you" she stretched out a listless 
 hand from a low chair, whence she was contemplating 
 a large canvas. "Nobody else has such a genius for 
 coming at inopportune times." 
 
 Her Liberty pinafore was spotless, as were her fin- 
 gers, and her hair was not in artistic disarray, facts 
 which a shrewd casual observer might have interpreted 
 as possibly connected with the inopportune visit. 
 
 "It's nearly tea-time," he strove to excuse himself. 
 "What's the matter?" 
 
 She pointed to the picture, with an expression of 
 pouting disgust. 
 
 He looked, but was none the wiser. "Well?" 
 
 "I did it." 
 
 " Did you ? It's very nice." 
 
 "Go on blackening your soul" she relaxed a little, 
 265
 
 Folly 
 
 and twinkled at him. "Can you honestly say you 
 like it?" 
 
 "I don't know much about such things," he fenced. 
 "I never bought a picture in my life." 
 
 "Shame to confess it! But tell me what you think 
 of it not perjury, honest criticism." 
 
 "Isn't it rather er, large?" 
 
 "Go on" she was non-committal. 
 
 "Look here, I refuse to be bullied into making a fool 
 of myself. Let's talk about something else, or I'll cate- 
 chise you on bacteria." 
 
 She submitted gracefully. "You needn't go on then. 
 But I'll tell you the fact: it's a plain failure, and so 
 am I." 
 
 "In what way?" he inquired, with due respect. 
 
 "It lacks soul, and so do I." 
 
 He pretended to reach for his prescription-book. 
 "Two grains of eh ? Soul is the power of the smooth- 
 running machine, and when the machine gets out of 
 gear ..." 
 
 "But it isn't; my body is most unsympathetically 
 healthy." 
 
 "A sick soul in a plump little frame" he teased her. 
 
 "Unkind! I can't help being plump and little" 
 
 "But why on earth should you want to be other- 
 wise?" 
 
 She ignored the compliment. " The real difficulty isn't 
 that my soul is sick. I haven't got one; I must have 
 
 been born without it." 
 
 266
 
 Folly 
 
 " Perhaps it never grew up with the rest of you," he 
 said, " but it must be rattling about somewhere. We'll 
 find it one day or I'm not a surgeon. But all this non- 
 sensical talk is a new phase. What has gone wrong? 
 Who has been abusing you ? " 
 
 "A critic. He said I was a clever woman but lacked 
 soul." 
 
 "By Jove, that's the new book! And I promised to 
 read it. How long has it been out?" He looked con- 
 science-stricken. 
 
 "Nearly a fortnight. And quite naturally you forgot 
 all about it. No, don't waste time over it. You'll be 
 better off with your bacteria." 
 
 "I've been a good deal worried lately," he continued 
 in self-defence. 
 
 Her manner changed at once. "Anything special?" 
 
 "Go on. Tell me all your troubles first. I'll wait 
 my turn." 
 
 "They sound very foolish and petty when I come to 
 speak of them; but, you see, I've been hearing a few 
 plain truths about myself, and I never did have any 
 philosophy ..." 
 
 "Luckily," he interposed. 
 
 "And it isn't a pleasing picture." 
 
 "What else did the objectionable man I gather it 
 was a man say?" 
 
 "He was polite. He said I had a pretty feminine 
 touch." 
 
 "Well, what harm does that do?" 
 267
 
 Folly 
 
 "It smashes me." 
 
 "You don't look smashed. 
 
 " Professionally, I mean." 
 
 "Oh professionally" he lost interest at once. 
 
 " Now, however much I try, I can never be anything 
 more than a minnow swimming about the surface of a 
 pond ..." 
 
 "When you want to be a whale burrowing in the 
 depths of the ocean is that it?" 
 
 "Well, my friends always told me I had talent" 
 
 If she expected a compliment, she was disappointed. 
 "If I had to choose between the two, I greatly prefer 
 the minnow for daily life," said he. " But where does 
 the picture come in?" 
 
 "Ah, that's the point. Now that the scales are off 
 my eyes, I can see that it's clever, too, and feminine 
 and pretty." 
 
 "And so ?" 
 
 "And so" she sighed heavily "I shall give up 
 both and live on my income." 
 
 "Bravo!" said he; and his unusually sober face, at 
 which she had already cast various sidelong glances, was 
 lighted for a moment by a gleam of genuine pleasure. 
 
 She looked at him dubiously. "I'm not fated, it 
 seems, to be a professional woman." 
 
 "Thank heaven for that" the look of pleasure lin- 
 gered " as I do. She's a curious amphibian, still the 
 professional woman. Personally, I've no use for her." 
 
 She leaned towards him a little, dimpling as she whis- 
 268
 
 Folly 
 
 pered. "Nor have I. But it's heresy to say so now-a- 
 days. I didn't want to go in for anything ; but they all 
 told me I'd got talent, and it was such a pity to waste 
 it." 
 
 His face had grown sober again. He asked absently : 
 "What did you want to go in for?" 
 
 Mabel looked at him sideways, her hands clasped in 
 her lap. Now was her opportunity. He had been un- 
 commonly slow, and had required much delicate lead- 
 ing; but at last they had reached the point. So looking, 
 she saw the genuine trouble in his face, no longer 
 disguised; and forgetting all about herself, and her 
 hopes and fears, she exclaimed: "Oh, what is the 
 matter? Can't I help?" 
 
 "I came to you for help," he answered simply. "I 
 had a letter this morning from Haldane Gore " 
 
 "Oh!" her hand went out to him. "But I 
 thought " 
 
 "Yes, he is dead. It was forwarded to me by our 
 consul " 
 
 Mrs. Patrick's little ringers were most sympathetic. 
 
 "In New York." 
 
 "In New York?" 
 
 "Yes. He died there at Castle Garden." 
 
 "Castle Garden what's that?" 
 
 "It's a place where they land emigrants, I believe." 
 
 "Oh!" her other hand stole out and was likewise 
 seized. " But what was he doing there ? " 
 
 "I'll tell you all about it some day; it's a strange 
 269
 
 Folly 
 
 story. I can't just yet. But there's a practical matter 
 on which I must have your advice. The consul en- 
 closed another letter. ..." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "For Mrs. Christie." 
 
 "Folly yes." 
 
 "I suppose he did not know how to reach her." 
 
 "I suppose not." 
 
 Mabel's bright eyes were full of consideration, and 
 she seemed to have forgotten where her hands were. 
 "You can't send it by post. You might take it your- 
 self, or I might, or we might leave it to materkin; but 
 I think there's a better way." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Give it to Andrew." 
 
 " Exactly. I wondered if you would say that." 
 
 "And leave it entirely in his hands." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "He would be perfectly fair, and you could trust 
 him absolutely." 
 
 "Just so." 
 
 "You see" she grew more eager over her theme 
 "it's for his sake as well as hers; it puts on him the 
 responsibility of deciding and of acting." 
 
 "What is he doing now?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't know. Poor Andrew! Roving, I be- 
 lieve, and loafing. He's in town for a few days came 
 to see me yesterday." 
 
 "Where is she?" 
 
 270
 
 Folly 
 
 "Still at Westmouth, I believe. I haven't had a 
 word from her since they came back; but dear old 
 materkin sends me a line in her own hand now and 
 again. Folly has all Haldane's papers, you know. I 
 believe she lives among them night and day. I know 
 materkin is distressed, though she tries to make light 
 of it." 
 
 "It's very bad for all of them. Do you think they 
 will ever get out of the tangle ? " 
 
 Mabel shook her head. "Who can say?" Then she 
 suddenly remembered her hands, blushed and tried in 
 vain to withdraw them; and to cover her confusion, 
 added hastily: "That's why I want to throw in my 
 mite of help, you see. It would give them a chance to 
 make it up I mean, the letter would. Poor Hal- 
 dane! Do you know, I sometimes fancy, quite by my- 
 self I mean without any hint or suggestion from any- 
 body that he would have been glad to have them 
 brought together." 
 
 "Why do you think so?" he asked, still keeping her 
 prisoner. 
 
 "It's difficult to explain." 
 
 "Please try." 
 
 "I can't unless you let me go." 
 
 He released her then, but held her as much by his 
 look. 
 
 "I suppose they call it psychology, those that under- 
 stand it; but to me it's only the result of observation. 
 
 I have noticed that there are some people in the world 
 
 271
 
 Folly 
 
 who have well, what is commonly called tempera- 
 ment. It must be a fearful curse, you know. They 
 seem to be nearly always the victims of delusions; they 
 can't live by facts alone, and they're always finding 
 their delusions stuffed with sawdust or air or something 
 equally not nourishing; so between the two they 
 starve. I think I'd better stick to that one case. I 
 suppose to them their love was like an old romance 
 'Tristan and Isolde,' you know. But am I all 
 wrong, or isn't that kind of thing bound to end in 
 a tragedy? Even when King Mark is a good man 
 and keeps out of the way, it doesn't do for daily 
 life, does it ? Suppose he hadn't been ill, would she 
 have gone in the end, do you think? Does that sort 
 of of attraction, shall I call it ? I mean, is it really 
 irresistible?" 
 
 He shook his head slightly, but decidedly. 
 
 "Because if it is, this world is only a series of pit- 
 falls. And I don't think it is for most of us, anyway. 
 Now I tell you frankly: if I had been in her place, I 
 should never have gone. Perhaps I lack imagination. 
 I should just have fretted and cried, I suppose, until I 
 had worn out the worst of my trouble, and then I 
 should have gone on living in the usual way. It's what 
 most of us do." 
 
 "And if I had been in his place?" he asked. 
 
 "You would never have broken down as he did." 
 
 "But it was disease that conquered him," was Greg- 
 ory's defence of his friend. 
 
 272
 
 Folly 
 
 "Well, they have paid poor things! But I am very 
 slow in coming to my point. Knowing what I know 
 and what you have told me, I don't see at all why there 
 isn't room still in her life and Andrew's for the common 
 everyday love, which is the only kind that most of us 
 come to know." 
 
 "It may be," he conceded, "if they could be made 
 to see it. But I have got what I came for; you confirm 
 my judgment on every point." 
 
 "Which was all you wanted," said she. "Suppose I 
 had disagreed with you on every point?" 
 
 "You wouldn't have done that in a vital matter," 
 he insisted. 
 
 "How do you know?" 
 
 "Because you are what you are" he hesitated. 
 
 She, reading in his eyes the approach of that which 
 she had previously diverted, said hastily: "Anyway, 
 whenever my opinion is worth anything to you, I shall 
 be glad to give it." 
 
 "Always?" he asked. 
 
 She nodded and smiled at him, without a trace of 
 coquetry. 
 
 "Do you understand what I mean?" he asked 
 further. 
 
 "I think so," she said, "but we must not talk any 
 more about it now." 
 
 So they had their brief moment of happiness in the 
 shadow of grief a moment cut short by Mabel, who 
 
 sent Gregory away to fulfil his trust. 
 18 273
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 A DELICATE MISSION. 
 
 GREGORY was fortunate in having no long search for 
 Christie; after telephoning once or twice, he found him 
 by accident in the smoking-room of their club. They 
 had had a slight acquaintance for some years; but no 
 chance had ever brought them into friendship. And 
 on this day, as Gregory was driving down Piccadilly, 
 he happened to see his man by the window, half hid- 
 den behind an illustrated paper. 
 
 Gregory went in and began to fumble among the 
 journals and magazines on the table at which Christie 
 sat; but did not succeed in attracting the latter's atten- 
 tion until he asked, awkwardly enough, with the sheet 
 still between them, "Any news?" 
 
 Then Christie put down his paper and nodded and 
 said: "Not much." 
 
 " What have you got there ? Oh, Up-to-Date that's a 
 stupid production, isn't it? I never see it." Christie 
 was not responsive, and Gregory found his position 
 increasingly difficult, as he continued : " By the way, I 
 have an errand a commission I scarcely know what 
 
 to call it to you. My friend, Haldane Gore " 
 
 274
 
 Folly 
 
 Christie lifted his paper slightly from the table and 
 dropped it again. "I've just been reading about it." 
 
 "What? Already? There?" groaned Gregory, 
 reaching for the sheet. 
 
 "Yes with full details and illustrations," answered 
 Christie. 
 
 "They have been quick," said Gregory painfully. 
 "These correspondents can't they let a man die in 
 peace? I got the cable only last week." 
 
 "They make out that he was a famous man," said 
 Christie, with reserve. 
 
 "Now that he is dead. How he would have hated 
 all this!" 
 
 " Did you come here to discuss him with me ?" asked 
 Christie brusquely. 
 
 "Well yes, in a way. At least, among his papers 
 was found a letter to Mrs. Christie. Everything was 
 sent on to me; and I was asked to forward " 
 
 "Well" Christie shrugged "do you want her 
 address? Is that it?" 
 
 "No, that I happen to know from her friend, Mrs. 
 Patrick." 
 
 "Then why do you come to me?" demanded Christie 
 somewhat roughly. 
 
 "Why, don't you see, man, I can't send such a letter 
 on by post?" 
 
 Christie looked at him hard for a moment, then 
 grew abstracted. "That reminds me." He then 
 
 perceived that Gregory was waiting, and added: "I'm 
 
 275
 
 sorry, I was remembering that Up-to-Date goes down 
 to Westmouth every day; and unless the mater 
 happens to be the one who opens it ... I'd better 
 telegraph, I think. What were you saying ? Oh, by 
 post ? Well, get a messenger then. How does it con- 
 cern me?" 
 
 "I thought you might wish to be the messenger," 
 said Gregory, finding his opportunity. 
 
 "What do you mean?" Christie's face went redder. 
 
 "Only that it seems best to me to put the letter 
 into your hands." 
 
 After a pause, Christie said: "If you are acting as 
 Gore's friend, I must confess that your procedure 
 seems to me a little unusual." 
 
 " I know my man," said Gregory ; and then : " May I 
 venture to say both men ? " 
 
 Christie shrugged and pared away the edges of the 
 newspaper before him. "What do you expect me to 
 do?" 
 
 "I? Nothing, naturally. That is your affair." 
 
 "You wash your hands of the responsibility? And 
 you have no fear of betraying your friend ?" 
 
 "None whatever." 
 
 "Huh!" said Christie, and slashed viciously at the 
 paper. And after a while: "A letter is a letter, and 
 there's an end of it; I'll take it, if you like. I was 
 thinking of going down soon, anyway. I haven't seen 
 my mother since we came home from abroad. I can 
 
 just as well make it to-day." 
 
 276
 
 Folly 
 
 There was apparently nothing more to be said; but 
 Gregory still lingered, pulling at his beard, and Christie 
 made no move to go. 
 
 "I suppose," said the latter, after a time, "that I 
 may talk to you more freely from the fact that you 
 were so to speak professionally mixed up in the case. 
 Not that there is anything much to say." 
 
 "I suspended judgment myself long ago couldn't 
 get any satisfactory diagnosis, you see. No doubt there 
 may be cases now and then in which you have all the 
 conditions for an electric battery; given the poles and 
 communication, you're bound to have the current. 
 Oh, I talked differently on the spot; but there's some- 
 thing to be said for their side as well. Still, I prefer to 
 withhold my opinion." 
 
 "I don't know. You seem to be exonerating two of 
 the actors, and omitting the third," said Christie. 
 
 "I'm neither exonerating nor condemning. I don't 
 know enough yet to do either." 
 
 "Yet? You expect to know more, some day?" 
 
 "A thousand years hence who can tell? There's 
 no reason why we shouldn't know something about 
 souls, when we have found out all that is to be learned 
 about bodies. At present, we are only beginning to 
 understand the rudiments of physiology the other is 
 a long way off. But I don't despair." 
 
 "Ah, yes, you have been trying to find the cure for 
 cancer, haven't you?" asked Christie, perhaps not 
 
 aware of the depth of his stab. 
 
 277
 
 Folly 
 
 Gregory winced. " I am trying. I shall go on, even 
 though I failed to save the life of my friend." 
 
 Christie looked up with compunction. "What I 
 should have said is, that if diagnosis seems to you im- 
 possible, how about treatment?" 
 
 "I tried interference," said Gregory. "I argued the 
 matter from my point of view, which is more or less that 
 generally held. But is the majority always right? I 
 only hope I did no harm." 
 
 "My own policy is always non-interference," said 
 Christie. " Beyond that I cannot go," 
 
 "To me that seems only reasonable," said Gregory, 
 "but ..." 
 
 " But if the world were ruled by reason you were 
 about to say ?" Christie took him up. 
 
 "Something like that." 
 
 "I suppose one forgets to be reasonable with the un- 
 reasonable, just as one finds it hard to be tolerant with 
 the intolerant." 
 
 "There's another thing," pursued Gregory. "To 
 return to the medical analogy for a moment, after all, 
 it's the patient who cures himself. Only we must clear 
 the way give working-room, so to speak. I mean, 
 after we have eliminated the obstacles, as much as pos- 
 sible we should bring it about, as far as we can, that 
 the faculties have free play, and avoid stagnation 
 look to it that they do play." 
 
 "I see your point," said Christie, still intent upon the 
 
 destruction of his paper. "You have given me some- 
 
 278
 
 Folly 
 
 thing to think about. In this case, the chief obstacle 
 was, of course ..." 
 
 It seemed as if Gregory shrank from using the name 
 in this connection. He said only: "At least, it is re- 
 moved; and you have a free hand." 
 
 "I am not so sure of that.'' Christie looked up 
 abruptly. "I incline to think that it has existed all 
 along chiefly in the mind of of the patient; and that 
 consequently it may grow exaggerated by this dis- 
 aster" he indicated the paper before him. "Is time 
 always a healer?" 
 
 "Pretty well, pretty well," answered Gregory. 
 " But we always want things done in such a hurry." 
 
 "You may not know, perhaps," said Christie, "that 
 when I was in Biarritz, Gore wired for me to come over 
 to Espinal." 
 
 "I suspected something of the sort," answered Gre- 
 gory. "I see the whole thing now: how he got away 
 and how you came to bring her back." 
 
 "I tell you this," continued Christie, in the tone of 
 one who has a hard lesson to say, but must get it out 
 somehow, "because, as his friend, you may care to 
 know that there was no ill feeling between us when we 
 parted." 
 
 " Some day you will be glad to remember that," were 
 Gregory's only words, but his face was more eloquent. 
 
 Christie looked at his watch. "Have you that letter 
 with you? I see I have just time for the express. I 
 
 may as well get the business over." 
 
 279
 
 Folly 
 
 He smiled rather grimly as he took the envelope. 
 "It would be temptingly easy to destroy it." 
 
 "But how would that help your case?" demanded 
 Gregory. 
 
 "My good fellow," Christie was vehement "would 
 any medicine on earth help my case ? Months ago I 
 gave it up as hopeless." He rose to go. 
 
 "There you're out," insisted Gregory; and wondered 
 helplessly what he should say next. "At least," he 
 added lamely, "I am convinced that your future 
 lies in your own hands." 
 
 Thereupon the other man gave a short laugh and 
 turned away. 
 
 280
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 DIPLOMACY. 
 
 SHORTLY before tea, that same afternoon, Mrs. 
 Christie knocked at Folly's door to say: "I hope you 
 won't mind, dear. I've just had a telegram from An- 
 drew to say that he's coming down by the express." 
 
 "I shall go out," was Folly's swift thought, as she 
 put her arms about a mass of papers lying on the table 
 before her. 
 
 She did not divine the old lady's diplomacy in sug- 
 gesting: "You might go somewhere, you know, if 
 you'd rather not see him. Would you like another sail 
 now? There's not a breath of wind, so I won't be 
 anxious about you, as I was last time." 
 
 Then Folly said, as she was expected to say: "I 
 don't see why I should. We shall have to meet some- 
 times, I suppose." 
 
 "Well, well, as you please." Mrs. Christie went 
 away chuckling. 
 
 It pleased Folly to dress more carefully than usual. 
 She had a dim feeling that she did not want to stir An- 
 drew's pity or contempt, or to give him an opportunity 
 
 to label her frowsy, as she had often heard him sum up 
 
 281
 
 Folly 
 
 other women. Besides, it had been a reproach of her 
 young days that she dressed badly. 
 
 When she had done, she looked at herself in the glass, 
 very pale in her black lawn with its narrow hem- 
 stitched collar and cuffs of white linen. She wondered 
 that she had not noticed before her haggard face and 
 harsh, colourless hair; and with a sudden, quite sur- 
 prising desire to add a little grace went out into 
 the garden for a bunch of purple lilac. 
 
 Christie arrived just as they were beginning tea, 
 which Folly was pouring. She hastily set down the tea- 
 pot, and without looking up, gave him her hand. He 
 greeted her courteously, as frank and unembarrassed, 
 it seemed to her, as any ordinary visitor. And when she 
 had made his cup to his liking, he took it away at once 
 and sat down at his mother's little table, apparently 
 telling her some joke or funny story, as she judged from 
 the way that they laughed together. 
 
 Neither of them paid any attention to Folly, who, 
 though feeling very much out in the cold, could not 
 make up her mind to join them, and so solaced her tea 
 with a novel that she picked up from the table. 
 
 They gossipped and squabbled together in a way that 
 she remembered from the very early days of her court- 
 ship. Nor did she have a word or look from either of 
 them until Andrew brought his mother's cup to be 
 filled. 
 
 "Are you pretty well?" he asked then, watching her. 
 
 "Yes, thank you," she answered curtly. 
 282
 
 Folly 
 
 "I'm glad of that" but his calm tone, sincere as it 
 was, angered her. 
 
 As soon as she could do so with grace, she left mother 
 and son together, protesting that the novel she had 
 picked up was so absorbing that she could not put it 
 down. 
 
 Immediately he dropped his bantering tone: "You 
 got my telegram, of course ?" 
 
 "Yes, it was a mercy. I had the newspapers in my 
 own room when she came asking for them. I suppose 
 she expects every day to hear something of the sort." 
 
 "You know then?" 
 
 "I read some of the accounts there were several." 
 
 "Yes. I bought other papers on the train. I 
 suppose she'll have to see them afterwards but 
 somehow, mater, I don't fancy the task of breaking 
 the news." 
 
 "It requires tact," she said, and tried to cheer him 
 up: "You're my son, you know." 
 
 "Yes, and strongly inclined to hide behind your 
 apron, too." 
 
 "Fie, fie," she admonished him. "Shame upon 
 you! No son of mine ever hides behind any apron. 
 You'll do it properly, or I shall disown you!" 
 
 "More than that, I've got a letter to deliver, sent to 
 Gregory." 
 
 "I see. And he, being a sensible man, brought it to 
 you. He couldn't have done better." 
 
 "But consider my position, mater." 
 283
 
 Folly 
 
 "Nonsense, you don't need any consideration, sne 
 insisted. 
 
 "She isn't weU, is she?" 
 
 "Now that is hard to say. She's as mute as per- 
 verse Kate. I think the edge is wearing off a little 
 at least, it is bound to in time. But as long as there 
 is any room for doubt, she'll make herself miserable. 
 She's pretty strong, you know, only I don't like 
 her mooning over those papers upstairs. I sometimes 
 wonder whether it isn't my duty to go and burn them. 
 But she's better I'm sure of that; she's quieting 
 down." 
 
 "And now I've got to stir it up all again," he groaned. 
 
 "Sometimes stirring settles things coffee, for in- 
 stance. How do you think she looks ?" 
 
 "Frowsy," was the brief reply. 
 
 "Poor Folly! And yet I thought she was smarter 
 than usual to-day, with a spray of blossoms in her belt. 
 I've done my best to interest her in the outside 
 world and people. The only thing she will do is go out 
 sailing occasionally." 
 
 Seeing that his forehead creased, she added hastily: 
 " Oh, I don't let her go alone. She wanted to, of course, 
 and pleaded that you had once said she managed 
 a boat as well as a man; but I wouldn't give in. I said 
 I should have hysteria all the time she was out, and 
 should make daily preparations for her coming home 
 drowned; and the picture was too much for her. She 
 
 consented to take a fisherman; and I selected my man 
 
 284
 
 Folly 
 
 with care. I have known the family for generations 
 back never lost a passenger and all that sort of 
 thing ..." 
 
 "Right, materkin," said he, when she paused for 
 breath. And after a moment he seized both her hands, 
 asking abruptly: "Do you think I shall ever have 
 any show again ? " 
 
 Her eyes were not altogether free from tears as she 
 answered: "Isn't it rather odd, boy, that you still want 
 a show?" 
 
 " Perhaps, but I do," he answered doggedly. 
 
 "Sure?" 
 
 "Sure." 
 
 "If you had the proper pride of the British husband, 
 you would have trumped up a divorce- case long ago." 
 
 "Possibly, but it would have taken some lying. And 
 what of her, then?" 
 
 "Yes, what of her? People ought to know by this 
 time. But you never were quite orthodox, son." 
 
 "No," he admitted. "I tried to be. I have spent 
 hours cursing her cursing them." 
 
 "And it's no good?" 
 
 " Not a bit. I'm mortal sorry for the lot of us that's 
 all." 
 
 " One is past sorrow," she suggested softly. 
 
 "Yes. I haven't got used to remembering that yet. 
 . . . The point of the whole miserable business is, that 
 I can neither cast her off entirely, nor settle down to a 
 
 reasonable life while I am in this state of suspense. I 
 
 285
 
 Folly 
 
 tell you, mater, what made me realise their point of 
 view more than anything else : it was trying to get up a 
 decent hatred, and finding out that I'd apparently got 
 to go on loving her perhaps to the end of my 
 days." 
 
 "Yes," she said, "probably. That's in our blood, 
 I believe. . . . But only this morning I was reading 
 something that touches your case. Listen now." She 
 held him by one button, while she reached for a thin 
 little volume on the table by her side. 
 
 She found the place marked and read aloud in her 
 pretty quavering voice : 
 
 "'Now judge ye! For a girl I walked forlorn 
 Who laughed my vows to scorn; 
 She loved another, who in coin repaid 
 Wooing a second maid. 
 
 And she, this second, making all complete, 
 Would worship at my feet. 
 Four pretty fools and Kama with his malice 
 Thus drove me from my palace.' 
 
 What say you to that?" 
 
 "We were only three fools; we lacked the second 
 woman." 
 
 "You miss the point altogether," she retorted, with 
 asperity. "Are you going to let Kama drive you from 
 your palace?" 
 
 "I'm wondering how to tell her," he said absently, 
 286
 
 Folly 
 
 "Come, come," she took him to task. "You are not 
 often discourteous to your mother. I was reading you 
 poetry!" 
 
 He smiled at her. " Do you think I am in the mood 
 for verses, mater? What are you up to? I suppose 
 you have a point in mind ? " 
 
 "I hope so, I am sure," she answered, with 
 dignity. "I try to have, as a rule. I asked you if you 
 were going to let love drive you from your palace 
 that's your birthright as my son. I want you to 
 live in your palace, and to build your share, as your 
 forefathers did before you " Her voice fal- 
 tered, but she laughed away the tears. "I don't 
 want you to be a broken-down old ruin with ivy 
 crawling over you, and toads in the dark corners. 
 Remember, you're a wing, or a wall, or a corner, 
 in a great building; and if you let her spoil your 
 life . . ." 
 
 " By the Lord, no! " he answered, with sudden vigour. 
 "Don't worry, mater. We shall find some way out 
 presently." 
 
 The book was shaking in her hand. He took it 
 gently from her, and wiped away her tears with his 
 own handkerchief. 
 
 Presently she dimpled again. "The foolish old 
 woman!" she chirruped. 
 
 " Not altogether; you have your good points, mater," 
 he encouraged her. " Now what's next ? " 
 
 " I haven't made the full application of the text even 
 287
 
 Folly 
 
 yet. It sticks in my mind, somehow, that you're still 
 hoping to make it up ..." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Don't. It's no good. Let her go. Learn to live 
 without her." 
 
 "By Jove," said he, "that's queer advice!" 
 
 "You'll never get any other from me," she retorted. 
 "And you'll never get her back any other way." 
 
 "Wait," she continued, as he stared at her. "Let 
 that old Hindoo tell you again : 
 
 * Harder than faces in a glass designed, 
 A woman's heart to bind; 
 
 Like mountain-paths up cragged heights that twist, 
 Her ways are lightly missed.' 
 
 Now Folly is a woman. " 
 
 "And so are you," he said. 
 
 "Unfortunately," she responded. "So you miss my 
 ways too, do you? Yet a mother's course ought to be 
 plain-sailing surely." 
 
 "Not perhaps to the craft that she's trying to steer. 
 Tell me what you want me to do, and I'll do it if I 
 can." 
 
 "But when it conies to the point of giving up Folly 
 there you draw the line eh?" 
 
 "Why should it come to a question of that?" he 
 looked troubled. 
 
 "Why oh, why! You great clumsy man-of-war, 
 I'm only trying to manoeuvre you into a promising 
 position for the conflict!" 
 
 288 
 
 ...1
 
 Folly 
 
 "I see," he said at last. "I'm to pretend not to want 
 her . . ." 
 
 "Hush!" she interrupted him. "Pretend nothing. 
 You couldn't do it if you tried. No, no, never mind my 
 riddles; I'm only sporting my wits. But I've another 
 verse for you somewhere. Yes, here : 
 
 'Bear not the burthen of a world outworn, 
 Nor to the future bow; 
 With every hour thy joy be newly born, 
 And earth be new-created every morn, 
 Thy life is here and now.' 
 
 That's the way you used to live when you had her. 
 Can't you keep it up without her?" 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "Why not? Other people do. I did." 
 
 He made no answer, and she continued: "The kind 
 of love that can't do without the beloved, Andrew, is, 
 to my mind, a pretty low thing, and deserves all the 
 contempt it ever gets." 
 
 "It's the natural kind," he commented. 
 
 "Perhaps, but that fact doesn't alter my descrip- 
 tion, does it? I should think a Christie might rise 
 above it." 
 
 "Well, mater, well," he said impatiently, "and 
 what's the good of it all ? " 
 
 She answered him in verse: 
 
 '"Like as a goldsmith beateth out his gold 
 
 To other fashions fairer than the old, 
 
 So may the Spirit, learning ever more, 
 
 In ever nobler forms his life infold.' " 
 19 289
 
 Folly 
 
 "I never thought you poetically inclined," he 
 scoffed ; but she knew that he was touched. 
 
 "Folly and I have been reading this together," she 
 answered. "Here's one we had a dispute about: 
 
 'Wayfarers on the dusty road 
 By shaded wells their heavy load 
 Undoing rest awhile, and then 
 Pass on restored. What cause of tears, O men?' 
 
 She wanted to know who imposed the heavy loads on 
 the wayfarers; and I said that if they didn't have any- 
 thing to carry, they would never appreciate 'undoing' 
 them by the 'shaded wells.'" 
 
 "And she said there were no 'shaded wells,' I sup- 
 pose?" 
 
 "No, she answered me with another this: 
 
 'Rest in the World's still heart; thy little cares 
 Like wind-rocked billows roll, 
 And all thy pleasure as the light wind fares; 
 Now give thee peace, my soul!' 
 
 And she said: 'If only I could find the path there P 
 You must be patient with the girl, Andrew. She is 
 honestly doing her best, I believe." 
 
 "That reminds me, I'd better be looking her up and 
 get it over. I want to go back to town to-night." 
 " No, no," she urged. " Be reasonable." 
 "Reasonable?" he laughed, then seeing her dis- 
 tressed face, added quickly: "After all this philosophy, 
 I ought to be. But what is unreasonable in wishing to 
 
 get an unpleasant thing done as soon as possible?" 
 
 290
 
 Folly 
 
 "I want you to do me a favour, boy; I want you to 
 wait until morning and to think over what we have 
 said." 
 
 "Well, well," he assented, with a touch of irritation, 
 ending with: "Lend me that book, will you?" 
 
 Then she smiled, knowing that she need not fear for 
 him; and when she was alone, chid herself sharply that 
 she had ever feared. 
 
 291
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 BY THE SEA. 
 
 WHEN Christie came down to breakfast in the morn- 
 ing he was told that Folly had gone out; and as his 
 mother rarely appeared until nearly luncheon time, he 
 was rather glad of the respite, and strolled away for a 
 quiet time by the sea. 
 
 He followed the broad avenue of elms down the hill, 
 and came out by the rocks at the end of the Promenade; 
 and here he idled until, chancing to look up, he saw her 
 his wife slowly climbing a lane that ended, as he 
 knew, in a path cut out of the face of the cliffs. 
 
 With a heavy heart, he felt that he must seize the 
 occasion, and followed her between the ivy-covered 
 walls, trying over in his mind fifty ways of introducing 
 his errand. 
 
 He did not come up with her perhaps loitering in- 
 tentionally until she was near the end of the path. 
 Here it is protected only by a low crumbling wall that 
 overhangs the sea where the tide dwells in a perpetual 
 surge among the boulders. 
 
 She turned at the sound of footsteps, and showed no 
 292
 
 Folly 
 
 surprise upon seeing him; it was almost as if she had 
 expected him. 
 
 He made some blundering remark about the bay. 
 
 "Yes," she agreed, "it reminds me a little only a 
 very little of Espinal. I come here often." 
 
 Certainly she was not making his task easier. 
 
 She followed this up with a blunt: "I suppose you 
 had some special reason for coming down to see me?" 
 
 "You suppose correctly," he answered, looking away 
 from her across the sea. 
 
 "And you don't know how to begin?" Thus, 
 after a time, she tried to help him. 
 
 "I happened to see Gregory the other day " 
 
 She turned paler, but waited in silence. 
 
 "He asked me to in short, I have a message a 
 letter to hand over to you. ..." 
 
 She sat down on the broken wall, resting her elbow 
 on the stone and her cheek on her hand ; so watched the 
 tide sucking in and out among the stones. "I know," 
 she said, without betraying any emotion. " He is dead." 
 
 "But how could you ? I thought I had stopped 
 the " 
 
 "Was it in the papers, then? I didn't know that. 
 When did it happen?" 
 
 He told her a few details, then she interrupted him : 
 "I felt when it happened I don't know how. I was 
 here by the sea." 
 
 He found himself wondering sardonically whether 
 she had made due allowance for the difference in time. 
 
 293
 
 Folly 
 
 "It was early, scarcely daybreak, and I could not 
 sleep. I rose as if I had been called, and came here, 
 and watched the red dawn, and the sun come up out of 
 the waves. And I knew he would never see that 
 sun. . . ." 
 
 He was relieved that she did not cast before him the 
 burden of her grief ; and yet her stillness alarmed him, 
 as it had done before at Espinal. ... It might be that 
 this was only the first stupor from the blow, and that 
 when she awakened . . . 
 
 "The letter?" she asked; and he put it into her 
 hands. 
 
 She looked down upon it as it lay in her lap the 
 envelope bearing the printed address of the British 
 Consulate in New York. She turned it over. It was 
 unsealed. 
 
 "It is good of you to give it to me unconditionally," 
 she said, with an effort at gratitude. 
 
 He could not help smiling. "Why should I make 
 conditions? It is plainly yours. Gregory made sure 
 of that." 
 
 She could not read it until he went away, and he 
 made no move; indeed, on the contrary, he seized her 
 arm as if he feared that she might grow dizzy and lose 
 her balance. 
 
 "It is Espinal over again," she said faintly, hoping 
 to remind him to leave her. 
 
 "Not quite" he did not loosen his hold, though she 
 
 would have liked to draw away. "I must take you 
 
 294
 
 Folly 
 
 home first. I was a fool to come and blurt it out in this 
 place. Steady now." 
 
 " Oh, I am steady enough," she said, with a touch of 
 impatience. "And this was the place. It had to hap- 
 pen here. But please go away." 
 
 He shook his head. " It won't do. There have been 
 fools and women among them " 
 
 "You may trust me," she said. 
 
 But he was not satisfied. "How do I know that you 
 are not past keeping faith?" 
 
 "You cannot but you might trust me. You trusted 
 me at Espinal when it was worse." 
 
 He leaned against the face of the rock, immovable. 
 "Was it?" he asked. 
 
 "I had that question all out at Biarritz," she pleaded, 
 "when I could not decide among the difficult ways. 
 Now there's no choosing there's only the one." 
 
 This sounded perilous and he moved nearer. 
 
 " No, don't trouble. If I had intended to end my life 
 in such a mess, do you think I should have waited till 
 now?" 
 
 He felt that there was sense in this ; still he objected : 
 "There was always hope; you were not sure ..." 
 
 "Sure enough," said she. 
 
 "I will trust you," he said, upon a sudden impulse. 
 "I will wait for you in the lane." 
 
 No " 
 
 "You may need help home '" 
 
 "I shall not need help." 
 
 295
 
 Folly 
 
 "Your help," he interpreted this to mean; and 
 walked a few steps away. 
 
 But he came back: "If you fail me now, you shatter 
 a life-time of faith ..." 
 
 "A life- time?" she repeated softly. "A life-time? 
 faith that when you see what is right, you do it 
 at any cost." 
 
 It was a strange thing for him to say, reflecting as it 
 did upon his own hurt; but she remembered that he 
 was his mother's son. 
 
 "If you believe that," she answered, "you know that 
 you may trust me now." 
 
 "Do you see the right?" he asked keenly. 
 
 "If not, at least at least, I see the wrong." 
 
 He turned away a second time; but before she had 
 come into a full sense of her aloneness, she heard his 
 voice again: 
 
 "You can't expect it, Folly. Not one man in a hun- 
 dred would do it. Come back home with me, and I 
 will leave you in peace." 
 
 At this, she turned upon him in a sort of dull anger: 
 "I thought you might be the one man. I have trusted 
 your generosity so often; and it has never failed me. I 
 give you my word that I will come home presently. 
 If you don't go now, I shall think you are afraid of the 
 possible disgrace to your name, your family. . . . 
 Need I say anything more ? " 
 
 " I think you have said enough," he answered quietly. 
 "I will leave you to your letter." 
 
 296
 
 Folly 
 
 She gazed after him, her eyes wet with sudden com- 
 punction, and softly spoke his name. 
 
 He looked back, but made no move to return. 
 
 " Say that you do trust me." 
 
 He looked at her hard and she met his eyes without 
 flinching. 
 
 "I trust you then," he said. And at last she was 
 alone. 
 
 She watched him going until he had turned the bend 
 in the path; and then she looked down at her letter, 
 fearing to touch it. But when a sudden puff of wind 
 lifted a corner of the envelope, she caught it up and 
 held it to her heart, lest it blow away into the sea 
 unread. 
 
 But she would not open it yet a while; she tried first 
 to realize that he who had written the words was abso- 
 lutely vanished from the face of this earth. 
 
 "Dead dead dead" she repeated the word to 
 herself, she knew not how many times; but it bore no 
 meaning whatever. 
 
 She watched the home-going of the tawny fishing- 
 fleet. There were days when one trawler came back 
 short-handed, when another failed to come at all; and 
 there were other days when the sand and the rocks 
 were sown with the dead. But what did it mean? 
 Emptiness in the home in the heart? But this came 
 other ways than by death. Only, while the breath- 
 flame was burning in the beloved, there was always the 
 
 chance ah the pitiful clinging to chance. . . . For 
 
 297
 
 Folly 
 
 her, there had long been no hope. They were parted 
 before he left Espinal, before he went to Espinal 
 parted by the clutch of death upon him before ever she 
 left her husband for his sake. And now what differ- 
 ence could it make that she would surely never see his 
 face again, as she had known it, or touch his hand, or 
 hear his voice what difference in the world ? . . . 
 
 And what of him, then, to whom the change had 
 come? To her it was inconceivable, this change, ex- 
 cept as a negation, a contradiction of all that he had 
 known and done and been. It was a falling to pieces 
 of the forces of the body and of the soul to her, at 
 
 least, silence But at the last he had spoken, 
 
 had sent her a message some comfort, perhaps a 
 hope . . . 
 
 So, with steady fingers, she opened her letter at 
 length. Calm and dry-eyed, sitting on the edge of 
 the cliff, heedless of the glare of the sun above and 
 sea below, she read the last thing that his soul could 
 ever say to hers. 
 
 298
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 THE LETTER. 
 
 "AT SEA, May. 
 "DEAREST AND BEST-BELOVED: 
 
 "Has peace come to you yet, or the hope of peace? 
 Should you be glad to know that pain has almost done 
 with me perhaps quite, when this reaches you? If 
 I could give you peace! It is coming to me as surely 
 with every breath of the sea- wind; the sense of it is 
 as strong within me as is the sense of spring when the 
 earth is fresh-turned you know ? 
 
 "You think I parted easily from you? Not after the 
 letter I left for you at Espinal you could not think so. 
 We passed through the worst of the bad time then, my 
 poor girl. Why, every nerve of me was crying out to 
 go back, all that interminable night that I sat in the 
 train, and all the next day as we crashed through the 
 desert to the south. And when I came to board the 
 steamer at Gibraltar, I had to fight against the longing 
 to return as the child of sinners fights for his virtue. 
 And you? We must not remember that time; forget it 
 with me. But I had to tell you that it was. Once be- 
 fore I was weak, and you suffered for it, my dear; but 
 
 299
 
 Folly 
 
 I believe the last of my manhood would have died 
 within me, if I had not held out this time. Did you 
 think me a coward ? I wanted to spare you the harder 
 part, as I said before; and they that seem to play the 
 coward are not always cowards at heart. I am not 
 trying to excuse myself and yet, I believe I am. I 
 want you to know that I could not let you be tor- 
 tured by what I had to bear. Folly, Folly, you under- 
 stand?" 
 
 The woman stopped her reading, and looked out to 
 sea. "You were wrong. It might have been some 
 comfort now to have shared it to the end. But what 
 do I know O God!" 
 
 She read on: 
 
 "I struck you hard that the pain might be shorter as 
 it was sharper. And so I forsook you deliberately at 
 Espinal; and there may be bitterness in your heart 
 against me for the only way I could find to do it " 
 
 "No bitterness no," she whispered. 
 
 " but, my dear, my dear, Espinal was in truth a 
 city of thorns for you and me; you must look forward 
 to a day when you will forget that." 
 
 "How? How?" was her prayer. 
 
 "When I came to Gibraltar, it seemed as if the fates 
 intended to turn me back. The steamer was crowded 
 with homeward-bound travellers from the Mediterra- 
 nean; and I dared not trust my will to wait until the 
 next. I told you I was going to America? I don't 
 
 know what put it into my head -" 
 
 300
 
 Folly 
 
 "The story of the woman across the way," said her 
 heart. 
 
 " but I had always longed for a glimpse of the 
 New World. I know now that it can be no more 
 than that. Somehow, it seemed the thing to do. So 
 when I found there was no room first class or second, I 
 went in the steerage where there is always room. And 
 as soon as it was done, I knew again that this was the 
 right thing; and so it has proved. It was just a year 
 ago, I think, when I went away from you the second 
 time, that I travelled up to London with a crowd of the 
 poor, and found no brotherhood in them. I have 
 learned better now, alone with them although these 
 were Spanish folk with the peace and the leisure of 
 the sea all about us. 
 
 "I had my portfolio with me. I don't know exactly 
 how it escaped burning; and sitting on the lower deck, 
 among my poor neighbours, I read it over and smiled 
 to see how little it takes to make what the world calls a 
 poet. I crumpled the things, one by one, and sent 
 them overboard a new kind of sea-gull in the wake of 
 the ship: ' Jaizquibel,' the 'Lays of Picardy,' the 
 'Watch-Tower,' the 'Loom,' the 'City of Thorns' 
 why should I trouble you with their names ? You will 
 remember to destroy all that you have when you are 
 done with them? I have nothing to say to the world. 
 
 " Some few I clung to longer than the others for the 
 memories that they brought up. The 'Heather Bal- 
 lad' took me back to a Yorkshire fell and a small boy 
 
 301
 
 Folly 
 
 who thought that heaven lay on its top. The 'An- 
 gelus' verses gave me again ourselves in the valley of 
 the Itsu, and the sound of bells from an unseen village 
 over the mountain you remember ? 
 
 ' Thy twinkling lights not shown to us, 
 Thy throbbing hearts not known to us, 
 Thy bells alone wind-blown to us, 
 Ye quiet folk that do God's will, 
 
 Over the distant hill.' 
 
 And the answer why, you wrote most of the answer 
 remember? 
 
 'All's well with fields not sown by you, 
 With springing crops not grown by you, 
 With beating hearts not known by you, 
 With quiet folk that do God's will, 
 
 Over the distant hill.' 
 
 But you have the whole, so I sent my copy over- 
 board with the others. 
 
 "And when I had finished with it all, I had nothing 
 in the world to do but write a line to this friend and 
 that, as I could; and this for you. It was good to lie 
 on the sunny deck, with cloudless blue above and wave- 
 less blue below, and to let a little kiddie pull my hair 
 while its mother told me about her home among the 
 Sierras, and her fear of the untried sea; or to smoke 
 and tell tales with Basque fishermen f rom Fuenterrab fa 
 or Santander, who looked one day to see the salmon of 
 the Oregon; or to weigh with vine-dressers from Mal- 
 aga or Jerez their chances of making a fortune in the 
 
 streets of New York; or to build air-castles with a 
 
 302
 
 Folly 
 
 ruined farmer from the bad lands of Aragon and to set 
 them up in the wheatfields of Dakota. There were two 
 hundred of them altogether; and I came to know most 
 of them a little and some of them well these unlucky, 
 go-lucky children. And it opened my blind eyes, made 
 me see more than I can ever tell you just to live with 
 them this little fortnight. 
 
 "One thing that came to me strangely was, I 
 heard our own story told so many times over with 
 differences, but yet the same among these poor peas- 
 ants. We found it so tragic, so all-absorbing, and did 
 not dream perhaps or did you? that it's a common 
 thing in the world. And what it stands for that comes 
 in the working out, whether it turns to torment or to 
 joy; and I tell you, yours shall be joy." 
 
 The cruelty of the dead to the living! .... It was a 
 long while before she could read on. 
 
 "These people suffer no less pain than we or very 
 little; they keep more joy, I think, and perhaps in that 
 way ease their lot. Some of them have worse things to 
 bear: the crumbling away of character in a test, the 
 discovery that an affection is built upon deceit, that the 
 loved one has always been a stranger in soul. I can- 
 not write you more now. 
 
 "LATER I do not know the date. 
 "We have left the purple sea, and the broad path of 
 the moon across the waves, and the fantastic floating 
 life of the south; and we have come into the cold gray 
 
 303
 
 Folly 
 
 waters of the north, and the old moon will die in a night 
 or two. I have been thinking, Folly thinking of you 
 and your life; and I have something to say to you 
 which another time." 
 "He was worse that day," said her heart. 
 
 "SATURDAY. 
 
 "I heard some one just now tell the day of the week. 
 We have passed what they call Sandy Hook, and a 
 long island with many lights I forget its name; and 
 we lie at anchor in a marvellous harbour, waiting for 
 morning and the quarantine officers. I must try to 
 write you to-night what I have to say, for to-morrow 
 there will be much to do. It will be hard to say good- 
 bye to the gentle voices and kind hands and loving 
 hearts that I have learned to know on this voyage ; but 
 it will be the last farewell, I think. To-morrow a 
 glimpse of the New World, and then. ... I have been 
 straining my eyes for the shadowy outlines of this world 
 of giants; but can make out little besides the Liberty 
 who flaunts her torch and crown of stars across the 
 bay, and the long curves of a glittering bridge. 
 
 "Look now, how I have postponed saying to you 
 what I must say. It is not easy to tell. I have waited 
 until I should be able to put it so strongly that you will 
 feel as I do; I will not wait until to-morrow I think, 
 as I intended a moment ago. 
 
 "The great thing is how get it into words? the 
 little thing. The secret of joy, as it seems to me now, 
 
 304
 
 Folly 
 
 is the immolation of selfishness and the unfolding, the 
 expansion, the I cannot say it clearly flowering of 
 one life in the lives of many. Not one other life, or two 
 or three but the most the utmost extension of self 
 in the lives of others. We had the cup of joy at our 
 lips, we thought, you and I, and it was snatched away; 
 but, by God, I see now that it was dashed at our 
 feet that we might not drink the poison! Oh, I am 
 writing in figures I do not know how I am writing 
 I cannot find the words but I can see this frag- 
 ment of eternal truth. The scales have fallen from 
 piy eyes. ..." 
 
 A blot. Here the pen had dropped from his fingers. 
 
 But lower down on the page was a scrawl, where he 
 struggled on with his message: "By my love for you 
 which is now and now and now you must do as I 
 say and be happy. You must leave the great high- 
 roads where men crowd and struggle and push on, and 
 walk in the little path the by-path I mean the 
 footpath of serv " 
 
 That was all. The heart might break in vain to 
 know more of the thought thus stifled by the swift 
 silence. 
 
 There was also a typewritten sheet in the envelope 
 the consul's explanation, useless details, forms, cere- 
 monies. . . . She turned away from them and tried 
 to think what he had thought dying thus between the 
 open sea and the New World. Had he at the last 
 turned back to the Old and remembered her, wait- 
 
 305
 
 Folly 
 
 ing and listening in the dawn that he was never to 
 see? .... 
 
 She leaned against the unsheltering rock until she 
 grew dizzy in the glare of the sun. And if she fell, she 
 would seem to have broken her promise, she remem- 
 bered; it was time to go home. There was no need for 
 consideration; he had pointed the way for her, unmis- 
 takably. She must return among people and live her 
 life out; while he, whose work was done, was at peace. 
 And the way of service ? The beginning of duty ? The 
 questions needed neither asking nor answering; she 
 knew whither she must turn. 
 
 She rose, with shaking knees, and one hand laid 
 along the rock to steady her on her homeward way, the 
 other clinging to the letter. 
 
 But before she left the place, a strange new feeling 
 swept over her overpoweringly, that the letter had 
 brought its message and was hers no longer. She had 
 no right to brood over it, to grieve over it; no tune to 
 dwell upon it with hopeless longing. It must go, and 
 lead the way for those others that she had at home 
 ah, but not yet, not yet! 
 
 The voice within her was insistent: "Now, at once, 
 before you weaken." 
 
 She knew that she had to obey, and she could not. 
 The impulse was swift, strong- winged ; but the rebel- 
 lious heart dragged it to earth. 
 
 Two gulls flew out from under the cliff white against 
 the sea-blue. 
 
 306
 
 Folly 
 
 "If they alight on that boulder, I will not," cried 
 instinct, seeking escape. And scarcely was the thought 
 voiced, before she was able to clasp her treasure close, 
 whispering, "Mine, mine." 
 
 But the voice within her was lifted up in sternness, 
 and forbade her trifling with the powers of the soul. 
 For herself she must decide whether she would obey 
 or not. 
 
 "Not mine." Her hands faltered and shook, and 
 sometimes paused altogether; but in the end she had 
 torn her written message into hundreds of shreds, and 
 had sent them fluttering down like a shower of snow- 
 flakes until they melted into the sea. 
 
 307
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 "O FOLLY, FOLLY 1" 
 
 CHRISTIE walked home but slowly, turning every few 
 rods in the vain hope that she might be following. And 
 when he reached the house, he still lingered some time 
 among the myrtles, thus by a few moments to anticipate 
 her coming. By mid-day he began to grow anxious; 
 but still clinging to his trust in her, he went into the 
 smoking-room and tried to turn his mind to indifferent 
 matters. 
 
 Plans he made none, for the present situation he 
 regarded as beyond his handling, unless fortune or 
 chance gave him some clue. But he was tormented by 
 elusive memories of the past: his clumsy wooing; the 
 early days of their engagement, when she had teased 
 him into love-making and laughed him out of it; the 
 foolish ecstasy of their honeymoon; the pricks and 
 stings of her growing discontent ; the dangerous friend- 
 ship; the quiet days after their son was born, and the 
 sudden disaster. . . . 
 
 But there was no profit in such memories. He de- 
 liberately gave his attention to a new drainage system 
 
 for a piece of bog-land on his estate; and was surprised 
 
 308
 
 Polly 
 
 that the tobacco he was smoking should be so bitter. 
 After a time, he amazed himself by flinging down 
 papers and pipe with a sudden curse, crying out upon 
 himself for a fool in leaving her to herself. For how 
 did he know what was in the letter he had been another 
 sort of fool to bring down to her? And what was a 
 mere promise to a desperate woman? He struggled 
 against premonitions of evil, reasoned out carefully that 
 even if the worst happened he must be the sufferer, not 
 she; and therefore philosophy was always within his 
 reach. He reminded himself that he had never known 
 her to break her word; and the end of his thinking was 
 that the leash he was endeavouring to keep upon him- 
 self gave way altogether. 
 
 He caught up his hat and started from the room ; but 
 as suddenly he retreated and softly closed the door 
 again, brushing the sweat-drops of relief from his fore- 
 head. He had seen her, black against the sunshiny 
 garden, at the far end of the dim hall. 
 
 He waited and listened for the tap of her slow foot- 
 steps on the wood floor; she must pass by, on her way 
 upstairs. But the sound came to an end just outside 
 the room, and was followed by a long silence. 
 
 He walked to the window and stared out among the 
 rhododendrons, returned to the table and was fum- 
 bling restlessly among the papers of his land improve- 
 ment scheme, when at last she knocked. 
 
 "I have come back, you see," she said, as he opened 
 the door. 
 
 309
 
 Folly 
 
 He answered nothing, but with a gesture invited her 
 within. 
 
 Unfastening her hat as she moved, she laid it on the 
 table, and brushed back the hair from her temples, 
 with an expression of relief. She was pale, but quite 
 calm, as she said: "And I am ready to go back with 
 you to Sunlands when you please." 
 
 There was a silence, during which they both heard 
 voices in the hall, some visitor's, not distinguishable, 
 and his mother's, saying clearly: "Well, my dear, I 
 can only say that you're demanding the universe, if you 
 expect to be happy all the time. Nothing short of that 
 would do it." 
 
 The answer was lost in Christie's abrupt: "What do 
 you mean?" 
 
 "I mean that I'm going to try to do my obvious duty 
 and that is to you." 
 
 "Thank you," said he; and she fully expected him 
 to add: "Don't you think it's rather late?" But he 
 did not. 
 
 "You said long ago I mean last month, hi 
 Espinal that you would take me back," she con- 
 tinued, wondering at his silence, and not perceiving 
 that it was the leaven of some new thought working 
 in him. 
 
 "True," he said, after a time. "But circumstances 
 have altered since then." 
 
 "Have altered?" 
 
 He shrugged, "Need I explain?" 
 310
 
 Polly 
 
 "I don't understand, unless you mean that you 
 
 won't take me back. " 
 
 "I do mean that." 
 
 "That you won't?" 
 
 "I think not." 
 
 "But why?" 
 
 He smiled faintly and left her to seek her own answer. 
 
 "You mean, because people may have been talk- 
 ing?" she asked, with a flush. 
 
 "I think that needs no reply. But I am not aware 
 that there has been gossip. If so, the best way" he 
 did not deem the conclusion worth pursuing. 
 
 "What then is your reason?" 
 
 "Will you be quite frank with me?" he asked in turn. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Do you want to come ? " 
 
 She considered carefully before she gave her reply: 
 "There can be no question of 'wanting'; it is my 
 duty." 
 
 He laughed. "I knew, of course. Sacrifice is more 
 easily made than accepted, Florence." 
 
 "But if I'm willing . . .?" 
 
 "No, thank you." 
 
 "More than willing . . .?" 
 
 He was obstinately silent. 
 
 " It is my place ..." 
 
 "Is it?" He turned upon her keenly. "Do you 
 still claim the right to it?" 
 
 "I have no claim" she began humbly ; then, struck
 
 Folly 
 
 with sudden terror, asked: "Would you try to di- 
 vorce me now?" 
 
 "I thought we had that out in Espinal. I'm sorry 
 you think so badly of me," he said coldly. "If things 
 were at a much worse pass than they are, I doubt 
 whether I should turn to the courts for help." 
 
 "You might get a separation-order" she spoke 
 now with a coldness equal to his. 
 
 "What good would that do? We couldn't be any 
 more parted than we are." 
 
 "So what it all comes to is ?" 
 
 "You must go your own way" his harsh tone did 
 not relent. 
 
 And while she was considering this new point of 
 view, he continued, with the air of one who means to 
 look'at a question from all sides : "As for the name ..." 
 
 "Oh, what does that matter?" she cried, with a 
 touch of impatience. 
 
 "Pardon me, it's my name. It does matter to me." 
 
 "I know," she breathed, with quick remorse. "And 
 I've done my best to drag it in the mud." 
 
 "Your worst, you mean," she read on his grim lips; 
 but he said nothing. 
 
 "I was not thinking of myself or of my position," 
 she tried to defend herself. "But I could still make a 
 home for you and do what lies in my power ..." 
 
 He had no scruple in cutting her short: "It's very 
 good of you, but quite out of the question. We'd 
 better come down to details of arrangement." 
 
 312
 
 Folly 
 
 " But what am I to do ? " Her cry was almost invol- 
 untary; and she did not in the least realize that she 
 was trying to throw her burden on him. 
 
 He seemed implacable. "That you must decide for 
 yourself. You are free and you have the world before 
 you." 
 
 "And Providence my guide?" she asked, with sud- 
 den bitterness. "You do well to remind me of my lost 
 Paradise." 
 
 Then first he was aware of the unconscious bru- 
 tality of his words; but his tone seemed to her still 
 amazingly blunt and savage, as he said only: "I 
 mean it. Do? There's a whole world full of things 
 for you to do!" 
 
 There was something else working in him that had 
 to come out : " You think, you women, that the love of 
 a man is the only thing worth having in God's uni- 
 verse!" 
 
 She could not have known that in attacking her, he 
 was fighting a weakness of his own. 
 
 "I am learning fast," she said, "but, as you say, it is 
 harder for women. ..." 
 
 "We all enter Fools' Paradise at some time or other; 
 but most of us don't stay long. And when we come out, 
 we still find the solid crust of the earth to set our teeth 
 in. And a pitiful lot we should be if we didn't have to 
 knock and batter ourselves against a few hard facts." 
 
 By this time, perhaps, she saw a little that he was 
 talking for himself as well as for her. 
 
 313
 
 Folly 
 
 "Look how it is, Andrew," she pleaded. "I tried to 
 get out of my old self when the baby came; but after 
 all, I loved him because he was mine. It was only a 
 deeper form of self-love. And in this last matter, 
 although you cannot know what I would have given or 
 done to have saved his life, it was for myself I wanted it. 
 There is no escape, it seems, from the self that is the 
 source of all misery and sin. ... I thought there was 
 none; but he gave me light . . . that it must be done 
 by the way of serving many all. ..." 
 
 He stared at her in frank wonder. Was this the Folly 
 who had once challenged the world to dare say she was 
 not beautiful, who had trampled on all the rights of 
 those that loved her and insisted that they love her 
 still ? . . . What was she saying now ? 
 
 "And so the first and most obvious way seemed to be 
 my duty to you; but if you cast me off, I must find an- 
 other, I suppose." 
 
 He foresaw many dangers, and said quietly: "One 
 need not be in too much haste about doing. One 
 might look on and learn for a few years, I fancy, and 
 take it all in or as much as one could." 
 
 "And forget one's self," she concluded, wondering 
 how Andrew had reached the same conclusion that 
 Haldane had found by desperate experience, that life 
 must be lost to be saved. No, not lost that was only 
 half the truth. It must lose its independence, nothing 
 more must be grafted into the life of the whole. Did 
 many people did all people, perhaps come to the
 
 Folly 
 
 same knowledge in the end by different paths of ex- 
 perience ? 
 
 "Andrew," she said, holding out both hands to him, 
 "if you could forgive me ..." 
 
 He did not respond to her gesture or words, further 
 than by an impatient shake of the head, which seemed 
 to mean that his only desire was to be rid of the subject 
 forever. 
 
 "I can never make it good" she came a little 
 nearer. 
 
 "Can anybody ever make anything good?" he an- 
 swered, and allowed himself to take her pleading 
 hands. "To be practical now, what do you propose to 
 do? Stay on here?" 
 
 "No, I am going up to "London. It will be better 
 at least, easier there to watch and work and perhaps 
 grow wise." 
 
 "My poor girl" he drew her head down to his 
 shoulder and held it there; but did not kiss or attempt 
 further caress "you have been through the fire." 
 
 "And you, and you," she whispered quickly. "I 
 can see now where I was blind before. And there will 
 always be one bond between us, if nothing else ..." 
 
 "If nothing else," he assented. "But you will not 
 shut me out, if you want help at any time?" 
 
 "You have said that so many times before," she 
 said, seemingly content, to his surprise, that her head 
 should lie against his shoulder. "I will remember. 
 But oh, if I had only been somebody else . . . some- 
 
 315
 
 Folly 
 
 body wise not Folly Folly. Good-bye. I shall see 
 you now and then, of course. Perhaps some day you'll 
 tell me that you can forgive me." 
 
 She snatched up her hat and was gone before he 
 could say more; and upon second thoughts, he decided 
 that they should part thus. 
 
 "Is the mater right, I wonder?" he asked himself. 
 "If I took her back now, would it be the same old life? 
 But what in the name of heaven could work the wonder 
 so that she should ever be different?" 
 
 He hid his face with a sudden groan: "O Folly! 
 Folly!"
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 BEWILDERMENT. 
 
 THE Gregory- Patrick wedding came as a great 
 surprise, because it was over before most people 
 realized that an engagement was imminent. 
 
 "You see," exclaimed the bride, when people came 
 to call at the barn-like house in Queen Anne Street, 
 already beginning to assume an air of comfort, if not 
 of frivolity, "the doctor was too busy and I was too 
 old, besides having foolish scruples as a widow. So we 
 gathered up our courage one day, and got it over with- 
 out any fuss; and went to Paris for a fortnight. Oh, 
 no, it's not romantic; but I've been buying some old 
 Japanese prints to-day. Come and tell me whether 
 I've been badly done. " 
 
 There was a little gossip, of course, far more, how- 
 ever, than about the mysterious flight of Mrs. Christie 
 to Spain, and the extraordinary death of the poet Gore, 
 which were not by most people connected; but the 
 world soon settled down to its usual chit-chat, and 
 Mabel was left to her house-furnishing in peace. 
 
 On a day towards the end of July, she looked up 
 from her book with a cry of delight as Folly came in.
 
 Folly 
 
 "My letter is scarcely posted," said she, "demand- 
 ing your attendance upon my new dignity. It was 
 good of me to write, too, when you haven't answered 
 the other in which I told you of our elopement." 
 
 "I was glad for you you must have known," said 
 Folly, "but you didn't say when you would come back, 
 and I supposed . . . Then, too, I have been alone for 
 several weeks by the sea. ..." 
 
 "I know" Mabel folded her close. "Poor dear!" 
 
 But Folly pushed her aside with a slight laugh: 
 "So now you're settled for fifty years. How you will 
 transform that man! Your house begins to look 
 charming already." 
 
 Mabel was relieved to find that Folly could allude 
 to Gregory without embarrassment; but she wondered 
 whether she would ever be able to bring them together. 
 
 "Is Andrew with you?" she asked. 
 
 "No, he's at Sunlands at least, well, he intended to 
 go abroad at the end of the month; I don't know 
 whether he has actually gone." 
 
 "And how is materkin?" 
 
 "Blooming, of course; but she pretended to shed a 
 tear when I came away." 
 
 "And are you in Sloane Street?" 
 
 "Not I. It wasn't worth while to take the covers off 
 the chairs. I told Andrew he'd better let the place on 
 a seven years' lease, if he could." 
 
 "Seven!" repeated Mabel aghast. 
 
 " Yes. We've no earthly use for it."
 
 Folly 
 
 "And Sunlands?" asked Mabel, trying to take the 
 bull by the horns. 
 
 "Oh, he would never let that go," answered Folly 
 lightly. "He'd let moth and rust corrupt it first; but 
 I don't think they're likely to get in, or thieves either, 
 under Mrs. Brent's rule. You have got ' Monna Lisa,' 
 I see. Did it ever strike you, Mab, that there's a re- 
 semblance between that lady and myself?" 
 
 "Heavens, no!" cried Mabel. "No more than be- 
 tween you and me. She was diplomatic, and she took 
 life easily, while you why, my dear you have been 
 knocking your head against stone walls all your days. 
 Fancy that placid lady thinking it worth while to 
 resist what is!" 
 
 "Well, I'm learning a little, perhaps, in the painful 
 process," answered Folly, smiling. "But that isn't 
 all. . . ." 
 
 "Why have you come to town?" was the brusque 
 question. 
 
 "I'm looking for work." 
 
 Mabel repeated the words to herself, and considered 
 them in silence, before she ventured to ask timidly: 
 "Work, did you say?" 
 
 "Yes, work," answered Folly, still standing before 
 "La Giaconda." "It's supposed to be a remedy 
 for too much soul, isn't it ? Monna Lisa suffered from 
 that malady, I know; that's where I fancied the re- 
 semblance. She ought to have been made to do manual 
 labour." 
 
 319
 
 Folly 
 
 "Are you going to turn charwoman?" inquired 
 Mabel. 
 
 "That's a possibility I had not considered. I've 
 thought of almost everything else." 
 
 "But surely you have money enough " began 
 Mrs. Gregory. 
 
 "Heaps. Too much. I shall not work for money." 
 
 "What for, then?" 
 
 Folly hesitated a while before she answered: "Shall 
 we say, to soil my hands? They have been clean all 
 my life." 
 
 "Oh, no, I deny it," said Mabel, with energy. "I 
 can still hear an old refrain from Paris : ' Pass the tur- 
 pentine, will you?' " 
 
 "Well, anyway, that shows I tried to keep them 
 clean, even in those days; now I want to make them 
 dirty." 
 
 " Do you see any particular merit in such a perform- 
 ance?" asked Mabel, with gentle irony. 
 
 "The merit of change, at least." Folly's tone had 
 become somewhat sharp, and Mabel did not press the 
 matter. 
 
 "Am I to understand that you mean to take up 
 portrait-painting in good earnest?" 
 
 "Far from it; nor any form of art wood-carv- 
 ing, leather-work, china-painting or paper flowers. 
 No, the back of my small talent was broken long ago; 
 and I don't care to play the fool among admiring 
 friends." 
 
 320
 
 Folly 
 
 "There I think you're wrong," protested Mabel. 
 "I don't mean about the profession, of course. I de- 
 cided to drop mine when I married. I shall have quite 
 enough to do as a professional wife. But I don't see 
 any reason why you shouldn't go in for some of the 
 useful arts." 
 
 "Don't you?" said Folly. "I see two. One is, I 
 haven't got the workman's hand; and the other is, 
 they are ornamental, and what should I ornament? 
 And without talent or object, I fail to see the good. 
 Besides, why on earth should I?" 
 
 Mabel felt that her answer was lame : " It would give 
 you an occupation and another interest in life, and you 
 might develop an unsuspected talent. ..." 
 
 Folly shook her head: "It would never do, Mab. 
 Suppose I did develop a talent which is unlikely 
 enough what should I do with the things when I had 
 made them ? Give them away ? Sell them and pass the 
 money on to charity ? I don't want to be another ama- 
 teur to burden the earth." 
 
 Mabel yielded the point: "Well, what do you mean 
 to do?" 
 
 "What do people usually do in my case?" 
 
 "Not the stage?" there was a certain fear in Ma- 
 bel's eyes. 
 
 "No, dear, although I shouldn't wonder if I could 
 make a success in high tragedy. But I have too much 
 respect for the drama." 
 
 "I hope you won't try to write a book," said 
 
 21 321
 
 Folly 
 
 Mabel, with the air of one martyred by experi- 
 ence. 
 
 " I had not thought of that. But I should have noth- 
 ing to write about but my own story. What remains, 
 Mab?" 
 
 "Good works." 
 
 " Just so ; but there are so many branches in this pro- 
 fession that I'm bewildered. I've considered most of 
 them, I believe: ordinary church work; missions, for- 
 eign and domestic ; slumming, with or without a curate ; 
 settlements, and district-visits, and model dwellings 
 and so on. I suppose they are all excellent in their 
 way; but they don't seem to fit into my disposition." 
 
 "I can't see you as a missionary," confessed Mabel, 
 "preaching to natives grouped against a background 
 of banana-trees, and telling them that they ought to 
 wear clothes." 
 
 "And I can't embroider altar-cloths; and I think 
 district- visiting is impertinent; and at a settlement I 
 should want to talk heresy, anarchy and atheism all the 
 time; and my model-dwellings would be the worst of 
 the lot so there I am!" 
 
 "Yes the old Folly still," said Mabel, rejoicing in 
 the fact. 
 
 But the Folly before her looked at her with grave 
 eyes and mouth, and ignored her exclamation. "Do 
 you think I should do for a nurse?" 
 
 "By no means," was the prompt answer. 
 
 "So I thought," said Folly. "I might stand the 
 322
 
 Folly 
 
 scrubbing and the polishing and all that; but I should 
 not like the discipline. ..." 
 
 "Don't think of it for a moment," said Mabel. 
 "You would have all the nurses on their ears in a 
 week; and the staff would resign in a body." 
 
 "Well, then," said Folly, "I'm in a hole, for I can't 
 find anything to do." 
 
 Mabel looked anxious. "There's one thing ..." 
 
 "Now you are going to begin about Andrew," Folly 
 forestalled her, "and I may as well tell you that we 
 have agreed not to make it up." 
 
 "Did he agree?" cried Mabel astonished. 
 
 "My dear Mab, it was his own idea. Of course, I 
 have treated him ..." 
 
 "Yes," answered Mabel. "I really think you 
 have." 
 
 " I was always a selfish ..." 
 
 "Yes," said Mabel again. "You were almost." 
 
 "However, the only amends I could make was to go 
 back. I offered that, and he refused; so there's an end 
 of it." 
 
 "But some day ?" 
 
 "No day." 
 
 "I see his point of view," mused Mabel. "It's 
 natural; but I did not expect it of him. He was always 
 too fond of you, Folly. But really, you cannot blame 
 him now, if after all that has happened ..." 
 
 "I don't blame him," said Folly. "Far from it." 
 
 "Can you not humble yourself?" 
 323
 
 Folly 
 
 "I did; but it made no difference. He thought it 
 would not do; and I daresay he was right." 
 
 "You do not want to go back?" asked Mabel, taking 
 her hand. 
 
 "There's a thing we have not spoken of," said Folly 
 quietly. "I thought I could not live through it; but I 
 have borne it, as people do bear things. And I can 
 go on and laugh when I should, and do what I ought 
 to do, I hope; but as for wanting this or that, I 
 want nothing but the balance, the peace that gives 
 
 life a meaning I was thinking of Andrew, 
 
 of course." 
 
 "Ah!" a light broke over Mabel's face "now I 
 understand his point of view." 
 
 "But you see that it is out of the question?" 
 
 "Stranger things have happened in this illogical 
 old world." 
 
 "I must go," said Folly. 
 
 And Mabel: "Where are you stopping?" 
 
 "I have taken rooms for the present in Mecklen- 
 burg Street. Yes, it's a queer little corner. I found it 
 myself, and it's near the slums." 
 
 "But you should be here," cried Mrs. Gregory, dis- 
 tressed. 
 
 "You would clip my freedom? No, but I'll come in 
 to dinner whenever you say, and congratulate your 
 doctor on his luck." 
 
 "And your case?" 
 
 324
 
 Folly 
 
 "Oh, it can wait. We'll talk of it again. I am 
 watching, just watching the whirl of life as it goes on 
 about me; and being quiet, I think I am learning a 
 little. Perhaps one day I shall be wise." 
 
 325
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 CORAM 
 
 SHE would not be persuaded to stop longer on that 
 day, although she promised to return soon. On the 
 doorstep she lingered with Mabel while the man whis- 
 tled several times for a cab. 
 
 Then she grew restless: "I shall find one in the 
 Square," she said, and fled before she could be 
 stopped. 
 
 She liked the spray-like rain that blew against her 
 hot face; and was rather glad when she found the 
 Square deserted alike of cabs and of the loungers who 
 scrape a living by calling them. On a sudden impulse, 
 she turned from the roar of Oxford Street and walked 
 homeward along the quiet ways. 
 
 She was a stranger among the back streets that lead 
 tortuously and with many breaks from Regent Street 
 to Tottenham Court Road ; but she had a wish to feel 
 the hum of the poverty-stricken life that lives out its 
 years there. As she got into the thick of it, she was 
 dazed and frightened rather than interested; jostled 
 along between the fried-fish shops and the vegetable- 
 stalls in the roadway; jumped upon by loathsome curs; 
 
 326
 
 Polly 
 
 stared at by red-faced women and impudent men- 
 pigmies who roared with laughter as soon as she had 
 passed; her ears teased by a barrel-organ, near which 
 four dirty little girls were dancing ballet-steps in the 
 rain. It seemed to her a world of low black houses, 
 rank and stuffy ; of sweet-shops that made one feel sick; 
 of pink posters glaring out sporting news; of children 
 eating bread and sardines on doorsteps; of pawn- 
 brokers and public-houses; of pavements set out with 
 pink flannelette at a penny three-farthings the yard; 
 of second-hand boots and battered furniture; of scabby 
 cats prowling in the paper-littered mud; of drunken 
 shouts and tears and filth, that made her shrink with 
 utter repugnance. 
 
 "I could never see them as he saw them," she 
 thought, "not if I live to be as old as old. I could 
 never work in the slums." 
 
 Several times she lost her way and had to appeal to a 
 policeman, before, at lamp-lighting tune, she came out 
 among the quiet houses of Russell Square. 
 
 As she walked along Guildford Street, dark and al- 
 most deserted, she was beset by a sense of escape from 
 horrors of which she had never dreamed in her turbu- 
 lent selfish early days; and by a certain humiliation in 
 perceiving that from this part of the world's need she 
 was excluded by the limitations of her own nature. He 
 had learned to love such people, he had felt their com- 
 mon humanity with himself; he might have served 
 
 them if he had lived. But how was she to serve who 
 
 327
 
 Polly 
 
 felt only loathing for their disease? She saw herself, 
 for the first time, as infinitesimally small and feeble 
 in her endeavour to cope with the grinding forces of the 
 world. She reasoned that she must be crushed, one 
 way or another, in the hurly-burly; but yet she wanted 
 to try. Perhaps some little thing she might do, some- 
 thing that was wholly right, that would make use of all 
 the powers of her heart and soul. . . . But to find it ? 
 
 By this time she had reached the Coram Hospital, 
 homely and comfortably lighted behind its forecourt 
 of lawn and great trees, and at the gate, scarcely know- 
 ing why, she paused under a lamp to read the regula- 
 tions for admission of foundlings. 
 
 "And what would a poor desperate woman do, who 
 came in the old way to lay her baby on the doorstep of 
 charity?" she asked herself. "And how is it with the 
 unwelcome children who cannot enter for the red 
 tape . . . ?" 
 
 She did not finish her question, for at her feet, half 
 shadowed by the wall, sat a little girl, perhaps three or 
 four years old, drooping heavily with sleep. 
 
 Forgetting her umbrella, the rain, her skirts, Folly 
 stooped on the wet stones and tried to rouse the small 
 vagrant. It was no easy task to get her to her feet ; and 
 when at last she stood, with one hand on the wall for 
 support, and the other rubbing her eyes, Folly's heart 
 was sick with pity and disgust. 
 
 It was not merely that she was so dirty, that one 
 stocking hung about her ankle, and the other through 
 
 338
 
 Folly 
 
 a great hole showed a bruised and muddy knee, that 
 her clothes had been cut down from those of an older 
 child, that her hair was a hopeless mop, and her face 
 streaked with rain or tears; it was the evidence of 
 needless hopeless disease in her bleared eyes and 
 scabbed skin, that made Folly's heart beat hot with 
 rebellion. 
 
 "What are you doing here?" she asked sharply. 
 
 The child did not seem frightened, "Waitin' for 
 muvver," she droned. 
 
 "Where is your mother?" 
 
 A jerk of the head was the only answer. 
 
 "Can you take me to her?" 
 
 After a time came a mumbled: "She'd give it ter 
 me" she lapsed into drowsiness. 
 
 Folly shook her. " Tell me, child. Can you take me 
 to your home?" 
 
 There was no answer; slumber had prevailed again 
 over the little body even as it leaned against the wall. 
 
 Folly continued to hold her by one arm, and looked 
 round for help, wondering what she should do. No 
 one had passed by, and for the moment the street was 
 empty of cabs and vehicles. Some distance away, 
 toward the Gray's Inn Road, the light of a street-lamp 
 fell upon the glazed mackintosh of a policeman. See- 
 ing this, Folly hesitated no longer, but lifted the child, 
 light enough even in her wet ungainly clothes, and 
 carried her eastward. 
 
 The policeman stared for a moment at the well- 
 329
 
 Folly 
 
 dressed lady, unprotected in the rain, trailing her long 
 skirt over the muddy pavement, and holding in her 
 arms a pauper child. Then he grasped the situation. 
 
 "Hullo," said he, "here's Phyllis Eugenia again." 
 
 "You know her?" breathed Folly with relief. 
 
 "She's on my beat, marm. I'll take charge of the 
 kid and blow 'er old woman up she's Soppy Sade, 
 that's who she is. Not all there, you know. It's a pity 
 you've gone and got yourself muddy now; they ain't 
 worth troubling about them two." 
 
 "Where is her mother?" Folly would know. 
 
 "At the 'Rising Sun,' I'll bet a tanner. She don't 
 bother to take the kid in out of the rain. I'll go now 
 and tell her to look sharp or she'll get run in by the 
 N. S. P. C. C." 
 
 "What's that?" asked Folly. 
 
 The constable was amused. "To think now of your 
 not knowing that, marm! It's a society to keep parents 
 from murdering their young 'uns. Give 'er to me" 
 for she still held Phyllis Eugenia "she'll be getting too 
 heavy for you." 
 
 He tried, not roughly, to wake the child; but failing, 
 and perceiving that when he stood her on the pave- 
 ment she was like to topple over, he took her in his 
 arms, and with a nod to Folly was about to move away. 
 
 "Wait," she said. "Do you think I might go with 
 you? I want to see Soppy Sade." 
 
 The constable considered, then shook his head. 
 "She's not for the likes of you to be wasting your time 
 
 330
 
 Folly 
 
 on, marm. If you give 'er a bob, she'll drink it up in a 
 mornin'. Most likely she was havin' a tea-party last 
 night on 'arf-an'-'arf, or what ye like; and kept this 
 youngster awake so that she carn't 'old 'er 'ead up. 
 She's a bad lot Sade. Lives in a room over a mews 
 in Sapphire Street, and picks up a livin' anyhow. 
 She's been warned times enough; she'll get to prison 
 again she's done time before and the kid '11 end in 
 the work'us. It won't do no good your seein' 'er, 
 marm. She's like all the rest of 'em; and when she's 
 drunk, she uses language." 
 
 Folly scarcely heard him, so absorbed was she in a 
 new idea which had seized upon her with a rush and 
 crowded out every other thought. 
 
 "All right," she said hurriedly, "never mind." She 
 felt in her purse for some silver. "Thank you very 
 much. And look here, you'll be keeping an eye on 
 Phyllis Eugenia, won't you? Well, if it ever comes to 
 a question of the workhouse, let me know. Here's my 
 address. I shall be grateful." 
 
 "Much obliged to you, marm," said he. "It's no 
 manner of good trying to do nothin' for the old woman, 
 but the young 'un ..." 
 
 She turned away from him into the darkness, hailed 
 a cab and in ten minutes was again on Gregory's 
 doorstep. 
 
 She found Mabel alone in the drawing-room, and 
 went to stand before her on the rug. 
 
 "No, I won't sit down. Yes, I know I'm muddy,
 
 Folly 
 
 and I've left my umbrella at the Foundlings' Home; 
 but I had to come back at once to tell you that I think 
 I've got the way. ..." 
 
 "Yes, yes?" said Mab eagerly. 
 
 "Where's your husband?" 
 
 " Called out just after dinner provoking! Tell me." 
 
 "It's the tale of Phyllis Eugenia," said Folly, and 
 told it, not without a suspicion of tears. 
 
 "And what do you propose to do?" 
 
 " Do ? Get a houseful of them, and look after them 
 myself." 
 
 "With histories like that?" Mabel was horrified. 
 
 "You don't know the whole of it; her future would 
 lie, partly at least, in my hands. I would give them all 
 a chance." 
 
 "Would you go about the streets picking them up?" 
 asked Mabel. 
 
 "Why, I might; but I can think of a better way 
 your husband. Through his hospital see? Cases 
 not bad enough to take in; too bad to turn away. I 
 should get a home in the country, and have six or eight 
 at a time, and make them well and happy and love 
 them. ..." 
 
 "And bring them up?" asked Mabel. 
 
 "Who knows? I might become a Captain Coram 
 in time." 
 
 "It's worth trying," said Mabel. "Oh, yes," she 
 reflected upon certain passages in Folly's history 
 "it's certainly worth trying." 
 
 332
 
 Felly 
 
 "Now where shall I find my house?" Folly's mind 
 was already leaping forward to practical details. 
 
 "There's my old place, Low Eaves," suggested 
 Mabel. "The model-farm wouldn't interfere; and 
 since I've built the new house, I'm wanting a tenant 
 for the other. Would you like to try? References 
 exchanged, of course. Ah, there's Greg" as the door 
 opened. 
 
 She had an anxious moment as her husband and Mrs. 
 Christie shook hands. But Folly was earnest and 
 seemingly unembarrassed, and plunged at once into 
 the history of her new plan. 
 
 He listened smiling, suggesting here and there, until 
 at last she grew suddenly timid, and asked: "Do you 
 think it might possibly work?" 
 
 "I hope so," said he, but reserved his opinion. 
 
 333
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 LOW EAVES. 
 
 WITHIN a fortnight, Folly was mistress of Low 
 Eaves, on the slope of a hill that looks across Surrey 
 toward Sunlands less than thirty miles away. It 
 pleased her, she could not tell why, to fancy a certain 
 resemblance between the two houses. Both were old 
 and low, with their bareness made beautiful by flower- 
 ing climbers, clematis, wistaria, honeysuckle, jasmine, 
 crimson rambler and ivy; both faced the broad plain 
 over which sweep the sea- winds from the South Downs 
 to the North; and both were sheltered above by great 
 woods only at Low Eaves, instead of fir, grows beech. 
 
 Surely, Folly thought, as she stood in her own porch 
 and let the breeze lift her hair, here on the heights, 
 looking down upon the sunny fields, she might find 
 peace of heart. 
 
 She rejoiced that there was much work to do. Her 
 brisk little pony-cart, one of her first purchases, was 
 kept busy rattling from painter to paper-hanger, and 
 from plumber to odd-job man. There followed trips 
 up to town, and shopping with Mabel, and despatch- 
 ing of household goods. She planned night and day. 
 
 334
 
 Folly 
 
 "As long as she has so much to do " began 
 
 Mabel, encouraged. 
 
 Gregory shook his head. "We shall see. But it's a 
 sound idea." 
 
 When the furniture arrived, Folly was in such haste 
 to send word to Gregory that she was ready for the first 
 patient, that she rolled up her sleeves and put herself 
 sadly in the way of the two women she had engaged to 
 do the housekeeping. 
 
 But she proved not altogether useless. Her quick 
 brain devised ways and means where the workmen had 
 been at fault and the other women could only stand by 
 and lament. She had a sense of pleased discovery upon 
 finding herself deft with her fingers and fertile of expe- 
 dients. 
 
 There was little about the practical ordering of a 
 house that she did not attempt within the first week; 
 and she learned much, from the hammering of nails to 
 the management of smoky fireplaces. She was not 
 content to plan the garden merely; she took a turn at 
 the digging, while the gardener was having his noon- 
 tide nap, and went indoors with blistered hands, and a 
 fine high colour. She attempted cooking, and showed 
 delicate perceptions in the way of sauces and season- 
 ings, and a light touch for pastry. She studied a treatise 
 on Dorking fowls; and only when her repeated efforts 
 at milking produced nothing but bovine bad temper, 
 did she reluctantly relinquish this duty to the boy. 
 
 On the great day when the first patient was ex- 
 335
 
 Folly 
 
 pected, she put on the uniform that she had devised as 
 suitable, and after a long struggle with file and pumice 
 to remove the stains of the soil from her hands, she took 
 a last survey of the home that she could honestly say 
 she had made for herself, in this new ordering of her 
 life. 
 
 It would have been strange if she had not paused a 
 moment in the lower hall to survey in the glass her tall 
 figure in gray-blue linen, with broad white collar and 
 cuffs, her fair head smooth and demure, and the quiet 
 eyes, now more blue than gray, that met hers serenely. 
 "It can't be Folly," she said to her image. " It must be 
 somebody else." 
 
 She could not restrain a glow of satisfaction as she 
 went over the house, different as it was from her old 
 ideal of a dwelling-place. Sunlands was the home of 
 fine traditions, full of the memories of lives well lived; 
 this was nothing more than a haven for unhappy little 
 ones with no past, and no future but that which she 
 might be able to give them. 
 
 Upstairs were the two big nurseries: the day-room, 
 with its cupboards full of treasures, its books and pic- 
 tures and flowers; the dormitory, as complete as a hos- 
 pital ward, with every contrivance to lend comfort and 
 ease pain. 
 
 In these two rooms, Folly had a secret joy that she 
 shared with no one else, for here alone it was that she 
 was spending and intended to spend the small income 
 of Haldane's hard-earned money. Not a penny, she 
 
 336
 
 Folly 
 
 vowed, should go for other purpose than to sweeten 
 childhood. Some day, she thought, when she could 
 bear to talk again, she would tell her little ones how 
 this joy and that, and all joys, came to them from 
 "Uncle Hal." Such fame he would have loved. But 
 the time for that was not yet. 
 
 Aside from the nurseries, were several small bed- 
 rooms for poor guests, two or three, who might have 
 outgrown babyhood. 
 
 Downstairs was the dining-room, which could also 
 be used as a school- room, if need arose of teaching; as 
 were the kitchen and scullery, together with perfectly 
 appointed store-rooms, where anything not perishable 
 could be had for the asking; and in one of these was a 
 small dispensary. 
 
 One sitting-room Folly reserved for herself; and this 
 was furnished in a way curiously in contrast with every- 
 thing that she had known and loved before. It was 
 bare, but not cold, done with soft greens for summer; 
 and there were golden-toned curtains, now put aside, 
 to be brought in for winter. The furniture obtruded 
 itself only as intended to rest weary bodies; and the 
 few pictures were all of a spiritual significance, such as: 
 Walther Firle's "Lord's Prayer" with its humble 
 "Give us this day our daily bread," its piteous "For- 
 give us our trespasses," and its patient "Thy will be 
 done"; Andrea del Sarto's "St. James," with little 
 children clinging to his robe; Carpaccio's " St. George," 
 in headlong tilt at the dragon of evil; Anton Mauve's 
 ?3 337
 
 Folly 
 
 "Hauling of the Log," with its suggestion of reposeful 
 labour. And there were no books except a little heap 
 on Folly's writing-table, such as: "Practical Hints to 
 Nurses," "The Mother's Guide," "Childhood's Ac- 
 cidents," "Simple Remedies," "Lectures on Sanita- 
 tion," "The Successful Gardener," "Cooking for Con- 
 valescents," "Gymnastics in the Home," etc., besides 
 a sheaf of journals and pamphlets. 
 
 Content as she was with her nest, Folly was happier 
 outdoors in the garden, now wild and overgrown, but to 
 be reclaimed next year and crowded with sweetness; 
 and in the big orchard, hedged in with quick and privet 
 and holly and wild sloe, where hammocks could be 
 swung between the apple-trees. 
 
 She wandered out upon the breezy hillside, not 
 thinking much, except to wonder now and then whether 
 she had prepared every possible thing for the comfort 
 of her little guests, but for the most part content to 
 drink in the quiet of the summer afternoon; and to 
 link together chains of moon-daisies for some child that 
 had perhaps never seen such a thing. 
 
 It was only when she stood at the edge of the beech- 
 wood, looking toward Sunlands, that her mind roved 
 back to the remembrance of her own history. For the 
 first time, she fancied she could see it as one per- 
 fectly detached. What a troublous and troublesome 
 woman she had been, always gambling for happiness 
 and losing at every throw! But she had learned that it 
 came not in the taking, or even in the giving, of love 
 
 338
 
 Polly 
 
 alone; and whether it came in the path of the selfless 
 love that lives only to serve that she would soon know. 
 It seemed to her now that she had always been strug- 
 gling against the inevitable, against death, and against 
 spiritual forces more terrible than death, the indissol- 
 uble union of spirit to flesh, the indissoluble barriers 
 between spirit and spirit. . . . Never once had she 
 won. The great mysteries were still the great 
 mysteries. But somehow she had come out into the 
 clear sunny air above, with nothing to think, or to do, 
 but to make well and happy a few sick children, to 
 lighten, even if imperceptibly, the turbid misery of this 
 world. 
 
 Toward sunset, she went down to the gate, in mo- 
 mentary expectation of the pony-trap. There as she 
 waited, she fell into a sadder mood, being, no doubt, 
 over- tired; and she wondered whether she would ever 
 be able to persist, to hold out fighting, to make a suc- 
 cess of this she who had so often failed before. 
 
 But she forgot everything at the first glimpse of a 
 gray-cloaked nurse, and ran out into the grassy road 
 to meet the slow vehicle. 
 
 "What have you brought me?" she cried, eager as 
 a child for a birthday present. 
 
 The nurse opened her gray cloak, and showed a 
 baby, as little and frail as Folly had not dreamed a 
 baby could be. 
 
 "It lias been fed on peppermint- water," said the 
 nurse. 
 
 339
 
 Folly 
 
 And Folly, dropping her daisy-chain upon the 
 ground, clasped the little bunch of bones to her heart, 
 feeling that the new peace was ID very deed descending 
 upon her. 
 
 340
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 MOTHER AND SON. 
 
 "WELL, Andrew, well?" Mrs. Christie sometimes 
 affected a little brusqueness of surprise to mask her 
 exceeding joy when her son unexpectedly arrived on a 
 visit at Westmouth. 
 
 "Well, mater? You look as fresh as your snowdrops 
 this spring." 
 
 "No, I'm like those ugly everlasting flowers; I never 
 fade," she returned, with her face crinkling into many 
 smiles. "How's Sunlands?" 
 
 "Mortal empty." 
 
 "And mortal dull?" 
 
 "Dull enough." 
 
 "Is that why you went to the far steppes and the 
 Balkans and all those other outlandish places that no- 
 body ever heard of?" 
 
 "I daresay. They were tolerably dull too." 
 
 "No doubt. I'm afraid it's yourself that's dull. 
 How long is it now since Folly left you to your own 
 devices?" 
 
 "It's nearly a year, mater." 
 
 "And you don't like it?" 
 341
 
 Folly 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 "Then it's high time for you to look her up and fetch 
 her back. " 
 
 He shook his head in a decided negation. 
 
 "I might die any day, you know." 
 
 " Oh, no, you won't, mater. You'll outlive me yet." 
 
 "I hope not," said she, with sudden seriousness. 
 "I've outlived so many." A tear twinkled a moment 
 in the corner of an eye; but she whisked it away before 
 he saw it. 
 
 "It's your only solution, boy," she continued. 
 
 He looked at her with grim incredulity. "Bless you, 
 mater, she doesn't want to come." 
 
 "When have you asked her?" 
 
 "You know very well last June here." 
 
 " I thought so. Did you ever know Folly to be of one 
 mind for a year together?" 
 
 He hesitated a moment, then came out with his 
 thought. "Yes, she's been remarkably consistent for 
 three or four years in her opinion of me." 
 
 " Just about time, then," she observed imperturbably, 
 "for her to change again. She liked you at first." 
 
 "Did she? "he asked. "Huh!" 
 
 "I'm not sure," she continued, as if musing aloud, 
 "that you didn't make a mistake in sending her away 
 last spring." 
 
 "My dear mater, she pitied me!" 
 
 "My dear Andrew, pity is not altogether such a bad 
 thing to have." 
 
 342
 
 Folly 
 
 "Well" for a moment he seemed at a loss, then 
 asked: "Did anyone ever offer you a stone when you 
 were hungry?" 
 
 "I don't call pity a stone; it's more like the flour 
 that makes up into the bread of love." 
 
 He considered this. "Not some kinds of pity. It 
 may be very starchy dutiful pity hers was but not 
 nourishing. Shall we talk of something else?" 
 
 "So you won't go and look her up?" 
 
 " No, I don't think it would be of any use." 
 
 "Do you know where she is now?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "But you could find out?" 
 
 "I daresay Mrs. Gregory knows; and, of course, 
 you do." 
 
 "Why not ?" 
 
 "I tell you it's no use, mater. She's happier without 
 me." 
 
 "You speak with amazing assurance, considering 
 the fact that you haven't seen her for a year." 
 
 "I judge the future by the past," said he. 
 
 "Which is an extremely foolish thing to do. You 
 never know what good man is going to break out and 
 commit a murder, or what sinner is going to reform." 
 
 "Has she reformed?" he asked, taking the sense of 
 her words. 
 
 Her eyes twinkled, but she said nothing. 
 
 "Have you seen her lately?" 
 
 "About a fortnight ago." 
 343
 
 Folly 
 
 "Where was she then?" 
 
 "Ah ah!" she jeered at him. 
 
 He flushed. "Well, it's only natural ..." 
 
 "To be sure. You wouldn't trouble to look her up; 
 but when the information knocks at your door, you 
 open in a hurry." 
 
 "Have your laugh," said he, patiently. 
 
 "So I shall. But I shall not tell you, all the same." 
 
 "Well, it wouldn't make any difference anyway. 
 But why not?" 
 
 " Because I don't think it would be good for you to 
 know. You might do damage." 
 
 "What damage?" he asked, staring. 
 
 "Oh, flower-beds and window-panes and the like 
 you're only a boy, after all." 
 
 "I hope you don't think I should go to see her," he 
 hastened to reply. 
 
 "My dear boy, knowing how you dislike the woman, 
 I should never dream of such a thing!" 
 
 He perceived that there was mischief somewhere; 
 but her eyes were demure, though her underlip trem- 
 bled slightly. 
 
 "My dear mater, you're too many for me," he con- 
 fessed. "What are you getting at?" 
 
 "The good of your soul, my friend," she retorted 
 unexpectedly. 
 
 "And what do you think would be good for my 
 soul?" 
 
 "I think it would be good for your soul," she re- 
 344
 
 Folly 
 
 peated gravely, with another sudden quirk, "to give an 
 account of yourself for the past six months." 
 
 He moved about the room, restlessly fingering her 
 books and papers, and the ornaments on the mantel- 
 piece, and needlessly poking at the fire. 
 
 "I sailed from Brindisi" he began, and ended 
 with an abrupt "Bosh!" 
 
 "Dear me!" she exclaimed, with affected surprise. 
 "And then ?" 
 
 "We landed " said he, and again came to an 
 
 untimely end. 
 
 "How interesting!" says she. "You landed yes? 
 And walked ashore, no doubt? And met custom- 
 house officials ? And in time returned home ? Ah, yes, 
 there's nothing like travel for improving the mind." 
 
 "Mater," he pleaded, "there's a time for teas- 
 ing . . . 
 
 "Boy," she answered, with equal solemnity, "I'm 
 sure that's not in Ecclesiastes." 
 
 But she could not stem the tide of his question: 
 "You might just tell me how she is?" 
 
 She deliberately removed her glasses and began tap- 
 ping them against the palm of her hand. "She's very 
 busy with her family." 
 
 He wheeled upon her and stared. "Her family?" 
 
 She smiled and nodded. 
 
 "What family?" 
 
 She looked at him reproachfully, as if he ought to 
 have known all about it; and his bewilderment in- 
 
 345
 
 Folly 
 
 creased. "You mean cousins and aunts and that sort 
 of thing?" 
 
 "No, I mean her children," she answered serenely. 
 
 He stood before her with his hands in his pockets and 
 studied her face anxiously. "Mater, have you been 
 quite well lately?" 
 
 "Yes, thank you, boy; and I'll trouble you not to 
 cast doubt upon my sanity. I know what I'm talking 
 about better than you do," she answered, with all the 
 briskness in the world. 
 
 "That is certain; I should like information," he 
 answered meekly. 
 
 "Well, the next time she comes here and she's a 
 good girl about keeping up with me I'll see if I can 
 get her to invite you down. ..." 
 
 " But where ? I wish you wouldn't be so mysterious, 
 mater." 
 
 "Why, boy, mystery is the spice of life to me," she 
 retorted. 
 
 "You forget that it may be a little peppery to me," 
 said her son. 
 
 "Ah, well, perhaps your soul may be needing pepper 
 just now." 
 
 He shrugged as one who should say: "What can be 
 done with a woman like this?" 
 
 She pulled him up sharply: "Come, now, shall I 
 invite you both here at the same time?" 
 
 "No, thanks," said he quietly. 
 
 "You refuse to see her then?" 
 346
 
 Folly 
 
 "I think it's better ..." 
 
 "But you don't know what may have happened 
 during the year. I never told you." 
 
 "Something seems to have happened; but hardly 
 the thing that alone would justify our making it up." 
 
 "Then you won't go and fall on your knees to her?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "And you won't let her come and fall on her knees 
 to you?" 
 
 "Least of all even if she would. Mater, can't you 
 allow a fellow a decent pride ? " 
 
 "Pride ruined Lucifer," said she. "And what are 
 you so proud of ? Your obstinacy ? " 
 
 He went to lean over the back of her chair, and took 
 her face in his hands. "Mater, you are commonly a 
 woman of extraordinary perception and judgment and 
 sense; but in this case I think you are singularly lack- 
 ing in all three." 
 
 " Thanks for the compliment," she said. " I suppose, 
 after that, I'd better change the subject. What do you 
 propose to do now?" 
 
 " Go back to Sunlands and improve the estate." 
 
 "But who was talking about dullness?" 
 
 "Will you come and live with me then?" 
 
 She turned away to hide dim eyes. "Thank you, 
 boy; but I came here when your dear father died, and 
 that's nearly forty years ago. I couldn't move back 
 again." 
 
 He understood that, but answered only: "Well, 
 347
 
 Folly 
 
 then, I shall make hard work my companion, and turn 
 model landlord." 
 
 "And keep Folly out of your life altogether?" 
 
 "She keeps herself out," said he, and hastened to 
 add: "She can't help it, of course." 
 
 His mother looked at him, and could find no relent- 
 ing. "I must drop the matter, I see. You'll be going 
 up to town presently?" 
 
 "In a day or two." 
 
 "I thought so. Never two minutes in one place. 
 You ought to be chained to something a pillar, say. 
 Will you take a message from me to Mr. Gregory?" 
 
 "Gregory?" 
 
 "To be sure. When they were here in the winter, 
 he gave me a tonic that lifted twenty years off my shoul- 
 ders in a month. I want to know whether I'm to get 
 more of it, or whether it would take away another 
 twenty years and make me look ridiculous. Or, you 
 might ask him to bring Mabel down some week-end 
 soon. Then he could see for himself. Oh, it's all 
 right, boy. I'm a jolly sight better than you are 
 ... to quote your own slang. And perhaps you'll 
 just convey a letter to Mab at the same time." 
 
 Well, she might have used the post, to be sure; but 
 he assented to her request, without giving it particular 
 consideration. 
 
 "Oh, these young people," she murmured to her- 
 self, as he was leaving the room, "these young people!" 
 
 To her he was still a boy of twenty; and he and Folly 
 348
 
 Folly 
 
 were but foolish children for whose happiness she con- 
 spired with all her heart. 
 
 "Have you said your last word?" she demanded. 
 
 "About what?" he turned. 
 
 "About Folly." 
 
 "That? Oh, yes." 
 
 As soon as he had closed the door, she fell a-laugh- 
 ?ng gaily. 
 
 349
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 THE CONSPIRACY. 
 
 THEY were only three at table the night that Christie 
 dined in Queen Anne Street. Gregory, to be sure, had 
 suggested a fourth; but Mabel shook her head, 
 laughing. 
 
 "No, there's a plot afoot. Materkin is ring- 
 leader, and you and I must play into her hands to- 
 night. Andrew won't make up with Folly, and Folly 
 won't make up with Andrew; so we propose to make 
 them make up, ourselves." 
 
 "Better not meddle," he chilled her. 
 
 "You kill-hope!" 
 
 " But if they don't care for each other, they're better 
 apart." 
 
 " Well, perhaps, if they don't ; but materkin and I are 
 not at all sure that there isn't some meaning behind 
 their violent objections to meeting; and we are sick of 
 their shilly-shallying." 
 
 "But what can you do?" 
 
 "Wait and see. Meanwhile, I'm inviting him to 
 dinner, as I began to tell you." 
 
 So Christie came alone; and notwithstanding 
 350
 
 Folly 
 
 Mabel's best efforts, there was at first a certain awk- 
 wardness in the situation. Indeed, occasionally the 
 two men eyed each other with a kind of grim humour 
 that recognized the fact and made the best of it. 
 
 But it was not until they were having coffee in the 
 library that Gregory, who was on the watch, could 
 detect any trace of diplomacy. 
 
 "You're looking rather seedy, Andrew," she began 
 abruptly. 
 
 "Ah, well, don't forget that I'm a country squire 
 away from his acres." 
 
 "I suppose you've been having so many adventures 
 abroad that England seems slow to you." 
 
 "Rather not," said he, "as I'm going down to Sun- 
 lands in a day or two to settle for good, I hope. I like 
 farming, you know." 
 
 Mabel sent a long reflective look to her husband, 
 before she lisped: "So do I. And you've never yet 
 seen my model-farm at Low Eaves; you ought to go 
 down. I've made a good many improvements lately." 
 
 Gregory stared at his wife; but had the sense not to 
 protest. 
 
 "You don't manage it yourself; that counts for 
 nothing. You're an amateur," said he idly. 
 
 "All the same, it might give you points. It is in 
 good hands. Would you like to go down this week-end ? 
 Greg would take you." 
 
 "Delighted," murmured Gregory. 
 
 "Thanks," began Christie, "I hardly know ..."
 
 Folly 
 
 But she would not let him escape. 
 
 "To-morrow is Friday. What time, Greg ?" 
 
 He shook his head, and she frowned at him. 
 
 "I'm busy/' he began, and concluded with a hasty: 
 "There's the telephone," and retreated, as she frowned 
 again. 
 
 The two left together talked idly; or rather, Mabel 
 chattered with careful aimlessness, while Christie 
 smoked and gave brief replies and stared into the fire. 
 
 Presently she made an excuse for following her hus- 
 band, and found him collecting his instruments, pre- 
 pared to go out. 
 
 "Just a word," said she. "I shall send him to that 
 three-thirty train from Victoria, and tell him to go on 
 even if he doesn't see you at the station, as you're given 
 to clutching the end of a train by the guard's van con- 
 trary to law and reason. And you're to miss the train, 
 understand?" 
 
 "Not difficult," he grunted, "as I'm due at the hos- 
 pital from two to four." 
 
 " Right enough. And I'll telegraph to Folly to send 
 to meet a new patient see? It's great! Meanwhile, 
 I'll go prepare his mind." 
 
 "How about hers?" he asked, drawing on his gloves. 
 
 " Dear man, I've been working on hers for the past 
 six months; if it isn't prepared now, it never will be!" 
 
 "Just like you women," he growled. "No sooner 
 does she get settled and comfortable, than you want to 
 stir it all up again. Better let well enough alone." 
 
 352
 
 Folly 
 
 "But, Greg," she began, and decided not to argue 
 at this time. "It would please materkin," she contin- 
 ued, "and the dear old lady has been industriously 
 breaking ground on both sides." 
 
 "Without success eh?" 
 
 "Wait and see," she answered. 
 
 But she found the preparation of Christie's mind 
 rather a delicate matter; and after one or two attacks 
 and feints towards the forbidden theme, she pretended 
 to sheer off and introduce a new subject. 
 
 "I haven't told you about the convalescent home 
 that Greg's interested in, have I ? " 
 
 "No," said he, but did not evince any great interest 
 in the topic. 
 
 Undiscouraged, she gave him an account of the 
 scheme, and grew enthusiastic over details. 
 
 "I suppose you want a subscription?" he concluded. 
 
 Oh, dear, no, Mabel had not meant that at all! 
 
 At this he was genuinely surprised and asked: 
 "Where is this little Paradise?" 
 
 "Oh, in the country," she said, in a large way; and 
 added for his further enlightenment, " not very far out." 
 
 "I see. And you take charge of it ?" 
 
 "Oh, no, there's a a matron in charge. Such a 
 capable woman, and so charming!" 
 
 "It's a success then?" he made conversation. 
 "How long have you been at it?" 
 
 "Oh months," said Mabel grandly. "Perhaps 
 some day you'd like to go there ? " 
 23 353
 
 Folly 
 
 "No, thanks," answered Christie. "I've let myself 
 in for quite enough." 
 
 Mabel's eyes danced as she said to herself: "I think 
 you have; I really think you have." Aloud she sighed : 
 "I'm rather sorry for the matron. She has had a hard 
 life poor thing! Such a nice woman, and she is sepa- 
 rated from her husband%" She looked at him, una- 
 bashed: "I'd like to see that husband." 
 
 He was not much interested, but he asked patiently : 
 "What's the trouble?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't know" Mabel waved her hands 
 airily. "I have heard only one side of the story; I'd 
 like to know what his defence is. But Mrs. ..." 
 
 She hesitated, and he looked at her in sudden sharp 
 suspicion. 
 
 "... Westerbeck," she said serenely; and stopped, 
 amazed at her own invention. "O Mab, Mab," she 
 chuckled, "does lying come so easy? And wherever 
 did you get the name?" 
 
 He did not notice any delay, as she continued : " Mrs. 
 Westerbeck is a woman I would believe against almost 
 anybody else under oath." 
 
 " Me, for example ? " he asked, trying to joke. 
 
 "Not you. If she said one thing and you another, I 
 don't know where the truth would lie. But I'm boring 
 you with my charities?" 
 
 He did not deny this. 
 
 Presently, when he rose to go, he turned to her with- 
 out preamble. "Have you seen her lately?" 
 
 354
 
 Folly 
 
 "Yes, she was here last week. We went shopping 
 together. She seems very well." 
 
 He struggled with another question, under her kind 
 eyes; but it would not come out. 
 
 " She's very busy," she suggested, to help him on. 
 
 "So the mater said, and talked nonsense about a 
 mysterious family. I take it she's found some poor 
 relations to adopt?" 
 
 "That's it," said Mabel. "Poor relations. But" 
 she anticipated further questioning "don't ask me 
 who they are, for I can't tell you." 
 
 "Is she often in town?" he queried; and called him- 
 self a fool for his pains. 
 
 "H m," said Mabel, with her head on one side, 
 "so-so." Then she assumed an air of discovery. 
 " Come, now, why shouldn't you two be friends again, 
 some day? 
 
 He stiffened. "I am not aware that we are otherwise 
 now." 
 
 "Otherwise!" she repeated, laughing. "But you 
 know what I mean. If I give you her address, will you 
 go to see her?" 
 
 "Just what the mater said; I shall begin to think 
 there is a plot soon." 
 
 "Dear, dear!" she began; but had the grace not to 
 pursue the fib. "When one comes to think about it 
 calmly, what is it after all that keeps you apart now?" 
 
 Her now gave him his answer: "Memory." 
 
 "But memory's a dead thing," she protested. 
 355
 
 Folly 
 
 "What is so alive as that which is dead?" 
 
 "It sounds like an epigram," said she, "so I'm sure 
 it's only half true." 
 
 "Has she ever indicated to you the slightest wish to 
 come back to me?" 
 
 Then Mabel decided to abandon the argument: "I 
 can't say that she has. But I don't see ... " 
 
 "Don't you?" he laughed. "I must be going." 
 
 "About to-morrow," she admonished him. "Mind 
 you don't miss your train, because the farm trap will be 
 waiting at the station. I'm sending some things down. 
 Greg will be all right if he should be late. There are 
 always trains enough, and he can get a cab at the sta- 
 tion. I hope they'll be good to you if you have to 
 go down alone." 
 
 He thought her speech a little odd, but made no 
 comment. 
 
 "I wonder!" she cried to herself, when he had gone. 
 "Oh, I wonder!" 
 
 356
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 THE NINTH GUEST. 
 
 TOMMY, the boy who drove the pony trap from Low 
 Eaves to the station, flattered himself that he had a 
 keen eye for patients; but when, on this day, after gath- 
 ering up various parcels and boxes from the platform, 
 he cast a diagnosing glance over the passengers, he 
 found none. The only stranger who did not at once 
 set out for his destination was a big red-faced man in a 
 shabby tweed ulster and cap, who, however, to the boy's 
 disgust, came up to the trap and asked: "From Low 
 Eaves?" 
 
 Tommy gaped at the size of the new patient. 
 
 "Well, Mr. Gregory seems to have missed this train. 
 Shall you wait for the next?" 
 
 "No, sir," answered the boy, and added, with a cer- 
 tain delicacy for the feelings of the burly-looking in- 
 valid: "Was it you they was expecting, sir?" 
 
 "I believe so," said Christie. 
 
 Thereupon Tommy received him among his miscel- 
 laneous collection; but he had made the old pony 
 trot for nearly a mile before he recovered from his 
 amazement. 
 
 357
 
 Folly 
 
 "We usually gets 'em smaller," he thought aloud. 
 
 "Eh?" asked Christie, absorbed in his own reflec- 
 tions. 
 
 But the boy blushed and refused to repeat his re- 
 mark. 
 
 However, Christie roused himself to ask: "How 
 far?" 
 
 "About another mile, sir." 
 
 "How big is the farm?" 
 
 "The farm? Oh" with an air of detachment and 
 condescension "that's about seventy-five acres or so." 
 
 "And who runs it?" 
 
 "Mr. Mills." 
 
 "And what do you raise chiefly?" 
 
 "We?" The boy grinned, then chuckled, and said 
 with laboured f acetiousness : "If you was to ask me, I 
 should say it was kids, sir. And to tell the truth, we 
 was expectin' another to-day." 
 
 Christie looked uncomfortable. "What do you 
 mean?" 
 
 "No harm, sir. It only come across me when you 
 ask me what we raise, that every blame thing that's 
 growed here goes to fatten up them kids." 
 
 ' ' Large family eh ? ' ' 
 
 "Well, I dunno what you'd call large, sir. There's 
 eight young 'uns, and the two Sisters, besides the 
 missus, the cook and the housemaid, the gardener and 
 me, not counting extra help had in sometimes. And 
 none of the kids isn't more than six years old; and not 
 
 358
 
 Folly 
 
 & healthy oiie among the lot. I wasn't looking forward 
 to another myself; but the missus never will say no." 
 
 "But I was asking you about the farm," pursued 
 Christie. 
 
 "Oh, the farm," said the boy scornfully. "We ain't 
 got nothing to do with that nothing whatever." 
 
 He jumped down, opened and closed a gate into a 
 by-lane. Christie forgot question and answer in think- 
 ing how much the country resembled Sunlands. 
 
 He said no more before they pulled up at a low red 
 farm-house, with a steep tiled roof overhanging its 
 wealth of creepers. 
 
 At the door stood a nurse in uniform, who looked 
 past him at the boy. " Haven't you got it ? " 
 
 "He's the only one I could find," growled the lad, 
 "and he said you was expecting him." 
 
 The nurse advanced a step or two. " Did you wish 
 to see some one here, sir?" 
 
 "I'm afraid there is a mistake," said he, and ex- 
 plained that Gregory had missed the train. 
 
 "We were expecting another patient," said she, 
 "but not the doctor." 
 
 " Patient ? What is this place then ? " 
 
 "Low Eaves, sir." 
 
 "Right," said he; but struck by a sudden thought, 
 stopped short in the very act of getting out. "Is this a 
 model-farm or a convalescent home ? " 
 
 "Both," said the nurse, smiling. "Perhaps you'd 
 better come in and see the matron, sir. " 
 
 359
 
 Polly 
 
 He followed her, somewhat dazed as he tried to 
 piece together the extent and reason of Mabel's per- 
 fidy; but the clue escaped him. 
 
 The nurse left him by the hall fire, whence he could 
 hear murmuring and low laughter from an adjoining 
 room. 
 
 "What name shall I say?" she asked, with her hand 
 on the door. 
 
 "Never mind; she won't know me," said he, re- 
 membering suddenly that this would be the lady with 
 the curious name of Westerbeck. 
 
 Across the room he saw a woman on a low stool 
 a woman in gray and white, with fire-gleam on 
 her hair, and her face hidden behind a rampantly 
 affectionate bald-headed baby. She was endeavor- 
 ing to free herself from the clutches of the little 
 crowing monster, but did not succeed until the nurse 
 went to her assistance, at the same time announcing 
 the visitor. 
 
 Then, still keeping the baby and pressing his bob- 
 bing head and eager hands against her shoulder, she 
 rose, very tall and straight, and came forward to meet 
 the stranger, showing a pink face and a halo of loosened 
 fair hair. . . . 
 
 In the silence that followed, the baby gave a smoth- 
 ered wail of protest against suffocation. 
 
 "How do you do?" said Mrs. Westerbeck stiffly. 
 "Won't you sit down?" 
 
 Then she turned to the nurse. "Take Teddy up- 
 360
 
 Folly 
 
 stairs now, Sister. It's almost his sleepy-time. And 
 don't forget Emily's medicines-there." 
 
 It was a matter of some seconds, detaching the 
 limpet-like Teddy, who clearly preferred his present 
 rock, and expressed his choice loudly; but presently 
 Folly herself closed the door, after listening there until 
 the wails of the afflicted infant died away into silence. 
 
 361
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 "WHY NEED WE?" 
 
 SHE motioned him to a chair, and returned to her 
 stool by the fire. 
 
 " I suppose you want to see me, or you wouldn't have 
 come?" 
 
 "By no means," he answered bluntly. "I did not 
 dream that you were here. I expected to go over a 
 model-farm." 
 
 "Baby-farm?" she asked, with a gleam of her old 
 fun; but sobered quickly: "You came down alone?" 
 
 He explained the trick which had been played upon 
 the two of them; but she did not seem vexed. "You 
 can still go over the farm; the babies are only a mod- 
 ern improvement. Shall I send for Mills?" 
 
 He was looking at her, and she turned away to the 
 fire. He could not put into words the change he found 
 in her. It was not due only to the plainness of her 
 dress; it seemed as if her expression had altered her 
 very features, so that the forehead was broader in 
 its serenity, the eyes were larger in their thoughtful- 
 ness, the nose was less piquant, the mouth sweeter and 
 more firm. The very set of the chin suggested reason- 
 ableness and even humility. He wondered how far 
 
 362
 
 Folly 
 
 the changes were real, and how far he fancied them. 
 But she turned at last and met his glance squarely. 
 
 "Well, am I really so different?" 
 
 He wanted time to answer that, so waived it : "I am 
 beginning to see a thing or two. You have a large 
 family?" 
 
 "Eight," said she, "and I can do with a ninth; but 
 there we must stop for the present. I really haven't the 
 room. Some day I may add a wing; I'm thinking of it. 
 But the need is so great, and I'm but a drop in the 
 ocean. Each case seems more urgent than the last. I 
 expected another to-day." 
 
 "But not the one who came? That's not so ur- 
 gent?" he found himself asking. 
 
 "You would like to see the farm?" she pursued. 
 
 "It's coming on to rain," said he, from the window 
 to which he had retreated. 
 
 She remembered his old scorn of weathers, and 
 hastened on to: "Will Gregory turn up later?" 
 
 "He intended to miss that train ..." 
 
 "True, so you said; I am forgetful," she murmured. 
 
 The rain beat against the window, as he wondered 
 how the deuce he could get away without a scene; 
 while she, by the fire, was trying to remember parallel 
 instances of sensible people who had found themselves 
 in such a peculiar position, and what they had said and 
 done. 
 
 "I see there is no train until six-thirty," he observed, 
 consulting a pocket-guide. 
 
 363
 
 Folly 
 
 "No unfortunately," she answered to the fire. 
 
 "Still, if I take it slowly ..." 
 
 "Oh, you must let the boy drive you," insisted the 
 courteous hostess. 
 
 "No need to trouble him and the pony. I prefer to 
 walk," was his brusque reply. 
 
 " Even then," said she, after an uncomfortable pause, 
 "you could not spend an hour and a half covering two 
 miles. Will you come and look over my baby- 
 farm?" 
 
 She gave him no time to blunder out the refusal that 
 rose to his lips ; but led the way upstairs. 
 
 On the second step, however, she paused and glanced 
 at him over her shoulder. "Do you remember how I 
 used to scoff about babies and baby-farms ? We never 
 know what we are coming to." 
 
 Again she left him speechless; and straightway pro- 
 ceeded to explain in detail the arrangements and work- 
 ing of her house. 
 
 When she paused, rather wistfully, perhaps, for 
 praise, he confessed that it was admirable; but he did 
 not tell her that the chief of his admiration was for her- 
 self as the centre of its life. He did not wonder that 
 the crippled or starveling babies should crawl and 
 hop to her, or stretch out their arms to be taken 
 up. He accepted it as a matter of course that her 
 criticisms and suggestions should be to the point, 
 and received with deference; but when he watched 
 her giving a new nurse a practical lesson in gruel- 
 
 364
 
 Folly 
 
 making, he judged that she had come a long way in 
 her progress. 
 
 "I am afraid the gardens are very wet," she con- 
 cluded, as they stood in the hall together. "But I 
 have forgotten all about tea. You'll have a cup ? I'll 
 ring at once." 
 
 He was looking at his watch. "I have just time now 
 if I make haste." 
 
 She smiled at him, with some constraint. "Miss it; 
 there's another." And she led the way into her sitting- 
 room. 
 
 There, in an oppressive silence, he presently an- 
 nounced: "I'm going down to Sunlands in a day or 
 two." 
 
 "Our windows look that way. I suppose it's not 
 thirty miles across?" she answered softly. 
 
 "You have not forgotten the place then?" he began; 
 and silently cursed the maid with the tray. 
 
 She never answered that question; but kept the ball 
 of their talk flying as lightly as possible from one topic 
 to another, until the form of tea was over and the tray 
 was removed. 
 
 His despair grew with the twilight that was setting 
 in with heavier rain. He left the window, where he had 
 been standing, and came over to her side. 
 
 "It's getting late," said he, gruffly. "You didn't 
 shake hands when I came; will you now that I am 
 going?" 
 
 She held her fingers loosely clasped about one 
 365
 
 Folly 
 
 knee, and smiled up at him. "Why go?" she 
 asked. 
 
 He thrust his hands into his coat pockets and studied 
 her face. "Why not?" he asked in turn. 
 
 "Because I invite you to stay." 
 
 He could not believe that he had understood. "You 
 want me to stay?" 
 
 She nodded, looking away from him. 
 
 And still he could not accept the fact. "Folly, do 
 you know what you are saying?" 
 
 He fancied, but was not sure, that she nodded again. 
 
 "What does it mean?" 
 
 "It means what you like to think," she whispered. 
 
 He took a turn across the room, his hands still in his 
 pockets. 
 
 "You do not realize what I should like to think." 
 
 Her eyes gleamed upon him suddenly. "Can't you 
 make me?" 
 
 "Make you?" he repeated, coming again to look 
 down upon her. " Make you realize it ?" 
 
 "Perhaps," she said hurriedly, "I ought to be more 
 humble. I've been trying to get to it all the time; but 
 I thought I think I thought you would help me out 
 more. Please, Andrew, take me back." 
 
 He laid his hand on her shoulder. "You want to 
 come?" 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 His next words surprised her: "You seem happy 
 bere." 
 
 36$
 
 Folly 
 
 "Yes," she confessed. 
 
 "Then better stay where you are happy," said he 
 harshly, as he walked away to the window again. 
 
 She too rose, with a sudden little laugh, and crossed 
 over to him; but as he turned, retreated and went from 
 picture to picture, with an occasional backward smil- 
 ing glance, the whole round of the room, as if from 
 station to station in a spiritual progress; and in the 
 end came back to him from the other side. She knew 
 well that he could not but watch. 
 
 "It has been like that with me; I went away and I 
 swing back ; but if you will not have me. ..." 
 
 She paused in her threat. "What then?" 
 
 "I suppose I shall swing away again; but 
 whether I shall ever come back to you after that, I do 
 not know. The circles get larger each time, and take 
 in more people. . . . Well?" 
 
 Abruptly he seized her, and drew her close to study 
 her face. "But you have been happy here without me ? " 
 
 "Happy?" she repeated softly. "There are many 
 widowed and orphan, and some that are childless in 
 the world; and they have to learn to be happy. It can 
 be done. Yes, I have been happy here; but it does not 
 follow that I shouldn't be a little happier with you." 
 
 She held him off with the sudden question: "And 
 you how do you get on without me?" 
 
 "I can manage," said he, with a new light coming 
 into his eyes. 
 
 "Decently?"
 
 Folly 
 
 "I hope so." 
 
 "Then if we both can, why need we?" she cried, 
 with a laugh that turned to tears. And then he believed. 
 
 In the silence that followed, he knew that this was no 
 surrender of the fruits of her hard- won victory; but 
 rather a sharing of the treasure that she had garnered 
 from sorrow and the love of little children. And she 
 was content to believe that she was on the footpath to 
 the citadel of peace. 
 
 "Folly," said he, after a time, "or must I say Wis- 
 dom ? . . . Well, Folly then, I am thinking that the 
 mater will say, ' I told you so from the beginning.' " 
 
 368
 
 By Mabel Barnes-Grundy 
 
 Truly a tale of most exceptional hu- 
 mour and charm a most cap:ivating 
 and refreshing story. 
 
 HOW ENGLAND RECEIVED HAZEL : 
 
 PUNCH. ' The Baron has great pleasure in 
 recommending Hazel to all and sundry. There 
 is in this story an originality of idea and a freshness 
 of treatment that will rivet the attention of the most 
 jaded novel-reader." 
 
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 land, Miss Mabel Barnes-Grundy presents the story 
 of a very charming country girl. In the quiet 
 humours of home life, in the antithesis of severe 
 and buoyant character of familiar types, and in 
 that ingenuous raillery for which an alert and good- 
 tempered disposition can find so much opportunity, 
 the novel is entirely agreeable. A very pretty love 
 story, tinctured with humour, runs through the 
 book, and any reader who fails to enjoy it may be 
 dismissed as a hopeless frump." 
 
 THE BAKER & TAYLOR CO., Publishers 
 
 33-37 East I7th St., Union Sq. North, New York
 
 THE POET 
 MISS KATE AND I 
 
 BY 
 
 MARGARET P. MONTAGUE 
 
 Handsomely Decorated and Illustrated. Net, $1.50 
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 It is impossible to convey the charm of 
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 ROMANCES 
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 In point of text and manufacture the book is 
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 binding in art paper and leather. 
 
 The romances retold are : 
 
 King Florus and the Fair Jehane. 
 
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 HEARTH 
 
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