"If you say that again, I'll shake you! You're a heap too good for the best man that ever lived. Mind now, Elma, don't start out on this business by eating humble pie! You've got to hold up your end of the stick for all you're worth, and let them see you won't be sat upon. When you feel redooced, go and sit in front of the glass for a spell, and ask yourself if he won't be a lucky man to have that vista across the table all the rest of his life. Don't be humble with him, whatever happens! Make him believe he's got the pick of the bundle!"

"He—he does!" said Elma, and blushed again. "It makes me ashamed to hear him talk about me, for I know I am really so different. He would not have thought me so sweet if he had heard me scolding mother this morning. Poor mother! I'm so terribly sorry for her. It must be hard to care for a child for twenty-three years, as she says, and then have to step aside for a stranger. I sympathised with every word she said, and knew that I should have felt the same. My head was with her all the time, but my heart"—she clasped her hands to her side with the prettiest of gestures—"my heart was with Geoffrey! Reason's not a bit of use, Cornelia, when you're in love."

"Well!" said Cornelia, firmly, "my heart's got to wait and behave itself, until my head goes along at the same pace. I've not kept it in order for twenty-three years to have it weaken at the last moment. I'll stick to my guns, whatever it may cost."

Elma looked at her with surprised curiosity.

"Why, you talk as if, as if you were in love, too! I wish you were! We could sympathise with each other so beautifully. Are you in love, Cornelia? You never said so before."

Cornelia turned to the window and gazed out on the forbidden grass of the Park. Her face was hidden from view, and she answered by another question, put in slow, thoughtful tones.—"What is love? You seem to feel pretty certain that yours is the genuine article. Define it for me! How do you feel when you are in dear Geoffrey's society?"

"Happy! so wonderfully happy that I seem to walk on air. Everything seems beautiful, and I love everybody, and long to make them as happy as myself. Nothing troubles me any more. It seems as if nothing could ever trouble me. Geoffrey's there! He is like a great big rock, which will shelter me all my life."

"Do you feel one moment that it's the cutest thing in the world to sit right there in the shade and be fussed over, and the next as if you wanted to knock the rock down flat, and march away down your own road? Do you feel blissful one moment and the next all worked up, and fit to scratch? When he's kinder big and superior, and the natural protector, do you feel ugly; or inclined to cave in, and honour and obey?"

Elma stared at her with shocked blue eyes.

"Of course I'll obey! Geoffrey is so wise and clever. He knows so much better than I. I'm only too thankful to let him decide for us both. You talk so strangely, Cornelia; I don't understand—"

Cornelia swung round quickly, and kissed her upon the cheek.

"Never mind, sweetling!" she said fondly, "don't try to understand! You are better off as you are. It is women like you who have the best time in the world, and are the most loved. I wish I were like you, but I'm not, so what's the use of repining. I am as I wor' created!"

She laughed, but the laugh had a forced, unnatural sound. Elma saw with dismay a glimmer of tears in the golden eyes.



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

For a whole week the battle raged; the battle between youth and age, love and the world. Elma pleaded for patience and self-restraint, Geoffrey urged defiance and independence; Mrs Ramsden quoted Scripture, and made constant reference to serpents' teeth, while Madame remained charmingly satirical, refusing to treat the matter otherwise than as a joke, laughing at Geoffrey's rhapsodies, and assuring him that he was suffering from an attack of sun, from which recovery would be swift and certain. Rupert Guest and Cornelia hurried to and fro on the outskirts of the fray, in the character of aides-de-camp carrying messages, and administering encouragement and consolation. Every morning Cornelia sat in conclave with her friend in the prosaic Victorian drawing-room which took the place of the turret chamber of romance. Elma would not condescend to hold stolen interviews with her lover, while both families so strongly opposed the engagement, so she shut herself up in the house, growing daily whiter and thinner, wandering aimlessly from room to room, and crying helplessly upon her bed. It was as a breath of fresh mountain air when Cornelia appeared upon the scene, bearing always the same terse, practical advice—"Make sure of your own mind, and—stick to it!"

The colour came back to Elma's face as she listened, and hope revived in her heart. She declared anew that nothing in the world should separate her from Geoffrey; that she would be true to him to the last day of her life. Cornelia repeated these touching vows in conclave with Guest behind the shrubbery of the Park, and then he went off post-haste to the Manor, to cheer Geoffrey with the news of the steadfast loyalty of his fiancee. Second-hand assurances soon pall, however, on the youthful lover, and after a week had passed by, Geoffrey suddenly waxed desperate, and announced that he would not submit to the separation for another hour. He was perfectly capable of choosing his own wife, Elma was of age, and at liberty to decide for herself. He would go down to The Holt that very afternoon and have it out with the old lady, once for all. If his mother liked to accompany him, so much the better. She and Mrs Ramsden could each have their say, and then he and Elma would have theirs. For his part he warned them that no arguments could move him from his point, but they might see what they would do with Elma! Perhaps they could persuade Elma to give him up!

He smiled as he spoke, in proud, self-confident fashion, but Madame looked at him thoughtfully, smoothed the ruffles on her sleeves, and replied in her sweetest tones—

"Dear boy, yes! quite a good idea. Let us talk it over like sensible people. Elma has such truly nice feelings.—I feel sure we may trust her decision!"

Geoffrey sat him down forthwith to indite a letter to his love, warning her of the ordeal ahead in a couple of lines, and enlarging on his own devotion for the rest of the sheet, which missive was entrusted to Guest when he paid his daily visit to the Manor. "I mean to put an end to this nonsense, once for all," the Squire declared firmly. "You must be sick of trotting to and fro with these everlasting messages, but there won't be any more need for them after to-day."

Guest expressed his gratification, and started forth on his return journey profoundly depressed in spirit. With the end of the strife would end his daily meetings with Cornelia, which alone kept him in Norton. Miss Briskett's attitude on the occasion of his one call at The Nook had not encouraged him to repeat the experiment. He smiled to himself whenever he recalled the picture of the heavily-furnished room, the sharp-faced spinster, with her stiff, repellent manner, and the slim figure of Cornelia sitting demurely in the background, drooping her eyes to the ground whenever her aunt looked in her direction, and wrinkling her nose at him in pert little grimaces when the good lady's back was turned, so that he had had hard work to preserve his gravity. Since that evening they had met daily in the shrubbery of the Park, though only for a few minutes at a time, for Cornelia steadily refused to sit down, or to linger by his side in a manner which would suggest that the assignation was on her behalf, as well as that of her friend.

Guest was always the first to arrive at the meeting-place, and was careful to remain standing in a position from which he could watch the girl's approach. In these bright summer days Cornelia was invariably dressed in white, her short skirts standing out above her feet in a manner peculiar to herself, and the fashion plates. She wore shady hats which dipped over her face, and curved upward at the sides, showing the burnished waves of her wonderful hair. At first sight she gave the impression of looking pale and ill, but invariably by the time she reached his side, her cheeks were pink, and he forgot his anxiety in delight and admiration.

To-day his manner was less buoyant than usual, as he delivered the note into her hands.

"An ultimatum at last! Geoffrey and Madame propose to storm the citadel this afternoon. Quite time, too! I wonder he has waited so long. I should have come to blows on the second day. ... Fancy hanging about a whole week when a girl like that was waiting to see you!"

Cornelia turned the letter round and round, staring at it the while with absent eyes.

"You used to say that he would never marry her ... that she was not a suitable wife ... that it would be a great mistake if he did..."

"I used to say a great many foolish things," said Guest, quietly. "I didn't know what I was talking about, you see. Now I do! If she is the woman he loves, all the little differences go for nothing. I hope he will marry her, and I believe that they will be happy—"

Cornelia twirled to and fro on the heels of her pointed shoes, and tilted her chin with a pretence at indifference.

"Well! I guess it won't help things on if I hang about gossiping here. She ought to have this letter at once, to think out what she's going to say. Poor little Elma! She'll have a rough time with those two mammas firing away at her at the same time. Mrs Ramsden will plump for principle, and Madame for convention. It doesn't seem to either of them that love is enough! They both believe they know a heap better what's good for the young people than they do themselves. And they've been through it! You can't get away from that. ... They've been through it, and away at the other end they are going to do all they know to prevent their own son and their own daughter from the folly of marrying for love!..."

"People—some people—seem to keep no memory of youth in middle age! It's a pity, for it destroys their influence. In the end, however, it is the young people who decide. ... These two ought to know their own minds, for it has not been a hurried affair. They have known each other for years, and have been more and more attracted. That is a duty which a man and a woman owe to each other in these circumstances—to make sure that what they are offering is real and lasting! I suppose only time can prove this. ... We shall see what this afternoon brings forth. In any case I am needed no longer.—I thought of going north to-morrow morning to pay a couple of visits."

The hand that was playing with the letter was still for a moment, and an almost imperceptible quiver straightened the white figure. For a moment Guest saw, or imagined that he saw, a shadow flit across the girl's face, but it passed as quickly as it came. She tilted her head, and said calmly—

"I guess you're right! We've done our turn, and now they've got to fend for themselves. I hope you'll have a real good time. ... Mr Greville will let you know when the wedding's fixed!"

"Oh, I shall be back at the end of three or four weeks, before there's any talk of dates, I expect! I shall see you again in July." He paused, looking at her with sudden uneasy suspicion. "You will be here in July? There is no chance that you may be away paying other visits?"

Cornelia shook her head.

"I have no other relations over here. So far as I know at present, I shall stay on here until Poppar comes over to fetch me. We're going to fly round together for two or three months after that."

Guest drew a sigh of relief, but as he took Cornelia's outstretched hand in his own to say good-bye, he added a hesitating request—

"If for any unexpected reason you should be leaving Norton during the next three or four weeks, will you let me know? A line to my club will always be forwarded. If there were any uncertainty about seeing you again, I—" his voice lost its level tone, and became husky and disconnected. "These visits don't matter.—I could put them off.—I am making myself go, because..." His fingers tightened over hers in involuntary appeal, "Cornelia! I wonder if you understand what is in my mind?"

She looked into his kindled face with serious, unwavering eyes. For a moment it appeared as if she had some difficulty in managing her voice, but when she spoke it was calm and self-possessed as ever.

"I understand that you've been a real true friend to me, Captain Guest, and I'm grateful for all the good times we've had together... That's all we need worry about to-day. Elma is waiting! I mustn't keep her longer. ... Good-bye again! I wish you a real pleasant time!"

She drew her hand from his, gently enough, yet with a determination which could not be opposed. In her voice there was the same note of finality; the composure of her pale, fixed look checked the words on Guest's lips, and left him chilled and wondering.

"For three weeks, then!" he murmured softly, but no echoing assurance came in reply.

Cornelia carried the all-important message to Elma in her den, cheered her with affectionate prophecies, and hurried back to the shelter of her own bedroom. Safe behind locked doors she stood before the mirror on her dressing-table, staring at her own reflection with the implacable air of a judge regarding a prisoner at the bar. The slight figure was held proudly erect, the lips set in a straight, hard line, but the eyes—poor tell-tale woman's eyes!—the eyes wavered, and on the white cheeks flamed two patches of rosy red. Cornelia turned on her heel, and, crossing the room to her writing-table, tore open a letter which lay there already addressed to her father in America. It was a long, cheerfully-written epistle, containing constant references to his coming, and to the good time which they were to enjoy together. With deliberate fingers she tore it in pieces and dropped the fragments into the waste-paper basket. The missive, which was written in its stead was short, and to the point—

"My old Poppar!—This is just a business note that has got to be attended to in a hurry. Well-brought-up-parents do what they're told, and ask no questions. There are breakers ahead over here. They don't concern Aunt Soph; I've broken the back of that worry, and we get along a treat. Heart trouble, daddy! Symptoms unfavourable, and ultimate collapse preventable only by speedy change of scene.

"Sit down straight away and write a letter I can show round, summoning me home by the first boat! You can call it an 'urgent crisis.' It's as true as taxes, though not in the way they take it. I've got to run, and that's all there is to it. Our jaunt must wait till another day. You must comfort me, Poppar,—you and America!—Your lonesome, Cornelia."

She did not pause to read over what she had written, but, fastening it in an envelope, pealed the bell, which brought Mary running blithely to her service. For once, however, the devoted slave ventured to raise a feeble objection.

"Now, Miss Cornelia? I'm in the middle of my silver. It will go just as soon if it's posted by half-past three!"

Cornelia glanced at her with the air of an offended goddess.

"I said now, and I mean now! This instant, before you touch another one thing. Post it with your own hands, and come up here to tell me it's done!"

Mary vanished in a whirl of starched cotton skirts, rushed to the pillar-box at the corner of the Park, and in five minutes' time was back at the bedroom door to proclaim her obedience. Cornelia was still standing in the middle of the room. It appeared to the maid that she had not altered her position by as much as an inch since she had seen her last. Her expression was tense with expectation.

"It's gone, miss! I put it in myself!"

The golden eyes regarded her strangely.

"Did you, Mury?" said Cornelia, low. She paused a moment as though to form some expression of acknowledgment, but it did not come. "Some time," she continued slowly, "some time, Mury, I believe I'm going to thank you very much, but to-day I don't feel like gushing. ... You can go back to your work."



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

"I suppose I must give them tea!" was Mrs Ramsden's comment upon hearing of the visit which had been planned for the afternoon. Her depression was broken by a struggling sense of elation, for it was not every day that Madame deigned to accept hospitality from her neighbours. She despatched a messenger to the confectioner's to purchase a pound of plum cake, a muffin, and half a pound of macaroons, the invariable preparations under such circumstances, and gave instructions that the best silver and china should be brought out of their hiding-places, with the finest tablecloth and d'oyleys. At three o'clock Elma discovered her removing the covers from the drawing-room cushions, and folding them neatly away in the chiffonnier. Something in the simple action touched the girl, and broke down the hard wall of reserve which had risen between her mother and herself during the past painful week. She stretched out impulsive arms, and stooped her head to kiss the troubled face.

"You funny little mother! What do cushions matter? Geoffrey will never notice them, and Madame"—she hesitated, unwilling to hurt her mother's feelings by hinting at Madame's opinion of the satin splendours so carefully preserved from sight—"Madame won't care! ... She is not coming to admire fancy-work!"

Mrs Ramsden lifted a flushed, tear-stained face to look at her daughter standing before her, lovely and slender in the blue muslin gown which had been Cornelia's gift. The daintiness of the dress, its unaccustomed smartness and air of fashion, seemed at the moment a presage of the threatened separation. At the sight, and the sound of the softened voice, the tears streamed afresh, and she cried brokenly—

"Elma! Elma! My child! I beg you at the eleventh hour—think! consider! remember all that I have striven to teach you! ... You have prayed to resist temptation—what is the use of your prayers if they don't avail you in your hour of need? Elma, I know it will be hard! Don't think I shall not suffer with you—but if it is right. ... There is no happiness, my child, if we depart from the right course!"

"I know it, mother," said Elma, calmly. "If you or Madame can convince me that I should be doing wrong in marrying Geoffrey I will give him up! I promise you that, and you must promise me in return that you will try to see things from our point of view as well as your own. Remember, it's my life that is at stake, and I'm so young! I may have such a long time to live. Some girls have a dozen fancies before they are twenty- three, but I have never thought of anyone else. ... From the first time that I met Geoffrey I knew that he was the one man for me. You have been happily married yourself, mother! Could you bear to spoil our happiness?"

Mrs Ramsden winced at the sound of that significant little pronoun, which now, for the first time in twenty-three years, failed to include herself. Now she was an outsider, for her child's heart and life alike had passed from her keeping: It is a bitter moment for all mothers; doubly bitter when, as to Mrs Ramsden, the supplanter seems unworthy of his trust.

"Happiness is not everything, Elma! I hope,—I hope I am strong enough to endure even to see you suffer for your ultimate good."

She mopped her eyes with her handkerchief, while Elma turned aside, realising sadly that it was useless to prolong the discussion. Presently Geoffrey and his mother would arrive and then they would all consult together. Elma had not rehearsed her own share in the conversation; the all-important decision was in the last issue to be left to herself, and she had spoken the simple truth in saying that she wished above all things to do what was right. Her life's training had instilled the conviction that no happiness was possible at the cost of a sacrifice of principle. If she could be once convinced that it was wrong to marry Geoffrey Greville, she would give him up as unflinchingly as any martyr of old walked to the stake, but she must be convinced on the ground of principle alone! Pride, prejudice, convention, would pass her by, leaving her unshaken in her determination to marry the man she loved.

At four o'clock the great landau from the Manor drove up to the gate, and from within the shrouded windows mother and daughter watched the groom jump lightly from his seat, to shield the grey froth of Madame's draperies as she stepped to the ground. To Mrs Ramsden the scene was an eloquent illustration of the world, the flesh and the devil; the world exemplified by the carriage with its handsome trappings, its valuable horses, and liveried attendants; the flesh by Madame—a picture of elegance in cloudy grey draperies, her silvery locks surmounted by a flower-wreathed toque, her cheeks faintly pink beneath the old lace veil—the devil!—it was a hard word to apply to the handsome, resolute young fellow who followed his mother up the gravel path, but at the moment Geoffrey Greville appeared in Mrs Ramsden's eyes as the destroyer of her happiness, the serpent who had brought discord into Eden! She was in truth an honest little Puritan in whose sight the good things of the world were but as snares and pitfalls. So far from feeling any pleasure in the thought that her daughter might one day reign as the great lady of the neighbourhood, the prospect filled her with unaffected dread, and the needle's eye had been quoted almost as frequently as the serpent's teeth, during the last week. She turned away from the window with a shudder of distress.

The door opened, and Madame entered, bringing with her that faint, delicious fragrance of violets which seemed inseparable from her person. Contrary to her hostess's expectation, she was wreathed in smiles, and even more gracious than of yore. She pressed the plump little hand extended towards her, kissed Elma on the cheek, exclaimed prettily upon the comfort of the chair to which she was escorted, and chatted about the weather as if her coming were an ordinary society call. Mrs Ramsden, being unaccustomed to the ways of fashionable warfare, was flurried and thrown off her balance by so unexpected an opening to the fray, and had hard work to answer connectedly. She was, moreover, keenly on the alert to watch the meeting between Elma and Geoffrey, whom she had not seen in each other's company since the fatal visit to the Manor. They shook hands without speaking a word, but their eyes met, and at the sight of that look, the onlooker thrilled with a memory of long ago. That glance, that silent hand-grasp softened her heart more than a hundred arguments. It was an ocular demonstration of what had until now been merely words!

The trim maid brought in the tea-tray and proceeded to set it out on the little table in front of her mistress. It was a good hour earlier than the time when the meal was served at the Manor, but the little business of handing round cups and cake broke the embarrassment of the first few minutes, and was therefore welcome to all. Elma began as usual to wait upon her guests, but Geoffrey took the plates out of her hand with an air of gentle authority, which the elder ladies were quick to note. It was the air of the master, the proprietor; as significant in its way as was Elma's blushing obedience. Once again Mrs Ramsden felt a pang of remembrance, but Madame arched her eyebrows, and tapped her foot on the floor in noiseless irritation. It was time that this nonsense came to an end!

"Well, dear people," she began airily, "let us get to business! It's so much wiser to talk things over quietly, when there is any misunderstanding. I thought it was so clever of Geoffrey to suggest this meeting. Letters are quite useless. One always forgets the most important things, or, if one remembers, they look so horribly disagreeable in black and white, and people bring them up against one years afterwards. Dear Elma, I'm afraid you think me a cruel old woman! I am desolated to appear so unfeeling, especially as I should certainly have fallen in love with you in Geoffrey's place, but it's not always a question of doing what we like in this world. I am sure your dear mother has taught you that. I said to Geoffrey: 'Elma has such sweet, true feelings, I shall be quite satisfied to trust to her decision when the matter has been put fully before her!'"

"Thank you," said Elma, faintly. She had put down her cup, and now sat with her fingers clasped tightly together on her lap. The two elder ladies faced her from the opposite side of the room; Geoffrey fidgeted about, and finally seated himself—not by her side, as had obviously been his first impulse—but some little distance away, where he could watch the expression of her face. Mrs Ramsden pushed the tea-table aside, and fidgeted with the jet trimming on her cuff.

"I—er, I think we should get on better if Mr Greville would—would kindly leave us alone!" she said awkwardly. "We are well acquainted with his arguments, and as Elma is to decide, there seems no object in his staying on. Elma will, no doubt, feel quieter and less restrained without his presence."

Madame's murmur of agreement was interrupted by a sharp exclamation from her son. He looked flushed and angry, but Elma checked him in his turn, and answered herself, in clear, decided accents! "No, mother! I shall feel much better if Geoffrey is here. I don't want him to go. If I am persuaded to give him up, it is only right that he should know my reasons. He will promise to listen quietly to what you have to say, as I am going to do, and not to interrupt until you have done." She turned towards her lover with a flickering smile. "Won't you, Geoffrey?"

Geoffrey bit his moustache, and scowled heavily.

"I'll—do my best!" he said slowly. "I'm not going away in any case. It's preposterous to suppose that I could be absent while such a discussion was going on. Elma knows that this is a matter of life and death to me. If you persuade her to give me up, it will be sending me straight to the devil!"

Mrs Ramsden's eyes flashed with anger.

"If an earthly love is the only incentive you have to follow the paths of righteousness, Mr Greville, that is a poor inducement to me to give my child into your care! I have brought her up to put principle first of all. It is my chief objection to yourself that your character is not worthy of the trust!"

"My dear lady, he is not a pickpocket! You speak as if he were a hardened criminal," cried Madame, with an irritated laugh. "Geoffrey may not be a saint, but I assure you that, considered as a young man of the world, he is quite a model specimen! He has been an excellent son. There have been no debts; no troubles of any kind. Absolutely, at times I have accused him of being almost too staid. ... One can only be young once!..."

"I think you and Mrs Ramsden have somewhat different standards, mother," put in Geoffrey quietly. He turned towards the last-mentioned lady, bending forward and speaking with deliberate emphasis. "I quite agree with you, Mrs Ramsden, that I am unworthy of your daughter. I wish I had been a better man for her sake. With her to help me I hope I might become a man more after your own heart. As my mother says, I have so far been a respectable member of society, for the things which you condemn in me are after all matters of opinion, but at this moment I stand at the parting of the ways. If you give me Elma, I shall look upon her as a sacred trust, and shall be a better man for her sake. I must be a better man with her beside me! ... If you refuse; if she refuses"—he shrugged expressively—"you empty my life of all I value. The responsibility will be upon your shoulders!"

"That is not true! You can depute to nobody the responsibility of your own soul," Mrs Ramsden began solemnly, but Madame interrupted with an impatient gesture.

"I thought Geoffrey was not to interfere! For pity's sake don't let us waste time talking sentiment! We are here to discuss this matter in a sensible, business manner. Let us begin at once, and not waste time!"

To her surprise Elma met her glance with a smile. A happy, composed little smile, which brought the dimples into her soft cheeks. Really the child was wonderful! Her quietness and self-possession were in delightful contrast with her mother's flustered solemnity. Madame returned the smile, with restored equanimity, and felt a thrill of artistic satisfaction.

"I am afraid Geoffrey and I hardly look at our engagement from a business point of view!" said Elma, slowly. "It is a matter of sentiment with us, and we are not a bit ashamed of it, but I must answer mother first. ... Mother, dear, you are shocked because Geoffrey says he would not be good without me, but when you were young, when you were careless, and enjoyed things which you disapprove of now, was there no good influence in your life which helped you to be strong? It may have been a companion, or a book, or a sermon—one of a hundred things— but when it came, weren't you thankful for it? Didn't you hold close to it and fear lest it should go? I am Geoffrey's influence! I'm glad and proud that it is so. If I can help him in one little way, I'd rather do it than anything else in all the world! When he feels like that about me, I should think it very, very wrong to give him up."

"Elma, my dear, these are specious arguments! You are deceiving yourself, and preparing a bitter awakening! Mr Greville does not even understand what he is promising. His ideas and yours are different as night from day; the same words convey different meanings to you and him. You would find as you talked together that there was a gulf between you on every serious subject."

"No, mother, dear, there is no gulf. We agree—we always agree! I am amazed to find how marvellously we agree," said Elma, simply. Geoffrey's eyes flashed a look at her; a look of adoring triumph. Madame screwed her lips on one side, and stared markedly at a corner of the ceiling. Mrs Ramsden wrung her hands in despair.

"Elma, you pray every night to be delivered from temptation—consider what your position would be if you married Mr Greville! Ask yourself if you are strong enough to resist pride and selfishness, and absorption in the things of this world. Many would say that it was a great match for you, but I would rather see you settled in a cottage with enough money for your daily needs. It is easier for a camel—"

Elma interrupted quickly.

"I don't think you need be afraid, mother. I love beautiful things, but truly and honestly I believe they are good for me! It is a little difficult to explain, but ugly things—inartistic things, jar! They make me feel cross and discontented, while beauty is a joy! I need not become proud and self-engrossed because the things around me are beautiful and rich with associations. On the contrary, they ought to do me good. I'd love them so, and be so thankful, that I should want other people to enjoy them, too. It isn't riches themselves that one cares for—it is the things that riches can give!"

Madame had been watching the girl's face as she spoke, her own expression kindling in sympathy with views so entirely in accordance with her own, but at the last sentence her brows knitted.

"It's not a case of riches, my dear!" she said quickly. "I don't think you understand the position. Geoffrey is a poor man. The estate brings in little more than half what it did in his father's time, and the expense of keeping it up increases rather than diminishes, as the buildings grow older. He ought to marry money. All these years we have lived in the expectation of a marriage which would pay up old scores, and put things on a better basis for the future. If he marries a girl without money he will have to face constant anxiety and trouble."

Elma turned to her mother, her delicate brow puckered in anxiety.

"I shall have some money, shan't I, mother? You told me that father left some provision for me on my marriage!"

"You are to have three thousand pounds paid down if you marry with my consent. My income is largely derived from an annuity, Mrs Greville, but there will be about another five thousand to come to Elma after death."

Madame bowed her head in gracious patronage.

"Very nice, I'm sure! A very nice little sum for pin money, but quite useless for our purposes. Don't hate me, Elma—I am the most unmercenary of women—Geoffrey will tell you that I am always getting into debt!—but when a man is the owner of a property—which has descended to him from generations of ancestors, his first duty is to it. Noblesse oblige! It is not right to allow it to fall into disrepair for a matter of sentiment!"

Elma sat with downcast looks considering the point, while Geoffrey devoured her face with hungry eyes. Mrs Ramsden's face had flushed to a painful red, and she passed her handkerchief nervously round her lips. She could bear to torture her child herself, but not to sit by and hear another woman follow in her own footsteps.

The silence lasted for a long minute before Elma replied by asking a question on her own behalf.

"Can it be right for a man to marry one woman for money, when he has given his heart to another?"

Mrs Greville tossed her head with another impatient little laugh.

"His heart! Ah, my dear, a man's heart is an adaptable commodity! He 'gives it,' as you say, many times over in the course of his life. He is far more likely to love a wife whose money brings him ease and comfort, than one for whose pretty face he has sacrificed his peace!"

Elma turned to her lover and looked deep into his eyes. With a strong effort he had resisted breaking into the conversation before now, but his face was more eloquent than words. She smiled at him, a tender little smile of encouragement.

"I am very economical. I would help Geoffrey to save. I have not been accustomed to luxuries, so it would cost me nothing to do without them, and he says he doesn't care. Don't think I am selfish, Mrs Greville, please! I am thinking of Geoffrey first, but I believe he would be happier living quietly with me, and looking after the estate himself, instead of paying an agent to do it, than if he sold himself for money and ease. We love each other very much. We need nothing more than just to be together."

Geoffrey turned aside and stared out of the window. The two mothers exchanged helpless glances.

"Elma!" said Mrs Ramsden, sharply, "have you no pride? It is hard enough for me to sit by and listen. Are you not ashamed to force yourself upon a family where you are not wanted? When I have looked forward to your marriage, I have always imagined that you would be welcomed with open arms. For your own position you are well dowered. I have been proud of you all your life—too proud, perhaps—it would be a bitter blow to me to see you married on sufferance. If you have no other feeling in the matter, does not your pride come to your aid?"

"Mother, I'm going to marry Geoffrey, not his family! He can take care of his wife!"

"The child is right!" said Madame, quickly. "Geoffrey's wife, whoever she may be, will be treated with every respect. It is not the judgment of others which she need dread, but the judgment of her own heart. Listen to me, child! You are a sweet thing, and I love you for your devotion to my boy. As I told you before, I should be in love with you in his place, but I'm an old woman, and I know the world! Geoffrey is not used to work and economy; for a little time, while the first glamour lasted, he might be contented enough, but he would weary in the end. He would surely weary, and then—how would you feel? When you saw him restless and discontented; longing to leave you and fly back to his old life, would you feel no remorse? Love's young dream does not last for ever, my pretty child."

"No," said Elma, quietly; "dreams don't last, but sometimes the awakening is better! You have known Geoffrey all his life, Mrs Greville, and it seems presumptuous to pretend that I know him even better, but I can—feel! You believe he would tire of me, and long to get back to his old luxurious life. You think he would love me very much for a little time and then be indifferent and careless, and that I should feel it was my own fault; but you are wrong. Indeed, indeed, you are wrong! He is your son—has he ever failed you? You say yourself that he has been good and true. You would trust him for your own future. Do you think he would be less loyal to his own wife? I am not at all afraid. I am like you—I trust Geoffrey!"

As she finished speaking she turned towards her lover and held out her hand towards him, and in two strides Geoffrey was by her side; was on his knees beside her, holding that little hand pressed between both his own, turning to look at his mother with triumphant eyes; with eyes ashine with something deeper than triumph.

Geoffrey on his knees! Tears in Geoffrey's eyes! Madame stared in amaze, then broke into a sudden excited laugh.

"Bravo, Elma! Bravo, Geoffrey! Congratulations, my dears. Thank heaven you have a mother who knows when she is well beaten!"

She rose from her seat and crossed the room to where the girl sat. "Bravo, little Elma! I like to see a good fighting spirit. You will make Geoffrey a charming wife, and I shall be proud of my daughter." She took Elma's disengaged hand and pressed it between her own, and the girl smiled a happy response, but Geoffrey was oblivious of her presence, his eyes fixed upon his love's face, with the rapt, adoring gaze with which a knight of old may have gazed upon the vision of the grail. His mother looked at him, and her lips quivered. Artificial and frivolous though she was, her only son was dear to her heart. Since the hour of his birth he had been to her as a pivot round which the world revolved. Her son—the last of the Grevilles who had owned the Manor since the days of the Tudors. To be alienated from him would be the bitterest grief which life could bring.

Her grip tightened on the girl's hand.

"Elma!" she cried urgently. "I am Geoffrey's mother. He is yours now, and will be swayed by you, but he has been mine for thirty-three years. If I have taken part against you, it has been because I believed it was best for him. I have lost, and you have won. You will be his wife, the mistress of the Manor. I don't grudge you your success, but don't— don't bear me a grudge! Don't turn my boy against me!"

"Mrs Greville!" gasped Elma, breathlessly. "Mrs Greville!" She pulled her hand from Geoffrey's grasp, and rose swiftly to her feet. "Oh, please don't think that I could be so mean! I want him to love you more, not less. I want to be a real daughter! You must not think that I am going to drive you from your place. You must stay on at the Manor, and let me learn from you. There is so much that I shall have to learn. I shall be quite satisfied to be allowed to help!"

"Silly child!" said Madame, smiling. She lifted her delicate, ringed hand and stroked the girl's cheeks with kindly patronage. "You don't know what you are talking about, my dear, but I do—fortunately for us all! Geoffrey's wife must have no divided rule. You need not trouble your pretty head about me. Norton palls at times even to a Greville, and I shall enjoy my liberty. I'll go out and spend a cold weather with Carol; I'll have a cosy little flat in town, and do the theatres. I'll enjoy myself gadding about, and come down upon you now and then when I want a rest, but I'll never live with you, my dear; be sure of that!"

"It's rather early to make plans, mater. Things will arrange themselves. Elma and I will always try to make you happy," said Geoffrey, bluntly.

He, too, had risen, and stood by his mother's side; flushed, triumphant, a little shamefaced at the remembrance of his late emotion; but transparently and most radiantly happy. "I'll do all in my power to be a good son to you, and to Mrs Ramsden also if she will allow me!"

He was the first of the three to remember the existence of the little woman in the background; the little woman who was sobbing into her handkerchief, shedding bitter tears because, forsooth, her daughter had secured the biggest match in the country-side, and was about to become a Greville of Norton Manor!



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

The parental summons arrived ten days after the date of Elma's formal engagement, and at the expiration of the seventh week of Cornelia's sojourn in England. There it was for all the world to see;—short, authoritative, and to the point. Circumstances had altered Poppar's plan. His visit to Europe must be postponed, he desired his daughter to return home by the first possible boat. Useless to exclaim, to argue, to condemn. The command had gone forth; implicit obedience must ensue.

"Will you feel badly when I'm gone, Aunt Soph?" Cornelia asked after the news had been broken. She looked wistfully into the spinster's face, and felt herself answered as she noted the involuntary momentary hesitation which preceded the reply.

"It will naturally be a disappointment to me to miss seeing my brother, but I hope the pleasure is only deferred. I am glad to have had an opportunity of making your acquaintance, my dear, though the time is so curtailed."

"Yes, I guess we've fixed-up an acquaintance right enough!" said Cornelia, quietly. Seven weeks, or seven years—what did it matter? She and this woman could never become friends. Time counts for nothing in the intercourse of souls. An hour may reveal a kindred spirit; no years can bridge some gaps. Elma would remain a life-long friend, Guest a life-long memory, but her kinswoman, the nearest on earth with the one exception of her father, must for ever be a stranger.

Cornelia was sad at heart that day, and Elma was sad, too; opening wide, startled eyes, and clasping her friend in jealous arms.

"Cornelia, it isn't true! It can't be true! I can't spare you, dear. Is it really impossible to stay on a little longer? Geoffrey and I counted on you for our wedding. It is fixed for October, and I wanted you for a bridesmaid. I wanted you to pay me a visit in my own house! You have been such a friend to us both, that we need you, Cornelia! I shall miss you badly!"

"Shucks!" returned Cornelia, lightly. "You'll forget there is such a creature in existence. I should, in your place, and I don't mind if you do, for I know you'll remember again another day. This is Geoffrey's hour, and I won't interfere. If I live, I'll pay you that visit right enough, and maybe you'll come over to see me. I'd give you a roaring time. Tell Geoffrey he is bound to bring you over to see America. I'll think about you on your marriage-day, but I don't know as I'm sorry to do the thinking at a distance. Wedding-days aren't the liveliest occasions in the world for the looker-on. I guess I'd feel pretty 'left,' when you drove off from the gates, and I found myself all by my lonesome with the two old girls. ... I've wired to Liverpool about berths, and may have to start off at a day's notice, so we've got to make the most of the time. Aunt Soph don't care! She's polite, of course, but right at the back of her mind I can see she's planning to clean out my room, and thinking how good it will be to have the mats laid aside, and the shroudings over the tables! If it wasn't for you, Moss Rose, I should feel I'd done a fool-trick coming over at all! When all's said and done it amounts to nothing but disappointment and heart- break."

"You mean," began Elma, "you mean—" and then suddenly paused. Why should Cornelia's heart break? Disappointment and disillusion would be natural enough in one who had experienced both coldness and deception within the last few weeks, but heart-break was too strong a term. To Elma, with her mind full to overflowing of that beloved Geoffrey, it seemed as if nothing but love could count so seriously in life. Her thoughts flew to Guest, recalling all she had heard of his knight- errantry in London; of the long hours which the two had spent alone together; and later on, of the daily meetings in the Park, planned for her own benefit, but none the less opportunities for fuller knowledge. She fixed her blue eyes on Cornelia's face, and asked a sudden question—

"Does Captain Guest know that you are going?"

"How should he?" returned Cornelia, lightly. Eyes and lips were unflinching, but all the will in the world could not keep the blood from her cheeks. "He's visiting somewhere at the other end of the country, with old friends who belong to his own world, and feel the same way about the same things. Let him stay and be happy! I don't want him to come worrying down here for the fun of saying good-bye. Guess he's had trouble enough about my affairs. Mind now, Elma, you are not to tell him! This is my affair, and I won't have you interfere."

Elma meekly disavowed any intention of communicating with Captain Guest, but like many other meek people she harboured a quiet reservation which annulled the promise. She would not write, but—Geoffrey could! Geoffrey should! That flame in Cornelia's cheek satisfied her that the girl's interest was deeper than she would admit, and if Guest returned the feeling, what joy, what rapture to have Cornelia settled in England; to look forward to a life of constant intercourse! Cornelia had helped her; according to her lights Elma was determined to help Cornelia also.

With disconcerting swiftness a return telegram arrived from Liverpool stating that owing to illness a passenger had been suddenly obliged to resign a state-room on the boat sailing on the following Saturday, and that the accommodation would be reserved pending Miss Briskett's confirmation. An immediate reply was requested.

Cornelia gasped and hesitated. Four days! Only four days, and then farewell to England and English friends. She had not expected anything so speedy as this. During these summer months berths were engaged so long ahead that it was generally a most difficult thing to arrange for a speedy passage. She had been told of this over and over again; had known of her friends' difficulties in such matters; in the background of her mind had counted on a similar delay in her own case. In a week or a fortnight much might happen, but in four days! She stood battling with temptation, while Mary watched her with anxious eyes. No one but herself knew the purport of the message; no one need know if the answer were a refusal. Two or three scribbled words would give her a reprieve. ... Poor Cornelia! She realised afresh how easy it was to be brave in anticipation, how bitterly hard in actual fact. She was silent so long that Mary summoned up courage to ask a question—

"Is it bad news, miss?"

Cornelia stared at her blankly for a moment, and valiantly forced a smile.

"I guess there's two sides to it, as there are to most things in this world. My Poppar'll think it splendid, but you'll hate it badly enough. I'm going pretty quick, Mury! You won't have me but four days more!"

The truth was out. She had burned her boats, and made retreat impossible. While Mary wept and lamented, Cornelia wrote the confirmatory wire, and sent it out to the waiting messenger. Then Mary returned to continue her lamentations.

"I wish I could marry him, and be done with it! I can't seem to face staying on here with no one but her in the house, nagging at us all the day. I'll have to make another move!" she proclaimed dismally. In Mary's converse the singular pronoun, when masculine, always applied to her friend; when feminine, to her mistress. Cornelia had grasped this fact, and had therefore no difficulty in understanding her meaning. She sat down in a chair by the window, and stared at the maid with serious eyes.

"Do you love him, Mury? Enough to marry him, and live beside him every one day to the end of your life? You think you would not get—tired?"

Mary hesitated, unwilling to commit herself. "I wouldn't like to go so far as that," she announced judicially. "He aggravates me at times something cruel, but I'd sooner be aggravated by him nor anyone else. They talk a lot of rubbish about love, Miss Cornelia, but that's about the size of it when all's said and done. Some people suit you and others don't, and all the lovey-doveying in the world won't make 'em—"

"Why, Mury, you are a philosopher! It's the dead truth, Mury, but I guess you needn't rub it in.—If you've made up your mind, why need you wait?"

"Furniture, miss! I've told him I won't marry to go into rooms, not if it's ever so. I'll wait till I get a 'ome of me own. He'd put by a goodish bit, and so had I, but things have been agen us. He was out of work four months last winter, and mother's legs are a awful drain— liniments, and bandages, and what-not. You can't see your own mother suffer, and not pay out. We've got to wait till we save up again."

"How much money does it take to furnish a cottage over here, Mury?"

"That depends on how it's done. You can do it 'an'some for forty pounds. I lived with a girl who did hers for twenty, but I wouldn't like to be as close as that. I reckon about thirty."

"Thirty pounds! One hundred and fifty dollars!" Cornelia gasped in astonishment at the smallness of the sum. "You can't mean that that includes everything—chairs and tables, and carpets, and dishes, and beds, and bureaus, and brooms, and tins, and curtains, and fire-irons— and all the fixing to put 'em up! It isn't possible you can get them all for a hundred and fifty dollars!"

"You can, miss. There's a shop in the Fore Street where they do you everything complete for three rooms for thirty pounds, with a velvet suite for the parlour. Lady's chair, gent's chair, sofa, and four uprights, with chiffonnier, and overmantel, and all. You couldn't wish for anything better. The girl I lived with had only a few odd bits—I'd be ashamed to have such a poor sort of parlour.—In the kitchen they give you a dresser, and a flap-table, and linoleum on the floor. Jim and me went to the shop one day to have a look round. ... That was when he had a bit put by!" Mary sighed, and flicked away a tear. "And now you're going next! I'm getting a bit sick of bad luck, I am!"

Cornelia was bending forward in her seat, her chin supported in the palms of her hands. Her expression was very grave and wistful, but in her eyes shone the light of awakened interest.

"Mury!—you've been real good and attentive to me. I guess I've given you quite a heap of trouble. I want to make you a present before I go. Would you like it if I fixed-up that house so's you could get married right away? If you say so, you can go to that store and make your own bargains, and I'll leave thirty pounds with Miss Ramsden to pay the bills. I'd like to feel I'd helped you to a home of your own, Mury!"

Mary clutched the back of a chair near to which she was standing; her eyes protruded, her chin dropped, speech failed her in the excess of emotion. She could only stare, and gasp, and stare again.

"Poor Mury!" said Cornelia, softly. "Are you so pleased? I want you should be pleased. If I ken make someone happy to-day—right-down, tearing happy, it's going to help me more'n you know. ... Won't you enjoy going shopping with your friend, Mury, bossing round in that store, choosing the things you want, and putting on airs as if you owned the bank? Mind you put on airs, Mury! Make 'em hop round, and get things to your taste. They'll think the more of you, and it's not every day one furnishes a house. ... I'll send you my picture to stand on the mantelpiece in that parlour, and when you dust it in the mornings, you can send me a kind thought 'way over all those miles of ocean, and I'll think of you sitting in the lady's chair. ... For the land's sake, girl, don't have a fit! You don't need to have a thing unless you say so!"

"Oh, Miss Cornelia!" sobbed Mary, brokenly. "You're too—I'm so—you're an angel, Miss Cornelia, that's what you are! ... Jim will go off his head when he hears this.—It's a sort of thing you can't seem to believe.—I loved to wait on you, miss; if you'd never given me a thing I'd have loved it all the same—you talked so kind, and took such an interest, and was always so lively and laughing. It wasn't for what I could get—but the house! ... To have a house thrown at you, as you may say, at a moment's notice—it—takes away my breath! I can't seem to take it in."

"But you are happy, Mury? You feel happy to think of it?"

"I should think I do just. Clean dazed with happiness!"

"Poor Mury!" said Cornelia, again. She looked across the room at the flushed, ecstatic face of the prospective bride, and smiled with tender sympathy.

"I'm real glad you're pleased. To-night, just as soon as dinner's over, you must go out and tell your friend. I'll fix it up with Aunt Soph. You'll have a fine time, won't you? He won't believe it's true, but you'll make him believe, and be as happy as grigs walking round and planning out that parlour. Come into my room when you get back and tell me what he says. I shan't be asleep!"

There seemed no time for sleep during the next few days. The mornings were devoted to packing, and to long confidential interviews with Elma; the afternoons to a succession of tea-parties, to which every old lady in Norton was bidden in turns, to say the same things, and breathe the same pious good wishes; the evenings to decorous cribbage matches with her aunt; the nights—the nights were Cornelia's own secret, but they left a wan, heavy-eyed damsel to yawn at the breakfast-table each morning.

When the last hour arrived, the very last, Cornelia's friends assembled at the station to bid her good-bye; Miss Briskett, tall and angular in her new grey costume; Mrs Ramsden with the black feather fiercely erect in the front of her bonnet; lovely, blooming Elma attended by her swain, and in the background the faithful Mary, holding on to the dressing-bag, and sniffing dolorously. Cornelia had refused to be escorted farther on the journey, and now that the hour had arrived, her one longing was to say her farewells and be left to herself.

She was eager to be off, yet, when the train steamed slowly out of the station, she was gripped by a strange, swift spasm of anguish. Not on her friends' behalf. Aunt Soph had made no pretence of anything beyond polite regret. Elma and Mary shared a personal happiness so deep, that, for the time at least, the departure of a friend held no lasting sting. Cornelia could wave adieu to each, rejoicing in their joy, in the remembrance that she had had some small share in bringing it about; yet the torturing pain continued, the desolating ache of disappointment.

What was it for which she had waited? What hope had lived persistent at the back of her mind, while she had pretended that she had no hope? She knew now that, hour by hour, she had lived in the expectation of Guest's return; had felt an unreassuring conviction that he must come before she left! That she had done her utmost to prevent his coming had nothing to do with the case. Surely, when she had so sternly followed the dictates of reason, there was all the more need for some good fairy to weave a miracle which should upset her plans. Something must happen! Something! At sweet-and-twenty it is so difficult to believe in the irrevocable!

The journey to London was alive with memories. In this corner she had sat watching Guest's face, listening to his voice as he told the story of his life. At this landscape they had looked together, admiring, and comparing tastes and impressions. At Paddington, Mrs Moffatt had stood in waiting upon the platform. Cornelia was thankful to be safe inside the boat-mail, away from the pressing memories. Here the atmosphere was of home. Eye and ear caught on every side the familiar accent, the familiar phraseology; the familiar tilt of the hat, and squaring of shoulder. The passenger list included more than one well-known name, and once afloat she was sure of companionship. She settled down in her corner, with a sigh of relief, as of one who has reached a haven after struggling in deep waters. This was a foretaste of home! These people were her own kindred; their ways were her ways, their thoughts her thoughts. For the first time since her arrival on English soil she felt the rest of being in perfect accord with her surroundings. With Cornelia America was a passion; life away from her native land was only half a life.

Aboard the great steamer the passengers were rushing to and fro, searching for their state-rooms, and, when found, depositing their impedimenta on the tops of the narrow white bunks.

Cornelia walked to the quietest corner of the deck, dropped her bag on a seat, and leant idly over the rail. She was in no hurry to go below, and held instinctively aloof from the groups of fellow-passengers and their friends. She was alone, and her heart was sad.

Someone walking quickly along the deck caught sight of the solitary figure in the trim, dark-blue dress, and recognised its outline before a turn of the head revealed the glorious, flaming hair. Someone with a grim face, pale beneath his tan, with haggard lines about the eyes and mouth; a man whose looks betrayed the fact that he had been awake all night, face to face with calamity. He walked straight to the girl's side, and laid his hand upon her arm.

"Cornelia!"

Cornelia turned swiftly, and a light leapt into her eyes; a light of joy, so pure and involuntary that, at sight of it, the man's face lost something of its grim tension. He turned his back so as to screen the girl from the passers-by, and his hand tightened on her arm.

"Cornelia, are you running away from me?"

She did not answer, but her silence gave assent—her silence, and a quiet bend of the head.

"Why?"

"I was—afraid!" breathed Cornelia, low.

Beneath the close-fitting cap Guest could see her lips tremble. The little face looked white and tense. She twisted her fingers nervously.

"Afraid of me, and my love? Afraid that I should come back to trouble you? Afraid of my selfishness, Cornelia?"

The curling lips breathed a faint dissent.

"Of what, then? We have only a few minutes left. You must tell me the truth now!"

She raised her eyes to his; brave, pitiful eyes, mutely imploring for mercy.

"Of myself! Of my own weakness! Afraid lest I might give way, and ruin two lives!"

"You knew that I loved you; that I had gone away to prove my love, to see if it would stand the test of absence? It was a serious matter for us both, and I would not let myself act on the spur of an impulse. If I had, Cornelia, you know that I should have spoken long ago!—that night on the river. You knew it at the time. I saw it in your eyes.—I made you promise to let me know if you left Norton during my absence. It was not fair to run away."

"I never promised! I never did! You asked me, but I didn't promise. I felt at the time that I must leave."

The words came in quick, gasping breaths, as a child might speak who tried to justify himself to his taskmaster. Guest's face softened at the sound, and his grasp of the girl's arm turned into a caress.

"Darling, don't you see what that means? You love me, or you would not be afraid. Geoffrey wrote to me giving me warning, but the letter only reached me late yesterday night. I have been travelling ever since. I just managed to be here in time. If I had missed the boat I should have come after you. Do you think a few thousand miles are going to keep us apart, Cornelia?"

She shook her head sadly. "No!—no distance in space, just the distance between our two selves; the distance that can't be bridged! We belong to different worlds, you and I; we could never be happy together. You love forms and ceremonies, and conventions; all the things that worry me most, and make me feel ugly. It's the height of your ambition to settle down in your old home, and to keep things rolling along in the same old ruts that they've run in for centuries. I want change and excitement, and the newest there is. Your quiet English life would get on my nerves. Poppar and I have had lots of ups and downs, and I've never lost grit. I ken bear a good big blow, but to stodge along every day the same dull round would drive me crazed! We live quickly over with us, and you're so slow. I don't say that the advantage is all on our side. I used to laugh at English girls, but I don't any longer, since I've known Elma Ramsden. If I were a man, Elma's the sort I'd want for my wife. You'll find another like her some day, and be thankful you are free. You love me now, but your love would not stand the strain of pulling separate ways all our lives—"

Guest gazed at her with gloomy eyes.

"You don't love me, or you would not think of anything else. Whatever may be the differences between us, you are the one woman I have ever wanted for my wife. I can't bear to let you go. ... Don't trifle with me for the few minutes that are left. Tell me honestly how we stand. ... Do you love me, Cornelia?"

"I—could!" answered Cornelia, slowly. Her cheeks flushed beneath his gaze, and the white lids drooped over the honest eyes. "It was just finding out how easy it would be, that sent me running home. The people at Norton think it was Poppar's doing, but I'll tell you straight that I asked him to send for me. ... Life's a big chance. We've got to make the best we know out of it, for ourselves and other people. I don't mean to spoil things for us both. ... You didn't want to love me! Right at the back of your mind you've felt all the time that I was not your mate. You went away to think it out; perhaps, if the truth's known, you were still undecided when the news of my sailing brought you up with a run. When I am gone and you have had time to cool down, you'll be glad!"

Guest repeated the word with bitter emphasis.

"Glad! I shall be glad, shall I? At the present moment, in any case, I am the most miserable man on earth. Have you no pity, Cornelia? Will nothing move you? Think how happy we have been together! If we loved each other, surely we could outlive the differences? Can you bear to go away like this and leave me for ever? Is it nothing to you how I suffer? Don't you care, Cornelia?"

"Yes, I care," she answered simply. "It hurts, but it's going to hurt a lot more if I stay behind. If we lived together it would be like trying to piece together the bits of two different puzzles. We don't fit!"

The simple words expressed the truth with paralysing force. Even at that bitter moment Guest recognised their truth, and was dumb before it. He turned aside, his strong jaw working with emotion, powerless to fight any longer against the rock of Cornelia's will.

Behind him lay the grey city wrapped in its veil of smoke, the tall spire of the old church rising in picturesque isolation above the line of the surrounding buildings. It seemed at that moment to stand as a symbol of the life of the Mother Country, a life fenced in by convention, by forms and ceremonies sanctified to every Englishman by centuries of association; forms at which he may at times smile or scoff, but which he would no sooner demolish than he would tear away the clustering ivy which clothes his walls. Before him lay the broad river, its mouth widening to the sea: to that free, untrammelled waste of waters, which were a fit symbol of that land of the West, whose daughter could place her liberty even before her love!

There came a sudden stir and movement. A second time the bell clanged its warning, and the visitors began to stream towards the gangway. Guest heard the sound of a strangled sob, and felt his own heart beat with suffocating quickness.

"I—I can't face it," he cried desperately, "I won't take this as an answer. If I had time I could make you listen to me. I could make you agree. I shall come after you to New York."

She turned aside, but not so quickly that he did not catch the sudden light in her eyes, the same involuntary gleam of joy which had greeted his coming a few minutes before. The sight of that tell-tale signal made his heart leap, but Cornelia shook her head, and her voice broke in a low-breathed "Ho! It would be a mistake. Wait here. Wait quietly! At first it will hurt, but after a while you'll be glad. You'll find that other things come first. You think now that you will come after me, but I know you better! You will never come. You'll not want me any more."

Guest laughed a strained little laugh of excitement and exultation. Cornelia might preach prudence, and hold fast to her own ideas, but at least she had not forbidden his coming; had not said in so many words, "I will not see you!" For the moment, at least, he had triumphed; he was confident that the future also would be his own.

"We will discuss that question on our next meeting," he cried breathlessly. "I will wait as long as you like; undergo any test you like to decree, but I will come! Au revoir, Cornelia!"

"Good-bye!" breathed Cornelia, low. She raised her eyes to his, but now there was no light in the golden depths, but only a deep and immeasurable sadness.

Guest wrung her hand, and turned aside. There was no time left to reason further. The future alone could prove the depth and stability of his love. He made his way to the gangway, his heart wrung with the sense of loss, of wounded love and pride. By his side men and women sobbed and cried, while others laughed and exchanged merry banter with their friends on board. To some this meant a parting for life; to others a pleasure excursion across the ocean ferry. Among them all, was there one whose loss was as his own?

A wild impulse seized him to push his way back and remain on the boat for the first stage of the journey, but the steady stream bore him onward, and, as in a dream, he found himself standing on the stage, and saw the gangway descend. He stood in the crowd and heard a woman sob by his side. She was waving her handkerchief to a sad-faced man, who stood on the spot which Cornelia had vacated but a minute before. Now she had disappeared. Guest's eyes searched for her hungrily, but in vain. It was only as the vessel slowly moved from the stage that she came into sight; a small dark figure standing alone on the upper deck, with the sunlight shining on ruddy locks, and on a white face turned outwards towards the sea.

THE END