"When death put an end to their wretchedness, one would suppose that the evil of their lives was worked out and over, but it was not so. The Erinnys were still unsatisfied. My poor wife became the victim of their fury. And every new light that science throws upon human life shews that this must be so. The old Greeks saw that unconscious evil-doing is punished as well as that which is conscious. These poor unselfish women, piling up their own supposed merit, at the expense of the character of their tyrants, laid up a store of misery for their descendant, my unhappy wife. Imagine the sort of training and tradition that she had to contend with; her mother ignorant and supine, her father violent, bigoted, almost brutal. Eleanor's nature was obscured and distorted by it. Having inherited the finer and stronger qualities of her father's race, with much of its violence, she was going through a struggle at the time of our marriage: training, native vigour and nobility all embroiled in a desperate civil war. It was too much. There is no doubt as to the ultimate issue, but the struggle killed her. It is a common story: a character militant which meets destruction in the struggle for life. The past evil pursues and throttles the present good."

"This takes away the last consolation from women who have been forced to submit to evil conditions," said Hadria.

"It is the truth," said the Professor. "The Erinnys are no mere fancy of the Greek mind. They are symbols of an awful fact of life that no one can afford to ignore."

"What insensate fools we all are!" Hadria exclaimed. "I mean women."

The Professor made no polite objection to the statement.

As they were wending their way towards the Red House, the Professor reminded his companion of the old friendship that had existed between them, ever since Hadria was a little girl. He had always cherished towards her that sentiment of affectionate good-fellowship. She must check him if he seemed to presume upon it, in seeking sympathy or offering it. He watched her career with the deepest interest and anxiety. He always believed that she would give some good gift to the world. And he still believed it. Like the rest of us, she needed sympathy at the right moment.

"We need to feel that there is someone who believes in us, in our good faith, in our good will, one who will not judge according to outward success or failure. Remember," he said, "that I have that unbounded faith in you. Nothing can move it. Whatever happens and wherever you may be led by the strange chances of life, don't forget the existence of one old friend, or imagine that anything can shake his friendship or his desire to be of service."



CHAPTER XXII.

"The worst thing about the life of you married people," said Valeria, "is its ridiculous rigidity. It takes more energy to get the dinner delayed for a quarter of an hour in most well-regulated houses, or some slight change in routine, than to alter a frontier, or pass an Act of Parliament."

Hadria laughed. "Until you discovered this by personal inconvenience, you always scolded me for my disposition to jeer at the domestic scheme."

"It is a little geometrical," Valeria admitted.

"Geometrical! It is like a gigantic ordnance map palmed off on one instead of a real landscape."

"Come now, to be just, say an Italian garden."

"That flatters it, but the simile will do. The eye sees to the end of every path, and knows that it leads to nothing."

"Ah! dear Hadria, but all the pathways of the world have that very same goal."

"At least some of them have the good taste to wind a little, and thus disguise the fact. And think of the wild flowers one may gather by the wayside in some forest track, or among the mountain passes; but in these prim alleys what natural thing can one know? Brain and heart grow tame and clipped to match the hedges, or take on grotesque shapes——"

"That one must guard against."

"Oh, I am sick of guarding against things. To be always warding off evil, is an evil in itself. Better let it come."

Valeria looked at her companion anxiously.

"One knows how twirling round in a circle makes one giddy, or following the same path stupefies. How does the polar bear feel, I wonder, after he has walked up and down in his cage for years and years?"

"Used to it, I imagine," said Valeria.

"But before he gets used to it, that is the bad time. And then it is all so confusing——"

Hadria sat on the low parapet of the terrace at the Priory. Valeria had a place on the topmost step, where the sun had been beating all the morning. Hadria had taken off her hat to enjoy the warmth. The long sprays of the roses were blown across her now and then. Once, a thorn had left a mark of blood upon her hand.

Valeria gathered a spray, and nodded slowly.

"I don't want to allow emotion to get the better of me, Valeria. I don't want to run rank like some overgrown weed, and so I dread the accumulation of emotion—emotion that has never had a good explosive utterance. One has to be so discreet in these Italian gardens; no one shouts or says 'damn.'"

"Ah! you naturally feel out of your element."

Hadria laughed. "It's all very well to take that superior tone. You don't reside on an ordnance map."

There was a pause. Miss Du Prel seemed lost in thought.

"It is this dead silence that oppresses one, this hushed endurance of the travail of life. How do these women stand it?"

Valeria presently woke up, and admitted that to live in an English village would drive her out of her mind in a week. "And yet, Valeria, you have often professed to envy me, because I had what you called a place in life—as if a place in Craddock Dene were the same thing!"

"It is well that you do not mean all you say."

"Or say all I mean."

Valeria laid her hand on Hadria's with wistful tenderness.

"I don't think anyone will ever quite understand you, Hadria."

"Including perhaps myself. I sometimes fancy that when it became necessary to provide me with a disposition, the material had run out, for the moment, nothing being left but a few remnants of other people's characters; so a living handful of these was taken up, roughly welded together, and then the mixture was sent whirling into space, to boil and sputter itself out as best it might."

Miss Du Prel turned to her companion.

"I see that you are incongruously situated, but don't you think that you may be wrong yourself? Don't you think you may be making a mistake?"

Hadria was emphatic in assent.

"Not only do I think I may be wrong, but I don't see how—unless by pure chance—I can be anything else. For I can't discover what is right. I see women all round me actuated by this frenzied sense of duty; I see them toiling submissively at their eternal treadmill; occupying their best years in the business of filling their nurseries; losing their youth, narrowing their intelligence, ruining their husbands, and clouding their very moral sense at last. Well, I know that such conduct is supposed to be right and virtuous. But I can't see it. It impresses me simply as stupid and degrading. And from my narrow little point of observation, the more I see of life, the more hopelessly involved become all questions of right and wrong where our confounded sex is concerned."

"Why? Because the standards are changing," asserted Miss Du Prel.

"Because—look, Valeria, our present relation to life is in itself an injury, an insult—you have never seriously denied that—and how can one make for oneself a moral code that has to lay its foundation-stone in that very injury? And if one lays one's foundation-stone in open ground beyond, then one's code is out of touch with present fact, and one's morality consists in sheer revolt all along the line. The whole matter is in confusion. You have to accept Mrs. Walker's and Mrs. Gordon's view of the case, plainly and simply, or you get off into a sort of morass and blunder into quicksands."

"Then what happens?"

"That's just what I don't know. That's just why I say that I am probably wrong, because, in this transition period, there seems to be no clear right."

"To cease to believe in right and wrong would be to founder morally, altogether," Valeria warned.

"I know, and yet I begin to realize how true it is that there is no such thing as absolute right or wrong. It is related to the case and the moment."

"This leads up to some desperate deed or other, Hadria," cried her friend, "I have feared it, or hoped it, I scarcely know which, for some time. But you alarm me to-day."

"If I believed in the efficacy of a desperate deed, Valeria, I should not chafe as I do, against the conditions of the present scheme of things. If individuals could find a remedy for themselves, with a little courage and will, there would be less occasion to growl."

"But can they not?"

"Can they?" asked Hadria. "A woman without means of livelihood, breaks away from her moorings—well, it is as if a child were to fall into the midst of some gigantic machinery that is going at full speed. Let her try the feat, and the cracking of her bones by the big wheels will attest its hopelessness. And yet I long to try!" Hadria added beneath her breath.

Miss Du Prel admitted that success was rare in the present delirious state of competition. Individuals here and there pulled through.

"I told you years ago that Nature had chosen our sex for ill-usage. Try what we may, defeat and suffering await us, in one form or another. You are dissatisfied with your form of suffering, I with mine. A creature in pain always thinks it would be more bearable if only it were on the other side."

"Ah, I know you won't admit it," said Hadria, "but some day we shall all see that this is the result of human cruelty and ignorance, and that it is no more 'intended' or inherently necessary than that children should be born with curvature of the spine, or rickets. Some day it will be as clear as noon, that heartless 'some day' which can never help you or me, or any of us who live now. It is we, I suppose, who are required to help the 'some day.' Only how, when we are ourselves in extremis?"

"The poor are helpers of the poor," said Valeria.

"But if they grow too poor, to starvation point, then they can help no more; they can only perish slowly."

"I hoped," said Valeria, "that Professor Fortescue would have poured oil upon the troubled waters."

"He does in one sense. But in another, he makes me feel more than ever what I am missing."

Miss Du Prel's impulsive instincts could be kept at bay no longer.

"There is really nothing for it, but some deed of daring," she cried. "I believe, if only your husband could get over his horror of the scandal and talk, that a separation would be best for you both. It is not as if he cared for you. One can see he does not. You are such a strange, inconsequent being, Hadria, that I believe you would feel the parting far more than he would (conventions apart)."

"No question of it," said Hadria. "Our disharmony, radical and hopeless as it is, does not prevent my having a strong regard for Hubert. I can't help seeing the admirable sides of his character. He is too irritated and aggrieved to feel anything but rancour against me. It is natural. I understand."

"Ah, it will only end in some disaster, if you try to reconcile the irreconcilable. Of course I think it is a great pity that you have not more of the instincts on which homes are founded, but since you have not——"

Hadria turned sharply round. "Do you really regret that just for once the old, old game has been played unsuccessfully? Therein I can't agree with you, though I am the loser by it." Hadria grasped a swaying spray that the wind blew towards her, and clasped it hard in her hand, regardless of the thorns. "It gives me a keen, fierce pleasure to know that for all their training and constraining and incitement and starvation, I have not developed masses of treacly instinct in which mind and will and every human faculty struggle, in vain, to move leg or wing, like some poor fly doomed to a sweet and sticky death. At least the powers of the world shall not prevail with me by that old device. Mind and will and every human faculty may die, but they shall not drown, in the usual applauded fashion, in seas of tepid, bubbling, up-swelling instinct. I will dare anything rather than endure that. They must take the trouble to provide instruments of death from without; they must lay siege and starve me; they must attack in soldierly fashion; I will not save them the exertion by developing the means of destruction from within. There I stand at bay. They shall knock down the citadel of my mind and will, stone by stone."

"That is a terrible challenge!" exclaimed Miss Du Prel.

A light laugh sounded across the lawn.

The afternoon sunshine threw four long shadows over the grass: of a slightly-built woman, of a very tall man, and of two smaller men.

The figures themselves were hidden by a group of shrubs, and only the shadows were visible. They paused, for a moment, as if in consultation; the lady standing, with her weight half leaning on her parasol. The tall man seemed to be talking to her vivaciously. His long, shadow-arms shot across the grass, his head wagged.

"The shadows of Fate!" cried Valeria fantastically.

Then they moved into sight, advancing towards the terrace.

"Who are they I wonder? Oh, Professor Fortescue, for one!"

"Lady Engleton and Joseph Fleming. The other I don't know."

He was very broad and tall, having a slight stoop, and a curious way of carrying his head, craned forward. The attitude suggested a keen observer. He was attired in knickerbockers and rough tweed Norfolk jacket, and he looked robust and powerful, almost to excess. The chin and mouth were concealed by the thick growth of dark hair, but one suspected unpleasant things of the latter. As far as one could judge his age, he seemed a man of about five-and-thirty, with vigour enough to last for another fifty years.

"That," said Valeria, "must be Professor Theobald. He has probably come to see the house."

"I am sure I shall hate that man," exclaimed Hadria. "He is not to be trusted; what nonsense he is talking to Lady Engleton!"

"You can't hear, can you?"

"No; I can see. And she laughs and smiles and bandies words with him. He is amusing certainly; there is that excuse for her; but I wonder how she can do it."

"What an extraordinary creature you are! To take a prejudice against a man before you have spoken to him."

"He is cruel, he is cruel!" exclaimed Hadria in a low, excited voice. "He is like some cunning wild animal. Look at Professor Fortescue! his opposite pole—why it is all clearer, at this distance, than if we were under the confusing influence of their speech. See the contrast between that quiet, firm walk, and the insinuating, conceited tread of the other man. Joseph Fleming comes out well too, honest soul!"

"He is carrying a fishing-rod. They have been fishing," said Valeria.

"Not Professor Fortescue, I am certain. He does not find his pleasure in causing pain."

"This hero-worship blinds you. Depend upon it, he is not without the primitive instinct to kill."

"There are individual exceptions to all savage instincts, or the world would never move."

"Instinct rules the world," said Miss Du Prel. "At least it is obviously neither reason nor the moral sense that rules it."

"Then why does it produce a Professor Fortescue now and then?"

"Possibly as a corrective."

"Or perhaps for fun," said Hadria.



CHAPTER XXIII.

"Professor Theobald, if you are able to resist the fascinations of this old house you are made of sterner stuff than I thought."

"I can never resist fascinations, Lady Engleton."

"Do you ever try?"

"My life is spent in the endeavour."

"How foolish!" Whether this applied to the endeavour or to the remark, did not quite appear. Lady Engleton's graceful figure leant over the parapet.

"Do you know, Mrs. Temperley," she said in her incessantly vivacious manner, "I have scarcely heard a serious word since our two Professors came to us. Isn't it disgraceful? I naturally expected to be improved and enlightened, but they are both so frivolous, I can't keep them for a moment to any important subject. They refuse to be profound. It is I who have to be profound."

"While we endeavour to be charming," said Professor Theobald.

"You may think that flattering, but I confess it seems to me a beggarly compliment (as men's to women usually are)."

"You expect too much of finite intelligence, Lady Engleton."

"This is how I am always put off! If it were not that you are both such old friends—you are a sort of cousin I think, Professor Fortescue—I should really feel aggrieved. One has to endure so much more from relations. No, but really; I appeal to Mrs. Temperley. When one is hungering for erudition, to be offered compliments! Not that I can accuse Professor Fortescue of compliments," she added with a laugh; "wild horses would not drag one from him. I angle vainly. But he is so ridiculously young. He enjoys things as if he were a schoolboy. Does one look for that in one's Professors? He talks of the country as if it were Paradise Regained."

"So it is to me," he said with a smile.

"But that is not your role. You have to think, not to enjoy."

"Then you must not invite us to Craddock Place," Professor Theobald stipulated.

"As usual, a halting compliment."

"To take you seriously, Lady Engleton," said Professor Fortescue, "(though I know it is a dangerous practice) one of the great advantages of an occasional think is to enable one to relish the joys of mental vacuity, just as the pleasure of idleness is never fully known till one has worked."

"Ah," sighed Lady Engleton, "I know I don't extract the full flavour out of that!"

"It is a neglected art," said the Professor. "After worrying himself with the problems of existence, as the human being is prone to do, as soon as existence is more or less secure and peaceful, a man can experience few things more enjoyable than to leave aside all problems and go out into the fields, into the sun, to feel the life in his veins, the world at the threshold of his five senses."

"Ah, now you really are profound at last, Professor!"

"I thought it was risky to take you seriously."

"No, no, I am delighted. The world at the threshold of one's five senses. One has but to look and to listen and the beauty of things displays itself for our benefit. Yes, but that is what the artists say, not the Professors."

"Even a Professor is human," pleaded Theobald.

Valeria quoted some lines that she said expressed Professor Fortescue's idea.

"Carry me out into the wind and the sunshine, Into the beautiful world!"

Lady Engleton's artistic instinct seemed to occupy itself less with the interpretation of Nature than with the appreciation of the handiwork of man. The lines did not stir her. Professor Theobald shared her indifference for the poetic expression, but not for the reality expressed.

"I quarrel with you about art," said Lady Engleton. "Art is art, and nature is nature, both charming in their way, though I prefer art."

"Our old quarrel!" said the Professor.

"Because a wild glade is beautiful in its quality of wild glade, you can't see the beauty in a trim bit of garden, with its delightful suggestion of human thought and care."

"I object to stiffness," said Professor Theobald.

His proposals to improve the stately old gardens at the Priory by adding what Lady Engleton called "fatuous wriggles to all the walks, for mere wrigglings' sake," had led to hot discussions on the principles of art and the relation of symmetry to the sensibilities of mankind. Lady Engleton thought the Professor crude in taste, and shallow in knowledge, on this point.

"And yet you appreciate so keenly my old enamels, and your eye seeks out, in a minute, a picturesque roof or gable."

"Perhaps Theobald leans to the picturesque and does not care for the classic," suggested his colleague; "a fundamental distinction in mental bias."

"Then why does he enjoy so much of the Renaissance work on caskets and goblets? He was raving about them last night in the choicest English."

Lady Engleton crossed over to speak to Miss Du Prel. Professor Theobald approached Mrs. Temperley and Joseph Fleming. Hadria knew by some instinct that the Professor had been waiting for an opportunity to speak to her. As he drew near, a feeling of intense enmity arose within her, which reached its highest pitch when he addressed her in a fine, low-toned voice of peculiarly fascinating quality. Every instinct rose up as if in warning. He sat down beside her, and began to talk about the Priory and its history. His ability was obvious, even in his choice of words and his selection of incidents. He had the power of making dry archaeological facts almost dramatic. His speech differed from that of most men, in the indefinable manner wherein excellence differs from mediocrity. Yet Hadria was glad to notice some equally indefinable lack, corresponding perhaps to the gap in his consciousness that Lady Engleton had come upon in their discussions on the general principles of art. What was it? A certain stilted, unreal quality? Scarcely. Words refused to fit themselves to the evasive form. Something that suggested the term "second class," though whether it were the manner or the substance that was responsible for the impression, was difficult to say.

Sometimes his words allowed two possible interpretations to be put upon a sentence. He was a master of the ambiguous. Obviously it was not lack of skill that produced the double-faced phrases.

He did not leave his listeners long in doubt as to his personal history. He enjoyed talking about himself. He was a Professor of archaeology, and had written various learned books on the subject. But his studies had by no means been confined to the one theme. History had also interested him profoundly. He had published a work on the old houses of England. The Priory figured among them. It was not difficult to discover from the conversation of this singular man, whose subtle and secretive instincts were contradicted, at times, by a strange inconsequent frankness, that his genuine feeling for the picturesque was accompanied by an equally strong predilection for the appurtenances of wealth and splendour; his love of great names and estates being almost of the calibre of the housemaid's passion for lofty personages in her penny periodical. He seemed to be a man of keen and cunning ability, who studied and played upon the passions and weaknesses of his fellows, possibly for their good, but always as a magician might deal with the beings subject to his power. By what strange lapse did he thus naively lay himself open to their smiles?

Hadria was amused at his occasional impulse of egotistic frankness (or what appeared to be such), when he would solemnly analyse his own character, admitting his instinct to deceive with an engaging and scholarly candour.

His penetrating eyes kept a watch upon his audience. His very simplicity seemed to be guarded by his keenness.

Hadria chafed under his persistent effort to attract and interest her. She gave a little inward shiver on finding that there was a vague, unaccountable, and unpleasant fascination in the personality of the man.

It was not charm, it was nothing that inspired admiration; it rather inspired curiosity and stirred the spirit of research, a spirit which evidently animated himself. She felt that, in order to investigate the workings of her mind and her heart, the Professor would have coolly pursued the most ruthless psychical experiments, no matter at what cost of anguish to herself. In the interests of science and humanity, the learned Professor would certainly not hesitate to make one wretched individual agonize.

His appeal to the intellect was stimulatingly strong; it was like a stinging wind, that made one walk at a reckless pace, and brought the blood tingling through every vein. That intellectual force could alone explain the fact of his being counted by Professor Fortescue as a friend. Even then it was a puzzling friendship. Could it be that to Professor Fortescue, he shewed only his best side? His manner was more respectful towards his colleague than towards other men, but even with him he was irreverent in his heart, as towards mankind in general.

To Hadria he spoke of Professor Fortescue with enthusiasm—praising his great power, his generosity, his genial qualities, and his uprightness; then he laughed at him as a modern Don Quixote, and sneered at his efforts to save animal suffering when he might have made a name that would never be forgotten, if he pursued a more fruitful branch of research.

Hadria remarked that Professor Theobald's last sentence had added the crowning dignity to his eulogium.

He glanced at her, as if taking her measure.

"Fortescue," he called out, "I envy you your champion. You point, Mrs. Temperley, to lofty altitudes. I, as a mere man, cannot pretend to scale them."

Then he proceeded to bring down feminine loftiness with virile reason.

"In this world, where there are so many other evils to combat, one feels that it is more rational to attack the more important first."

"Ah! there is nothing like an evil to bolster up an evil," cried Professor Fortescue; "the argument never fails. Every abuse may find shelter behind it. The slave trade, for instance; have we not white slavery in our midst? How inconsistent to trouble about negroes till our own people are truly free! Wife-beating? Sad; but then children are often shamefully ill-used. Wait till they are fully protected before fussing about wives. Protect children? Foolish knight-errant, when you ought to know that drunkenness is at the root of these crimes! Sweep away this curse, before thinking of the children. As for animals, how can any rational person consider their sufferings, when there are men, women, and children with wrongs to be redressed?"

Professor Theobald laughed.

"My dear Fortescue, I knew you would have some ingenious excuse for your amiable weaknesses."

"It is easier to find epithets than answers, Theobald," said the Professor with a smile. "I confess I wonder at a man of your logical power being taken in with this cheap argument, if argument it can be called."

"It is my attachment to logic that makes me crave for consistency," said Theobald, not over pleased at his friend's attack.

Professor Fortescue stared in surprise.

"But do you really mean to tell me that you think it logical to excuse one abuse by pointing to another?"

"I think that while there are ill-used women and children, it is certainly inconsistent to consider animals," said Theobald.

"It does not occur to you that the spirit in man that permits abuse of power over animals is precisely the same devil-inspired spirit that expresses itself in cruelty towards children. Ah," continued Professor Fortescue, shaking his head, "then you really are one of the many who help wrong to breed wrong, and suffering to foster suffering, all the world over. It is you and those who reason as you reason, who give to our miseries their terrible vitality. What arguments has evil ever given to evil! What shelter and succour cruelty offers eternally to cruelty!"

"I can't attempt to combat this hobby of yours, Fortescue."

"Again a be-littling epithet in place of an argument! But I know of old that on this subject your intellectual acumen deserts you, as it deserts nearly all men. You sink suddenly to lower spiritual rank, and employ reasoning that you would laugh to scorn in connection with every other topic."

"You seem bent on crushing me," exclaimed Theobald. "And Mrs. Temperley enjoys seeing me mangled. Talk about cruelty to animals! I call this cold-blooded devilry! Mrs. Temperley, come to my rescue!"

"So long as other forms of cruelty can be instanced, Professor Theobald, I don't see how, on your own shewing, you can expect any consistent person to raise a finger to help you," Hadria returned. Theobald laughed.

"But I consider myself too important and valuable to be made the subject of this harsh treatment."

"That is for others to decide. If it affords us amusement to torment you, and amusement benefits our nerves and digestion, how can you justly object? We must consider the greatest good of the greatest number; and we are twice as numerous as you."

"You are delicious!" he exclaimed. Mrs. Temperley's manner stiffened.

Acute as the Professor was in many directions, he did not appear to notice the change.

His own manner was not above criticism.

"It is strange," said Lady Engleton, in speaking of him afterwards to Hadria, "it is strange that his cleverness does not come to the rescue; but so far from that, I think it leads him a wild dance over boggy ground, like some will-o'-the-wisp, but for whose freakish allurements the good man might have trodden a quiet and inoffensive way."

The only means of procuring the indispensable afternoon tea was to go on to the Red House, which Mrs. Temperley proposed that they should all do.

"And is there no shaking your decision about the Priory, Professor Theobald?" Lady Engleton asked as they descended the steps.

The Professor's quick glance sought Mrs. Temperley's before he answered. "I confess to feeling less heroic this afternoon."

"Oh, good! We may perhaps have you for a neighbour after all."



CHAPTER XXIV.

Hadria tried to avoid Professor Theobald, but he was not easily avoided. She frequently met him in her walks. The return of spring had tempted her to resume her old habit of rising with the sun. But she found, what she had feared, that her strength had departed, and she was fatigued instead of invigorated, as of yore. She did not regard this loss in a resigned spirit. Resignation was certainly not her strong point. The vicar's wife and the doctor's wife and the rest of the neighbours compared their woes and weariness over five o'clock tea, and these appeared so many and so severe that Hadria felt half ashamed to count hers at all. Yet why lower the altars of the sane goddess because her shrine was deserted? Health was health, though all the women of England were confirmed invalids. And with nothing less ought reasonable creatures to be satisfied. As for taking enfeeblement as a natural dispensation, she would as soon regard delirium tremens in that light.

She chafed fiercely against the loss of that blessed sense of well-being and overflowing health, that she used to have, in the old days. She resented the nerve-weariness, the fatigue that she was now more conscious of than ever, with the coming of the spring. The impulse of creative energy broke forth in her. The pearly mornings and the birds' songs stirred every instinct of expression. The outburst did not receive its usual check. The influences of disenchantment were counteracted by Professor Fortescue's presence. His sympathy was marvellous in its penetration, brimming the cold hollows of her spirit, as a flooded river fills the tiniest chinks and corners about its arid banks. He called forth all her natural buoyancy and her exulting sense of life, which was precisely the element which charged her sadness with such a fierce electric quality, when she became possessed by it, as a cloud by storm.

Valeria too was roused by the season.

"What a parable it all is, as old as the earth, and as fresh, each new year, as if a messenger-angel had come straight from heaven, in his home-spun of young green, to tell us that all is well."

If Hadria met Professor Theobald in her rambles, she always cut short her intended walk. She and Valeria with Professor Fortescue wandered together, far and wide. They watched the daily budding greenery, the gleams of daffodils among their sword-blades of leaves, the pushing of sheaths and heads through the teeming soil, the bursts of sunshine and the absurd childish little gushes of rain, skimming the green country like a frown.

"Truly a time for joy and idleness."

"If only," said Hadria, when Professor Theobald thus grew enthusiastic on the subject, "if only my cook had not given a month's notice."

She would not second his mood, be it what it might. Each day, as they passed along the lanes, the pale green had spread, like fire, on the hedges, caught the chestnuts, with their fat buds shining in the sun, which already was releasing the close-packed leaflets.

Hadria (apparently out of sheer devilry, said Professor Theobald) kept up a running commentary on the season, and on her hapless position, bound to be off on the chase for a cook at this moment of festival. Nor was this all. Crockery, pots and pans, clothes for the children, clothes for herself, were urgently needed, and no experienced person, she declared, could afford to regard the matter as simple because it was trivial.

"One of the ghastliest mistakes in this trivial and laborious world."

Valeria thought that cooks had simply to be advertised for, and they came.

"What naivete!" exclaimed Hadria. "Helen was persuaded to cross the seas from her Spartan home to set Troy ablaze, and tarnish her fair fame, but it would take twenty sons of Priam to induce a damsel to come over dry land to Craddock Dene, to cook our dinners and retain her character."

"You would almost imply that women don't so very much care about their characters," said Valeria.

"Oh, they do! but sometimes the dulness that an intelligent society has ordained as the classic accompaniment to social smiles, gets the better of a select few—Helen par exemple."

It frequently happened that Hadria and Miss Du Prel came across Lady Engleton and her guests, in the Priory garden. From being accidental, the meetings had become intentional.

"I like to fancy we are fugitives—like Boccaccio's merry company—from the plague of our daily prose, to this garden of sweet poetry!" cried Miss Du Prel.

They all kindled at the idea. Valeria made some fanciful laws that she said were to govern the little realm. Everyone might express himself freely, and all that he said would be held as sacred, as if it were in confidence. To speak ill or slightingly of anyone, was forbidden. All local and practical topics were to be dropped, as soon as the moss-grown griffins who guarded the Garden of Forgetfulness were passed.

Hadria was incorrigibly flippant about the banishment of important local subjects. She said that the kitchen-boiler was out of order, and yet she had to take part in these highly-cultivated conversations and smile, as she complained, with that kitchen-boiler gnawing at her vitals. She claimed to be set on a level with the Spartan boy, if not above him. Valeria might scoff, as those proverbially did who never felt a wound. Hadria found a certain lack of tender feeling among the happy few who had no such tragic burdens to sustain.

Not only were these prosaic subjects banished from within the cincture of the gentle griffins, but also the suspicions, spites, petty jealousies, vulgar curiosities, and all the indefinable little darts and daggers that fly in the social air, destroying human sympathy and good-will. Each mind could expand freely, no longer on the defensive against the rain of small stabs. There grew up a delicate, and chivalrous code among the little group who met within the griffins' territory.

"It is not for us to say that, individually, we transcend the average of educated mortals," said Professor Theobald, "but I do assert that collectively we soar high above that depressing standard."

Professor Fortescue observed that whatever might be said about their own little band, it was a strange fact that bodies of human beings were able to produce, by union, a condition far above or far below the average of their separate values. "There is something chemical and explosive in human relationships," he said.

These meetings stood out as a unique experience in the memory of all who took part in them. Chance had brought them to pass, and they refused to answer to the call of a less learned magician.

Lady Engleton and Mrs. Temperley alternately sent tea and fruit to the terrace, on the days of meeting, and there the little company would spend the afternoon serenely, surrounded by the beauties of the garden with its enticing avenues, its chaunting birds, its flushes of bloom, and its rich delicious scents.

"Why do we, in the nineteenth century, starve ourselves of these delicate joys?" cried Valeria. "Why do we so seldom leave our stupid pre-occupations and open our souls to the sun, to the spring, to the gentle invitations of gardens, to the charm of conversation? We seem to know nothing of the serenities, the urbanities of life."

"We live too fast; we are too much troubled about outward things—cooks and dressmakers, Mrs. Temperley," said Professor Theobald.

"Poor cooks and dressmakers!" murmured Professor Fortescue, "where are their serenities and urbanities?"

"I would not deprive any person of the good things of life," cried Valeria; "but at present, it is only a few who can appreciate and contribute to the delicate essence that I speak of. I don't think one could expect it of one's cook, after all."

"One is mad to expect anything of those who have had no chance," said Professor Fortescue. "That nevertheless we consistently do,—or what amounts to the same thing: we plume ourselves on what chance has enabled us to be and to achieve, as if between us and the less fortunate there were some great difference of calibre and merit. Nine times in ten, there is nothing between us but luck."

"Oh, dear, you are democratic, Professor!" cried Lady Engleton.

"No; I am merely trying to be just."

"To be just you must apply your theory to men and women, as well as to class and class," Valeria suggested.

"Mon Dieu! but so I do; so I always have done, as soon as I was intellectually short-coated."

"And would you excuse all our weaknesses on that ground?" asked Lady Engleton, with a somewhat ingratiating upward gaze of her blue eyes.

"I would account for them as I would account for the weaknesses of my own sex. As for excusing, the question of moral responsibility is too involved to be decided off-hand."

The atmosphere of Griffin-land, as Professor Theobald called it, while becoming to his character, made him a little recklessly frank at times.

He admitted that throughout his varied experience of life, he had found flattery the most powerful weapon in a skilled hand, and that he had never known it fail. He related instances of the signal success which had followed its application with the trowel. He reminded his listeners of Lord Beaconsfield's famous saying, and chuckled over the unfortunate woman, "plain as a pike-staff," who had become his benefactress, in consequence of a discreet allusion to the "power of beauty" and a well-placed sigh.

"The woman must have been a fool!" said Joseph Fleming.

"By no means; she was of brilliant intellect. But praises of that were tame to her; she knew her force, and was perhaps tired of the solitude it induced." Professor Theobald laughed mightily at his own sarcasm. "But when the whisper of 'beauty' came stealing to her ear (which was by no means like a shell) it was surpassing sweet to her. I think there is no yearning more intense than that of a clever woman for the triumphs of mere beauty. She would give all her powers of intellect for the smallest tribute to personal and feminine charm. What is your verdict, Mrs. Temperley?"

Mrs. Temperley supposed that clever women had something of human nature in them, and valued overmuch what they did not possess.

Professor Theobald had perhaps looked for an answer that would have betrayed more of the speaker's secret feelings.

"It is the fashion, I know," he said, "to regard woman as an enigma. Now, without professing any unusual acuteness, I believe that this is a mistake. Woman is an enigma certainly, because she is human, but that ends it. Her conditions have tended to cultivate in her the power of dissimulation, and the histrionic quality, just as the peaceful ilex learns to put forth thorns if you expose it to the attacks of devouring cattle. It is this instinct to develop thorns in self-defence, and yet to live a little behind the prickly outposts, that leads to our notion of mystery in woman's nature. Let a man's subsistence and career be subject to the same powers and chances as the success of a woman's life now hangs on, and see whether he too does not become a histrionic enigma."

Professor Fortescue observed that the clergy, at times, developed qualities called feminine, because in some respects their conditions resembled those of women.

Theobald assented enthusiastically to this view. He had himself entered the church as a young fellow (let not Mrs. Temperley look so inconsiderately astonished), and had left it on account of being unable to conscientiously subscribe to its tenets.

"But not before I had acquired some severe training in that sort of strategy which is incumbent upon women, in the conduct of their lives. Whatever I might privately think or feel, my office required that I should only express that which would be more or less grateful to my hearers. (Is not this the woman's case, in almost every position in life?) Even orthodoxy must trip it on tiptoe; there was always some prejudice, some susceptibility to consider. What was frankness in others was imprudence in me; other men's minds might roam at large; mine was tethered, if not in its secret movements, at least in its utterance; and it is a curious and somewhat sinister law of Nature, that perpetual denial of utterance ends by killing the power or the feeling so held in durance."

Hadria coloured.

"That experience and its effect upon my own nature, which has lasted to this day," added Theobald, "served to increase my interest in the fascinating study of character in its relation to environment."

"Ah!" exclaimed Hadria, "then you don't believe in the independent power of the human will?"

"Certainly not. To talk of character overcoming circumstance is to talk of an effect without a cause. Yet this phrase is a mere commonplace in our speech. A man no more overcomes his circumstance than oxygen overcomes nitrogen when it combines with it to form the air we breathe. If the nitrogen is present, the combination takes place; but if there is no nitrogen to be had, all the oxygen in the world will not produce our blessed atmosphere!"

Joseph Fleming caused a sort of anti-climax by mentioning simply that he didn't know that any nitrogen was required in the atmosphere. One always heard about the oxygen.

Professor Theobald remarked, with a chuckle, that this was one of the uses of polite conversation; one picked up information by the wayside. Joseph agreed that it was wonderfully instructive, if the speakers were intelligent.

"That helps," said the Professor, tapping Joseph familiarly on the shoulder.

"When shall we have our next meeting?" enquired Lady Engleton, when the moment came for parting.

"The sooner the better," said Valeria. "English skies have Puritan moods, and we may as well profit by their present jocund temper. I never saw a bluer sky in all Italy."

"I certainly shall not be absent from the next meeting," announced Theobald, with a glance at Hadria.

"Nor I," said Lady Engleton. "Such opportunities come none too often."

"I," Hadria observed, "shall be cook-hunting."

Professor Theobald's jaw shut with a snap, and he turned and left the group almost rudely.



CHAPTER XXV.

Hadria thought that Professor Theobald had not spoken at random, when he said that the sweetest tribute a woman can receive is that paid to her personal charm. This unwilling admission was dragged out of her by the sight of Valeria Du Prel, as the central figure of an admiring group, in the large drawing-room at Craddock Place.

She was looking handsome and animated, her white hair drawn proudly off her brow, and placed as if with intention beside the silken curtains, whose tint of misty pale green was so becoming to her beauty.

Valeria was holding her little court, and thoroughly enjoying the admiration.

"If we have had to live by our looks for all these centuries, surely the instinct that Professor Theobald thinks himself so penetrating to have discovered in clever women, is accounted for simply enough by heredity," Hadria said to herself, resentfully.

Professor Theobald was bending over Miss Du Prel with an air of devotion. Hadria wished that she would not take his compliments so smilingly. Valeria would not be proof against his flattery. She kindled with a child's frankness at praise. It stung Hadria to think of her friend being carelessly classed by the Professor among women whose weakness he understood and could play upon. He would imagine that he had discovered the mystery of the sun, because he had observed a spot upon it, not understanding the nature of the very spot. Granted that a little salve to one's battered and scarified self-love was soft and grateful, what did that prove of the woman who welcomed it, beyond a human craving to keep the inner picture of herself as bright and fine as might be? The man who, out of contempt or irreverence, set a bait for the universal appetite proved himself, rather than his intended victim, of meagre quality. Valeria complimented him generously by supposing him sincere.

Occasional bursts of laughter came from her court. Professor Theobald looked furtively round, as if seeking some one, or watching the effect of his conduct on Mrs. Temperley.

Could he be trying to make her jealous of Valeria?

Hadria gave a sudden little laugh while Lord Engleton—a shy, rather taciturn man—was shewing her his wife's last picture. Hadria had to explain the apparent discourtesy as best she could.

The picture was of English meadows at sunset.

"They are the meadows you see from your windows," said Lord Engleton. "That village is Masham, with the spire shewing through the trees. I daresay you know the view pretty well."

"I doubt," she answered, with the instinct of extravagance that annoyed Hubert, "I doubt if I know anything else."

Lord Engleton brought a portfolio full of sketches for her to see.

"Lady Engleton has been busy."

As Hadria laid down the last sketch, her eyes wandered round the softly-lighted, dimly beautiful room, and suddenly she was seized with a swift, reasonless, overpowering sense of happiness that she felt to be atmospheric and parenthetical in character, but all the more keen for that reason, while it lasted. The second black inexorable semicircle was ready to enclose the little moment, but its contents had the condensed character of that which stands within limits, and reminded her, with a little sting, as of spur to horse, of her sharp, terrible aptitude for delight and her hunger for it. Why not, why not? What pinched, ungenerous philosophy was it that insisted on voluntary starvation? One saw its offspring in the troops of thin white souls that hurry, like ghosts, down the avenues of Life.

Again Professor Theobald's stealthy glance was directed towards Mrs. Temperley.

"He is as determined to analyse me as if I were a chemical compound," she said to herself.

"Perhaps we may as well join the group," suggested Lord Engleton.

It opened to admit the new comers, disclosing Miss Du Prel, in a gown of pale amber brocade, enthroned upon a straight-backed antique sofa. The exquisiteness of the surroundings which Lady Engleton had a peculiar gift in arranging, the mellow candle-light, the flowers and colours, seem to have satisfied in Valeria an inborn love of splendour that often opened hungry and unsatisfied jaws.

She had never looked so brilliant or so handsome.

Professor Theobald's face cleared. He explained to Mrs. Temperley that they had been discussing the complexity of human character, and had come to the conclusion that it was impossible to really understand even the simplest man or woman alive. Professor Theobald said that it was a dispensation of Providence which intended the human race for social life. Lady Engleton upbraided the author of the cynical utterance.

"Which of us can dare to face his own basest self?" the culprit demanded. "If any one is so bold, I fear I must accuse him (or even her) of lack of self-knowledge rather than give praise for spotlessness."

"Oh, I don't believe all these dreadful things about my fellows!" cried Miss Du Prel, flinging up her fine head defiantly; "one is likely to find in them more or less what one expects. It's the same everywhere. If you go seeking mole-hills and worms, and put nose to ground on the scent for carrion, you will find them all, with the range of snow-capped Alps in full view, and the infinite of blue above your blind head!"

Hadria, in justice, could not refuse to acknowledge that Professor Theobald was open-minded.

"True," he said, "it is dangerous to seek for evil, unless you naturally love it, and then——"

"You are past praying for," said Professor Fortescue.

"Or at least you never pray," added Hadria.

Both Professors looked at her, each with an expression of enquiry. It was difficult to understand from exactly what sources of experience or intuition the singular remark could have sprung.

The conversation took a slight swerve.

Professor Theobald contended that all our fond distinctions of vice and virtue, right and wrong, were mere praise and blame of conditions and events.

"We like to fancy the qualities of character inherent, while really they are laid on by slow degrees, like paint, and we name our acquaintance by the colour of his last coat."

This view offended Miss Du Prel. Joseph Fleming and Lord Engleton rallied round her. Hubert Temperley joined them. Man, the sublime, the summit of the creation, the end and object of the long and painful processes of nature; sin-spotted perhaps, weak and stumbling, but still the masterpiece of the centuries—was this great and mysterious creature to be thought of irreverently as a mere plain surface for paint? Only consider it! Professor Theobald's head went down between his shoulders as he laughed.

"The sublime creature would not look well unpainted, believe me."

"He dare not appear in that plight even to himself, if Theobald be right in what he stated just now," said Professor Fortescue.

"Life to a character is like varnish to wood," asserted Miss Du Prel; "it brings out the grain."

"Ah!" cried Professor Theobald, "Then you insist on varnish, I on paint."

"There is a difference."

"And it affects your respective views throughout," added Professor Fortescue, "for if the paint theory be correct, then it is true that to know one's fellows is impossible, you can only know the upper coat; whereas if the truth lies in varnish, the substance of the nature is revealed to you frankly, if you have eyes to trace the delicacies of the markings, which tell the secrets of sap and fibre, of impetus and check: all the inner marvels of life and growth that go forward in that most botanic thing, the human soul."

"Professor Fortescue is eloquent, but he makes one feel distressingly vegetable," said Temperley.

"Oh! not unless one has a human soul," Lady Engleton reassured him.

"Am I to understand that you would deprive me of mine?" he asked, with a courtly bow.

"Not at all; souls are private property, or ought to be."

"I wish one could persuade the majority of that!" cried Professor Fortescue.

"Impossible," said Theobald. "The chief interest of man is the condition of his neighbour's soul."

"Could he not be induced to look after his own?" Hadria demanded.

"All fun would be over," said Professor Fortescue.

"I wish one could have an Act of Parliament, obliging every man to leave his neighbour's soul in peace."

"You would sap the very source of human happiness and enterprise," Professor Fortescue asserted, fantastically.

"I should be glad if I could think the average human being had the energy to look after any business; even other people's!" cried Lady Engleton.

"I believe that, as a matter of fact, the soul is a hibernating creature," said Theobald, with a chuckle.

"It certainly has its drowsy winters," observed Hadria.

"Ah! but its spring awakenings!" cried Miss Du Prel.

The chime of a clock startled them with its accusation of lingering too long. The hostess remonstrated at the breaking up the party. Why should they hurry away?

"The time when we could lay claim to have 'hurried' has long since passed, Lady Engleton," said Hubert, "we can only plead forgiveness by blaming you for making us too happy."

Professor Theobald went to the window. "What splendid moonlight! Lady Engleton, don't you feel tempted to walk with your guests to the end of the avenue?"

The idea was eagerly adopted, and the whole party sallied forth together into the brilliant night. Long black shadows of their forms stalked on before them, as if, said Valeria, they were messengers from Hades come to conduct each his victim to the abode of the shades.

Professor Theobald shuddered.

"I hate that dreadful chill idea of the Greeks. I have much too strong a hold on this pleasant earth to relish the notion of that gloomy under-world yet a while. What do you say, Mrs. Temperley?"

She made some intentionally trite answer.

Professor Theobald's quick eyes discovered a glow-worm, and he shouted to the ladies to come and see the little green lantern of the spring. The mysterious light was bright enough to irradiate the blades of grass around it, and even to cast a wizard-like gleam on the strange face of the Professor as he bent down close to the ground.

"Fancy being a lamp to oneself!" cried Lady Engleton.

"It's as much as most of us can do to be a lamp to others," commented Hadria.

"Some one has compared the glow-worm's light to Hero's, when she waited, with trimmed lamp, for her Leander," said Professor Theobald. "Look here, Mr. Fleming, if you stoop down just here, you will be able to see the little animal." The Professor resigned his place to him. When Joseph rose from his somewhat indifferent survey of the insect, Professor Theobald had established himself at Mrs. Temperley's right hand, and the rest of the party were left behind.

"Talking of Greek ideas," said the Professor, "that wonderful people perceived more clearly than we Christians have ever done, with all our science, the natural forces of Nature. What we call superstitions were really great scientific intuitions or prophecies. Of course I should not dare to speak in this frank fashion to the good people of Craddock Dene, but to you I need not be on my guard."

"I appreciate your confidence."

"Ah, now, Mrs. Temperley, you are unkind. It is of no use for you to try to persuade me that you are of as well as in the village of Craddock Dene."

"I have never set out upon that task."

"Again I offend!"

Hadria, dropping the subject, enquired whether the Professor was well acquainted with this part of the country.

He knew it by heart. A charming country; warm, luxuriant, picturesque, the pick of England to his mind. What could beat its woodlands, its hills, its relics of the old world, its barns and churches and smiling villages?

"Then it is not only Tudor mansions that attract you?" Hadria could not resist asking.

Tudor mansions? There was no cottage so humble, provided it were picturesque, that did not charm him.

"Really!" exclaimed Hadria, with a faintly emphasized surprise.

"Have I put my luckless foot into it again?"

"May I not be impressed by magnanimity?"

The Professor's mouth shut sharply.

"Mrs. Temperley is pleased to deride me. Craddock Dene must shrivel under destroying blasts like these."

"Not so much as one might think."

The sound of their steps on the broad avenue smote sharply on their ears. Their absurd-looking shadows stretched always in front of them. "A splendid night," Hadria observed, to break the silence.

"Glorious!" returned her companion, as if waking from thought.

"Spring is our best season here, the time of blossoming."

"I am horribly tempted to take root in the lovely district, in the hope of also blossoming. Can you imagine me a sort of patriarchal apple-tree laden with snowy blooms?"

"You somewhat burden my imagination."

"I have had to work hard all my life, until an unexpected legacy from an admirable distant relation put me at the end of a longer tether. I still have to work, but less hard. I have always tried not to ossify, keeping in view a possible serene time to come, when I might put forth blossoms in this vernal fashion that tempts my middle-aged fancy. And where could I choose a sweeter spot for these late efforts to be young and green, than here in this perfect south of England home?"

"It seems large," said Hadria.

Professor Theobald grinned. "You don't appear to take a keen interest in my blossoming."

Why in heaven's name should she?

"I cannot naturally expect it," Professor Theobald continued, reading her silence aright, "but I should be really obliged by your counsel on this matter. You know the village; you know from your own experience whether it is a place to live in always. Advise me, I beg."

"Really, Professor Theobald, it is impossible for me to advise you in a matter so entirely depending on your own taste and your own affairs."

"You can at least tell me how you like the district yourself; whether it satisfies you as to society, easy access of town, influence on the mind and the spirits, and so forth."

"We are considered well off as to society. There are a good many neighbours within a radius of five miles; the trains to town are not all that could be wished. There are only two in the day worth calling such."

"And as to its effect upon the general aspect of life; is it rousing, cheering, inspiring, invigorating?"

Hadria gave a little laugh. "I must refer you to other inhabitants on this point. I think Lady Engleton finds it fairly inspiring."

"Lady Engleton is not Mrs. Temperley."

"I doubt not that same speech has already done duty as a compliment to Lady Engleton."

"You are incorrigible!"

"I wish you would make it when she is present," said Hadria, "and see us both bow!" The Professor laughed delightedly.

"I don't know what social treasures may be buried within your radius of five miles, but the mines need not be worked. An inhabitant of the Priory would not need them. Mrs. Temperley is a society in herself."

"An inhabitant of the Priory might risk disappointment, in supposing that Mrs. Temperley had nothing else to do than to supply her neighbours with society."

The big jaw closed, with a snap.

"I don't think, on the whole, that I will take the Priory," he said, after a considerable pause; "it is, as you say, large."

Mrs. Temperley made no comment.

"I suppose I should be an unwelcome neighbour," he said, with a sigh.

"I fear any polite assurance, after such a challenge, would be a poor compliment. As for entreating you to take the Priory, I really do not feel equal to the responsibility."

"I accept in all humility," said the Professor, as he opened the gate of the Red House, "a deserved reproof."



CHAPTER XXVI.

"A singular character!" said Professor Theobald.

"There is a lot of good in her," Lady Engleton asserted.

Lord Engleton observed that people were always speaking ill of Mrs. Temperley, but he never could see that she was worse than her neighbours. She was cleverer; that might be her offence.

Madame Bertaux observed in her short, decisive way that Craddock Dene might have settled down with Mrs. Temperley peaceably enough, if it hadn't been for her action about the schoolmistress's child.

"Yes; that has offended everybody," said Lady Engleton.

"What action was that?" asked Theobald, turning slowly towards his hostess.

"Oh, haven't you heard? That really speaks well for this house. You can't accuse us of gossip."

Lady Engleton related the incident. "By the way, you must remember that poor woman, Professor. Don't you know you were here at the school-feast that we gave one summer in the park, when all the children came and had tea and games, and you helped us so amiably to look after them?"

The Professor remembered the occasion perfectly.

"And don't you recollect a very pretty, rather timid, fair-haired woman who brought the children? We all used to admire her. She was a particularly graceful, refined-looking creature. She had read a great deal and was quite cultivated. I often used to think she must feel very solitary at Craddock, with not a soul to sympathize with her tastes. Mr. and Mrs. Walker used to preach to her, poor soul, reproving her love of reading, which took her thoughts away from her duties and her sphere."

Madame Bertaux snorted significantly. Lady Engleton had remarked a strange, sad look in Ellen Jervis's eyes, and owned to having done her best to circumvent the respected pastor and his wife, by lending her books occasionally, and encouraging her to think her own thoughts, and get what happiness she could out of her communings with larger spirits than she was likely to find in Craddock. Of course Mrs. Walker now gave Lady Engleton to understand that she was partly responsible for the poor woman's misfortune. She attributed it to Ellen's having had "all sorts of ideas in her head!"

"I admit that if not having all sorts of ideas in one's head is a safeguard, the unimpeachable virtue of a district is amply accounted for."

Professor Theobald chuckled. He enquired if Lady Engleton knew Mrs. Temperley's motive in adopting the child.

"Oh, partly real kindness; but I think, between ourselves, that Mrs. Temperley likes to be a little eccentric. Most people have the instinct to go with the crowd. Hadria Temperley has the opposite fault. She loves to run counter to it, even when it is pursuing a harmless course."

Some weeks had now passed since the arrival of the two Professors. The meetings in the Priory garden had been frequent. They had affected for the better Professor Theobald's manner. Valeria's laws had curbed the worst side of him, or prevented it from shewing itself so freely. He felt the atmosphere of the little society, and acknowledged that it was "taming the savage beast." As for his intellect it took to blazing, as if, he said, without false modesty, a torch had been placed in pure oxygen.

"My brain takes fire here and flames. I should make a very creditable beacon if the burning of brains and the burning of faggots were only of equal value."

The little feud between him and Mrs. Temperley had been patched up. She felt that she had been rude to him, on one occasion at any rate, and desired to make amends. He had become more cautious in his conduct towards her.

During this period of the Renaissance, as Hadria afterwards called the short-lived epoch, little Martha was visited frequently. Her protectress had expected to have to do battle with hereditary weakness on account of her mother's sufferings, but the child shewed no signs of this. Either the common belief that mental trouble in the mother is reflected in the child, was unfounded, or the evil could be overcome by the simple beneficence of pure air, good food, and warm clothing.

Hadria had begun to feel a more personal interest in her charge. She had taken it under her care of her own choice, without the pressure of any social law or sentiment, and in these circumstances of freedom, its helplessness appealed to her protective instincts. She felt the relationship to be a true one, in contradistinction to the more usual form of protectorate of woman to child.

"There is nothing in it that gives offence to one's dignity as a human being," she asserted, "which is more than can be said of the ordinary relation, especially if it be legal."

She was issuing from little Martha's cottage on one splendid morning, when she saw Professor Theobald coming up the road from Craddock Dene. He caught sight of Hadria, hesitated, coloured, glanced furtively up the road, and then, seeing he was observed, came forward, raising his cap.

"You can't imagine what a charming picture you make; the English cottage creeper-covered and smiling; the nurse and child at the threshold equally smiling, yourself a very emblem of spring in your fresh gown, and a domestic tabby to complete the scene."

"I wish I could come and see it," said Hadria. She was waving a twig of lavender, and little Martha was making grabs at it, and laughing her gurgling laugh of babyish glee. Professor Theobald stood in the road facing up hill towards Craddock, whose church tower was visible from here, just peeping through the spring foliage of the vicarage garden. He only now and again looked round at the picture that he professed to admire.

"Do you want to see a really pretty child, Professor Theobald? Because if so, come here."

He hesitated, and a wave of dark colour flooded his face up to the roots of his close-clipped hair.

He paused a moment, and then bent down to open the little gate. His stalwart figure, in the diminutive enclosure, reduced it to the appearance of a doll's garden.

"Step carefully or you will crush the young menage," Hadria advised. The rosy-cheeked nurse looked with proud expectancy at the face of the strange gentleman, to note the admiration that he could not but feel.

His lips were set.

The Professor evidently knew his duty and proceeded to admire with due energy. Little Martha shrank away a little from the bearded face, and her lower lip worked threateningly, but the perilous moment was staved over by means of the Professor's watch, hastily claimed by Hannah, who dispensed with ceremony in the emergency.

Martha's eyes opened wide, and the little hands came out to grasp the treasure. Hadria stood and laughed at the sight of the gigantic Professor, helplessly tethered by his own chain to the imperious baby, in whose fingers the watch was tightly clasped. The child was in high delight at the loquacious new toy—so superior to foolish fluffy rabbits that could not tick to save their skins. Martha had no notion of relinquishing her hold, so they need not tug in that feeble way; if they pulled too hard, she would yell!

She evidently meant business, said her captive. So long as they left her the watch, they might do as they pleased; she was perfectly indifferent to the accidental human accompaniments of the new treasure, but on that one point she was firm. She proceeded to stuff the watch into her mouth as far as it would go. The Professor was dismayed.

"It's all right," Hadria reassured him. "You have hold of the chain."

"Did you entice me into this truly ridiculous position in order to laugh at me?" enquired the prisoner.

"I would not laugh at you for the world."

"Really this young person has the most astonishing grip! How long does her fancy generally remain faithful to a new toy?"

"Well—I hope you are not pressed for time," said Hadria maliciously.

The Professor groaned, and struggled in the toils.

"Come, little one, open the fingers. Oh no, no, we mustn't cry." Martha kept her features ready for that purpose at a moment's notice, should any nonsense be attempted.

The victim looked round miserably.

"Is there nothing that will set me free from these tender moorings?"

Hadria shook her head and laughed. "You are chained by the most inflexible of all chains," she said: "your own compunction."

"Oh, you little tyrant!" exclaimed the Professor, shaking his fist in the baby's face, at which she laughed a taunting and triumphant laugh. Then, once more, the object of dispute went into her mouth. Martha gurgled with joy.

"What am I to do?" cried her victim helplessly.

"Nothing. She has you securely because you fear to hurt her."

"Little imp! Come now, let me go please. Oh, please, Miss Baby—your Majesty: will nothing soften you? She is beginning early to take advantage of the chivalry of the stronger sex, and I doubt not she will know how to pursue her opportunity later on."

"Oh! is that your parable? Into my head came quite a different one—a propos of what we were talking of yesterday in Griffin-land."

"Ah, the eternal feminine!" cried the Professor. "Yes, you were very brilliant, Mrs. Temperley."

"You now stand for an excellent type of woman, Professor: strong, but chained."

"Oh, thank you! (Infant, I implore!)"

"The baby ably impersonates Society with all its sentiments and laws, written and unwritten."

"Ah!—and my impounded property?"

"Woman's life and freedom."

"Ingenious! And the chain? (Oh, inexorable babe, have mercy on the sufferings of imprisoned vigour!)"

"Her affections, her pity, her compunction, which forbid her to wrench away her rightful property, because ignorant and tender hands are grasping it. The analogy is a little mixed, but no matter."

"I should enjoy the intellectual treat that is spread before me better, in happier circumstances, Mrs. Temperley."

"Apply your remark to your prototype—intelligently," she added.

"My intelligence is rapidly waning; I am benumbed. I fail to follow the intricacies of analogy, in this constrained position."

"Ah, so does she!"

"Oh, pitiless cherub, my muscles ache with this monotony."

"And hers," said Hadria.

"Come, come, life is passing; I have but one; relax these fetters, or I die."

Martha frowned and fretted. She even looked shocked, according to Hadria, who stood by laughing. The baby, she pointed out, failed to understand how her captive could so far forget himself as to desire to regain his liberty.

"She reminds you, sternly, that this is your proper sphere."

"Perdition!" he exclaimed.

"As a general rule," she assented.

The Professor laughed, and said he was tired of being a Type.

At length a little gentle force had to be used, in spite of furious resentment on the part of the baby. A more injured and ill-treated mortal could not have been imagined. She set up a heaven-piercing wail, evidently overcome with indignation and surprise at the cruel treatment that she had received. What horrid selfishness to take oneself and one's property away, when an engaging innocent enjoys grasping it and stuffing it into its mouth!

"Don't you feel a guilty monster?" Hadria enquired, as the lament of the offended infant followed them up the road.

"I feel as if I were slinking off after a murder!" he exclaimed ruefully. "I wonder if we oughtn't to go back and try again to soothe the child." He paused irresolutely.

Hadria laughed. "You do make a lovely allegory!" she exclaimed. "This sense of guilt, this disposition to go back—this attitude of apology—it is speaking, inimitable!"

"But meanwhile that wretched child is shrieking itself into a fit!" cried the allegory, with the air of a repentant criminal.

"Whenever you open your mouth, out falls a symbol," exclaimed Hadria. "Be calm; Hannah will soon comfort her, and it is truer kindness not to remind her again of her grievance, poor little soul. But we will go back if you like (you are indeed a true woman!), and you can say you are sorry you made so free with your own possessions, and you wish you had done your duty better, and are eager to return and let Her Majesty hold you captive. Your prototype always does, you know, and she is nearly always pardoned, on condition that she never does anything of that kind again."

Professor Theobald seemed too much concerned about the child, who was still wailing, to pay much attention to any other topic. He turned to retrace his steps.

"I think you make a mistake," said Hadria. "As soon as she sees you she will want the watch, and then you will be placed between the awful alternatives of voluntarily surrendering your freedom, and heartlessly refusing to present yourself to her as a big plaything. In one respect you have not yet achieved a thorough fidelity to your model; you don't seem to enjoy sacrifice for its own sake. That will come with practice."

"I wish that child would leave off crying."

Hadria stopped in the road to laugh at the perturbed Professor.

"She will presently. That is only a cry of anger, not of distress. I would not leave her, if it were. Yes; your vocation is clearly allegorical. Feminine to your finger-tips, in this truly feminine predicament. We are all—nous autres femmes—like the hero of the White Ship, who is described by some delightful boy in an examination paper as being 'melted by the shrieks of a near relation.'"

The Professor stumbled over a stone in the road, and looked back at it vindictively.

"The near relation does so want to hold one's watch and to stuff it into his mouth, and he shrieks so movingly if one brutally removes one's property and person!"

"Alas! I am still a little bewildered by my late captivity. I can't see the bearings of things."

"As allegory, you are as perfect as ever."

"I seem to be a sort of involuntary Pilgrim's Progress!" he exclaimed.

"Ah, indeed!" cried Hadria, "and how the symbolism of that old allegory would fit this subject!"

"With me for wretched hero, I suppose!"

"Your archetype;—with a little adaptation—yes, and wonderfully little—the Slough of Despond, Doubting Castle, the Valley of the Shadow of Death—they all fall into place. Ah! the modern Pilgrim's Progress would read strangely and significantly with woman as the pilgrim! But the end—that would be a difficulty."

"One for your sex to solve," said the Professor.

When they arrived at the cottage the wails were dying away, and Hadria advised that they should leave well alone. So the baby's victim somewhat reluctantly retired.

"After all, you see, if one has strength of purpose, one can achieve freedom," he observed.

"At the expense of the affections, it would seem," said Hadria.

The walk was pursued towards Craddock. Hadria said she had to ask Dodge, the old gravedigger, if he could give a few days' work in the garden at the Red House.

The Professor was walking for walking's sake.

"She is a pretty child, isn't she?" said Hadria.

"Very; an attractive mite; but she has a will of her own."

"Yes; I confess I have a moment of exultation when that child sets up one of her passionate screams—the thrilling shriek of a near relation!"

"Really, why?"

"She has to make her way in the world. She must not be too meek. Her mother was a victim to the general selfishness and stupidity. She was too gentle and obedient; too apt to defer to others, to be able to protect herself. I want her child to be strengthened for the battle by a good long draught of happiness, and to be armed with that stoutest of all weapons—perfect health."

"You are very wise, Mrs. Temperley," murmured the Professor.

"Mon Dieu! if one had always to judge for others and never for oneself, what Solons we should all be!"

"I hear that you have taken the child under your protection. She may think herself fortunate. It is an act of real charity."

Hadria winced. "I fear not. I have grown very much attached to Martha now, poor little soul; but when I decided to adopt her, I was in a state of red-hot fury."

"Against whom, may I ask?"

"Against the child's father," Hadria replied shortly.



CHAPTER XXVII.

"Yes, mum, I see un go up to the churchyard. He's tidyin' up the place a bit for the weddin'."

"The wedding?" repeated Hadria vaguely. Mrs. Gullick looked at her as at one whose claims to complete possession of the faculties there seems sad reason to doubt.

"Oh, Miss Jordan's, yes. When is it?"

"Why, it's this mornin', ma'am!" cried Mrs. Gullick.

"Dear me, of course. I thought the village looked rather excited."

People were all standing at their doors, and the children had gathered at the gate of the church, with hands full of flowers. The wedding party was, it appeared, to arrive almost immediately. The children set up a shout as the first carriage was heard coming up the hill.

The bride appeared to be a popular character in Craddock. "Dear, dear, she will be missed, she will, she was a real lady, she was; did her duty too to rich and poor."

The Professor asked his companion if she remarked that the amiable lady was spoken of universally in the past tense, as some one who had passed from the light of day.

Hadria laughed. "Whenever I am in a cynical mood I come to Craddock and talk to the villagers."

Dodge was found resting on a broom-handle, with a flower in his button-hole. Marion Jordan had supplied him with port wine when he was "took bad" in the winter. Dodge found it of excellent quality. He approved of the institution of landed property, and had a genuine regard for the fair-haired, sweet-voiced girl who used to come in her pony-cart to distribute her bounty to the villagers. Her class in the Sunday-school, as he remarked, was always the best behaved.

The new schoolmistress, a sour and uncompromising looking person, had issued from her cottage in her Sunday best to see the ceremony.

"That's where little Martha's mother used to live," said Hadria, "and that is where she died."

"Indeed, yes. I think Mr. Walker pointed it out to me."

"Ah! of course, and then you know the village of old."

"'Ere they comes!" announced a chorus of children's voices, as the first carriage drove up. The excitement was breathless. The occupants alighted and made their way to the church. After that, the carriages came in fairly quick succession. The bridegroom was criticised freely by the crowd. They did not think him worthy of his bride. "They du say as it was a made up thing," Dodge observed, "and that it wasn't 'im as she'd like to go up to the altar with."

"Well, I don't sort o' take to 'im neither," Mrs. Gullick observed, sympathizing with the bride's feeling. "I do hope he'll be kind to the pore young thing; that I do."

"She wouldn't never give it 'im back; she's that good," another woman remarked.

"Who's the gentleman as she had set her heart on?" a romantic young woman enquired.

"Oh, it's only wot they say," said Dodge judicially; "it's no use a listening to all one hears—not by a long way."

"You 'ad it from Lord Engleton's coachman, didn't you?" prompted Mrs. Gullick.

"Which he heard it said by the gardener at Mr. Jordan's, as Miss Marion was always about with Mr. Fleming."

The murmur of interest at this announcement was drowned by the sound of carriage wheels. The bride had come.

"See the ideal and ethereal being whom you have been so faithfully impersonating all the afternoon!" exclaimed Hadria.

A fair, faint, admirably gentle creature, floating in a mist of tulle, was wafted out of the brougham, the spring sunshine burnishing the pale hair, and flashing a dazzling sword-like glance on the string of diamonds at her throat.

It seemed too emphatic, too keen a greeting for the faint ambiguous being, about to put the teaching of her girlhood, and her pretty hopes and faiths, to the test.

She gave a start and shiver as she stepped out into the brilliant day, turning with a half-scared look to the crowd of faces. It seemed almost as if she were seeking help in a blind, bewildered fashion.

Hadria had an impulse. "What would she think if I were to run down those steps and drag her away?" Professor Theobald shook his head.

Within the church, the procession moved up the aisle, to the sound of the organ. Hadria compared the whole ceremony to some savage rite of sacrifice: priest and people with the victim, chosen for her fairness, decked as is meet for victims.

"But she may be happy," Lady Engleton suggested when the ceremony was over, and the organ was pealing out the wedding march.

"That does not prevent the analogy. What a magnificent hideous thing the marriage-service is! and how exactly it expresses the extraordinary mixture of the noble and the brutal that is characteristic of our notions about these things!"

"The bride is certainly allowed to remain under no misapprehension as to her function," Lady Engleton admitted, with a laugh that grated on Hadria. Professor Theobald had fallen behind with Joseph Fleming, who had turned up among the crowd.

"But, after all, why mince matters?"

"Why indeed?" said Hadria. Lady Engleton seemed to have expected dissent.

"I think," she said, "that we are getting too squeamish nowadays as to speech. Women are so frightened to call a spade a spade."

"It is the spade that is ugly, not the name."

"But, my dear?"

"Oh, it is not a question of squeamishness, it is the insult of the thing. One insult after another, and everyone stands round, looking respectable."

Lady Engleton laughed and said something to lead her companion on.

She liked to listen to Mrs. Temperley when she was thoroughly roused.

"It is the hideous mixture of the delicately civilized with the brutally savage that makes one sick. A frankly barbarous ceremony, where there was no pretence of refinement and propriety and so forth, would be infinitely less revolting."

"Which your language is plain," observed Lady Engleton, much amused.

"I hope so. Didn't you see how it all hurt that poor girl? One of her training too—suspended in mid air—not an earthward glance. You know Mrs. Jordan's views on the education of girls. Poor girls. They are morally skinned, in such a way as to make contact with Fact a veritable torture, and then suddenly they are sent forth defenceless into Life to be literally curry-combed."

"They adjust themselves," said Lady Engleton.

"Adjust themselves!" Hadria vindictively flicked off the head of a dandelion with her parasol. "They awake to find they have been living in a Fool's Paradise—a little upholstered corner with stained glass windows and rose-coloured light. They find that suddenly they are expected to place in the centre of their life everything that up to that moment they have scarcely been allowed even to know about; they find that they must obediently veer round, with the amiable adaptability of a well-oiled weather-cock. Every instinct, every prejudice must be thrown over. All the effects of their training must be instantly overcome. And all this with perfect subjection and cheerfulness, on pain of moral avalanches and deluges, and heaven knows what convulsions of conventional nature!"

"There certainly is some curious incongruity in our training," Lady Engleton admitted.

"Incongruity! Think what it means for a girl to have been taught to connect the idea of something low and evil with that which nevertheless is to lie at the foundation of all her after life. That is what it amounts to, and people complain that women are not logical."

Lady Engleton laughed. "Fortunately things work better in practice than might be expected, judging them in the abstract. How bashful Professor Theobald seems suddenly to have become! Why doesn't he join us, I wonder? However, so much the better; I do like to hear you talk heresy."

"I do more than talk it, I mean it," said Hadria. "I fail utterly to get at the popular point of view."

"But you misrepresent it—there are modifying facts in the case."

"I don't see them. Girls are told: 'So and so is not a nice thing for you to talk about. Wait, however, until the proper signal is given, and then woe betide you if you don't cheerfully accept it as your bounden duty.' If that does not enjoin abject slavishness and deliberate immorality of the most cold-blooded kind, I simply don't know what does."

Lady Engleton seemed to ponder somewhat seriously, as she stood looking down at the grave beside her.

"How we ever came to have tied ourselves into such an extraordinary mental knot is what bewilders me," Hadria continued, "and still more, why it is that we all, by common consent, go on acting and talking as if the tangled skein ran smooth and straight through one's fingers."

"Chiefly, perhaps, because women won't speak out," suggested Lady Engleton.

"They have been so drilled," cried Hadria, "so gagged, so deafened, by 'the shrieks of near relations.'"

Lady Engleton was asking for an explanation, when the wedding-bells began to clang out from the belfry, merry and roughly rejoicing. "Tom-boy bells," Hadria called them. They seemed to tumble over one another and pick themselves up again, and give chase, and roll over in a heap, and then peal firmly out once more, laughing at their romping digression, joyous and thoughtless and simple-hearted. "Evidently without the least notion what they are celebrating," said Hadria.

The bride came out of church on her husband's arm. The children set up a shout. Hadria and Lady Engleton, and, farther back, Professor Theobald and Joseph Fleming, could see the two figures pass down to the carriage and hear the carriage drive away. Hadria drew a long breath.

"I am afraid she was in love with Joseph Fleming," remarked Lady Engleton. "I hoped at one time that he cared for her, but that Irish friend of Marion's, Katie O'Halloran, came on the scene and spoilt my little romance."

"I wonder why she married this man? I wonder why the wind blows?" was added in self-derision at the question.

The rest of the party were now departing. "O sleek wedding guests," Hadria apostrophized them, "how solemnly they sat there, like all-knowing sphinxes, watching, watching, and that child so helpless—handcuffed, manacled! How many prayers will be offered at the shrine of the goddess of Duty within the next twelve months!"

Mrs. Jordan, a British matron of solid proportions, passed down the path on the arm of a comparatively puny cavalier. The sight seemed to stir up some demon in Hadria's bosom. Fantastic, derisive were her comments on that excellent lady's most cherished principles, and on her well-known and much-vaunted mode of training her large family of daughters.

"Only the traditional ideas carried out by a woman of narrow mind and strong will," said Lady Engleton.

"Oh those traditional ideas! They might have issued fresh and hot from an asylum for criminal lunatics."

"You are deliciously absurd, Hadria."

"It is the criminal lunatics who are absurd," she retorted. "Do you remember how those poor girls used to bewail the restrictions to their reading?"

"Yes, it was really a reductio ad absurdum of our system. The girls seemed afraid to face anything. They would rather die than think. (I wonder why Professor Theobald lingers so up there by the chancel? The time must be getting on.)"

Hadria glanced towards him and made no comment. She was thinking of Mrs. Jordan's daughters.

"What became of their personality all that time I cannot imagine: their woman's nature that one hears so much about, and from which such prodigious feats were to be looked for, in the future."

"Yes, that is where the inconsistency of a girl's education strikes me most," said Lady Engleton. "If she were intended for the cloister one could understand it. But since she is brought up for the express purpose of being married, it does seem a little absurd not to prepare her a little more for her future life."

"Exactly," cried Hadria, "if the orthodox are really sincere in declaring that life to be so sacred and desirable, why on earth don't they treat it frankly and reverently and teach their girls to understand and respect it, instead of allowing a furtive, sneaky, detestable spirit to hover over it?"

"Yes, I agree with you there," said Lady Engleton.

"And if they don't really in their hearts think it sacred and so on (and how they can, under our present conditions, I fail to see), why do they deliberately bring up their girls to be married, as they bring up their sons to a profession? It is inconceivable, and yet good people do it, without a suspicion of the real nature of their conduct, which it wouldn't be polite to describe."

Mrs. Jordan—her face irradiated with satisfaction—was acknowledging the plaudits of the villagers, who shouted more or less in proportion to the eye-filling properties of the departing guests.

Hadria was seized with a fit of laughter. It was an awkward fact, that she never could see Mrs. Jordan's majestic form and noble bonnet without feeling the same overwhelming impulse to laugh.

"This is disgraceful conduct!" cried Lady Engleton.

Hadria was clearly in one of her most reckless moods to-day.

"You have led me on, and must take the consequences!" she cried. "Imagine," she continued with diabolical deliberation, "if Marion, on any day previous to this, had gone to her mother and expressed an overpowering maternal instinct—a deep desire to have a child!"

"Good heavens!" exclaimed Lady Engleton.

"Why so shocked, since it is so holy?"

"But that is different."

"Ah! then it is holy only when the social edict goes forth, and proclaims the previous evil good and the previous good evil."

"Come, come; the inconsistency is not quite so bad as that. (How that man does dawdle!)"

Hadria shrugged her shoulders. "It seems to me so; for now suppose, on the other hand, that this same Marion, on any day subsequent to this, should go to that same mother, and announce an exactly opposite feeling—a profound objection to the maternal function—how would she be received? Heavens, with what pained looks, with what platitudes and proverbs, with what reproofs and axioms and sentiments! She would issue forth from that interview like another St. Sebastian, stuck all over with wounds and arrows. 'Sacred mission,' 'tenderest joy,' 'holiest mission,' 'highest vocation'—one knows the mellifluous phrases."

"But after all she would be wrong in her objection. The instinct is a true one," said Lady Engleton.

"Oh, then why should she be pelted for expressing it previously, if the question is not indiscreet?"

"Well, it would seem rather gruesome, if girls were to be overpowered with that passion."

"So we are all to be horribly shocked at the presence of an instinct to-day, and then equally shocked and indignant at its absence to-morrow; our sentiment being determined by the performance or otherwise of the ceremony we have just witnessed. It really shows a touching confidence in the swift adaptability of the woman's sentimental organization!"

Lady Engleton gave an uneasy laugh, and seemed lost in uncomfortable thought. She enjoyed playing with unorthodox speculations, but she objected to have her customary feelings interfered with, by a reasoning which she did not see her way to reduce to a condition of uncertainty. She liked to leave a question delicately balanced, enjoying all the fun of "advanced" thought without endangering her favourite sentiments. Like many women of talent, she was intensely maternal, in the instinctive sense; and for that reason had a vague desire to insist on all other women being equally so; but the notion of the instinct becoming importunate in a girl revolted her; a state of mind that struggled to justify itself without conscious entrenchment behind mere tradition. Lady Engleton sincerely tried to shake off prejudice.

"You are in a mixed condition of feeling, I see," Hadria said. "I am not surprised. Our whole scheme of things indeed is so mixed, that the wonder only is we are not all in a state of chronic lunacy. I believe, as a matter of fact, that we are; but as we are all lunatics together, there is no one left to put us into asylums."

Lady Engleton laughed.

"The present age is truly a strange one," she exclaimed.

"Do you think so? It always seems to me that the present age is finding out for the first time how very strange all the other ages have been."