Constance nodded.

"He did it for you," she said, her eyes full of tears. "He said you were the best pupil he ever had."

The door opened, and Mrs. Mulholland's white head appeared, with Falloden and Sorell behind.

"Otto!" said Mrs. Mulholland, softly.

He understood that she called him, and he went with her in bewilderment, along the passage to the studio.

Falloden came into the sitting-room and shut the door.

"Did he like it?" he asked, in a low voice, in which there was neither pleasure nor triumph.

Connie, who was still sitting on the stool by the fire with her face turned away, looked up.

"Oh, yes, yes!" she said in a kind of desperation, wringing her hands; "but why are some pleasures worse than pain—much worse?"

Falloden came up to her, and stood silently, his eyes on hers.

"You see"—she went on, dashing tears away—"it is not his work—his playing! It can't do anything—can it, for his poor starved self?"

Falloden said nothing. But she knew that he felt with her. Their scheme seemed to be lying in ruins; they were almost ashamed of it.

Then from the further room there came to their ears a prelude of Chopin, played surely by more than mortal fingers—like the rustling of summer trees, under a summer wind. And suddenly they heard Otto's laugh—a sound of delight.

Connie sprang up—her face transformed.

"Did you hear that? We have—we have—given him pleasure!"

"Yes—for an hour," said Falloden hoarsely. Then he added—"The doctors say he ought to go south.".

"Of course he ought!" Connie was pacing up and down, her hands behind her, her eyes on the ground. "Can't Mr. Sorell take him?"

"He could take him out, but he couldn't stay. The college can't spare him. He feels his first duty is to the college?"

"And you?" She raised her eyes timidly.

"What good should I be alone?" he said, with difficulty. "I'm a pretty sort of a nurse!"

There was a pause. Connie trembled and flushed. Then she moved forward, both her little hands outstretched.

"Take me with you!" she murmured under her breath. But her eyes said more—far more.

The next moment she was in Falloden's arms, strained against his breast—everything else lost and forgotten, as their lips met, in the just selfishness of passion.

Then he released her, stepping back from her, his strong face quivering.

"I was a mean wretch to let you do that!" he said, with energy.

She eyed him.

"Why?"

"Because I have no right to let you give yourself to me—throw yourself away on me—just because we have been doing this thing together,—because you are sorry for Otto—and"—his voice dropped—"perhaps for me."

"Oh!" It was a cry of protest. Coming nearer she put her two hands lightly on his shoulders—.

"Do you think"—he saw her breath fluttering—"do you think I should let any one—any one—kiss me—like that! just because I was sorry for them—or for some one else?"

He stood motionless beneath her touch.

"You are sorry for me—you angel!—and you're sorry for Otto—and you want to make up to everybody—and make everybody happy—and—"

"And one can't!" said Connie quietly, her eyes bright with tears. "Don't I know that? I repeat"—her colour was very bright—"but perhaps you won't believe, that—that"—then she laughed—"of my own free will, I never kissed anybody before?"

"Constance!" He threw his strong arms round her again. But she slipped out of them.

"Am I believed?" The tone was peremptory.

Falloden stooped, lifted her hand and kissed it humbly.

"You know you ought to marry a duke!" he said, trying to laugh, but with a swelling throat.

"Thank you—I never saw a duke yet I wanted to marry."

"That's it. You've seen so little. I am a pauper, and you might marry anybody. It's taking an unfair advantage. Don't you see—what—"

"What my aunts will think?" asked Constance coolly. "Oh, yes, I've considered all that."

She walked away, and came back, a little pale and grave. She sat down on the arm of a chair and looked up at him.

"I see. You are as proud as ever."

That hurt him. His face changed.

"You can't really think that," he said, with difficulty.

"Yes, yes, you are!" she said, wildly, covering her eyes a moment with her hands. "It's just the same as it was in the spring—only different—I told you then—"

"That I was a bully and a cad!"

Her hands dropped sharply.

"I didn't!" she protested. But she coloured brightly as she spoke, remembering certain remarks of Nora's. "I thought—yes I did think—you cared too much about being rich—and a great swell—and all that. But so did I!" She sprang up. "What right had I to talk? When I think how I patronised and looked down upon everybody!"

"You!" his tone was pure scorn. "You couldn't do such a thing if you tried for a week of Sundays."

"Oh, couldn't I? I did. Oxford seemed to me just a dear, stupid old place—out of the world,—a kind of museum—where nobody mattered. Silly, wasn't it?—childish?" She drew back her head fiercely, as though she defied him to excuse her. "I was just amusing myself with it—and with Otto—and with you. And that night, at Magdalen, all the time I was dancing with Otto, I was aiming—abominably—at you! I wanted to provoke you—to pay you back—oh, not for Otto's sake—not at all!—but just because—I had asked you something—and you had refused. That was what stung me so. And do you suppose I should have cared twopence, unless—"

Her voice died away. Her fingers began fidgeting with the arm of the chair, her eyes bent upon them.

He looked at her a moment irresolute, his face working. Then he said huskily—

"In return—for that—I'll tell you—I must tell you the real truth about myself. I don't think you know me yet—and I don't know myself. I've got a great brutal force in me somewhere—that wants to brush everything—that hinders me—or checks me—out of my path. I don't know that I can control it—that I can make a woman happy. It's an awful risk for you. Look at that poor fellow!" He flung out his hand towards that distant room whence came every now and then a fresh wave of music. "I didn't intend to do him any bodily harm—"

"Of course not! It was an accident!" cried Connie passionately.

"Perhaps—strictly. But I did mean somehow to crush him—to make it precious hot for him—just because he'd got in my way. My will was like a steel spring in a machine—that had been let go. Suppose I felt like that again, towards—"

"Towards me?" Connie opened her eyes very wide, puckering her pretty brow.

"Towards some one—or something—you care for. We are certain to disagree about heaps of things."

"Of course we are. Quite certain!"

"I tell you again"—said Falloden, speaking with a strong simplicity and sincerity that was all the time undoing the impression he honestly desired to make—"It's a big risk for you—a temperament like mine—and you ought to think it over seriously. And then"—he paused abruptly in front of her, his hands in his pockets—"why should you—you're so young!—start life with any burden on you? Why should you? It's preposterous! I must look after Otto all his life."

"So must I!" said Connie quickly. "That's the same for both of us."

"And then—you may forget it—but I can't. I repeat—I'm a pauper. I've lost Flood. I've lost everything that I could once have given you. I've got about four thousand pounds left—just enough to start me at the bar—when I've paid for the Orpheus. And I can't take a farthing from my mother or the other children. I should be just living upon you. How do I know that I shall get on at the bar?"

Connie smiled; but her lips trembled.

"Do think it over," he implored; and he walked away from her again, as though to leave her free.

There was a silence. He turned anxiously to look at her.

"I seem"—said Connie, in a low voice that shook—"to have kissed somebody—for nothing."

That was the last stroke. He came back to her, and knelt beside her, murmuring inarticulate things. With a sigh of relief, Connie subsided upon his shoulder, conscious through all her emotion of the dear strangeness of the man's coat against her cheek. But presently, she drew herself away, and looked him in the eyes, while her own swam.

"I love you"—she said deliberately—"because—well, first because I love you!—that's the only good reason, isn't it; and then, because you're so sorry. And I'm sorry too. We've both got to make up—we're going to make up all we can." Her sweet face darkened. "Oh, Douglas, it'll take the two of us—and even then we can't do it! But we'll help each other."

And stooping she kissed him gently, lingeringly, on the brow. It was a kiss of consecration.

* * * * *

A few minutes more, and then, with the Eighth Prelude swaying and dancing round them, they went hand in hand down the long approach to the music-room.

The door was open, and they saw the persons inside. Otto and Sorell were walking up and down smoking cigarettes. The boy was radiant, transformed. All look of weakness had disappeared; he held himself erect; his shock of red-gold hair blazed in the firelight, and his eyes laughed, as he listened silently, playing with his cigarette. Sorell evidently was thinking only of him; but he too wore a look of quiet pleasure.

Only Mrs. Mulholland sat watchful, her face turned towards the open door. It wore an expression which was partly excitement, partly doubt. Her snow-white hair above her very black eyes, and her frowning, intent look, gave her the air of an old Sibyl watching at the cave's mouth.

But when she saw the two—the young man and the girl—coming towards her, hand in hand, she first peered at them intently, and then, as she rose, all the gravity of her face broke up in laughter.

"Hope for the best, you foolish old woman!" she said to herself—"'Male and female made He them!'—world without end—Amen!"

"Well?" She moved towards them, as they entered the room; holding out her hands with a merry, significant gesture.

Otto and Sorell turned. Connie—crimson—threw herself on Mrs. Mulholland's neck and kissed her. Falloden stood behind her, thinking of a number of things to say, and unable to say any of them.

The last soft notes of the Prelude ceased.

It was for Connie to save the situation. With a gentle, gliding step, she went across to Otto, who had gone very white again.

"Dear Otto, you told me I should marry Douglas, and I'm going to. That's one to you. But I won't marry him—and he agrees—unless you'll promise to come to Algiers with us a month from now. You'll lend him to us, won't you?"—she turned pleadingly to Sorell—"we'll take such care of him. Douglas—you may be surprised!—is going to read law at Biskra!"

Otto sank into a chair. The radiance had gone. He looked very frail and ghostly. But he took Connie's outstretched hand.

"I wish you joy," he said, stumbling painfully over the words. "I do wish you joy!—with all my heart."

Falloden approached him. Otto looked up wistfully. Their eyes met, and for a moment the two men were conscious only of each other.

Mrs. Mulholland moved away, smiling, but with a sob in her throat.

"It's like all life," she thought—"love and death, side by side."

And she remembered that comparison by a son of Oxford, of each moment, as it passes, to a watershed "whence equally the seas of life and death are fed."

But Connie was determined to carry things off with a laugh. She sat down beside Otto, looking businesslike.

"Douglas and I"—the name came out quite pat—"have been discussing how long it really takes to get married."

Mrs. Mulholland laughed.

"Mrs. Hooper has been enjoying Alice's trousseau so much, you needn't expect she'll let you get through yours in a hurry."

"It's going to be my trousseau, not Aunt Ellen's," said Connie with decision. "Let me see. It's now nearly Christmas. Didn't we say the 12th of January?" She looked lightly at Falloden.

"Somewhere near it," said Falloden, his smile at last answering hers.

"We shall want a fortnight, I suppose, to get used to each other," said Connie coolly. "Then"—she laid a hand on Mrs. Mulholland's knee—"you bring him to Marseilles to meet us?"

"Certainly—at your orders."

Connie looked at Otto.

"Dear Otto?" The soft tone pleaded. He started painfully.

"You're awfully good to me. But how can I come to be a burden on you?"

"But I shall go too," said Mrs. Mulholland firmly.

Connie exclaimed in triumph.

"We four—to front the desert!—while he"—she nodded towards Sorell—"is showing Nora and Uncle Ewen Rome. You mayn't know it"—she addressed Sorell—"but on Monday, January 24th—I think I've got the date right—you and they go on a picnic to Hadrian's Villa. The weather's arranged for—and the carriage is ordered."

She looked at him askance; but her colour had risen. So had his. He looked down on her while Mrs. Mulholland and Falloden were both talking fast to Otto.

"You little witch!" said Sorell in a low voice—"what are you after now?"

Connie laughed in his face.

"You'll go—you'll see!"

* * * * *

The little dinner which followed was turned into a betrothal feast. Champagne was brought in, and Otto, madly gay, boasted of his forebears and the incomparable greatness of Poland as usual. Nobody minded. After dinner the magic toy in the studio discoursed Brahms and Schumann, in the intervals of discussing plans and chattering over maps. But Connie insisted on an early departure. "My guardian will have to sleep upon it—and there's really no time to lose." Every one took care not to see too much of the parting between her and Falloden. Then she and Mrs. Mulholland were put into their carriage. But Sorell preferred to walk home, and Falloden went back to Otto.

Sorell descended the hill towards Oxford. The storm was dying away, and the now waning moon, which had shone so brilliantly over the frozen floods a day or two before, was venturing out again among the scudding clouds. The lights in Christ Church Hall were out, but the beautiful city shone vaguely luminous under the night.

Sorell's mind was full of mingled emotion—as torn and jagged as the clouds rushing overhead. The talk and laughter in the cottage came back to him. How hollow and vain it sounded in the spiritual ear! What could ever make up to that poor boy, who could have no more, at the most, than a year or two to live, for the spilt wine of his life?—the rifled treasure of his genius? And was it not true to say that his loss had made the profit of the two lovers—of whom one had been the author of it? When Palloden and Constance believed themselves to be absorbed in Otto, were they not really playing the great game of sex like any ordinary pair?

It was the question that Otto himself had asked—that any cynic must have asked. But Sorell's tender humanity passed beyond it. The injury done, indeed, was beyond repair. But the mysterious impulse which had brought Falloden to the help of Otto was as real in its sphere as the anguish and the pain; aye, for the philosophic spirit, more real than they, and fraught with a healing and disciplining power that none could measure. Sorell admitted—half reluctantly—the changes in life and character which had flowed from it. He was even ready to say that the man who had proved capable of feeling it, in spite of all past appearances, was "not far from the Kingdom of God."

Oxford drew nearer and nearer. Tom Tower loomed before him. Its great bell rang out. And suddenly, as if he could repress it no longer, there ran through Scroll's mind—his half melancholy mind, unaccustomed to the claims of personal happiness—the vision that Connie had so sharply evoked; of a girl's brown eyes, and honest look—the look of a child to be cherished, of a woman to be loved.

Was it that morning that he had helped Nora to translate a few lines of the "Antigone"?

"Love, all conquering love, that nestles in the fair cheeks of a maiden—"

It is perhaps not surprising that Sorell, on this occasion, after he had entered the High, should have taken the wrong turn to St. Cyprian's, and wakened up to find himself passing through the Turl, when he ought to have been in Radcliffe Square.

THE END