Curiously enough, neither did Phyllis look at him as was her wont.

And so he left them that night.



CHAPTER XXXIV.

GIVE HIM BACK TO ME—GIVE HIM BACK TO ME!

They seemed to have been parted for months instead of hours, so much had they to say to each other, and so rapidly did they say it. Rapidly?—feverishly rather. Phyllis had only to remove her hat and smooth her hair at places, disordering it at others, in order to be all right; but half an hour had gone by before they went downstairs, arm in arm, after the manner of girls who have been talking feverishly and kissing every now and again.

It was madness for Phyllis to think of tea at that hour of the night, Ella declared; but she knew Phyllis' fancies in the past—she knew that what would set other girls' nerves in motion, would only have the effect of soothing hers. So Phyllis drank her tea and ate her cake in the drawing room, and Ella lay back on the sofa and watched her with a curious interest in her eyes.

"I am so glad that we are spending together in this way the last night of our delightful week," said Phyllis. "What a lovely week it has been! and the charm of it is, of course, to be found in the fact that it has been stolen from the best part of the season. In another month it would not be nearly so delightful—everyone will be hurrying off to the river or elsewhere."

"Such a week is one of the incidents that a person plans but that rarely comes off according to one's views," said Ella. "I told you when I set my heart upon Hurley what my idea was."

"And you have certainly realized it during this week. What a pity it is that this is our last night together!"

"Do you know, Phyllis, the way you said that suggested to me that you meant 'What a pity it is that Herbert Courtland is not one of our party to-night'!"

Ella was still lying on the broad pillows of the couch, her hands clasped at the back of her head. She was still watching Phyllis through her half-closed eyes.

"I was not thinking about Mr. Courtland in the least when I spoke. How can you fancy that I should be so insincere? I say it is delightful for us, you and me only, mind, to be together to-night, because we can say just whatever occurs to us—I thought we could, you know; but since you made that horrid suggestion I think I must take back all that I said. It is, after all, not nearly so nice to be alone with you as one would imagine."

"That was, I'm afraid, the conclusion that Herbert Courtland came to some time ago," said Ella. "He was alone with me here—yes, for some minutes; but he left me—he left me and found you."

"It was so funny!" cried Phyllis. "Who would have thought of seeing such a figure—bareheaded and in evening dress—on the road? I knew him at once, however. And he was walking so quickly too—walking as if—as if——"

"As if the devil were behind him—that's how men put it," said Ella. "It would never do for us to say that, of course, but in this particular case we might venture on it for the sake of strict accuracy; the devil was behind him. He escaped from it by the aid of his good angel. Didn't he call you his good angel once, my Phyllis?"

"Yes, he called me so once," said Phyllis. "But why should we talk about Mr. Courtland? Why should we talk about anybody to-night? Dearest Ella, let us talk about ourselves. You are of more interest to me than anyone in the world, and I know that I am of more interest to you than to anyone else. Let us talk about ourselves."

"Certainly we shall talk about ourselves," said Ella. "To begin, I should like very much to know if you were aware that Herbert had returned to this house after his day or two in town."

Phyllis undoubtedly colored before she said, with a laugh:

"Didn't you promise to talk solely about ourselves? I decline to talk on any other topic."

She arose from where she had been sitting before a cup of tea at a little table that also held cake, and threw herself back in a fanciful seat shaped like a shell.

"That being so, I should like very much to know how you learned that he meant to return," pursued Ella.

"You are becoming quite horrid, and I expected you to be so nice," said Phyllis, pouting very prettily.

"And I expected you to confide in me," said Ella reproachfully. "I have been watching you for some time—not merely during the past week, but long before; and I have seen—what I have seen. He could not have told you that he meant to return—you must have crossed each other in the trains. How did you know, my dear girl? Let me coax it out of you."

Phyllis made no answer for some time; she was examining, with a newly acquired, but very intense interest, the texture of the sheen of the blouse which she was wearing. At last she raised her eyes, and saw how Ella was looking at her. Then she said slowly:

"I saw him in the train that was leaving when our train arrived."

"Heavens! that is a confession!" cried Ella quite merrily.

"You forced it from me," said Phyllis. "But why should there be any mystery between us? I'm sure I may tell you all the secrets of my life. Such as they are, you know them already."

"They are safe in my keeping. My dear Phyllis, don't you know that it has always been my dearest hope to see you and Herbert Courtland—well, interested in each other? I saw that he was interested in you long ago; but I wasn't sure of you. That is just why I was so anxious for you to come down here for the week we have just passed. I wanted to bring you both together. I wanted to see you in love with each other; I wanted to see you both married."

"Ella—Ella!"

"I wanted it, I tell you, not because I loved you, though you know that I love you better than anyone in the world."

"Dearest Ella!"

"Not because I knew that you and he would be happy, but because I wished to snatch my own soul from perdition. I think it is safe now—but oh, my God! it is like the souls of many other mortals—saved in spite of myself! Phyllis, you have been my salvation. You are a girl; you cannot understand how near a woman may go to the bottomless pit through the love of a man. You fancy that love lifts one to the heaven of heavens; that it means purity—self-sacrifice. Well, there is a love that means purity; and there is a love that means self-sacrifice. Self-sacrifice: that is, that a woman is ready to sacrifice herself—her life—her soul—for the man whom she loves. I tell you—I, who know the truth—I, who have been at the brink. It is not that the pit is dear to us; it is that the man is dear to us, and we must go with him,—wherever he goes,—even down into hell itself with him."

"Oh, Ella, Ella! this is the love of the satyr. It is not the love of the one who is made in the image of God."

"Let it be what it is; it is a power that has to be reckoned upon so long as we remain creatures of the earth, earthy."

"It is a thing that we should beat into the earth from which it came." The girl had sprung to her feet, and was speaking with white face and clenched hands. "Down into the earth"—she stamped upon the floor—"even if we have to throw our bodies into the grave into which we trample it. Woman, I tell you that the other love,—the love which is the truth,—is stronger than the love of the satyr."

"Is it? is it, Phyllis? Yes, sometimes. Yes; it was a word that you spoke in his hearing that saved him—him—Herbert—and that saved me that night when I came to you—when I waited for you—you did not know anything of why I came. I will tell you now—"

"No, no, no! Oh, Ella! for God's sake, tell me nothing! I think I know all that I want to know; and I know that you had strength given to you by God to come to me that night. I had not to go to you. But I have come to you to-night. We are together, you and I; and we are the same as when we were girls together—oh, just the same! Who shall come between us, Ella?"

"Who? Who? You came here to save me. I knew it. But you had saved me before you came. Phyllis, in this very room I was alone with him. I was mad—mad with jealousy at the thought of losing him—though I knew that I had lost him—I was mad! The passion breathed from the roses—the twilight full of the memories of the spring we spent together in Italy—all took possession of my heart—my soul. I whispered to him to come to me—to come to me. And he came."

The cry the girl gave, as she covered her face with her hands and dropped back into her chair, was very pitiful.

"He came to me—but only one step—one little step, Phyllis; then there came before his eyes a vision of your face—he felt your hand—cool as a lily—upon his wrist—he heard your voice speaking into his ear; he turned and fled—fled through that window—fled from the demon that had taken possession of this room—I said so to you."

"Thank God—oh, Ella, thank God!"

"That is my cry—thank God—thank God; and yet—and yet—God help me! I feel ready to throw myself at your feet and say 'Give him back to me! Give him back to me!'"

She had stood with her hands clasped above her head at her first utterance of that imploration—"Give him back to me!" Then she threw herself on her knees and passionately caught both the girl's hands in her own, crying, "Give him back to me!"

Phyllis flung her arms about her neck, and bowed her own head down to the shoulder of the woman whom she loved and pitied.

And then——

Then through the silence of the house—the hour was almost midnight—there sounded the loud and continuous ringing of a bell.

It was only the usual visitors' bell of the house; but its effect at that hour was startling—shocking!

The two women were on their feet, waiting in silence, but with wildly beating hearts, for what was coming—they felt that something terrible was coming. The bell had an ominous jangle. They heard the footsteps of the one servant who remained up to put out the lights, going to answer the summons of the bell—they heard a man's voice speaking in a low tone in the hall—they heard a man's steps approach the door of their room. The door opened, and Mr. Ayrton appeared before them.

He closed the door slowly, and stood there staring not at his daughter, but at Ella Linton. On his face was an expression that Phyllis had never seen on it before. It frightened her. She could not speak.

He stood there, with his eyes fixed upon Ella Linton—rigid—silent as a figure that symbolizes Death.

The silence became appalling.

"For God's sake speak, if you are living!" cried Ella in a whisper tremulous with terror.

He did not speak—he stood there, staring at her.

"What does he mean? What does he mean?" said the woman, after another dreadful pause. "Why does he stand there, Phyllis, staring at me? Why——Oh, my God! I see it—I see it on his face—my husband—Stephen—dead—he is dead—you came to bring the news to me. Look, Phyllis, he cannot say 'No'—he would say 'No' unless I had guessed the truth—he would say it—he would have some pity. Is it the truth? Man—speak—say yes, or no—for God's sake! for God's sake!"

She had taken half a dozen rapid steps to him and grasped him by the arm, gazing into his face.

He bowed his head.

She flung his arm from her, and burst into a laugh.

"Ah, Phyllis! I see it all now. He was the man I loved—I know it now—he was the man I loved. It was for him I cried out just now—'Give him back to me—give him back to me!'"

The wild shriek with which she cried the words the second time rang through the house. She fell upon her knees, clutching at Phyllis' hand as before, and then, making a motion as if about to rise, she fell back and lay with her white face turned to the ceiling, her white arms stretched limply out on each side of her like the arms of a crucified woman.

Servants came with restoratives.



CHAPTER XXXV.

IF GOD WOULD ONLY GIVE ME ANOTHER CHANCE!

"Poor creature! Poor creature!" said Mr. Ayrton. He had just returned from the room to which they had carried Ella. Phyllis was lying on the sofa with her face down to the pillow. "Poor creature! No one could have had any idea that she was so attached to him! She will be one of the richest women in England. He fell down in the club between nine and ten. His heart. Sir Joseph was not surprised. He said he had told him a short time ago that he had not six months to live. He cannot have let his wife know. Well, well, perhaps it was for the best. His man came to me in a terrible state. How was it to be broken to her? I just managed to catch the last train. He must have been worth over a million. She will be one of the richest women in England. Even in America a woman with three-quarters of a million is reckoned moderately well off. Poor creature! Ah! the shorn lamb!—the wind is tempered. 'In the midst of life—' Dear Phyllis! you must not allow yourself to break down. Your sympathetic nature is hard to control, I know, but still—oh, my child!"

But Phyllis refused to be comforted. She lay sobbing on the pillow, and when her father put his arm about her and raised her, she put her head on his shoulder, crying:

"He is gone from me forever—he is gone from me forever! Oh, I am the cruelest woman on earth! It is not for her terrible blow that I am crying, it is because I have lost him—I see it—I have lost him!"

Her father became frightened. What in the world could she mean by talking about the man being gone from her? He had never heard of a woman's sympathy extending to such limits as caused her to feel a personal deprivation when death had taken another woman's husband.

"Oh, I am selfish—cruel—heartless!" sobbed Phyllis. "I thought of myself, not of her. He is hers; he will be given back to her as she prayed—she prayed so to me before you appeared at the door, papa. 'Give him back to me! Give him back to me!' that was her prayer."

"My dearest child, you must not talk that way," said the father. "Come, Phyllis, your strength has been overtaxed. You must go to bed and try to sleep."

She still moaned about her cruelty—her selfishness, until the doctor who had been sent for and had been with Ella in her room, appeared in order to let them know that Mrs. Linton had regained consciousness. The blow had, of course, been a terrible one: but she was young, and Nature would soon reassert herself, he declared, whatever he meant by that. He thought it strange, he said, that Mrs. Linton had not been aware of her husband's weakness. To him, the physician, the condition of the unfortunate gentleman had been apparent from the first moment he had seen him. He had expected to hear of his death any day. He concluded by advising Phyllis to go to bed and have as long a sleep as possible. He would return in the morning and see if Mrs. Linton might travel to London.

Phyllis went to her room, and her father went to the one which had been prepared for him. For a minute or two he remained thoughtful. What could his daughter have meant by those self-accusations? After a short time, however, he smiled. The poor thing had been upset by the shocking news of the death of the husband of her dearest friend. She was sympathetic to quite a phenomenal degree. That sympathy which felt her friend's loss as though it were wholly her own was certainly not to be met with every day.

In the morning Phyllis showed traces of having spent a bad night. But she spoke rationally and not in the wild way in which she had spoken before retiring, and her father felt that there was no need for him to be uneasy in regard to her condition. He allowed her to go to the side of her friend, Ella, and as he was leaving them together in each other's arms, he heard Ella say:

"Ah, Phyllis, I know it now. He was the man who had all my love—all—all! Ah, if God would only give me another chance—one more chance!"

Mr. Ayrton had heard that passionate appeal for another chance upon more than one previous occasion. He had heard the husband who had tortured his wife to death make a passionate appeal to God to give him another chance. He knew that God had never given him another chance with the same wife; but God had given him another wife in the course of time—a wife who was not made on the spiritual lines of those who die by torture; a wife who was able to formulate a list of her own rights, and the rights of her sisters, and who possessed a Will.

The man who wanted another chance had no chance with such a woman.

He had heard the wife, who had deserted her husband in favor of the teetotal platform, cry out for another chance, when her husband had died away from her. But God had compassion upon the husband. She did not get him back.

He pitied with all his heart the poor woman who would be one of the richest women in England in the course of a day or two, and he said so to Mr. Courtland when he called early in the morning. Mr. Courtland did not remain for long in the house. It might have been assumed that so intimate a friend of Mr. and Mrs. Linton's would be an acceptable visitor to the widow; but Mr. Courtland knew better. He hurried away to town without even asking to see her. He only begged of Mr. Ayrton to let him know if he could be of any use in town—there were details—ghastly; but he would take care that there was no inquest.

Phyllis went up to town with poor Ella, and remained by her side in that darkened house through all the terrible days that followed. Mr. Linton's death had an appreciable influence upon the quarter's revenue of the country. The probate duty paid by the executors was a large fortune in itself, and Ella was, as Mr. Ayrton had predicted she would be, one of the richest women in England. The hundred thousand pounds bequeathed to some unostentatious charities—charities that existed for the cause of charity, not for the benefit of the official staff—made no difference worth speaking of in the position of Mrs. Linton as one of the richest women in England.

But the codicil to the will which surprised most people was that which placed in the hands of Mrs. Linton and the Rev. George Holland as joint trustees the sum of sixty thousand pounds, for the building and endowment of a church, the character and aims of which would be in sympathy with the principles recently formulated by the Rev. George Holland in his book entitled "Revised Versions," and in his magazine article entitled "The Enemy to Christianity," the details to be decided by the Rev. George Holland and Mrs. Linton as joint trustees.

The codicil was, of course, a very recent one; but it was executed in proper form; it required two pages of engrossing to make the testator's desires plain to every intelligence that had received a thorough training in legal technicalities. It was susceptible of a good deal of interpretation to an ordinary intelligence.

When it was explained to Mrs. Linton, she also was at first a good deal surprised. It read very like a jest of some subtlety: for she had no idea that her husband had the slightest feeling one way or another on the subject of the development of one Church or another; and as for the establishment of an entirely new Church—yes, it struck her at first that her solicitor was making a bold and certainly quite an unusual attempt to cheer her up in her bereavement by bringing under her notice a jest of the order pachydermato.

But soon it dawned upon her that her husband meant a good deal by this codicil of his.

"I am getting to understand him better every day," she said to Phyllis. "He knew that I loved him and him only. He has given me this work to do, and with God's help I will do it thoroughly. You did not believe in the value of George Holland's doctrines. Neither did I: I never thought about them. I will accept my husband's judgment regarding them, and perhaps I may think about them later on. Our Church will be the most potent influence for good that the century has yet seen. Yes, I will throw myself heart and soul into the work. After all, it must be admitted that the Church has never done its duty as a Church."

Phyllis said nothing.

But the Rev. George Holland had a good deal to say on the subject of the codicil, when he was alone with Mrs. Linton, a few days later. He had by no means made up his mind to sever his connection with the dear old mother Church, he said. He could not see that there was any need for his taking so serious a step—an irrevocable step. It was his feeling at that moment, he declared, that he might be able to effect the object of his life—which was, of course, the reform of the Church—better by remaining within its walls than by severing himself from it. He must take time to consider his position.

He left Mrs. Linton greatly disappointed. It had been her belief that Mr. Holland would jump at the chance—that was the phrase which she employed in expressing her disappointment to Phyllis—of becoming the founder of a brand-new religion.

She was greatly disappointed in Mr. Holland. If Buddha or Edward Irving, or some of the other founders of new religions had had such a chance offered to them in early life, would they not have embraced it eagerly? she asked.

And it was to be such a striking Church! She had made up her mind to that. It was to be a lasting memorial to the largeness of soul of her husband—to his appreciation of the requirements of the thinking men and women of the age. She had made up her mind already as to the character of the painted windows. The church would itself, of course, be the purest Gothic. As for the services, she rather thought that the simplicity of the Early Church might be effectively combined with some of the most striking elements of Modern Ritualism. However, that would have to be decided later on.

But when the bishop heard of the codicil he had another interview with George Holland, and imparted to that young cleric his opinion that he should avail himself of the opportunity offered to him of trying what would undoubtedly be a most interesting experiment, and one to the carrying out of which all true churchmen would look forward most hopefully. Who could say, he inquired, if the larger freedom which would be enjoyed by an earnest, sincere, and highly intellectual clergyman, not in immediate contact with the Establishment, might not avail him to perfect such a scheme of reform as would eventually be adopted by the Church?

That interview was very helpful to George Holland in making up his mind on the subject of the new Church. He resigned his pastorate, greatly to the regret of the churchwardens; though no expression of such regret was ever heard from the bishop.

But then a bishop is supposed to have his feeling thoroughly under control.

This happened three weeks after the death of Stephen Linton, and during these weeks Herbert Courtland had never once asked to see Ella Linton.



CHAPTER XXXVI.

MARRIAGE IS THE PICTURESQUE GATEWAY LEADING TO A COMMONPLACE ESTATE.

So soon as Phyllis Ayrton had returned home, she got a letter from Herbert Courtland, asking her if she would be good enough to grant him an interview. She replied at once that it would please her very much to see him on the following afternoon—she was going to Scotland with her father in a week, if Parliament had risen by that time.

He came to her. She was alone in the drawing room where she had always received him previously.

The servant had scarcely left the room before he had told her he had come to tell her that he loved her—to ask her if he might hope to have some of her love in return.

He had not seated himself, nor had she. They remained standing together in the middle of the room. He had not even retained her hand.

"Why have you come to me—to me?" she asked him. Her face was pale and her lips, when he had been speaking to her, were firmly set.

"I have come to you, not because I am worthy of the priceless gift of your love," said he, "but because you have taught me not merely to love you—you have taught me what love itself is. You have saved my soul."

"No, no! do not say that; it pains me," she cried.

"I cannot but say it; it is the truth. You have saved me from a degradation such as you could not understand. Great God! how should I feel to-day if you had not come forward to save me?"

He walked away from her. He stood with his back turned to her, looking out of the window.

She remained where he had left her. She did not speak. Why should she speak?

He suddenly faced her once again. The expression upon his face astonished her. She had never before seen a man so completely in the power of a strong emotion. She saw him making the attempt to speak, but not succeeding for some time. Her heart was full of pity for him.

"You—you cannot understand," he managed to say. "You cannot understand, and I cannot, I dare not, try to explain anything of the peril from which you snatched me. You know nothing of the baseness, the cruelty, of a man who allows himself to be swayed by his own passions. But you saved me—you saved me!"

"I thank God for that," she said slowly. "But you must not come to me to ask me for my love. It is not to me you should come. It is for her who was ready to sacrifice everything for you. You must go to her when the time comes, not now—she has not recovered from her shock."

"You know—she has told you?"

"I knew all that terrible story—that pitiful story—before I heard it from her lips."

"And yet—yet—you could speak to me—you could be with me day after day?"

"Oh, I know what you would say! You would say that I led you on—that I gave you to believe that I loved you. That is what you would say, and it would be the truth. I made up my mind to lead you on; I gave you to understand that I cared for you. But I confess to you now that I did so because I hoped to save her. You see it was a plot on my part—the plot of one woman anxious to save her sister from destruction. I succeeded. Thank God for that—thank God for that!"

"You succeeded—you succeeded indeed." He spoke slowly and in a low tone, his eyes fixed upon her burning face. "Yes, you led me on—you led me from earth to heaven. You saved her—you saved me. That is why I am here to-day."

"Oh, it is not here you should be, Mr. Courtland." She had turned quickly away from him with a gesture of impatience and had walked to the other end of the room. There was more than a suspicion of indignation in her voice. "You should be with the woman whom you loved; the woman who showed you how she loved you; the woman who was ready to give up everything—honor—husband—God—for you. Go to her—to her—when the numbness has passed away from her, and there is no barrier between you and her. That is all I have to say to you, Mr. Courtland."

"Is it indeed all, Phyllis?" he said. "But you will let me speak to you. You will let me ask if Ella alone was ready to sacrifice herself? You say that you led me to love you in order to save her. How did you lead me on? By giving me to understand that you were not indifferent to me—that you had some love for me. Let me ask you if you were acting a lie at that time?"

"I wanted to save her."

"And you succeeded. Were you acting a lie?"

She was silent.

"You were willing to save her?" he continued. "How did you mean to save her? Were you prepared to go to the length of marrying me when I had been led on to that point by you? Answer me, Phyllis."

"I will not answer you, Mr. Courtland—you have no right to ask me to answer you. One terrible moment had changed all the conditions under which we were living. If she had been free,—as she is now,—do you fancy for a moment that I should have come between you—that I should have tried to lead you away from her? Well, then, surely you must see as clearly as I do at the present moment that now our relative positions are the same as they would have been some months ago, if Ella had been free—if she could have loved you without being guilty of a crime? Oh, Mr. Courtland do not ask me to humiliate myself further. Please go away. Ah, cannot you see that it would be impossible for me to act now as I might have acted before? Cannot you see that I am not a woman who would be ready to steal happiness for myself from my dearest friend?"

"I think I am beginning to see what sort of woman you are—what sort of a being a woman may be. You love me, Phyllis, and yet you will send me away from you lest you should do Ella a wrong?"

"I implore of you to go away from me, because if Ella had been free a month ago as she is to-day, she would have married you."

"But she fancied that she loved me a month ago. She knows that she does not love me now. You love me—you, Phyllis, my love, my beloved; you dare not say that when you led me to love you, you were not led unthinkingly to love me yourself. Will you deny that, my darling?"

He had strode passionately up to her, and before she could resist he had put his arms about her and was kissing her on the face. For a moment only she resisted, then she submitted to his kisses.

"You are mine—mine—mine!" he whispered, and she knew that she was. She now knew how to account for the brilliant successes of the man in places where every other civilized man had perished. He was a master of men. "You love me, darling, and I love you. What shall separate us?"

With a little cry she freed herself.

"You have said the truth!" she cried; "the bitter truth. I love you! I love you! I love you! You are my love, my darling, my king forever. But I tell you to go from me. I tell you that I shall never steal from any sister what is hers by right. I would have sacrificed myself—I did not love you then—to keep you from her; I am now ready to sacrifice myself—now that I love you—to give you to her. Ah, my love, my own dear love, you know me, and you know that I should hate myself—that I should hate you, too, if I were to marry you, now that she is free. Go, my beloved—go!"

He looked at her face made beautiful with tears. "Let me plead with you, Phyllis. Let me say—"

"Oh, go! go! go!"

He put out his hand to her.

"I am going!" he said. "I am leaving England, but from day to day I shall let you know where I am, so that you can send to me when you want me to return to you. Write on a paper, 'Come to me,' and I will come, though years should pass before I read those words. I deserve to suffer, as I know I shall suffer."

He held out his hand. She took it. Her tears fell upon it. She did not speak as he went to the door. Then she gave a cry like the cry of a wounded animal. She held out her hands to him.

"Not yet! Not yet!" she said.

She flung herself into his arms, kissing him and kissing him, holding him to her with her arms about his neck.

"Good-by! Good-by, my darling, my best beloved. Oh, go! Go, Herbert, before I die in your arms. Go!"

She was lying along the floor with her head on the sofa.

He was gone.

She looked wildly around the room, wiping the tears from her eyes. She sprang to her feet, crying:

"Come back! Come back to me, my beloved! Oh, I was a fool! Such a fool as women are when they think of such things as heaven and truth and right! A fool! A fool!"

An hour afterward Ella called to say good-by to her. She was going to Switzerland first, she said, to a quiet spot that she knew, where she might think out some of the details of the Church. Mr. Holland would meet her in Italy in the winter to consider some of the architectural details.

When the hour of her departure was at hand she referred to another matter—a matter on which she spoke much more seriously than she had yet spoken on the subject of the Church.

"I could not go, my dear Phyllis," said she, "without telling you that I know Herbert Courtland will come to you."

"No!" said Phyllis. "He will not come to me. He has been with me. He is now gone."

"Gone? That would be impossible!" cried Ella. "You would not send him away. He told you that he loved you."

"Yes, he told me that."

"And yet you sent him away? Oh, Phyllis, you would not break my heart. I know that you love him."

"Do I?"

"You do love him. Oh, my Phyllis, I told him months ago that it was the dearest wish of my heart to see you married to him. At that time he laughed. Oh, it is horrible to me to recall now how he laughed. Shall I ever forget that terrible dream? But now he loves you. I know it. What! you think him unworthy of you because of—of that dream which was upon us? Phyllis, don't forget that he fought with the sin and overcame it. How? Ah! you know how. He overcame the passion that is of earth by the love that is of heaven. It was his pure love for you that gave him the victory. Why should you send him away?"

"He knows. He understands. He is gone."

"But I do not understand."

She held Phyllis' hand and looked into her face. She gave a sudden start—a little start.

"Oh, surely, my Phyllis, you don't think that I—I——Oh, no! you cannot think that of me. Oh, my darling, if you should be so foolish as to think that I—that I still——Ah, I cannot speak about it. Listen to me, Phyllis: I tell you that as he conquered himself by the love which is of heaven, so have I conquered by the same Divine Power. The love which is in heaven—the love which is mine—has given me the victory also. Dear Phyllis, that man is nothing to me to-day. I tell you he is nothing—nothing! Ah, I don't even hate him. If I should ever speak to him again it would be to send him back to you."

Phyllis said nothing, and just then her father came into the room, and after a few minutes' conventional chat Ella went away.

Mr. Ayrton remarked to Phyllis that her dearest friend was looking better than she had looked for many months, and then he laughed. Phyllis did not like his laugh. She looked at him—gravely—reproachfully.

"Pardon me, my dear," said he; "but I was only thinking that—well—that she——Ah, after all, what is marriage?"

Phyllis did not reply. She saw by his eyes that he had found another phrase. What were phrases to her?

"Marriage is the most honorable preliminary to an effective widowhood," said he.

She went out of the room.

During the next eight months Phyllis received many letters from Ella—some from Switzerland, some from Italy, and one from Calcutta. Ella had gone to India to make further inquiries on the subject of Buddhism. At any rate, no one whose heart was set upon building up a New Church could afford, she said, to ignore Buddhism as a power.

Mr. Holland agreed with her, she said. He had gone through India with her.

She returned to England in April, and of course went to see Phyllis without delay. Some men had wanted to marry Phyllis during the winter, as everybody knew, but she had been pleasantly irresponsive. Some of her closest friends (female) laughed and said that she had found out how silly she had been in throwing over Mr. Holland.

It was not, however, of these suitors that Ella talked to her. It was of Herbert Courtland.

Had she heard from him? she asked.

Yes; he occasionally sent her his address, Phyllis said—that was all.

"You will write to him to come back to you, Phyllis?" said Ella entreatingly.

Phyllis shook her head.

"Dearest child," continued Ella, "I know the goodness of your heart. I know the high ideal of honor and faith which you have set before you. I saw Herbert when our steamer stopped at Port Said. He had been in Abyssinia—you know that?"

"I knew that."

"I talked with him for an hour," said Ella. "He told me a great deal about you—about your parting from him. You will write those words to him before I leave this room."

Phyllis shook her head.

"Oh, yes, you will, when I tell you what I did not tell him—when I tell you that George Holland and I have agreed that our positions as joint trustees of the New Church will be immeasurably strengthened if we are married."

"What?"

Phyllis had risen.

"We are to be married in three months. The matter is, of course, to remain a secret—people are so given to talk."

Phyllis fell into her arms and kissed her tearfully—but the tears were not all her own.

"Now you will write those words," said Ella.

Phyllis ran to a little French escritoire and snatched up a sheet of paper.

"Come to me, my beloved," she wrote upon it; then she leaned her face upon her arm, weeping happily.

Ella came behind her. She picked up the paper and folded it up. She pressed the bell.

"Please give that to Mr. Courtland in the study," she said to the servant.

Phyllis sprang up with a cry.

"I forgot to tell you, my dearest, that I brought back Herbert Courtland in that steamer with me, and that he came with me to-day. He is coming to you—listen—three steps at a time."

And that was just how he did come to her.

"Bless my soul!" cried Mr. Ayrton, ten minutes later. "Bless my soul! I always fancied that——Ah, after all, what is marriage?"

"Oh!" cried Phyllis.

"The last word that can be said regarding it is that marriage is the picturesque gateway leading to the commonplace estate."

"Oh!" cried Phyllis

THE END