Althea had not seen Gerald after the day that they came up from Merriston together. The breaking of their engagement was duly announced, and, with his little note to her, thanking her for her frankness and wishing her every happiness, Gerald and all things connected with him seemed to pass out of her life. She saw no more of the frivolous relations who were really serious, nor of the serious ones who were really frivolous. She did not even see Helen. Helen's engagement to Franklin had never been formally announced, and few, beyond her circle of nearest friends, knew of it; the fact that Franklin had now returned to his first love was not one that could, at the moment, be made appropriately public. But, of course, Helen had had to be told, not only that Franklin had gone from her, but that he had come back to Althea, and Althea wondered deeply how this news had been imparted. She had not felt strength to impart it herself. When she asked Franklin, very tentatively, about it, he said: 'That's all right, dear. I've explained. Helen perfectly understands.'
That it was all right seemed demonstrated by the little note, kind and sympathetic, that Helen wrote to her, saying that she did understand, perfectly, and was so glad for her and for Franklin, and thatit was such a good thing when people found out mistakes in time. There was not a trace of grievance; Helen seemed to relinquish a good which, she recognised, had only been hers because Althea hadn't wanted it. And this was natural; how could one show one's grievance in such a case? Helen, above all, would never show it; and Althea was at once oppressed, and at the same time oddly sustained by the thought that she had, all inevitably, done her friend an injury. She lay awake at night, turning over in her mind Helen's present plight and framing loving plans for the future. She took refuge in such plans from a sense of having come to an end of things. To think of Helen, and of what, with their wealth, she and Franklin could do for Helen, seemed, really, her strongest hold on life. It was the brightest thing that she had to look forward to, and she looked forward to it with complete self-effacement. She saw the beautiful Italian villa where Helen should be the fitting centre, the English house where Helen, rather than she, should entertain. She felt that she asked nothing more for herself. She was safe, if one liked to put it so, and in that safety she felt not only her ambitions, but even any personal desires, extinguished. Her desire, now, was to unite with Franklin in making the proper background for Helen. But at the moment these projects were unrealisable; taste, as well as circumstance, required a pause, a lull. It was a relief—so many things were a relief, so few things more than merely that—to know that Helen was in the country somewhere, and would not be back for ten days or a fortnight.
Meanwhile, Miss Harriet Robinson, very grave but very staunch, sustained Althea through all the outward difficulties of hervolte-face. Miss Robinson, of course, had had to be told of the reason for thevolte-face, the fact that Althea had found, after all, that she cared more for Franklin Winslow Kane. It was in regard to the breaking of her engagement that Miss Robinson was staunch and grave; in regard to the new engagement, Althea saw that, though still staunch, she was much disturbed. Miss Robinson found Franklin hard to place, and found it hard to understand why Althea had turned from Gerald Digby to him. Franklin's millions didn't count for much with Miss Robinson, nor could she suspect them of counting for anything, where marriage was concerned, with her friend. She had not, indeed, a high opinion of the millionaire type of her compatriots. Her standards were birth and fashion, and poor Franklin could not be said to embody either of these claims. His mitigating qualities could hardly shine for Miss Robinson, who, accustomed to continually seeing and frequently evading the drab, dry, utilitarian species of her country-people, could not be expected to find in him the flavour of oddity and significance that his English acquaintance prized. Franklin didn't make any effort to place himself more favourably. He was very gentle and very attentive, and he followed all Althea's directions as to clothes and behaviour with careful literalness; but even barbered and tailored by the best that London had to offer, he seemed to sink inevitably into the discreetly effaced position that the American husband so often assumes behind his more brilliantmate, and Althea might have been more aware of this had she not been so sunken in an encompassing consciousness of her own obliteration. She felt herself nearer Franklin there, and the sense of relief and safety came most to her when she could feel herself near Franklin. It didn't disturb her, standing by him in the background, that Miss Robinson should not appreciate him. After all, deeper than anything, was the knowledge that Helen had appreciated him. Recede as far as he would from the gross foreground places, Helen's choice of him, Helen's love—for after a fashion, Helen must have loved him—gave him a final and unquestionable value. It was in this assurance of Helen's choice that she found a refuge when questionings and wonders came to drag her down to suffering again. There were many things that menaced the lull of safety, things she could not bear yet to look at. The sense of her own abandonment to weak and disingenuous impulses was one; another shadowed her unstable peace more darkly. Had Helen really minded losing Franklin—apart from his money? What had his value really been to her? What was she feeling and doing now? What was Gerald doing and feeling, and what did they both think or suspect of her? The answer to some of these questionings came to her from an unsuspected quarter. It was on a morning of chill mists and pale sunlight that Althea, free of Miss Robinson, walked down Grosvenor Street towards the park. She liked to go into the park on such mornings, when Miss Robinson left her free, and sit on a bench and abandon herself to remote, impersonal dreams. It was just as she entered Berkeley Square that she met Mrs.Mallison, that aunt of Gerald's who had struck her, some weeks ago, as so disconcerting, with her skilfully preserved prettiness and her ethical and metaphysical aspirations. This lady, furred to her ears, was taking out two small black pomeranians for an airing. She wore long pearl ear-rings, and her narrow, melancholy face was delicately rouged and powdered. Althea's colour rose painfully; she had seen none of Gerald's relatives since the severance. Mrs. Mallison, however, showed no embarrassment. She stopped at once and took Althea's hand and gazed tenderly upon her. Her manner had always afflicted Althea, with its intimations of some deep, mystical understanding.
'My dear, I'm so glad—to meet you, you know. How nice, how right you've been.' Mrs. Mallison murmured her words rather than spoke them and could pronounce none of her r's. 'I'm so glad to be able to tell you so. You're walking? Come with me, then; I'm just taking the dogs round the square. Do you love dogs too? I am sure you must. You have the eyes of the dog-lover. I don't know how I could live without mine; they understand when no one else does. I didn't write, because I think letters are such soulless things, don't you? They are the tombs of the spirit—little tombs for failed things—too often. I've thought of you, and felt for you—so much; but I couldn't write. And now I must tell you that I agree with you with all my heart. Love's theonlything in life, isn't it?' Mrs. Mallison smiled, pressing Althea's arm affectionately. Althea remembered to have heard that Mrs. Mallison had made a most determinedmariage de convenanceand had sought love in other directions; but, summoning what good grace she could, she answered that she, too, considered love the only thing.
'You didn't love him enough, and you found it out in time, and you told him. How brave; how right. And then—am I too indiscreet? but I know you feel we are friends—you found you loved some one else; the reality came and showed you the unreality. That enchanting Mr. Kane—oh, I felt it the moment I looked at him—there was an affinity between us, our souls understood each other. And so deliciously rich you'll be, not that money makes any difference, does it? but it is nice to be able to do things for the people one loves.'
Althea struggled in a maze of discomfort. Behind Mrs. Mallison's caressing intonations was something that perplexed her. What did Mrs. Mallison know, and what did she guess? She was aware, evidently, of her own engagement to Franklin and, no doubt, of Franklin's engagement to Helen and its breaking off. What did she know about the cause of that breaking off? Her troubled cogitations got no further, for Mrs. Mallison went on:
'And how happily it has all turned out—all round—hasn't it? How horrid for you and Mr. Kane, if it hadn't; not that you'd have had anything to reproach yourselves with—really—I know—because loveisthe only thing; but if Helen and Gerald had just been leftplantés là, it would have been harder, wouldn't it? I've been staying with them at the same house in the country and it's quite obvious what's happened. You knew from the first, no doubt; but of course they are saying nothing, just as you and Mr. Kane are saying nothing.They didn't tell me, but I guessed at once. And the first thing I thought was: Oh—how happy—how perfect this makes it for Miss Jakes and Mr. Kane. They'veallfound out in time.'
Althea grew cold. She commanded her voice. 'Helen? Gerald?' she said. 'Haven't you mistaken? They've always been the nearest friends.'
'Oh no—no,' smiled Mrs. Mallison, with even greater brightness and gentleness, 'I never mistake these things; an affair of the heart is the one thing that I always see. Helen, perhaps, could hide it from me; she is a woman and can hide things—Helen is cold too—I am never very sure of Helen's heart—of course I love her dearly, every one must who knows her; but she is cold, unawakened, the type that holds out the cheek, not the type that kisses. I confess that I love most the reckless, loving type; and I believe that you and I are unlike Helen there—we kiss, we don't hold out the cheek. But, no, I never would have guessed from Helen. It was Gerald who gave them both away. Poor, dear Gerald, never have I beheld such a transfigured being—he is radiantly in love, quite radiantly; it's too pretty to see him.'
The vision of Gerald, radiantly in love, flashed horridly for Althea. It was dim, yet bright, scintillating darkly; she could only imagine it in similes; she had never seen anything that could visualise it for her. The insufferable dogs, like tethered bubbles, bounded before them, constantly impeding their progress. Althea was thankful for the excuse afforded her by the tangling of her feet in the string to pause and stoop; she felt that her rigid face must betray her. She stooped for a long moment andhoped that her flush would cover her rigidity. It was when she raised herself that she saw suddenly in Mrs. Mallison's face something that gave her more than a suspicion. She didn't suspect her of cruelty or vulgar vengeance—Gerald's aunt was quite without rancour on the score of her jilting of him; but she did suspect, and more than suspect her—it was like the unendurable probing of a wound to feel it—of idle yet implacable curiosity, and of a curiosity edged, perhaps, with idle malice. She summoned all her strength. She smiled and shook her head a little. 'Faithless Gerald! So soon,' she said. 'He is consoled quickly. No, I never guessed anything at all.'
Mrs. Mallison had again passed her arm through hers and again pressed it. 'Itissoon, isn't it? A sort ofchassé-croisé. But how strange and fortunate that it should be soon—I know you feel that too.'
'Oh yes, of course, I feel it; it is an immense relief. But they ought to have told me,' Althea smiled.
'I wonder at that too,' said Mrs. Mallison. 'It is rather bad of them, I think, when they must know what it would mean to you of joy. When did it happen, do you suppose?'
Althea wondered. Wonders were devouring her.
'It happened with you quite suddenly, didn't it?' said Mrs. Mallison, who breathed the soft fragrance of her solicitude into Althea's face as she leaned her head near and pressed her arm closely.
'Quite suddenly,' Althea replied, 'that is, with me it was sudden. Franklin, of course, has loved me for a great many years.'
'So he was faithless too, for his little time?'
Althea's brain whirled. 'Faithless? Franklin?'
'I mean, while he made his mistake—while he thought he was in love with Helen.'
'It wasn't a question of that. It was to be a match of reason, and friendship—everybody knew,' Althea stammered.
'Wasit?' said Mrs. Mallison with deep interest. 'I see, like yours and Gerald's.'
'Oh——' Althea was not able in her headlong course to do more than glance at the implications that whizzed past. 'Gerald and I made the mistake, I think; we believed ourselves in love.'
'Didyou?' Mrs. Mallison repeated her tone of affectionate and brooding interest. 'What a strange thing the human heart is, isn't it?'
'Very, very strange.'
'How dear and frank of you to see it all as you do. And there are no more mistakes now,' said Mrs. Mallison. 'No one is reasonable and every one is radiant.'
'Every one is radiant and reasonable too, I hope,' said Althea. Her head still whirled as she heard herself analysing for Mrs. Mallison's correction these sanctities of her life. Odious, intolerable, insolent woman! She could have burst into tears as she walked beside her, held by her, while her hateful dogs, shrilly barking, bounded buoyantly around them.
'It's dear of you too, to tell me all about it,' said Mrs. Mallison. 'Have you seen Helen yet? She is just back.'
'No, I've not seen her.'
'You will meet? I am sure you will still be friends—two such real people as you are.'
'Of course we shall meet. Helen is one of my dearest friends.'
'I see. It is so beautiful when people can rise above things. You make me very happy. Don't tell Helen what I've told you,' Mrs. Mallison with gentle gaiety warned her. 'I knew—in case you hadn't heard—that it would relieve you so intensely to hear that she and Gerald were happy, in spite of what you had to do to them. But it would make Helen cross with me if she knew I'd told you when she hadn't. I'm rather afraid of Helen, aren't you? I'm sure she'll give Gerald dreadful scoldings sometimes. Poor, dear Gerald!' Mrs. Mallison laughed reminiscently. 'Never have I beheld such a transfigured being. I didn't think he had it in him to be in love to such an extent. Oh, it was all in his face—his eyes—when he looked at her.'
Yes, malicious, malicious to the point of vulgarity; that was Althea's thought as, like an arrow released from long tension, she sped away, the turn of the square once made and Mrs. Mallison and her dogs once more received into the small house in an adjacent street. Tears were in Althea's eyes, hot tears, of fury, of humiliation, and—oh, it flooded over her—of bitterest sorrow and yearning. Gerald, radiant Gerald—lost to her for ever; not even lost; never possessed. And into the sorrow and humiliation, poisonous suspicions crept. When did it happen? Where was she? What had been done to her? She must see; she must know. She hailed a hansom and was driven to old Miss Buchanan's house in Belgravia.
Helen was sitting at her writing-table before the window, and the morning light fell on her gracefully disordered hair and gracefully shabby shoulders. The aspect of her back struck on Althea's bitter, breathless mood. There was no effort made for anything with Helen. She was the sort of person who would get things without seeking for them and be things without caring to be them. She had taken what she wanted, when she wanted it; first Franklin, and then—and perhaps it had been before Franklin had failed her, perhaps it had been before she, Althea, had failed Gerald—she had taken Gerald. Althea's mind, reeling, yet strangely lucid after the shock of the last great injury, was also aware, in the moment of her entrance, of many other injuries, old ones, small ones, yet, in their summing up—and everything seemed to be summed up now in the cruel revelation—as intolerable as the new and great one. More strongly than ever before she was aware that Helen was hard, that there was nothing in her soft or tentative or afraid; and the realisation, though it was not new, came with an added bitterness this morning. It did not weaken her, however; on the contrary, it nerved her to self-protection. If Helen was hard, she would not, to-day, show herself soft. It was she who must assumethe air of success, and of rueful yet helpless possessorship. These impressions and resolutions occupied but an instant. Helen rose and came to her, and what Althea saw in her face armed her resolutions with hostility. Helen's face confirmed what Mrs. Mallison had said. It was not resentful, not ironically calm. A solicitous interest, even a sort of benignity, was in her bright gaze. Helen was hard; she did not really care at all; but she was kind, kinder than ever before; and Althea found this kindness intolerable.
'Dear Helen,' she said, 'I'm so glad to see you. I had to come at once when I heard that you were back. You don't mind seeing me?'
'Not a bit,' said Helen, who had taken her hand. 'Why should I?'
'I was afraid that perhaps you might not want to—for a long time.'
'We aren't so foolish as that,' said Helen smiling.
'No, that is what I hoped you would feel too. We have been in the hands of fate, haven't we, Helen? I've seemed weak and disloyal, I know—to you and to Gerald; but I think it was only seeming. When I found out my mistake I couldn't go on. And then the rest all followed—inevitably.'
Helen had continued to hold her hand while she spoke, and she continued to gaze at her for another moment before, pressing it, she let it fall and said: 'Of course you couldn't go on.'
Helen was as resolved—Althea saw that clearly—to act her part of unresentful kindness as she to act hers of innocent remorse. And the swordthrust in the sight was to suspect that had Helen been inreality the dispossessed and not the secretly triumphant, she might have been as kind and as unresentful.
'It's all been a dreadful mistake,' Althea said, going to a chair and loosening her furs. 'From the very beginning I felt doubt. From the very beginning I felt that Gerald and I did not really make each other happy. And I believe that you wondered about it too.'
Helen had resumed her seat at the writing-table, sitting turned from it, her hand hanging over the back of the chair, her long legs crossed, and she faced her friend with that bright yet softened gaze, interested, alert, but too benign, too contented, to search or question closely. She was evidently quite willing that Althea should think what she chose, and, this was becoming evident, she intended to help her to think it. So after a little pause she answered, 'I did wonder, rather; it didn't seem to me that you and Gerald were really suited.'
'And you felt, didn't you,' Althea urged, 'that it was only because I had been so blind, and had not seen where my heart really was, you know, that your engagement was possible? I was so afraid you'd think we'd been faithless to you—Franklin and I; but, when I stopped being blind——'
'Of course,' Helen helped her on, nodding and smiling gravely, 'of course you took him back. I don't think you were either of you faithless, and you mustn't have me a bit on your minds; it was startling, of course; but I'm not heart-broken,' Helen assured her.
Oh, there was no malice here; it was something far worse to bear, this wish to lift every shadow and smooth every path. Althea's eyes fixed themselveshard on her friend. Her head swam a little and some of her sustaining lucidity left her.
'I was so afraid,' she said, 'that you, perhaps, cared for Franklin—had come to care so much, I mean—that it might have been hard for you to forgive. I can't tell you the relief it is——'
'To see that I didn't care so much as that?' Helen smiled brightly, though with a brightness, now, slightly wary, as though with all her efforts to slide and not to press, she felt the ice cracking a little under her feet, and as though some care might be necessary if she were to skate safely away. 'Don't have that in the least on your mind, it was what you always disapproved of, you know, an arrangement of convenience. Franklin and I both understood perfectly. You know how mercenary I am—though I told you, I remember, that I couldn't think of marrying anybody I didn't like. I liked Franklin, more than I can say; but it was never a question of love.'
In Althea's ears, also, the ice seemed now to crack ominously. 'You mean,' she said, 'that you wouldn't have thought of marrying Franklin if it hadn't been for his money?'
There was nothing for Helen but to skate straight ahead. 'No, I don't suppose I should.'
'But you had become the greatest friends.'
She was aware that she must seem to be trying, strangely, incredibly, to prove to Helen that she had been in love with Franklin; to prove to her that she had no right not to resent anything; no right to find forgiveness so easy. But there was no time now to stop.
'Of course we became the greatest friends,' Helensaid, and it was as if with relief for the outlet. She was bewildered, and did not know where they were going. 'I don't need to tell you what I think of Franklin. He is the dearest and best of men, and you are the luckiest of women to have won him.'
'Ah,' uncontrollably Althea rose to her feet with almost the cry, 'I see; you think me lucky to have won a man who, in himself, without money, wasn't good enough for you. Thank you.'
For a long moment—and in it they both recognised that the crash had come, and that they were struggling in dark, cold water—Helen was silent. She kept her eyes on Althea and she did not move. Then, while she still looked steadily upon her, a slow colour rose in her cheeks. It was helplessly, burningly, that she blushed, and Althea saw that she blushed as much for anger as for shame, and that the shame was for her.
She did not need Helen's blush to show her what she had done, what desecration she had wrought. Her own blood beat upwards in hot surges and tears rushed into her eyes. She covered her face with her hands and dropped again into her chair, sobbing.
Helen did not help her out. She got up and went to the mantelpiece and looked down at the fire for some moments. And at last she spoke, 'I didn't mean that either. I think that Franklin is too good for either of us.'
'Good!' wept Althea. 'He is an angel. Do you suppose I don't see that? But why should I pretend when you don't. I'm not in love with Franklin. I'm unworthy of him—more unworthy of him than you were—but I'm not in love with him,even though he is an angel. So don't tell me that I am lucky. I am a most miserable woman.' And she wept on, indifferent now to any revelations.
Presently she heard Helen's voice. It was harder than she had ever known it. 'May I say something? It's for his sake—more than for yours. What I advise you to do is not to bother so much about love. You couldn't stick to Gerald because you weren't loved enough; and you're doubting your feeling for Franklin, now, because you can't love him enough. Give it all up. Follow my second-rate example. Be glad that you're marrying an angel and that he has all that money. And do remember that though you're not getting what you want, you are getting a good deal and he is getting nothing, so try to play the game and to see if you can't make it up to him; see if you can't make him happy.'
Althea's sobbing had now ceased, though she kept her face still covered. Bitter sadness, too deep now for resentment, was in her silence, a silence in which she accepted what Helen's words had of truth. The sadness was to see at last to the full, that she had no place in Helen's life. There was no love, there was hardly liking, behind Helen's words. And so it had been from the very first, ever since she had loved and Helen accepted; ever since she had gone forth carrying gifts, and Helen had stood still and been vaguely aware that homage was being offered. It had, from the very beginning, been this; Helen, hard, self-centred, insensible, so that anything appealing or uncertain was bound to be shattered against her. And was not this indifference to offered love a wrong done to it, something that alllife cried out against? Had not weakness and fear and the clinging appeal of immaturity their rights, so that the strong heart that was closed to them, that did not go out to them in tenderness and succour, was the dull, the lesser heart? Dimly she knew, not exculpating herself, not judging her beautiful Helen, that though she had, in her efforts towards happiness, pitifully failed, there was failure too in being blind, in being unconscious of any effort to be made. The more trivial, the meaner aspect of her grief was merged in a fundamental sincerity.
'What you say is true,' she said, 'for I know that I am a poor creature. I know that I give Franklin nothing, and take everything from him. But it is easy for you to talk of what is wise and strong, Helen, and to tell me what I ought to do and feel. You have everything. You have the man who loves you and the man you love. It is easy for you to be clear and hard and see other people's faults. I know—I know about you and Gerald.'
Helen turned to her. Althea had dropped her hands. She did not look at her friend, but, with tear-disfigured eyes, out of the window; and there was a desolate dignity in her aspect. For the first time in their unequal intercourse they were on an equal footing. Helen was aware of Althea, and, in a vague flash, for self-contemplation was difficult to her, she was aware of some of the things that Althea saw: the lack of tenderness; the lack of imagination; the indifference to all that did not come within the circle of her own tastes and affections. It was just as Franklin had said, and Gerald, and now Althea; her heart was hard. And she wassorry, though she did not know what she was to do; for though she was sorry for Althea her heart did not soften for her as it had softened for Franklin, and for the thought of Franklin—too good for them all, sacrificed to them all. It was the thought of the cruelty of nature, making of Franklin, with all his wealth of love, a creature never to be desired, that gave to her vision of life, and of all this strange predicament in which life had involved them, an ironic colour incompatible with the warmth of trust and tenderness which Franklin had felt lacking in her. She was ironic, she was hard, and she must make the best of it. But it was in a gentle voice that, looking at her friend's melancholy head, she asked: 'Who told you that?'
'Mrs. Mallison,' said Althea. 'I've been a hypocrite to you all the morning.'
'And I have been an odious prig to you. That ass of a Kitty Mallison. I had not intended any one to know for months.' Even in her discomfiture Helen retained her tact. She did not say 'we.'
'For my sake, I suppose?'
'Oh no! why for yours?' Helen was determined that Althea should be hurt no further. If pity for Franklin had edged her voice, pity for Althea must keep from her the blighting knowledge of Franklin's sacrifice.
'It was we who were left, wasn't it—Gerald and I? I don't want us to appear before people's eyes at once as consolation prizes to each other.'
Althea now turned a sombre gaze upon her. 'He couldn't be that to you, since you've never loved Franklin; and I know that you are not that to him; Gerald didn't need to be consoled for losing me. Hedid need to be consoled when he heard that you were marrying Franklin. I remember the day that your letter came—the letter that said you were engaged. That really ended things for us.' Her lip trembled. 'It is easy for you to say that I didn't stick to Gerald because he didn't love me enough. How could I have stuck to some one who, I see it well enough now, was beginning to love some one else?'
Helen contemplated her and the truths she put before her. 'Try to forgive me,' she said.
'There's nothing to forgive,' said Althea, rising. 'You told me the truth, and what I had said was so despicable that I deserved to have it told to me. All the mistakes are mine. I've wanted things that I've no right to; I suppose it's that. You and I weren't made for each other, just as Gerald and I weren't, and it's all only my mistake and my misfortune—for wanting and loving people who couldn't want or love me. I see it all at last, and it's all over. Good-bye, Helen.' She put out her hand.
'Oh, but don't—don't——' Helen clasped her hand, strangely shaken by impulses of pity and self-reproach that yet left her helpless before her friend's sincerity. 'Don't say you are going to give me up,' she finished, and tears stood in her eyes.
'I'm afraid I must give up all sorts of things,' said Althea, smiling desolately. 'If we hadn't got so near, we might have gone on. I'm afraid when people aren't made for each other they can't get so near without its breaking them. Good-bye. I shall try to be worthy of Franklin. I shall try to make him happy.'
She drove back to her hotel. She felt very tired. The world she gazed at seemed vast and alien, a world in which she had no place. The truth had come to her and she looked at it curiously, almost indifferently. London flowed past her, long tides of purpose to right and left. The trees in Green Park were softly blurred on the chill, white sky. She looked at the trees and sky and at the far lift of Piccadilly, blackened with traffic, and, at the faces that went by, as if it were all a vast cinematograph and she the idlest of spectators. And it was here that love had first come to her, and here that despair had come. Now both were over and she accepted her defeat.
She thought, when the hotel was reached, and as she went upstairs, that she would go to bed and try to sleep. But when she entered her little sitting-room she found Franklin there waiting for her. He had been reading the newspapers before the fire and had risen quickly on hearing her step. It was as if she had forgotten Franklin all this time.
She stood by the door that she had closed, and gazed at him. It was without will, or hope, or feeling that she gazed, as if he were a part only of that alien world she had looked at, and this outward seeing was relentless. A meagre, commonplace,almost comic little man. She saw behind him his trite and colourless antecedents; she saw before him—and her—the future, trite and colourless too, but for the extraneous glitter of the millions that surrounded him as incongruously as a halo would have done. He was an angel, of course; he was good; but he was only that; there were no varieties, no graces, no mysteries. His very interests were as meagre as his personality; he had hardly a taste, except the taste for doing his best. Books, music, pictures—all the great world of beauty and intellect that the world of goodness and workaday virtues existed, perhaps, only to make possible—its finer, more ethereal superstructure—only counted for Franklin as recreations, relaxations, things half humorously accepted as one accepts a glass of lemonade on a hot day. Not only was he without charm, but he was unaware of charm; he didn't see it or feel it or need it. And she, who had seen and felt, she who had known Gerald and Helen, must be satisfied with this. It was this that she must strive to be worthy of. She was unworthy, and she knew it; but that acceptation was only part of the horror of defeat. And the soulless gaze with which she looked at him oddly chiselled her pallid face. She was like a dumb, classic mask, too impersonal for tragedy. Her lips were parted in their speechlessness and her eyes vacant of thought.
Then, after that soulless seeing, she realised that she had frightened Franklin. He came to her. 'Dear—what is the matter?' he asked.
He came so near that she looked into his eyes. She looked deeply, for a long time, in silence. Andwhile she looked, while Franklin's hands gently found and held hers, life came to her with dreadful pain again. She felt, rather than knew—and with a long shudder—that the world was vast; she felt and feared it as vast and alien. She felt that she was alone, and the loneliness was a terror, beating upon her. And she felt—no longer seeing anything but the deeps of Franklin's eyes—that he was her only refuge; and closing her own eyes she stumbled towards him and he received her in his arms.
They sat on the sofa, and Franklin clasped her while she wept, and she seemed to re-enter childhood where all that she wanted was to cry her heart out and have gentle arms around her while she confessed every wrong-doing that had made a barrier between herself and her mother's heart. 'O Franklin,' she sobbed, 'I'm so unhappy!'
He said nothing, soothing her as a mother might have done.
'Franklin, I loved him!' she sobbed. 'It was real: it was the reallest thing that ever happened to me. I only sent for you because I knew that he didn't love me. I loved him too much to go on if he didn't love me. What I have suffered, Franklin. And now he is going to marry Helen. He loves Helen. And I am not worthy of you.'
'Poor child,' said Franklin. He pressed his lips to her hair.
'You know, Franklin?'
'Yes, I know, dear.'
'I am not worthy of you,' Althea repeated. 'I have been weak and selfish. I've used you—to hide from myself—because I was too frightened to stand alone and give up things.'
'Well, you shan't stand alone any more,' said Franklin.
'But, Franklin—dear—kind Franklin—why should you marry me? I don't love you—not as I loved him. I only wanted you because I was afraid. I must tell you all the truth. I only want you now, and cling to you like this, because I am afraid, because I can't go on alone and have nothing to live for.'
'You'll have me now, dear,' said Franklin. 'You'll try that, won't you, and perhaps you'll find it more worth while than you think.'
Something more now than fear and loneliness and penitence was piercing her. His voice: poor Franklin's voice. What had she done to him? What had they all done to him among them? And dimly, like the memory of a dream, yet sharply, too, as such memory may be sharp, there drifted for Althea the formless fear that hovered—formless yet urgent—when Franklin had come to her in her desperate need. It hovered, and it seemed to shape itself, as if through delicate curves of smoke, into Helen's face—Helen's eyes and smile. Helen, charm embodied; Helen, all the things that Franklin could never be; all the things she had believed till now, Franklin could never feel or need. What did she know of Franklin? so the fear whispered softly. What had Helen done to Franklin? What had it meant to Franklin, that strange mingling with magic?
She could never ask. She could never know. It would hover and whisper always, the fear that had yet its beauty. It humbled her and it lifted Franklin. He was more than she had believed. She had believed him all hers, to take; but it was he who hadgiven himself to her, and there was an inmost shrine—ah, was there not?—that was not his to give. And pity, deep pity, and sadness immeasurable for a loss not hers alone, was in her as she sobbed: 'Ah, it is only because you are sorry for me. I have killed all the rest. You are not in love with me any longer—poor—poor Franklin—and everything is spoiled.'
But Franklin could show her that he had seen the fear, and yet that life was not spoiled by shrines in each heart from which the other was shut out. It was difficult to know how to say it; difficult to tell her that some truth she saw and yet that there was more truth for them both—plenty of truth, as he would have said, for them both to live on. And though it took him a little while to find the words, he did find them at last, completely, for her and for himself, saying gently, while he held her, 'No, it isn't, dear. It's not spoiled. It's not the same—for either of us—is it?—but it isn't spoiled. We've taken nothing from each other; some things weren't ours, that's all. And even if you don't much want to marry me, you must please have me, now; because I want to marry you. I want to live for you so much that by degrees, I feel sure of it, you'll want to live for me, too. We must live for each other; we've got each other. Isn't that enough, Althea?'
'Is it—isit enough?' she sobbed.
'I guess it is,' said Franklin.
His voice was sane and sweet, even if it was sad. It seemed the voice of life. Althea closed her eyes and let it fold her round. Only with Franklin could she find consolation in her defeat, or strength to live without the happiness that had failed her. Only Franklin could console her for having to take Franklin. Was that really all that it came to? No, she felt it growing, as they sat in silence, her sobs quieting, her head on his shoulder; it came to more. But she saw nothing clearly after the hateful, soulless seeing. The only clear thing was that it was good to be with Franklin.
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This book is generally regarded as Mrs. Steel's masterpiece. It is a story of the Indian Mutiny, and contains a wonderful picture of the heroism of English men and women in that time of terror.
THE HOUSE OF THE WOLF. Stanley J. Weyman.
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THE EXPLOITS OF BRIGADIER GERARD. A. Conan Doyle.
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THE WAR IN THE AIR. H. G. Wells.
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THE MEMOIRS OF SHERLOCK HOLMES. A. Conan Doyle.
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THE OSBORNES. E. F. Benson.
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THE RETURN OF THE EMIGRANT. Lydia M. Mackay.
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PRINCESS PRISCILLA'S FORTNIGHT.
By the Author of "Elizabeth and her German Garden." This tale, famous both as a book and as a play, tells how a young and beautiful German princess, growing weary of Court restrictions, flies from her home, and with her maid seeks refuge in an English village. Her royal generosity soon leads her into financial straits, and she is rescued and restored to her family by her lover. The humour and piquancy of the situations are not less great than the charm of the heroine.
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JEMMY ABERCRAW. Bernard Capes.
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RULES OF THE GAME. Stewart Edward White.
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WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC. Sir Gilbert Parker.
In this charming story Sir Gilbert Parker tells of the fortunes of a young adventurer in Canada in the early nineteenth century who claimed to be the son of the great Napoleon. The mystery of his life and his tragic death make up one of the most original and moving of recent romances. The author does for Quebec what in other works he has done for the Western and Northern wilds—he interprets to the world its essential romance.
THE GENTLEMAN FROM INDIANA. Booth Tarkington.
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THE INVIOLABLE SANCTUARY. George A. Birmingham.
Mr. Birmingham's novel takes us to the west of Ireland. The heroine is a young lady of fifteen, who, with the help of a boy cousin, discovers a mystery in the bay, and lands the whole parish in a bog of intrigue. It is in every way as amusing and delightful as "Spanish Gold" and "The Simpkins Plot."
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BAILEY, H. C.Springtime.Beaujeu.BECKE, LOUIS.Edward Barry, South Sea Pearler.BELLOC, HILAIRE.Mr. Clutterbuck's Election.The Girondin.BENSON, E. F.Daisy's Aunt.The Luck of the Vails.The Money Market.The Osbornes.The Princess Sophia.BENTLEY, E. C.Trent's Last Case.BIRMINGHAM, GEORGE A.The Simpkins Plot.The Inviolable Sanctuary.BLACK, WILLIAM.White Heather.BRADDON, Miss.Lady Audley's Secret.Vixen.BRAMAH, ERNEST.The Secret of the League.BUCHAN, JOHN.Prester John.BURNETT, MRS. F. H.The Making of a Marchioness.By The Author of "Elizabeth andher German Garden."Princess Priscilla's Fortnight.CAINE, HALL.A Son of Hagar.CAPES, BERNARD.Jemmy Abercraw.CARR, M. E.The Poison of Tongues.CASTLE, A. and E.If Youth but Knew.Incomparable Bellairs.French Nan.The Rose of the World.The Panther's Cub.CHILDERS, ERSKINE.The Riddle of the Sands.CHOLMONDELEY, MARY.Red Pottage.CLIFFORD, MRS. W. K.Woodside Farm.CONRAD, JOSEPH.Romance.COPPING, A.Gotty and the Guv'nor.COURLANDER, A.Mightier than the Sword.DOUGLAS, GEORGE.The House with the Green Shutters.DOYLE, A. CONAN.The Refugees.The Great Shadow.Micah Clarke.The Sign of Four.Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes.The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.The Exploits of Brigadier Gerard.The Hound of the Baskervilles.DUNCAN, SARA JEANETTE.Set in Authority.FALKNER, J. MEADE.Moonfleet.FINDLATER, MARY AND JANE.Crossriggs.FORREST, R. E.Eight Days.FUTRELLE, JACQUES.The Lady in the Case.GARNETT, MRS.The Infamous John Friend.GISSING, GEORGE.Odd Women.Born in Exile.GRIER, SYDNEY.The Warden of the Marches.HARLAND, HENRY.The Cardinal's Snuff-Box.My Friend Prospero.HARRADEN, BEATRICE.Katharine Frensham.Interplay.Out of the Wreck I Rise.HOBBES, JOHN OLIVER.Love and the Soul-hunters.HOPE, ANTHONY.The Intrusions of Peggy.Quisanté.The King's Mirror.The God in the Car.Count Antonio.The Dolly Dialogues.The Prisoner of Zenda.A Man of Mark.Rupert of Hentzau.Sophy of Kravonia.Tristram of Blent.The Great Miss Driver.Simon Dale.Tales of Two People.HORNUNG, E. W.Raffles.Mr. Justice Raffles.A Thief in the Night: the Last Chronicles of Raffles.Stingaree.HYNE, C. J. CUTCLIFFE.Thompson's Progress.Mr. Horrocks, Purser.JACOB, VIOLET.The Interloper.JACOBS, W. W.The Lady of the Barge.The Skipper's Wooing.JAMES, HENRY.The American.LAWLESS, Hon. EMILY.Hurrish.LONDON, JACK.White Fang.Adventure.A Daughter of the Snows.LORIMER, G. H.Old Gorgon Graham.MACNAUGHTAN, S.The Fortune of Christina M'Nab.A Lame Dog's Diary.Selah Harrison.The Expensive Miss Du Cane.The Gift.MACKAY, L. MILLER.Return of the Emigrant.MALET, LUCAS.The Wages of Sin.The Gateless Barrier.MARSHALL, ARCHIBALD.Exton Manor.MASEFIELD, JOHN.Captain Margaret.Multitude and Solitude.MASON, A. E. W.Clementina.The Four Feathers.The Broken Road.MERRICK, LEONARD.The House of Lynch.The Call from the Past.MERRIMAN, H. SETON.The Last Hope.The Isle of Unrest.The Vultures.In Kedar's Tents.Roden's Corner.Barlasch of the Guard.The Velvet Glove.MORRISON, ARTHUR.A Child of the Jago.NICHOLSON, MEREDITH.The War of the Carolinas.The House of a Thousand Candles.NORRIS, FRANK.The Octopus.The Pit.Shanghaied.OLLIVANT, ALFRED.Owd Bob.PAIN, BARRY.The One Before.PARKER, SIR GILBERT.The Battle of the Strong.The Translation of a Savage.An Adventurer of the North.When Valmond came to Pontiac.The Right of Way.Donovan Pasha.The Seats of the Mighty.PASTURE, Mrs. H. De La.The Man from America.The Lonely Lady of Grosvenor Square.The Grey Knight.PHILLPOTTS, EDEN.The American Prisoner.The Farm of the Dagger.PRIOR, JAMES.Forest Folk.A Walking Gentleman."Q."Sir John Constantine.Major Vigoureux.Shining Ferry.True Tilda.Lady Good-for-Nothing.Hetty Wesley.RIDGE, W. PETT.Mrs. Galer's Business.ROBERTS, MORLEY.Salt of the Sea.ROBINS, E.Come and Find Me.The Open Question.SAVILE, FRANK.The Road.SEDGWICK, Miss A. D.Valerie Upton.SIDGWICK, Mrs. A.Cynthia's Way.Cousin Ivo.SILBERRAD, UNA L.The Good Comrade.John Bolsover.Ordinary People.SNAITH, J. C.Fortune.STEEL, FLORA ANNIE.The Potter's Thumb.On the Face of the Waters.TARKINGTON, BOOTH.Monsieur Beaucaire, and The Beautiful Lady.The Gentleman from Indiana.TWAIN, MARK.Tom Sawyer.Huckleberry Finn.VACHELL, H. A.John Charity.The Waters of Jordan.The Other Side.The Paladin.Brothers.VERNEDE, R. E.The Pursuit of Mr. Faviel.WARD, MRS. HUMPHRY.The Marriage of William Ashe.Robert Elsmere.Marcella.Lady Rose's Daughter.Sir George Tressady.Helbeck of Bannisdale.Eleanor.WELLS, H. G.Kipps.The Food of the Gods.Love and Mr. Lewisham.The First Men in the Moon.The Sleeper Awakes.The Invisible Man.The History of Mr. Polly.The Country of the Blind.The War in the Air.WEYMAN, STANLEY J.The House of the Wolf.A Gentleman of France.Sophia.WHITE, STEWART E.The Blazed Trail.Rules of the Game.WHITEING, RICHARD.No. 5 John Street.WILLIAMSON, C. N. and A. M.The Princess Passes.Love and the Spy.The Lightning Conductor.
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